Welcome to the World’s Playground

After a long day of manual labor as a trail-crew leader, I sat in camp near the Colorado River to rest and reorganize the group’s food supply for the week. It was the kind of sunny spring day that reminds a Moabite why she’s sacrificed what she has to live here. And it was the kind of spring day that millions of tourists seek in their sojourns here.

With tasks completed, I set out on a short stroll before the group reassembled to be fed. I soon encountered three young mountain bikers approaching on the gravel road leading to the group camp. They had the look of college kids on spring break. The sum total of their communication consisted of screaming “Yeah! MOAB!” utilizing various intonations and pronunciations. Since the road dead-ended at our camp — and there were no bike trails nearby — I was curious to see what the young visitors would do. They soon ascertained that this route was going nowhere fast, but the boldest of the three was not deterred. With a warrior’s cry that once again consisted solely of the words “yeah” and “Moab,” he pushed his bike up the nearest crumbly, crypto-clad slope and raced down at top speed, slalom-style, before braking at the last possible moment and spraying half the hill’s contents onto his friends. With desert now subdued, shouts of “Yeah! MOAB!” met the conqueror. Momentarily sated, the adrenaline junkies departed.

I stood with my voice caught somewhere between my heart and my vocal chords. I wanted to tell them that this was unacceptable behavior, that there are thousands of miles of pre-existing trails for their use and abuse, that the elegant curves of virgin hillsides were not waiting for their heavy, treaded caress. That this was not a playground. That, to some, this is sacred ground. But as the futility of such remarks welled up beyond my ability to state them — and with the realization that speaking up would make me sound so old — I simply turned back toward camp and busied myself with the needs of the group.

A dusty red cloud of melancholy then hovered over me. I was leading a trip for Wilderness Volunteers, a nonprofit that organizes service projects to rehabilitate public lands. The ten members of my crew were paying to fill their vacation time with heavy lifting and the use of McLeods, Pulaskis, rock bars and shovels. The week’s work consisted largely of erasing the kinds of scars I had just seen created. We raked out and blocked off a spider-web network of user-created trails. We carefully transplanted cacti and grasses into barren ground that once supported such life. We willingly spent our days in a haze of dirt and sweat and ache. I am constantly in awe of those who give of their time in such a way. But if this kind of intense labor — one that arises from an immense generosity of spirit — can be undone in a mere three seconds, what is the use? Are our actions as futile as the words that never emerged from my heart and throat?

As if to further underscore such questions, Moab’s annual Jeep Safari kicked into high gear just as our service project was ending. This is the time each year when thousands of Jeeps and rock-crawlers simultaneously descend upon the surrounding landscape for a week-and-a-half of backcountry rides and frontcountry showmanship. While the event organizers and registered participants are conscientious about adhering to maintained trails and Tread Lightly ethics, the hordes of Jeep Safari groupies are not as enlightened. The event’s aftermath consistently includes torn-up trees, scattered trash and signs of clumsy intrusion in areas closed to motorized use. Mud-splattered machines out of a “Mad Max” cinemascape parade up and down Main Street waving Confederate and pirate flags. In years past, the drivers have implored female pedestrians to “show me your titties,” and piles of waste (including beer cans, used condoms and piss puddles) have decorated residents’ yards.

While many locals have worked hard to mitigate this spring break vibe — with varying degrees of success — the fact remains that Moab has marketed itself as the world’s playground. And though this status brings us the cash we need to survive, it also comes with costs. As a playground, we abide by the whims of those playing here and the recess bell that sends them all home each winter. As a playground, we cannot expect respect from anyone we host; rather, reverence — as exemplified by the group I worked with several weeks ago — has become a quiet and valued mercy occasionally laid at the feet of this desert and those who call it home. Reverence is why many of us are here. And, paradoxically, both its existence and its lack are what support us through each tourist season.

On First Post-Date, Let’s Go Parking

Ah, yes, once again, a first column, uh, “blog,” into the Great Void. After a few dozen such efforts over a number of years, I’ve come to see them as much like first dates: Say enough about yourself to be interesting, but don’t start telling third-drink stories about high school sports accomplishments, not even as analogies to life-affirming Darwinian poetry.

This blog? Well, this here blog is about those ancient mountains we call the Appalachians. These days, I see this vast chain as truly epic and know they were likely once the highest on Earth and part of a super-continent that included all of today’s land masses. Life is old here, you know, older than the trees. And the range includes so many ranges with much more focus-group-worthy names, like the Blue Ridge, the Great Smokies, the Alleghenies.

But growing up in those mountains, at least in the Eastern Kentucky part of those mountains, we learned little that could be used for any sort of personal myth-constructing background. That is because the cultural shadow of “Appalachia” has long been dark enough — and accurate enough — to discourage anyone getting above their (geological) raisin’.

I think about my installment-plan conversion to the A-team, as some of us call ourselves, fairly frequently these days. I have a son turning seven years of age this summer, which parents can tell you is prime camping and hiking age — well, at least, let us pray. And even the hint of my new freedom from the tether of civilized parenting has me pouring over topographical maps for the first time in, oh, seven years.

And it comes as, here in Maine, we’re debating preservation of a part of my mountains by creating a new national park called the Great North Woods. The land now is mostly owned by timber interests, who have let many recreational interests use the land, fairly unabated. Now, with the demise of the state’s paper-mill industry, those lands are facing a very different future and more restrictions as they become, more or less, private reserves. This will not be pretty, and it seems there’s a slight window to preserve this land before it soars into the too-expensive zone.

Now, I’ve never been a particularly huge Henry David Thoreau fan. He just didn’t connect with me, and a few years ago some were even whispering the heresy that his ideal of living alone in a cabin in the woods was not the best housing policy for those who would preserve the woods — let alone those who would encourage cluster development and commuter rail. But he is of course a primary cultural touchstone for the new national park effort, which now includes noted historian Douglas Brinkley, who stepped into the fray after writing the 2009 book called “The Wilderness Warrior: Theodore Roosevelt and the Crusade for America.”

Roosevelt famously escaped urban life in New York City to become his robust self, in part, in the Maine wilderness. There are books on that and such. He seems a significantly more interesting case history than Thoreau, at least for those of us balancing the lust for microbrew with the intoxication of being more than a day’s hike from the car.

I first met Dr. Brinkley in the frenzied context of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, having been summoned to Gonzo World Headquarters in Hunter’s kitchen/office in the mid-’90s. In those days, Brinkley was shuttling between Colorado and Georgia, where he was working with President Jimmy Carter on a book. At Hunter’s Owl Farm, he was editing the first of what became a series of letters books. I helped.

It seems to me that anybody who can toggle between those worlds of buttermilk and bourbon is not to be taken lightly. And now Doug is emerging as a de facto voice of the our national parks, and in particular of the concept that such preservation is “America’s best idea.” Those of us avoiding polio might make a case otherwise, but you get the idea.

That’s no small thing, because Douglas is what we call “high profile.” You’d likely recognize him from one of his many TV appearances, and during the early days of the BP oil spill, he virtually co-hosted the “Anderson Cooper 360” show on CNN. If that strikes you as gibberish, then ask somebody with a TV who can afford basic cable and they’ll vouch for it.

Hey, even somebody who could get Hunter to focus on decades-old letters during football season would admit a new national park faces a bit of a struggle. Maine’s largest statewide newspaper, The Portland Press Herald, has come out in favor of the new national park, and I’m all for it, but despite that impressive media consensus, it seems the Maine congressional delegation clings to its own opinion.

You already know exactly what the argument will be. And it’s like that old saying about art: When artists gather for dinner, they discuss money; when bankers gather for dinner, they discuss art. Doug knows the estimates for increased tourism, and we know that those worried about snowmobile regulation will have done their math. It’s a numbers game.

And somebody will quote Henry David a time or two.

But for me, the best thing ever written about the idea of a park comes from a less-likely source: Henry Miller. Having been exposed to a healthy dose of Miller in my formative years (tell a teenage male that a book has been banned for it’s sexual content and you insure its rabid consumption).

Miller is recalling a dream, “The Dream,” and draws the city as evil, saying that “The city grows like a cancer; I must grow like a sun.” And he gets to the idea of reincarnation and spiritual evolution (note to younger readers: worry not, there’s plenty of sex later).

“Before I shall have become quite a man again,” he tells us, “I shall probably exist as a park, a sort of natural park in which people come to rest, to while away the time. What they say or do will be of little matter, for they will bring only their fatigue, their boredom, their hopelessness. I shall be a buffer between the white louse and the red corpuscle. I shall be a ventilator for removing the poisons accumulated through the effort to perfect that which is imperfectible. I shall be law and order as it exists in nature, as is it projected in dreams… those who have had enough will come to me for reflection and meditation.”

It goes on a bit. There are references to female anatomy. Miller fans know the drill.

A note: The area around Big Sur where he worked and lived for many years is also being eyed for a new national park.

Because here’s the thing: In our world of video-camera cell phones and Twitter twits and people taking your picture without your permission in your favorite pub — IN THE FUCKING BAR FOR CHRIST’S SAKE — just because you might be illustrating your Aztec Chicken Midnight Dance, then the idea of privacy is toast. The quaint concept of actual sanctuary — of being spiritually off the record — is reserved for Buddhist meditation.

Well, oneness should not be 100 percent internal. And those of us with kids often find recreational drugs more of a commitment than our after-school events calendar allows. So we crave just a bit of wilderness, where we can perhaps dwell with our children before they resume their oh-so-connected world.

Because that world is not connected, not like The World is connected. And that is certainly not as important as the multiplier effect of the tourist dollar. But it has some value, right?

Anyway, so much for a first date, eh? This will teach me to have a third glass of wine and get started on sanctuary. Next, remind me to tell you about the time I went 2-for-3 against an all-state pitcher from Lexington.

Owyhee River and Drug Use

So here’s the deal. I had a choice to spend time thinking about what to put in my first blog or go down the Owyhee River in the southeastern corner of Oregon, the back of beyond and then some. Really, there was no choice. I chose the latter, mostly because I had not run Oregon’s “Grand Canyon” in 30 years and it is a lonely, beautiful desert river, but also because I don’t know squat about writing a blog. I hoped to avoid what shouldn’t be a big deal. Just words, right? New medium — another no big deal. (My cluelessness even led me to believe that my blog name was somehow unique, until I found a couple of dozen blogs with the same name. For now I’ll stick with RiverMouth and learn to live with my diminished sense of cleverness).

I have been told by MG’s blog-gurus that a blog can be anything I want it to be and essentially I can just go for it … whatever “it” is. So in terms of identity and content, think of RiverMouth for the time being as a braided river finding its way to the ocean by many different routes. One can expect detours, being blown upstream or getting stuck on a sandbar or in an eddy.

Being the shirker I am, I have decided to foist my initial burden on the shoulders of any potential audience. So I start with a subject that used to be (and still might be) a controversial river issue: drug-testing for guides. Coming from an earlier generation of boatmen, I missed the opportunity to piss in a bottle. But here’s a wee, serendipitous anecdote: While on the Owyhee, I learned that a river guide friend (who is still guiding) that I started out with in the 1970s, landed a short-term gig at a lab that tests for drug use at local businesses. (I suspect he was anything but pleased when drug-testing river guides became the norm). Nevertheless, his job (I kid you not): to stop any cheating by watching guys do the bottle thing. Since I smell a story, I need to speak with my friend as soon as possible. In the meantime, RiverMouth is soliciting personal experiences, points-of-view, anecdotes, company policies, “avoidance” techniques, history and jokes about, well, you know … going #1. Aliases are fine; they protect the innocent as well as the guilty and there is no sense in rocking the boat unless you have to.

A Delicate Part

Some fool talked me into a 340-mile road-bike ride in Utah, so I’ve been spending a good deal of time training over the last couple of weeks.

As a result of this training, there is a small part of my body, dare I mention it, that is near and dear to me, and now so sore that I walk funny. This is not something I wish to discuss with a doctor. He or she would laugh at me.

Every woman reading this is rolling her eyes back in her head and saying sarcastic things like, “And what part could that be?” and laughing raucously. “Does its little part hurt from too much riding?” More raucous laughter.

The technical term is “crotched-out,” and I was getting uncomfortable after only 15 miles when everything should have been working about perfectly. At 30 miles, I was standing up on my pedals to get some relief.

We all have self-images, and it is disconcerting to have a serious dose of reality muck with the self-image. It’s a personal thing too, that may just be a Y chromosome thing, but when parts don’t work right, the first thought is that we … in this case I … have turned into a wuss, that I’m finally falling apart and that it is time for the six pack and lounger in the teevee room watching some butt-ugly dropout trying to sing to three morons sitting in judgment.

I did Rabbit Mountain from Boulder yesterday. I stopped at the bike shop on the way back because I was in pain.

When I go into a bike shop, there are all these dudes with no body fat and carbon-fiber bikes that are worth more than my old 4Runner. Admittedly, like a dyslexic in a bookstore, I’m intimidated by the whole scene. That I have twice the BMI of anyone in the store doesn’t help.

“Um, er, I got a problem with my seat, I mean my saddle.” I say to the clerk.

“Yeah,” he says, “tell me about it.”

“I’m crotched-out after 15 miles.”

“Let’s look at it,” he says diagnostically.

“Not a chance.”

“The saddle, Man,” he says.

“Whew,” I say.

We walked outside and the clerk looked at my bike. He is kind enough not to mention that the bike was hi-tech at the turn of the century. After a quick look at the saddle, he says, “Worn out. You’ve put a lot of miles on the this saddle, it’s just worn out.”

“Then I’m not a wuss?”

“Nope, the saddle is worn out.”

We spent 10 minutes reviewing the various saddles that he had for sale. The saddle with all titanium components was out of the running; it cost more than I paid for the bike used. We settled on a saddle that had a tad bit of padding on it.

The clerk spent another couple of minutes mounting the new saddle and I rode off on a new saddle with a credit card receipt that Blue Eyes will certainly bring up for discussion at our monthly financial meeting. I will indignantly deny that I spent more than $100 for a bicycle seat. She will point at the credit card bill and call bullshit.

We need to remember that gear, like our bodies, wears out. That’s because, when we are screwing up, there is the possibility that it may actually be the equipment and not us. And that every once in a while we need some advice from a bike store clerk or a ski tech or maybe even a doc.

So when was your last physical?

Mine is Thursday.

Logging Hours in Shallow Water

It is October, and we have just recovered the body of a young man, drowned in now-placid water. The falls are not terribly deep, but today, they prove deep enough.

“Hey,” the tan and balding lieutenant says to me, “thanks for your help today.”

“No worries,” I respond. “Any time. I’m not a diver, but I’d be glad to help whenever you’ll let me.”

He nods. “We always need shore help. Talk to your lieutenant.”

Training and dive log: 11 hours


It is December, only two months later, and I am back out on the water. This time, a large lake in the rural community just west of my home. The team gathers there every December, diving the cold muddy waters. They dive off the dock, into the murk, and pull all the detritus that has fallen since the last December: ranger gear, radios, boat batteries, fishing poles, cell phones, tackle boxes and frequently, six packs of beer, still secured in their plastic rings.

I sit on a wooden bench that is softened by a small thin pad that doubles as a flotation device. The boat rocks gently, and I snap photographs of the divers. The sun reflects from the water, warming my face, but it is not enough. The breeze is brisk, biting, and I’m glad for the heavy Kevlar vest that I wear. The ceramic and steel plate nestles against my heart, trapping body heat.

The divers slowly make their way back to shore, and the small motor on board sputters to life, so as to follow. It is time for the real reason, real purpose of the day: the team holiday party and gift exchange. Families have arrived on shore, waiting, gifts in their arms, warm dishes for the potluck. I have no one, save a dog, waiting at home.

I made a cheesecake, traditional New York style. It is heavy, silky, beautiful and topped with dark, rich, juicy Morello cherries. I live in a small one-bedroom granny flat with a temperamental stove, given to fits of hot and cold. I alternately worry that the cake will collapse, undercooked, or shrink, overcooked. Or, worse, both … It turns out perfect and luscious.

Carefully, I place the cheesecake on the buffet table, among the gingerbread cookies, the fruit ambrosia and other offerings. I make my way to an open seat at one of the tables; I am still so new that I am learning names, attaching to the right faces, right rank.

No sooner do I sit down than do two deputies, special enforcement detail, our SWAT team, pick up the cheesecake and two forks. They walk away with the entire cake, and devour it, just the two of them. To add insult to injury, the heavier of the two, flat-top and mustache, wipes his finger across the now empty cake form, licking it clean.

The lake is now as clean as the cake form. Trash has been appropriately disposed of. Batteries and waterlogged radios lay on the deck, draining, while lake staff inventory them, checking serial numbers against their clipboard, so the appropriate insurance forms may be submitted. The oxygen tanks are back in stow on the dive van, waiting refill, and neoprene suits hang over truck beds and tailgates, dripping dry. People laugh, eat, back slap, enjoy. I am part of this team, and it feels good.

Training and dive log: 8 hours


My quadriceps and hamstrings scream, cramping. My breath comes in quiet rags, panting hard, as I stretch my arms and hands high above my head.

“You can do this,” the handsome blond dive instructor calls to me, encouraging. “You can do this, come on, only a bit more.”

I roll my eyes at him, but keep treading. This is the most difficult part of the endurance test, and my hands, arms must not touch the water. Lungs and legs only, and long, interminable, hour-long minutes. I keep treading.

The final decision had been made a few weeks before: for liability reasons, all members of the dive team must be appropriately certified by a nationally recognized and accredited dive school. After proficiency certification in open water, then dive rescue, evidence recovery, underwater investigation, more. Further, all members must be sworn; I’ve already completed the academy, been issued badge and weapon. All that remains is this unending tread.

“Time!” the dive instructor calls, clicking the stopwatch, arms raised in the air. Victory! I swim to the edge of the pool, throw the weight belt up to him, and pull myself onto the concrete, exhausted.


Training and dive log: 4 hours


The Pacific surges and sways, and even through the thickness of my hood, I can hear the low swish of kelp. We are approximately 18 feet below the surface; the dive master is off to my right, pointing. Fish dart here and there, but here a small orange Garibaldi makes his stand, protecting his territory. I can hear him, barking, a popping sound, as he scolds us. The dive instructor extends his right leg, fin out, at the Garibaldi, and he clamps on the tip, shaking like a dog. I laugh, and accidentally suck in water. Choking, sputtering, I clear my regulator, and the dive master laughs at me.

We practice clearing regulators, clearing masks. He motions for me to drop my mouthpiece, and we practice rescue breathing, sharing the one source of oxygen. He nods; I’ve passed the skills. Time to move on, and he motions with a crook of his finger.

I learn to navigate underwater, using a compass. I learn how to take my vest on and off. I learn not to panic, when my oxygen tank is secretly shut off.

And, I learn to keep an eye out for falling rocks. This has never been mentioned anywhere in my texts, or the PADI videos. No one, not even the dive instructor, tells me that rocks may fall from the sea above.

That is a lesson I learn, instead, from a small, silky sea lion. He darts to and fro, slipping in and out of the kelp, out of my line of sight, disappearing into the dark jade of the Pacific. Quick and fast, he speeds past, scooping the rock from the sandy floor, racing back to the ocean’s surface, and drops his rock again. A game, and an amusing one, as long as one doesn’t get hit on the head.

Training and dive log: 11 hours


We are in the pool, the whole team. The instructor has spent two days in a classroom with us, slide projector showing proper procedure, underwater diagramming, ghostly white bodies floating in the deep. My book is filled with scribbled notes, highlighter ink, pages dog-eared to important sections. There are other specialists from other agencies that have joined us. None of us have a big enough team, enough people to support the course on its own, so together we come to learn, train, dive.

Into the water; I must perform all of the same skills I completed in the ocean: in and out of the buoyancy vest, shared regulators, navigation, emergency clearing of masks and breathing apparati. Then it is the obstacle course.

The pool is filled with suspended tires, tennis court nets, a weighted body. Debris intended to trap, snare, kill a recovery diver — meant to kill me, if I am not careful.

“You will do the entire course, timed,” the instructor bellows. “If you pass, you will then repeat the course. You will be dark. And it will be timed.”

The first time, we will be allowed to see what we are doing. The second time, we must do it blind, face masks blocked, to simulate many of the conditions we will work in.

I am paired with the blond man, the dive master. I am young, and have no expendable income; dive lessons are expensive. But I have horses, and he wanted to learn, so we have traded dive lessons, hour for hour, with horse lessons. Win-win, and we develop an easy friendship. I am glad to be diving with him today.

We complete the assigned tasks, quickly, quietly, competently. When the course is completed for the second time, we break the surface and offers a “high five.”

“You’re a recovery diver,” he says.

Training and dive log: 13 hours


We are required to make monthly team trainings and dives, but that is not enough to remain proficient. Personal dives, if accompanied by a team member, are counted toward training, experience, hours.

It is easier and more efficient to swim, underwater, than to fight the tide at the surface. We are at 60 feet; the light filters from the surface, but the darkness looms closer. Small white objects float, iridescent, glowing dully, and move with the surge. I look questioningly to the dive master; he pulls his slate, and with a pencil, writes “squid, spawn.”

We are at the lip of the undersea canyon, and it is dark, so very dark. I shake my head at the dive master; our team has a 100-foot hard deck, and I’m not experienced enough to go beyond that.

Suddenly, my mask skews, and my hood contracts. Turning around, I see the dive master grinning, and with one hand, I feel for, and find, a large starfish. The dive master has put it on my head, and it has locked on, tight, pulling neoprene and hair.

I carefully work the starfish free, and right my mask and hood. The dive master is doing something, I cannot see what, as he lays on the floor, swaying with the unseen waves. He turns his face to me, and offers a hand — lying, flat, round, is a small piece of sandstone, and he has engraved “Diver Kim” into its surface.

“Diver Kim.”

Training and dive log: 7 hours


The deputy stands on the edge of the rock outcropping, peering into the pond. “I’da know,” he says, shrugging, “s’posed to be in there.”

The man that’s supposed to be in there, is not supposed to be in there. A migrant worker, here illegally, is from a nearby camp, high in the hills. This pond serves as a place to get water, bathe, socialize. Beer cans litter the shore, some aged and faded, some new, and probably the cause for our call today.

A single pair of denim jeans lay on the shore, dark, with a hand-tooled leather belt. The man’s name has been stamped into the belt. It serves as his only identification.

“You goin’ in ta get him”” the deputy asks.

I grin, as I pull my uniform shirt taut against my belly. I am five months pregnant, and do not fit in my wetsuit. “Not today,” I say. “Bit of a buoyancy problem.”

“Anyone else comin’?” he asks, looking around.

“On their way,” I say. The dive van is slow and clunky to begin with. Add in the rugged road leading into this location, and it will be longer still. No matter, as other dive team members begin to trickle in.

One man ambles up the path, heading to me, to the deputy, offering hellos. He’s been with the team for a very long time, incredibly experienced, unflappable, quiet. He has earned the nickname “Body Magnet,” as he seems to have the most finds. He is halfway into his wetsuit, a Farmer John only. No need for more than that. A quick assessment, briefing, and he is snugging his face mask into place.

Wading into the water, he settles onto the battered Boogie board, snorkel tucked into the band of his mask. Gliding softly across the surface, he makes his rounds, slow and methodical. It is not long before he stops, paddles back, body tense, and his hand dips into the water.

He is found.

All the steps are taken, process and procedure followed, and soon, the man’s body lies on the shore. Flat on his back, clad in leopard-print briefs and gray athletic socks, his lips are blue, and rigor has begun in his arms. He has thick, black, luxuriant hair, and a full mustache. I take his picture, and I wonder about him. All that I know is engraved on the back of his belt. Who is, or rather, who was he? Did he have a family? How many times did he cross the border, seeking work, better pay, a better life? All he wanted was a bit of relaxation, a cerveza with friends, and a dip in the pond. All for naught.

The dive van has not arrived, and therefore, there is nothing to place his body in. I reach into my backpack, and find my emergency shelter. Heavy orange plastic, and I slice the sides open, flat, like a sheet, and we slide him, carefully inside. He is not overweight or large, but the dead always seem to weigh more.

The van arrives, and soon after so does the medical examiner. He will be taken away, recorded, a statistic in a file somewhere, but our work here is done.

Training and dive log: 5 hours


The weather is cool, and the skies dark. Grey. Threatening rain.

I am off the shores of La Jolla, dipping in and out of the cove. To my south, sea lions frolic in the Children’s Pool. To my north, Great Whites pup in the artificially warmed waters off San Onofre’s nuclear plant. I have no agenda, no schedule today. Just be in the water.

I am approximately 15 feet from the surface when I notice it. I’ve never seen it before. Rain. Rain as it falls on the ocean’s surface, plinking, causing small circles to appear. I lay on my back, suspended in the surf, watching the rain spot the glass above me.

It is beautiful.

Training and dive log: 4 hours


The family stands on the shore. This lake is large, enormous, and serves as an Olympic training site. The young couple, however, only came for a bit of relaxation. Time alone, together, so romantic …

Until the oar slipped its lock, and floated away.

The young man, handsome, strong, jumped into the water after it. His impact caused the boat to slide away, and the oar even further. He could not swim, and his girlfriend, his love, watched in horror as he bobbed under, and again, and then one last final time.

The dogs are scenting the water, trying to triangulate for the divers. The media has started to arrive, setting up their cameras on the shore, on the docks. I try to avoid them, and am directed to keep the family safe from the news crew.

I sit with the young man’s mother. She has flown here, and waits in suspended animation.

“Is he cold?” she asks, hands clasped in her lap.

“No, ma’am, he’s not cold,” I say.

“It’s just so dark down there,” she murmurs.

“We’re doing everything we can to find him,” I assure her. And we are, and we do, for the next three days. We suspended operations after a diver, tired, at depth, embolizes. His partner saves him, brings him to the surface. They are transported to the emergency room, placed in a chamber.

I am part of the crew that attends to him, to them both, and my focus is on them.

But the young man’s mother still waits, silent, watching, as the helicopter flies away with my team, and patrol cars stream from the parking lot.

“Will you come back?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. We are out of resources. The risk has become greater than the reward. I explain that we will continue to search the shores, that he should eventually come to the surface on his own.

“Oh,” her voice is small. “When he comes up on his own …” and she trails off.

“Yes?” I ask.

“When he comes up on his own,” she tries again, “you can do CPR, then, right?”

This poor woman. This poor boy. My heart rends for her, and her arms lift to me. I stand on the shore, and embrace her.

Training and dive log: 12 hours, and the night is not over yet.


The Sheriff stands at the podium, while the emcee reads the proclamation.

“Without the assistance…” and our names are read. The diver who embolized will survive, although due to increasing pressure from his wife, he will resign from the team. It is too dangerous, and she is afraid. The diver who pulled him from the depths, the same diver who pulled the migrant from the pond, stands on the stage, as a medal is placed on his chest. I stand with the rest of my crew, as our names are called. We are awarded our own recognition, letters of commendation, a shake with the Sheriff, photographs taken.


The helicopter, an MD-Bell 500, painted deep blue, black, and white, hovers over the reeds. The rotor wash beats heavy and hard, bending the tall grasses, and sending hard ripples across the lake.

The boy’s body has indeed, finally, come to the surface. It has taken longer than anyone would have imagined. The heavy deputy steps from the bird, foot on the skid; he is the same deputy who walked away with a cheesecake some years before, and now pulls the body to shore.

A mother can now say good-bye.

Training and dive log: 2 hours


A mother says hello, smiles, and waves at her baby, blinking widely at the heavily chlorinated pool water.

My own children, now almost eleven, almost nine, splash and play. The girl likes to pretend she’s a mermaid, a dolphin. Right now, she’s lunging at her brother, jaws wide open, pretending to be a Great White.

Two years ago, they were dragged to swim lessons. The boy was hesitant, afraid, but his Papa insisted. The girl could not bear it, and cried much of the lessons, until the frustrated coaches sent her to sit on the sidelines. The Papa complained about the cost and wasted time; I held my breath. I’d already voiced my objections to the whole thing, to begin with, but some lessons have to be learned the hard way.

Last year, we made our way to the local pool and water park. Joining as annual members, we could come, escape the heat, play, explore. Slowly, Monday by Monday, the summer slipped away, tans darkened, and the children became more confident.

We joined again this year. Two Mondays ago, the Girl placed her face in the water. “I’m weady,” she proclaimed, and slipped under the surface.

And she did what none have done on any of our missions: she came to the surface. Triumphant, grinning, spluttering, “I did it! I did it!”

The yellow-covered dive books, mission logs have accumulated over the years. Entries. Dives. Notes. Pictures. Bodies. Missions. In the ocean, in any of the multiple lakes, ponds, creeks, falls.

Last November, facing the increasing pressures of growing children, shrinking time, a need to earn enough to support us all, and so much more, I sat, tears in my eyes, and typed my letter of resignation. I filed away the yellow-covered logs and placed the pictures into my desk. The letters of commendation, medal of meritorious service hang on the wall, in the dark of my rarely used home office. Two weeks ago, my badge was returned from the jeweler, newly emblazed with silver, engraved “honorably retired.”

And like so many days in the past, I am back in the pool, treading water, kicking, breathing, diving to the bottom.

The Girl waves from the shallow end, jumping, and holding air in over-inflated cheeks. The Boy swims to me. Body long, lean, brown from the sun, cheeks red from the excitement, swims to me.

“Mama, Mama!” he calls. “Wait for me!”

And I tread, waiting.

These are not hours I can log; there is no mission book, no training that must be learned. Instead, as I tread in these shallow waters, gazing at my two children as they splash and play, I realize, this may be my most important assignment ever.

Quonset Physics

I have long been skeptical of the current “alternative” building fads: mud walls, dirt-bag walls, straw walls, tire walls, compacted trash walls, ad infinitum. My standard rap, which falls on deaf ears because it is free advice, goes something like this: You are using techniques appropriate for a third-world village in an American (suburban) context. Walls constitute only 15 percent of the cost of most houses, and such alternatives do not save money, trees or concrete. Rather, the extra-thick walls add up to significant extra square footage, which results in bigger foundations and bigger roofs. And what do all these PC ramblers have for roof structure? Big, thick old-growth timbers and wood planks! For such reasons, I hope the now-fashionable eco-castles don’t become an enduring prototype.

I pray as fervently as the next hippy builder for the end of “balloon framing,” which is what modern wood framing was first called, because it looked so light and insubstantial that it might float away. It’s a ridiculous waste of trees, but persists because it’s a standard that can be estimated with accuracy and erected with moderately skilled labor. I have spent decades slicing wood — it’s the only construction trade for which I can claim master or journeyman status. But wood is subject to the ravages of fire, water, sun, mold and termites, and this old wood butcher thinks more and more about steel. I know I’m not alone — there’s a whole new generation of designers who scour the country for steel artifacts and industrial detritus that can be adapted to residential construction: shipping containers, grain silos, giant culverts. I myself had always wanted to erect a classic American form, the “Quonset” hut. Back in 1941 the U.S. Navy decided it needed a lightweight building that could be shipped anywhere. The now-familiar half pipes were first manufactured in Quonset Point, RI and have since, like the Airstream camper, become part of the vernacular. After World War II, they were mostly sold to farmers, as attested to by construction manuals that still advise you can “use your hay wagon” as a scaffold.

You’ve seen the commercials on TV — get a big steel barn and say goodbye to mini-storage rent! I thought about how sorry I was to see the old Quonset torn down in Telluride, after humbly hosting decades of basketball games, roller skaters and KOTO Halloween parties. But nostalgia aside, I began to see a nifty alternative to the suburban garage. What could be more ideal for an unheated outbuilding than a single skin that serves as structure, sheathing, waterproof membrane and finished, maintenance-free surface, topped off with an aluminum-alloy finish that will probably take centuries to rust out? Little did I know that this project would become a Christo-like exercise in process art, an absurdly simple plan requiring a gymnastic and sometimes frustrating execution.

So how do you buy one? I began by perusing the scores of websites selling steel buildings, many with testimonials like “Uh, me and Bill, we put up this thing in three days.” What I still didn’t know was that everyone’s selling the exact same steel arches, which are made in a handful of factories in the U.S. and Canada. But when I began calling the actual purveyors, you could see smoke coming out of the phone as I was hustled by a homogenous array of ex-carneys, ex-Amway sellers and ex-used-car dealers. Most employ a variation of the same pitch: “You want a 30-foot-by-40 foot-building? So happens I got this building that this guy in Florida didn’t pick up — we got it sitting on the dock here, and I’d love to get rid of it. I’d let you have it for say, $12,500, but you gotta buy it today.”

It took me weeks to sort through the hype and begin to understand the basics of steel arch buildings. The next hurdle was simpler but more mysterious. I had decided to erect my first Quonset in Taos, New Mexico, a town that in modern times has enforced a ruthless architectural conformity. Every last KFC is nothing more than a rectilinear, flat-roofed waferboard box sporting brown stucco and a few decorative timbers. However I could find no local code or covenant that forbade prefab or steel buildings, so I applied for a building permit and crossed my fingers, remembering how, many years ago in the Aspen valley, a snooty architectural control board had denied my request to erect a geodesic dome.

While salesmen continued to call me on an almost daily basis, I developed my shopping list: From the manufacturer, I would buy the steel arches, the steel base plates that attach the arches to the foundation, and a couple of curved, fiberglass skylights. I would construct my own end walls out of wood, with standard entry doors and sliding windows, and the splurge de resistance: two gorgeous, 8-ft.-by-8-ft. aluminum framed glass garage doors, aka service station or firehouse doors. This heavily glazed garage door wall would face southeast and gulp morning sun into the building.

After the slab was poured, we had to drill holes along the two long edges for expanding anchor bolts that would attach the steel base plates. This was a piece of cake with a big honkin’ rental store drill. The building parts came on a flatbed truck, all nestled together like long, steel Pringles. Next would be the fun, dramatic part: Like on the advertisements, we would construct each complete arch on the ground, and then raise it in place with a couple of ropes. We would use a two-level section of staging for the high work. Each arch is two feet wide and has six pieces that bolt together. In no time at all, a building would appear.

We set to work on the first arch, which was unexpectedly heavy when completed. Four of us strained and struggled to lift it up alongside the staging, at one point dropping it and denting a panel. This was my second glitch: when buying the arches, I had discovered that, for a relatively modest cost, I could upgrade to a heavier gauge of steel. Taos gets heavy snowfall, thus I reasoned this is no place to skimp. But the result was that it would take a crane to lift these monsters, and even then you would need a stout custom carriage to keep the arches from deforming under their own weight.

Our solution was to put up one panel at a time. It takes two people to work on each panel, especially up in the air. We used hand ratchet wrenches and cordless drivers. One person has to hold the nut on the inside to keep it from spinning, while the other person drives the bolt tight from the outside (sometimes hanging from a rope). The weather tightness of each arch depends on simple mechanical flashing: the bottom of each segment rests on TOP of the next segment down. We learned the hard way that you have to concentrate to remember this, or it takes tedious unbolting and rebolting if you get a panel flashed wrong. This process took, not “a weekend,” but a whole damned week. Not insignificant were the stoppages due to summer squalls blowing through, when nobody wanted to cling to a giant lightning rod.

Finally the big half pipe was done. It felt impressively solid when we walked on top. The immense, unobstructed and airy interior space became apparent. One surprise: with all that smooth concrete and steel, the acoustics inside are truly awful. They sell insulation kits for these babies — basically you just clip plastic-faced fiberglass bats to the arches. But then aesthetically you would be inside of a big, white bag instead of that clean, geometrically precise steel vault.

One day as we neared completion, an immediate neighbor walked over to tell me I had constructed an abomination that flouted local codes. This same neighbor’s own garage is a box troweled with tan stucco, and he was convinced I had brought his property values down. He seemed to back off a little when I responded that, yes, I had read the county codes calling for the preservation of rural character, and I could think of nothing with more rural character than a Quonset hut — in remote parts of New Mexico, I have come to regard distinctive Q-huts as mile markers. (And to tell the truth, I think outbuildings should be exempt from the style police and it should be okay for a garage to look like a garage.)

The first clue that I was part of a Quonset revival movement came when, on impulse, I sent a photo, with Taos peaks in the background, to my sales rep at SteelMaster Corporation. She informed me that she entered it in their new photo contest. Looking at rival pics on the contest web page, I was amazed by the creativity, intricacy, ingenuity and craftsmanship among the finalists. Ultimately, I finished 5th among Internet voters for cutest new Quonset in the land, and was awarded a nifty SteelMaster coffee cup and some pens that look like bolts with nuts. They are my most cherished professional awards.

The Top Five List

The other day, I met with an old friend at Boulder’s Dushanbe Teahouse. Swathed in delightful floral designs and wood carvings from Tajikistan, and sporting the requisite koi pond in the center with statuary of nymph-like humans, the landmark vibrates with the air that makes Boulder what Boulder is. That’s a good thing, mostly. If you can’t handle self-parody, then I don’t know what to tell you.

Along with Boulder’s acceptance of almost any topic that borders on the unfathomable, the high ceilings make for enough lunchtime din to allow you to talk about nearly anything without the people around you getting too much of your conversation. You could say something patently obscene like, “The Cummins 6.7L Turbo Diesel, with 800 lb-ft at 1600 rpm, arouses me greatly” and the folks at the next table would likely mistake “Cummins” for “hummus.” And chances are they wouldn’t hear the rest of the sentence until “arouses me greatly,” which would make sense given the high quality of hummus in the restaurant. You could talk about plans to spring someone from prison or to set up a meth lab in a church basement, and it’s just the kind of place where no one’s going to hear enough of what you’re saying to connect the dots.

Ours was one of those sweeping discussions that brought together our past six months of activities with any observed shifts in our worldviews. That’s the way conversation goes, right? You’ve got this back-and-forth thing that covers what you’ve experienced and how you feel about it. You ask questions. Neanderthals did it with monosyllabic grunts, the same way Packers fans go about communicating (I can say this because I am one, except I have to add that Packers fans really don’t want to know what you’re thinking, unless it’s about Jay Cutler being the world’s foremost douche bag).

I digress. My friend elaborated on a recent meditation retreat to the mountains of California, the overriding topic being The Shift due in December 2012 and already manifesting itself in the so-called Ninth Wave. We’ve heard about the Mayan calendar ad nauseam, but still, everybody seems to really want to know, whether they openly admit it or not, if the world is going to blow up on that particular winter solstice. And I get that. From a practical standpoint, it’s good to know if you should hang on to that nest egg or bankroll your final moments of depravity.

I noticed that the couple next to us glanced in our direction as my friend spilled out two or three hot-button words, but at first I took that as coincidence. No one in Boulder should have any reaction whatsoever to terms like “resonance” or “quantum shift in consciousness.” For the record, we were talking about how a lot of People in The Know are saying that the shift will be primarily one of vibration and enabling some people to exist in multiple dimensions. This means dumping the baggage that’s keeping us in the same karmic lot as Komodo dragons and resonating at a perilously low level of, say, 20. What we’re girding for is enlightenment and a hell of a lot more vibration points, and to get there you’ve got to transcend things like apathy and anger, even acceptance and reason, and get your quantum self buzzing like a city block full of adult toy stores. Like so many dogmas addressing End Times, you’re either on the bus here or you’re fucked.

The aforementioned happens to be a dogma that resonates with me, and if nothing else, it provided a thin segue to my end of the conversation that day. I have since learned to spoon feed people what I have to say about these things, kind of like when you start babies on whole food. Small bits of new but relatively bland things that can be digested, lest the recipient puke them back at you. You don’t jump into talk about zero-point energy, wormholes and anti-gravitational UFO propulsion systems any more than you’d serve scotch and pork chops to a three-month-old.

Loosened by a glass or two of pinot-something, I disclosed that I’d been studying exopolitics — the social, political and economic ramifications of ET contact. I said that a lot of people look at contact as this thing that kinda-sorta might happen in the future, perhaps in the form of the rabbit pulled out of the hat in December 2012.

“But I got news for you,” I told my friend as I let a garden-variety UFO chat slip into Outer Rear End World. “They’ve been here a long time. Some of them look just like you and me — except they usually have fewer teeth.”

She glanced around the room, then back at me. “You need to protect yourself,” she said. “Surround yourself in light, now.”

Evidently we were receiving bad vibes from the immediate vicinity.

I like to look at conversations in terms of the Top Five Weirdest Things being discussed at any given time. I’m certain that in my Saturday-morning exopolitics group, we’ve hit the planetary Top Five several times. It’s not at all weird for the group, which wants to see UFO disclosure and, urgently, development of the technology that frees us from the craziness surrounding nuclear and fossil fuels. But for most people it’s the scotch-and-pork-chops thing. Weird is relative.

Between the alien teeth and my apparent need for protection, we’d easily hit the Top Five list for the restaurant that day, and probably for the past six months. We had succeeded in violating Boulder’s standards for Conversations That Freak People Out. The table next to us had gone quiet, amid some visible under-the-table kicking. I looked at them as kindly as I could; they sent receding glances, kind of like the gorillas you see on documentaries. The encounter lasted about two seconds, but like a car crash, it seemed like three hours.

I felt like I’d just ripped off all my clothes at a clothing-optional beach where everybody else chooses to keep theirs on. Some things can’t be reeled back, and I’m quite certain that the people who sat next to us at the teahouse now have scars on their brains. But hey — it wasn’t like we implanted devices in them or anything.

“The weather’s been nice,” I said to my friend. We asked for the bill.

A Primer

“In the beginning, years ago, I think I said too much. I spoke with an encyclopedic knowledge of the names of plants or the names of birds passing through in season. Gradually I came to say less. After a while the only words I spoke, beyond answering a question…were to elucidate single objects.”
Barry Lopez, “Children in the Woods”

At this point in my life, 400 days from turning 40, I’m not a big believer in religion or any unseen world. Except when I’m hanging out with my daughter, a three-year-old ball of golden-haired fire. Sometimes, she ALMOST makes me want to believe in some sort of Supreme Being — but not for the reasons you might think. Not because she’s a little angel. Not because I think all babies are miracles. Nothing like that. She makes me want to believe in a bearded man in heaven because such faith would allow me to say “BECAUSE GOD MADE IT THAT WAY” whenever the questioning gets too tough for me to answer

It’s the quintessential “why-is-the-sky-blue?” sort of thing. The mind of a child trying to make sense of the world around her, accompanied by the half-baked, half-assed, half-educated brain of a parent trying to explain things without resorting to fairy tales (yet maintaining some semblance of magic), and doing his or her best to impart some scientific truthiness so the little girl with the wondering eyes can learn a thing or two.

Example: It’s spring and the trees are budding, and any kid who’s not glued to the teevee knows that this is special and worth noticing, worth checking out. She asks about the furry catkins on the aspen alongside the trail. She knows it’s an aspen because the bark is white, easy enough, but she’s never seen a catkin, so I pluck one and show it to her. Soft, fuzzy, obviously like a caterpillar, which she points out to me. I explain that this will become seeds for the trees, and that the wind will blow the seeds away, and some of them will sprout and make new trees. Easy enough … there’s tomato starters in the kitchen window, so she knows the sprouting seeds drill. But WHY are there seeds? Well, so there can be baby trees. WHY are there baby trees? So they can grow into big trees. WHY? So they can make more baby trees. Pause and ponder. WHY are there trees? Because the trees give us shade, and oxygen to breathe (grossly human-centered answer, I know, I know). WHY? Because they use the sunlight to make food, then breathe out oxygen for us. WHY? Because they evolved that way? Pause and ponder. WHY? Because billions of years ago, in some primordial swamp, a zap of lightning (or sunlight, or hot water, depending on which version I’m spinning) turned some molecules into some building blocks of life, and they randomly figured out that the sun was a good way to make food.

And on and on, backwards through time … the formation of the planets, supernovas, eventually to the Big Bang. And when you go back that far, you basically end up with one of two ultimate answers:

1) “Because a former Universe quit expanding and began contracting until that entire Universe was just a tiny little dot, then it exploded and made a new one.”

This is good, and some astronomers think this is how things may have unfolded this time around, but has one problem — it turns the discussion into a circular story with no prospect of an end, or a beginning, and offers no final answer to the question, inviting another round of WHY. Which is okay, for a while, but 45 minutes later, I’ve come dangerously close to resorting to:


Neatly wrapped, all-encompassing answer that requires no further discussion and could halt the inquisition issuing forth from the kid strapped to my back … but alas, as in life — unable to bite the mythical bait — so in daddyhood: I just can’t bring myself to utter those utterly final words. The final word, so to speak. So when the chatterbox just won’t stop, I simply tell her I DON’T KNOW.

Which is fine. She’ll figure out soon enough that mommy and daddy are plodding blindly through life, as clueless as anyone with regards to where the WHY chain begins or ends. Fine, that is, unless you’re fond of the Good Book. The one that begins at the BEGINNING of it all and ends with the END. According to that one, Jesus himself says that I’m headed for the fire due to the fact that I’m keeping a little child from the Lord, one of just a handful of utterly unforgivable sins.

Don’t get me wrong, for while I may actively prevent my daughter from indulging in things like crazy colored sugar cereals, Mcmeat products or Sunday School, I’m more than willing to allow for a book or two of Bible stories on her shelf, right alongside pint-sized tomes about Greek goddesses, Nordic heroes, Tibetan monks, ballerina princesses, baby animals and a swell little biography of Georgia O’Keefe. Like it or not, Biblical tales are part of our collective consciousness, part of our culture, and many of them are good stories: a tribe of wanderers trying to figure out how to function in a rough-and-tumble desert chock full of lions, serpents, flash floods and drought … not so different than New Mexico really. Heck, they even ride camels and camp in tents, both of which my daughter has done, so she can relate.

Good stuff, at least at the kiddo level. Useful parables about building your house on a rock instead of the sand, or how humble folks with good intentions can conquer seemingly insurmountable adversity. And there’s no genocide in the children’s stories. No smiting. No massacres. No hellfire or eternal damnation. Best of all, at least in our books, NO GODDAMN DEVIL.

The Devil came into my life via a kid in the trailer court I grew up in. A poor kid with a permanent flaking skin condition and a single drunk mom who drove smack dab over my puppy while driving us to school one morning. The kind of kid who gets sent to the store to fetch mom another pack of Salems. He told me about the Devil, probably on the same day he showed me the porno mag he found in his ma’s bedroom, or the long day he held me hostage with a can of bug spray, and it freaked me out. This was more than just a bump in the night. Suddenly there was evil in my world, an actual EVIL BEING who was bent on harming me, who was always trying to trick me into doing things that would send me to HELL (such as gazing at my first porno mag).

Which is why I bite my (forked) tongue and don’t resort to “BECAUSE GOD MADE IT THAT WAY” when the questions get tough — because the notion of god leads one to religion, and religion, at least in this one nation under god, invariably, if temporarily, leads you to the Bible and the folks who thump it, who can’t wait to tell you all about the devil so they can scare you into joining their club. And I don’t want my daughter to have to wrestle with that sort of thing. Not yet. That can happen later, when she goes to college (on a full scholarship), smokes pot for the first (and only) time and wrestles with the problem of evil in Philosophy 101. She already knows the world can be a bad place. All kids knows this, no matter how loved or how stable a home life they might have. Diaper rash burns. Bigger kids take your toys. Daddy gets grumpy. Mama’s boobs aren’t forever. Ants bite. Bees sting. You don’t always get ice cream. All life is suffering, and the dark is scary enough as it is without worrying about whether THE DEVIL might be hiding in it.

So fiddlesticks on the devil, and more importantly, on the hysterical fear of him. A fear that ripped human culture from the womb of the earth and plopped it into the hands of a jealous and angry god. A fear that leveled the sacred groves of Europe. A fear that led to the wholesale slaughter of midwives, herbalists and storytellers who dared stray from accepted religious dogma. A fear that spread across continents and oceans like a disease, seeking out and destroying any perceived threat to the spiritual status quo found in rat- and cathedral-infested Rome, London or Madrid.

Questioning the status quo is a good thing, and as long as my daughter is going through this stage of incessant, root-level questioning of everything around her, I’m going to answer to the best of my ability. I know she’s soaking it up because out of the blue she’ll blurt out things like (while eating green beans) “I’m a T-Rex, and I’m eating stegosaurus legs”, or (while getting slathered in sunscreen) “the sun is a star, and stars are big balls of fire,” or (while hiking) “those trees died and they’re turning back into soil.” From the mouths of babes: biology, astronomy, paleontology, the knowledge that dispels irrational fear of the dark, the mysterious, the unknown.

This is all well and good, but at the same time, I gotta make sure that my personal aversion to Judeo-Christian-Islamic triumvirate doesn’t cause me to turn my daughter’s world into a dreary “just the facts” sort of place, shorn of mystery and enchantment. Our fear of the Devil and his brother Jehovah may have caused us to deny our Earth Momma, but our soulless scientific rationalism has taken that denial and ran with it — strapped it to the top of a Hummer and hit the gas, crammed it into an oil tanker and headed straight for a hidden reef — filling a gaping spiritual void by plundering any vestige of goodness left untrammeled by the Good News and transforming it into cold, hard, rational profits: herbs into energy drinks, old growth into plywood, genetic code into an industrial plaything. I don’t want my daughter to have to wrestle with all that either. Not yet. That can happen later, when she goes to college, smokes pot (for just the second and only other time) and decides that her economics class is a load of horseshit that just doesn’t jibe with the “Leaves of Grass” she’s reading in poetry class.

Which brings me back to catkins, and questions, and attempted answers. Edward Abbey once wrote: “The Earth needs no defense, only more defenders.” I would also suggest, with all due respect for the Lorax (who speaks for the trees) and well-intended parents everywhere, that the Earth needs no spokespeople, only more people willing to listen to what it’s saying. Answer questions? Yes, of course, always. Point out the vultures circling overhead? Sure, and you can even mention the fact that they eat dead things if you want. But watch out for: “This furry catkin … pregnant with possibility, an unbroken chain of evolving life force, a goddamn scientific miracle right in the palm of your hand sweetheart, just let me count the ways.”

No. No, no, no. JUST SHUT UP Daddy, and listen. Let the planet speak for itself; try to see the world through the eyes of a child, like the child you THINK you’re teaching. She’s already paying more attention that you are. Leave the mental geology book on the shelf and allow the “single objects” to gradually reveal themselves and their connection to every other single object, the whole infinitely bigger than the sum of its parts (and each part infinite in its own right).

This might entail a trip to the wilderness to witness firsthand the roar and spray of a hidden waterfall, or trout jumping in a shimmering mountain lake (we’re hoping for our first backpacking trip this summer), but it could just as easily mean watching the magpie strut along the cinderblock wall, or flipping over rocks together in the back yard to see what kind of creepy crawlies exist, well, right in your own back yard. It’s a lot more fun than a trip to church, a lot more interesting than a list of facts, and easy as mud pie: just step outside, hand in hand with your little girl or boy, and see what happens.

Bright Enough for Ya?

Come in outta the sunlight, will ya? There’s cold beer an’ whatever else might strike your fancy over there in the shadows, but step over here first. On the subject of light, you got to take a look at some of this cool shit I’m finding. Your eyes’ll adjust.

You ever wonder just how much electricity you could make with the sunlight in your backyard? On your roof? On the patches of abandoned farmland and tailings piles on the edge of town? On the never-developed pieces of meadow, hillside, plain, brushland — the over-grazed and still-recovering rangelands and watersheds that make up the “mixed-use” designated public lands managed by the erstwhile minions of the BLM, NFS, FWS, alphabet soup? I can tell you soon enough.

With viral YouTube videos of the Gulf oil well spill still making the rounds, King Coal in a full duck-and-cover fetal “Clean Coal” subsidy-begging crouch, and the still-leaking nuclear power plant in Japan as incentives to finally, “Just fucking DO SOMETHING, ANYTHING!” to promote renewable energy production, we of the interior hinterlands have been asked by the Bureau of Land Management to weigh in on how they should allow/regulate/promote solar power projects.

It may not be too late to have your say, and in the process of finding out what you think about the BLM’s proposal you just might discover whether your favorite stretch of country (or backyard) is a candidate for helping save our sweet selves from continued domination by the globalized hydrocarbon cabal. Interested? Read on …

  • Currently, most utility-scale solar plants create steam to drive turbines that produce electricity, in a process known as Concentrating Solar. Information courtesy the National Renewable Energy Laboratory (NREL).
  • Find out where the sun delivers the most kilowatt hours for the buck at the Solar Energy Environmental Mapper from the Office of Energy Efficiency and Renewable Energy (EERE). Topo, relief and terrain maps, aerial photos; with overlays showing solar potential, agency boundaries, proposed solar development alternatives, streams and rivers, roadless area, protected resources, wilderness study areas, and more.
  • Take a look at BLM’s Solar Energy Zones in Interactive Panoramas. 360 degree images, with links to descriptions, then grab a cold one and walk a few of them for yourself.

Click on map for hi-res version.

(Courtesy: Solar Energy Development Program Information Center)



Promise of Spring

A title is a promise, or so I hear in writing circles. If that’s so, then this one, I’m telling you, has been broken for a long time. I’ve waited for warm dirt since last November when the first wet snow fell, and I’ve waited in earnest — and in vain — since the beginning of March. No dice.

Let me be clear: Spring in the Northwest is excruciating. Not crisp or cool or refreshing. Not even gloomy or depressing. Excruciating. The weeks between the last snow and the first flower stretch out endless as a Kansas interstate, interminable as a dentist appointment where the guy leaves you in a room with your jaw wedged open and then just forgets about you. Only worse. Because, in this case, there’s always a tease. You look out the window after a long spell of gray, maybe six weeks of drizzle, and you see the sun. The sun! You step outside — bundled in a wool coat and hat — and the wind blows fierce but you don’t care. You turn your face upwards only to see clouds rush in — from where? — to obscure the light.

John Denver had a song called “Late Winter, Early Spring (When Everyone Goes to Mexico).” Sometimes I remember the slow plucking dullness of that tune and think that’s how this feels, except that it’s mid-spring now not early spring, and anyway what was the name of that album? “Rocky Mountain High.” Colorado. 300+ days of sun a year. OK, OK, I admit it. My problem may stem from the fact that I grew up in Southern California, where we started swim practice outdoors the first week in February. The tradeoffs you get for living in the North Cascades rather than Greater LA are worth it, I know: clean air and solitude, green trees, waterfalls, and in summer, the high country. And it’s Lent anyway, I tell my formerly Catholic self, time to wait it out, cultivate patience.

Instead, I decide in late March to move to Arizona.

Seriously. I decided just that, emphatically, last week, when family obligations landed Laurie and me in Phoenix next to a swimming pool. Never mind that the hotel was surrounded by a Cracker Barrel, a riverbed littered with shopping carts and a thousand car dealerships. It was warm. Maybe there was no warm dirt, but there was plenty of warm cement, and that seemed good enough. I didn’t decide to move to Phoenix — I’m not yet that far gone — but Flagstaff, for sure, high dry and sunny. I was sure about it.

Until today.

There’s always a today, every single year. But I forget until it’s here: full sun, green grass, tiny shoots of tiger lilies, lupine, columbine, glacier lilies, water leaf, balsamroot.  None of it flowering. Not yet. But the promise is enough. And, yes, the dirt is warm, sun-soaked and smelling strong. I walked the gravel road this afternoon, skipping across potholes, in shirtsleeves, and, back home, I lay in the dirt and the fir needle duff among saw chips like confetti from a winter limbing project and brown maple leaves, dry as crepe paper, twitching in the breeze, and I stared straight into the sun.