The Love that Dare Not Speak its Name

July 23, 2015 | Uncategorized | Permalink

A couple of nights ago my book group met at the home of one of our members, abutting a huge nature reserve in the East Bay. The sun bathed the hills behind us as we discussed Peter De Vries’ 1961 novel, The Blood of the Lamb. DeVries dramatizes a real life event, the death of his young daughter from leukemia. It’s almost too raw; we all agreed he had probably written about this traumatic event too close to its actual occurrence. We all liked the book a lot. As evening descended, the gorgeous hills behind us changed color and so did the sky. We discussed whether California’s assignation as the “golden state” has to do with the hills or the precious metal that was convulsively disgorged from some of them in the mid-1800s.

I mentioned that the vegetation on the hills is full of non-native plants. This was on my mind because I had talked earlier in the week with U.C. Riverside biogeographer and fire ecologist Richard Minnich, whose seminal 2008 book, California’s Fading Wildflowers: Lost Legacy and Biological Invasions, completely repaints the picture of what California looked like before the Spanish “made contact” here in 1769. Ironically, it is through the eyes of the Spaniard’s themselves that Minnich is able to re-see California. Father Juan Crespi in particular kept scrupulous records of everything he saw as he accompanied Gaspar de Portola on their slow way up the coast. In sum, he saw fields and fields of wildflowers. “Oh no!” cried one of our members. “Mary Ellen is bringing up invasive plants!”

I could have insisted on a few more moments of reflection on the actual view. I could have said, hey, you want to “read” texts but refuse to read your own landscape? As Gary Snyder says in The Real Work, North America has yet to be discovered. “People live on it without knowing what it is or where they are. They live on it literally like invaders. You know whether a person knows where he is by whether or not he knows the plants.”

California’s wildflowers are mostly gone now because when the Spanish set up the Mission system they brought in plants from home that had not evolved with any predators here; these outcompeted the locals and took over. There have been waves upon waves of plant invasions both on purpose — for agricultural and ranching reasons — and by accident, as invasive seeds have hitched a ride literally on the heels of the people and animals who have subsequently made California their home.

“But the seeds are still there,” Minnich tells me. “The flowers can come back.” Fire that’s been suppressed since the Spanish got here could help control some of the invasives and activate some of the historic native plants. There is a fair amount of controversy over what kind of fire is acceptable today. Some argue that so much fuel – dead leaves, bark, debris – has piled up that fires will burn too hot and destroy, rather than regenerate, the quiescent life in the soil. A new book, The Ecological Importance of Mixed-Severity Fires: Nature’s Phoenix, argues that even those hot fires do more good than harm.

I guess my fellow book group member thought I was going to bring everybody down with tales of ecological woe. Why don’t we have an acceptable language for talking about the most pressing issue of our time? I felt a great sympathy for Peter DeVries as we all agreed that his narrative was terrific, but flawed by his insufficient emotional distance from its major event. I guess I don’t have sufficient emotional distance from what is going on right now to frame it in a way that is acceptable at a dinner table. Still we are brave literary soldiers vocally outraged regularly about the Holocaust, the historical suppression of homosexuality, we stand tall against slavery and all racial discrimination, we are valiant in support of world-wide women’s rights. Nobody would have dared close me down if I had addressed any of those subjects. Why can’t we even talk about the environment? One guess is that we feel guilty – we know we are part of the problem. It is very easy to take the side of a victim when you haven’t done the hurting yourself. The thing is, those hillsides could throng with wildflowers yet again. The view would be even more beautiful. We actually have the power to help them recuperate from the ills of the last couple hundred years. But of course we can’t do that if we won’t even take a look.

Unconsoled

April 8, 2015 | Uncategorized | Permalink

Days of innocence - before disease wiped these out. Photo: Richard Morgenstein

Days of innocence – before disease wiped these out. Photo: Richard Morgenstein

Well I have to be thankful to Jonathan Franzen for one thing – he’s pushed me out of my blog blues. His essay in the New Yorker about why we can ignore climate change so misses all the basic, important points about what is going on in nature that here I am, clicking away again.

I haven’t blogged since my father died in December. My father was a novelist and an ad man, and he was always the first to comment on my blogs! So when I have sat down to write, his absence has become a big presence, and I have walked away from the keyboard.

Presence/absence is one of the key paradigms of conservation biology. Much of citizen science is about documenting what species live where, in what amounts and when, and this is “presence data.” With it we can track what’s happening on a given landscape, and help direct conservation. But presence is only half the picture.

Absence is much harder to document. One thing Jonathan Franzen doesn’t know about is how many birds he’s already not seeing because of climate change. He doesn’t understand that while yes, extinction can work via one big meteor strike and has in the past, what is going on now is like a slow blood-letting (ever-accelerating), in which populations are shrinking. He’s still seeing the presence and not comprehending the absence.

Franzen doesn’t understand that the physical system climate change describes is not separate from the biological system conservation addresses. The physical and the biological go together. As E.O. Wilson put it in a recent talk at U.C. Berkeley (#science+parks), we are currently at risk of losing both. Wilson asks how “later generations will somehow find a way to equilibrate the land, sea, and air in the biosphere on which we absolutely depend, in the absence of most of the biosphere that took 3.5 billion years to put together?” Species – plants and animals – create the biosphere.

Right now if Franzen were bird-watching along the California coast, he would have to turn his binoculars to the ground, upon which are piling hundreds of Cassin’s auklet carcasses. This little sea bird is starving to death, as are record numbers of marine mammals also washing up on shore. Cassin’s auklets rely on krill, which is brought to the surface of the water by seasonal cold water upwelling. Right now a big blob of warm water off the coast is preventing upwelling, interfering with storms that would kick up the cold water and also drop precipitation on our parched landscape. Dr. Jaime Jahnke of Point Blue Conservation Science tells me the warm blob could be part of a larger oceanic pattern we have yet to discern. But it could also be part of a global warming horror show.

Speaking of which, recently I sat on a panel in honor of a terrifying and beautiful series on ocean acidification published by the Seattle Times, at Stanford’s Bill Lane Center for the American West. In “Sea Change: The Pacific’s Perilous Turn” reporter Craig Welch and photographer Steve Ringman tell a complicated story through multi-layered narratives, still photography, and video. KQED’s Charla Bear led the discussion. A large part of the audience were Knight-Risser journalism fellows, who were very interested not only in the subject of the series but wanted to know how to get mainstream media to cover these stories more often and with full, responsible information (as the New Yorker neglected to do — shouldn’t the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism investigate how this august publication failed to do the merest due diligence on Franzen’s wacko assertions about climate change?). Dwindling resources for major reporting are part of the problem, but there is also a seeming reluctance on the part of mainstream media to address global change on an appropriate scale.

I was seated next to the Carnegie Institution’s Dr. Ken Caldeira – as Welch put it, Caldeira is “the godfather of ocean acidification.” Ocean acidification is caused by the same thing that causes warming atmospheric temperatures – ratcheting CO2 levels. I asked Caldeira about sea star wasting and ocean acidification. In addition to the Cassin’s auklet and the marine mammals, the biggest marine die-off documented thus far is going on from Alaska to Baja. Sea stars, colloquially known as starfish, have virtually disappeared. Only they didn’t just disappear, they disintegrated, infected by a virus. Because of citizen science and professional monitoring efforts over decades, we know the virus has been present in the water long before it took out the sea stars. Scientists are on the case but have yet to determine what happened to turbo-charge the destructive virus. They do know that the wasting started after a period of warmer waters. They do know that higher CO2 levels in the oceans are warming its temperatures. I turned to Caldeira on the dais. “Why can’t we say ocean acidification is affecting the sea stars?” He said, “We can. Ocean acidification affects echinoderms.” But the whole story is complicated, right? Beginning with the complexity of the system, which is driven by both atmospheric and biological factors that cannot be reduced and separated.

So, my father is not there to read this blog. It seems impossible that this once very strong presence is now an absence. I know there are those who will say, “oh, he’s still reading your blog.” I don’t believe that. He’s gone. But I can’t believe that either. I guess I thought he would always be there. The thing is, I thought that as previous generations have been able to do, I could find consolation for my personal losses in nature. I still turn to nature, but increasingly, it’s not there.

Sense of (dis)Place

November 19, 2014 | Uncategorized | Permalink

ishi by byron wolfe
Jon Christensen threw the bomb and plenty of people registered the blast. “Muir’s a dead end,” he told L.A. Times reporter Louis Sahagun last week. “It’s time to bury his legacy and move on.” More than 170 comments on the piece include “I hope these two guys aren’t actually teaching our children,” referring also to Glen MacDonald, John Muir chair in geography at UCLA. I got to take part in MacDonald’s November 13 symposium considering the legacy of John Muir as we come up on the centennial of his death in 1914. To my delight, MacDonald pointed out that among other things, Muir was a citizen scientist. Muir didn’t have a college degree but “He was right about glaciation and the origin of some Yosemite mountains,” despite the countervailing theory put forth by Josiah Whitney, then head of the California Geological Survey, that an earthquake had done the job.

Christensen edits BOOM!: A Journal of California, and many of my fellow speakers contributed to its current issue, “Thinking with Nature.” I started my career in the magazine world and I still love the form, especially when an issue opens like a bouquet of varied yet related ideas, which this one does. Byron Wolfe showed us panoramic photographs with historic images stitched in to reveal cultural layers of how a single landscape has been conveyed over time. Ruth Askevold from the San Francisco Estuary Institute (SFEI) does something similar from a scientific perspective, and her work reveals layers of truth rather than interpretation. She is an historical ecologist and helps figure out what targeted landscapes looked like at various times in the past. Change over time is the stock in trade of understanding nature and in grappling with how to take care of it. Askevold shows what was in a place and what is still there now – and as in Wolfe’s photographs, some features persist, many of them geological and hydrological. These “nodes” where nature hasn’t budged are both emotionally reassuring and useful for focusing restoration efforts. (SFEI could make art objects out of its reports and sell them, just saying.)

There was much casual brilliance tossed about all day. Leading a panel on the New Nature of California, UCLA professor Ursula Heisse commented that her panelists had each in their own way refocused our attention by confessing their own experiences of nature. I liked this a lot because there is a downside, for me anyway, to academic slicing and dicing of “what are we seeing and what does it mean,” which is that urgent and palpable realities, like the disastrous downward spiral of nature today, end up translated into words and basically disembodied.

So John Muir embodies nature for many people. Has nature been buried with him? Richard White, brilliant Stanford historian, posits that Muir’s worldview left us with a tripartite concept of nature. There is the pristine wilderness, there is the ‘working’ landscape that includes ranches, mines, and agriculture, and there are the cities where we live. This is not good. Nature is not separate, even in the dense metropolis.

For me Muir is not a point of origin on nature, he’s a persistent node like the physical ones Askevold discerns. I was on a panel considering the Native American lens on California, and Muir would seem to have a dismal record here. He came upon bedraggled natives and he felt they didn’t fit into the pretty picture around them. What Muir did not see is still not completely recognized by us today. Those people would of course look depressed – they were survivors of a genocide well underway in California at the time, when the Gold Rush and subsequent logging fever gave license to white European newcomers to kill them and appropriate their land. These people had become strangers in their Eden, kicked out not by their own sin but by somebody else’s. As horrendous as this instance of it is, radical dislocation is not unusual. It is shared by many people around world, historically and today. Diaspora is a common denominator of human experience.

John Muir moved to Wisconsin from Scotland when he was 11 – losing his homeland – and suffered a violent father who beat him. In wilderness, Muir found a place to recuperate. Perhaps he did not see the Native Californians’ trauma because he hadn’t recognized his own. Christensen provoked a dialog about whether our image of the bearded bard of “whole” wilderness is an adequate talisman for the challenges nature is facing today. I say yes it is, but we need to look deeper into Muir’s eyes. They are not just reflecting gorgeous mountains, they are revealing stores of loss and pain. It’s premature to depart from John Muir before we have more fully visited with him. We take it for granted that he saved places like Yosemite just because they were beautiful. There’s more to it.
(Photo of Ishi copyright Byron Wolfe.)

Here we are now

October 24, 2014 | Uncategorized | Permalink

HWGTN-Mock-Up-Preview-Header-960I’m old enough to not quite take it for granted that as I type this on a laptop, eventually to hit “send,” I am thus speeding written words to what could be a nearly limitless distribution. I once used “carbon paper” to make a single copy of work that was smudged with corrected typos. But until now I haven’t sufficiently grasped that the definitive innovation behind the computer is glass — the same stuff through which I look out my window.

It is the cerebral fun of Steven Johnson’s new book, “How We Got to Now” (companion to a PBS series starting this week) that he peels back layer after layer of subsequent applications of original breakthroughs to reveal surprising invention trails. In addition to glass, he traces the wonders of today’s myriad magics to the development of technologies around cold, sound, cleanliness, time and light.

Glass might reach farthest back in human history (the use of fire goes back earlier, but we didn’t invent it). Roman empire glassmakers produced ornaments and windows. Fleeing the 1204 siege of Constantinople, a small group of Turkish glassmakers settled in Venice. The super hot fires they used to make beautiful glass — which soon became a luxury item and important to trade — also tended to combust the mostly wooden structures of the city, so they were convened on the island of Murano.

Johnson points out that this concentration of people working on the same essential project caused “information spillover,” something economists identify as happening today in places like Silicon Valley (which owes its existence to glass). The resulting cognitive surplus, to use another techno-utopian term, produced super-clear glass called crystal. “This,” Johnson says, “was the birth of modern glass.”

Monks transcribing religious manuscripts in the 12th and 13th centuries began using pieces of crystal the better to see their work with, and so spectacles were born. And then came Gutenberg, whose printed books created a bigger market for them. In 1610, Galileo used a crystal lens to make the telescope, through which he observed moons orbiting Jupiter, and from there came the doctrine-shattering revelation that the Earth is not the center of the universe.

The discovery had a reverberating impact that is still being absorbed today. Not only did it reveal a truth about the physical world, it reflected back on the human sense of our place in time and space. The innovation that allowed us to “see things that transcended the natural limits of human vision” also made glass mirrors possible. In these we saw not only our likenesses, but were nudged into reflection on our inner selves. In the words of historian Lewis Mumford, “Self-consciousness, introspection, mirror-conversation developed with the new object itself.”

And glass was just getting started. Glass has allowed us to look into the small as well as out at the large. Science focusing on cells, viruses, bacteria and genes all depend on glass. And from the development of fiber optics unfolds the world of phones and computers we now conduct so much of our lives through. As Johnson writes, “we take pictures through glass lenses, store and manipulate them on circuit boards made of fiberglass, transmit them around the world via glass cables, and enjoy them on screens made of glass.”

One of Johnson’s stories on the cold front is that of Clarence Birdseye. Birdseye had spent some winters in the “remote tundra of Labrador,” where he started a fur company. Out with Inuits, he observed that within seconds fish pulled out of a hole cut from thick ice over a lake froze solid. Frozen food was available in the early 1900s, but it didn’t taste good, because it wasn’t frozen at a low enough temperature. Birdseye took his idea for flash-freezing food and added to it an inspiration from another industry altogether — the assembly line of the nascent automobile business.

On the cusp of the market crash in 1929, Birdseye’s General Seafood company was acquired by Postum Cereal Co., which shortly changed its name to General Foods. You can still find Birdseye’s name in the freezer aisles of supermarkets today.

The ability to control and direct coldness has had enormous impacts not only on how and what we eat but on where we live and how we work. Johnson points out that the advent of air conditioning induced a mass migration to Florida, Texas and Southern California, shifting the demographic of the electoral college toward the Sunbelt.

Without air and humidity control, we wouldn’t be working in tall office buildings year-round in highly dense cities. Johnson covers the unfolding permutations of sound technologies as well, and points out that if we didn’t have telephones, office buildings wouldn’t work, either. To get someone a message on the 48th floor would take a lot more time and a lot more manpower than it does now to either pick up the phone or send an e-mail.

The reader of “How We Got to Now” cannot fail to be impressed by human ingenuity, including Johnson’s, in determining these often labyrinthine but staggeringly powerful developments of one thing to the next. One quibble is that Johnson calls the triggering of change upon change “coevolution,” which he renames “the hummingbird effect.” Coevolution is the development of traits in one organism in relationship with another organism, and that goes both ways, back and forth between the hummingbird’s long beak, for example, and the equally long spur of a flower it pollinates. But coevolution ties organisms more and more deeply together — its innovations are narrowing rather than expanding. He is really talking about another thing that nature does, which is riff on forms, retaining useful ones and mostly getting rid of those that no longer serve a purpose.

And a dark cloud hangs over the techno-exuberance on display in these pages and in our world. Johnson points out that millions of lives have been saved from death and disease by innovations he explains in his chapter on “Clean.”

“And yet today,” he writes, “there are more than three billion people around the world who lack access to clean drinking water and basic sanitation systems. In absolute numbers, we have gone backward as a species. (There were only a billion people alive in 1850.)” Hopefully, the abundant human creativity his book celebrates will find another way.
Mary Ellen Hannibal is the author of “The Spine of the Continent: The Race to Save America’s Last, Best Wilderness.” I wrote this for the San Francisco Chronicle Book Review E-mail: books@sfchronicle.com

Into the Wilderness

October 14, 2014 | Uncategorized | Permalink

Barnosky jacketLast night I wrangled a Litquake event in honor of the 50th anniversary of the Wilderness Act made great by the writers who joined me and by a smart, engaged audience. As with the best conversations, there was some friction. I had an inkling of this when I was briefing Ken Brower on the other panelists. Ken Brower is the son of one of nature’s most effective protectors, David Brower, for whom the fabulous Brower Center in Berkeley is named, and a long-time, accomplished journalist. His most recent book Hetch Hetchy: Undoing a Great American Mistake deconstructs the dam in a literary way that Brower advocates making literal. I mentioned to Brower that Nathan Sayre, another panelist, is author of Working Wilderness, which is about the breakthrough collaboration among the famed Malpai Borderlands ranchers in Arizona to put ecologically sustainable practices on their land, especially fire. Brower said to me, “I’m sure what they’re doing is worthy but there’s no such thing as ‘working wilderness.’”

Peter Algona, author of After the Grizzly: Endangered Species and the Politics of Place in California, pointed out that the human terms by which we define any piece of land (or water) reflects a value that we put on it, or not. Brower held to the position that pristine wilderness is sacrosanct. I know Brower’s position well because it is shared by Michael Soule, the “father of conservation biology,” who I profile in The Spine of the Continent. Soule’s solution is to protect “mega linkages” where we still have nature working at historic scales, which E.O. Wilson echoes in the September issue of Smithsonian Magazine. Wilson points out that “nature needs half” in order for us to stay within planetary boundaries for safe operations here. Both Soule and Wilson lay out the prescription to yes keep wilderness wild, but also to integrate higher ecological functioning into landscapes that don’t have that designation.

Algona’s human-centric observation has even more resonance thanks to the frightening dimensions of the anthropomorphic footprint limned by Anthony Barnosky is his book Dodging Extinction. This book should be a community read for our entire democracy. Barnosky’s a paleontologist and takes the long view. He adds up the numbers to conclude that humans currently use up more energy per diem than is made available through photosynthesis. Thus we overdraw our energy budget by way of fossil fuels. Not only are we creating the poisonous feedback loop called climate change by doing this, we are depriving other life forms of photosynthesis! This is an occult driver of extinction, invisibly constricting the available life space for creatures who we are also depriving of habitat. Sayre pointed out several times that call it wilderness or open space, the enemy is the profit motive plied expertly by developers. What we are engaged in here is a self-consuming system. We are Saturn engorging ourselves on our children. It is not impossible to face up to this and deal with it. Barnosky lays out 1-2-3 how to do that.

Carry a Torch

September 24, 2014 | Uncategorized | Permalink

A cultural burn in the Sierra Nevada foothills in February 2013. COURTESY OF JARED DAHL ALDERN.

A cultural burn in the Sierra Nevada foothills in February 2013. COURTESY OF JARED DAHL ALDERN.

“Many Native people would say this needs to be burned.” Rob Cuthrell, having just the weekend before become a newly minted doctor of archaeology, looked down from the edge of the 225-acre Quiroste Valley Cultural Preserve in Año Nuevo State Park north of Santa Cruz. We stood on the site of the ancient village Mitinne, once populated by the strong Quiroste polity who fatefully intersected here with the Spanish nearly 245 years ago. Down below was a familiar expanse of dried grasses interspersed with coyote brush and rimmed by Douglas fir trees. It looked a lot like many other wide-open expanses of California coast protected from development and home to many native species. Untouched land looks natural. But it’s not, really. Nor, perhaps, has it ever been, at least on the terms that we usually define the word “natural.”

Around the hilltop on which we stood, Cuthrell pointed out purple needlegrass, the official California state grass. “This is a main constituent of coastal prairies,” he said. “I was up here recently harvesting seeds with young tribal members.” Cuthrell told me about a native stewardship program instigated by the Amah Mutsun Tribal Band, a local tribe descended from people at Mission Santa Cruz and San Juan Bautista, who are involved in restoring this landscape to a condition close to what it was when the Quiroste lived here. Cuthrell is part of an extensive interdisciplinary collaboration between tribal members, academics (some of whom are also tribal members), and land management agency personnel investigating the deep history of the landscape, how the Quiroste lived on it, and how to best restore and maintain it going forward.

On the hillside, piles of hewn Douglas fir branches turned rust-colored and perfumed the air. “We’ve cut these down because Doug fir grows really fast, and soon these would shade out the native perennial grasses,” Cuthrell said. “These piles will decompose relatively quickly.” In contrast to the native grasses where we stood, the land down below was choked with invasive plants, some of which are native, but still considered invasive. The coyote brush is native, but the Quiroste would have kept it at bay, sustaining this place as wide-open grasslands by periodically burning it. “But there’s too much woody shrub to burn it now,” he said. “It would burn too hot. We have to prepare this land for burning, and it’s going to take time.” It will take more than thinning out the fuels. Invasive plants actually change the microbial structure of the soil and affect the entire suite of ecological interactions on a landscape. Putting fire on the land prematurely could perversely promote invasives rather than quell them.

This landscape was initially recognized for its historical significance by California State Parks archaeologist Mark Hylkema. Logged, ranched, and farmed for decades, the property was donated to the state parks system in the early 1980s. Hylkema had a bee in his bonnet from reading historic documents of Spanish encounters along the coast here. In 1769, Don Gaspar de Portola led an expedition in search of Monterey Bay. “By the time they got up here,” Hylkema told me, “they were in dire straits. Several crew members were dying. The land was all burned, so they couldn’t feed their horses and mules.” Thinking Año Nuevo Point was the northernmost part of Monterey Bay, they camped at what is now called Whitehouse Creek in late October. Troops marched along the beaches and descended down into what they called a “well-sheltered valley” of rolling hills and nut bearing pines. The Spanish came upon what they called Casa Grande, a large settlement dominated by a big structure. Quiroste tribal members met them, hosted them, and restored them. “This is where prehistory becomes history,” Hylkema told me. “Because the Quiroste could have told them to go back.”

With students from Cabrillo College, Hylkema radiocarbon dated remains of shells, plants, and animal bones on the site to determine whether Casa Grande could have originally stood here. Hylkema looked around for researchers to help him dig deeper into the history and implications of Quiroste—and thus turned to Chuck Striplen, an Amah Mutsun tribal member then looking for a site on which to focus his dissertation in Environmental Science, Policy, and Management at UC Berkeley. Eventually, a team of more than fifteen researchers, including Striplen, Hylkema, Cuthrell, Kent Lightfoot, and Valentin Lopez, chairman of the Amah Mutsun Tribe, cohered around the work at Quiroste. The site was classified as a cultural preserve, and recently, the Amah Mutsun Land Trust added nearly 100 acres to the site in the form of a conservation easement.

“When the idea of our Tribe participating in this study first came to us,” Lopez has written, “we were dubious. . . why would we ever agree to participate in a project that could potentially disturb our ancestors?” Cuthrell proposed using magnetometry, ground penetrating radar, and electrical resistivity—none of which would disturb the ground—to help construct a three-dimensional model of what is underground. These techniques direct the researchers not only where to look further, but where to stop looking if it appears they are coming upon a grave site. The Amah Mutsun “wanted to support member Striplen’s academic goals,” Lopez said. They also “realized that science and archaeology play an important role in helping us restore our indigenous knowledge.”

In a recent special issue of California Archeology, Kent Lightfoot, an archaeologist, and Valentin Lopez, the tribal chairman, were measured in their conclusions: “We do not yet know when people first initiated sustained anthropogenic burning in California or how they may have developed and modified these practices over time. Nor do we know much about the kinds of impacts these landscape management practices had on the scores of biotic communities distributed across the. . . regions of California. Lastly, there has not yet been much research on the social organizational systems, numbers of people, and degree of community coordination involved in various kinds of eco-engineering activities.”

But out in the field, Chuck Striplen is willing to go a little further: “There’s no escaping history. These methods were how these ecosystems were maintained for more than 10,000 years. They didn’t always do it right, but on average, when the Spanish showed up it was to non-endangered condors, non-endangered red-legged frogs, and non-endangered salmon.”

Looking over Quiroste, the takeaway seems clear: It is not that we are here; it is how we are here.

I have a longer piece on Native Californian burning in the current issue of BOOM: A Journal of California, which you can access here: http://boom.lareviewofbooks.org/lighting-cultural-fires/

Wrestling Climate Change to the Ground

August 11, 2014 | Uncategorized | Permalink

This originally appears in the July issue of Bay Nature, which is a fantastic magazine I highly recommend subscribing to! The view east from Pepperwood Preserve to Mount St. Helena highlights the dramatic topography of this protected research site in the Mayacamas Mountains. (Photo by Tom Greco, Pepperwood Preserve)

 

It’s July 2010, at state-of-the-art Dwight Center for Conservation Science at Pepperwood Preserve in the Mayacamas range east of Santa Rosa. The place is surrounded by some 3,000 acres of iconic Bay Area Coast Range habitat: sunny skies, untrammeled oak woodlands, gorgeous views. Inside, 23 palpably excited scientists introduce themselves and rattle off their disciplines: climate change modeler, spatial ecologist, physicist, soilphysicist, ecologist focused on global carbon cycling and probabilistic vegetation modeling. Uh oh. Is this conference going to be all about graphs, equations, and incomprehensible hypotheses presented with wild enthusiasm? (Yes.) A fire ecologist announces himself as “Discoverer of the Previously Unknown.” Everybody laughs.
“The whole town’s here to paint the fence,” says Lorrie Flint, a hydrologist from the U.S. Geological Survey. “And David’s our Tom Sawyer.” The tall, slim master of ceremonies is Dr. David Ackerly, professor of integrative biology at UC Berkeley. In buoyant terms Ackerly dubs the assembly a “Mensa-style” group and calls on everyone to help figure out what climate change is doing to nature here in the Bay Area, with eyes on the prize beyond. Their goal is to combine the expertise from all of these disciplines to develop a climate change adaptation framework that can actually be used by resource managers.

By the following year, the group had been winnowed down to a still-large corps of scientists christened the Terrestrial Biodiversity Climate Change Collaborative (TBC3). Since then the group, with funding from the Gordon and Betty Moore Foundation, has produced all manner of work that has deepened, widened, and illuminated our knowledge of what’s going on out there, a kind of living map that encompasses not only the tangible signposts of earth, rock, vegetation, and wildlife, but also the interpenetrating elements of sunlight and water in all its myriad forms.

To Keep on Keeping on

It’s not “news” to Bay Nature readers that climate change is in the process of giving a serious thwack to living systems. But what’s less well understood is how plants and animals and the habitats they  inhabit are moving—and being altered—in response to changing temperature and precipitation patterns. The Pepperwood oaks, branches reaching like so many grandmothers‘ arms, may not be here in the future. When will they go, where will they go, and what might be here in their place? Moreover, even if these species are able to move, they won’t all move in lockstep, so the evolutionary relationships among them are likely to be disrupted. How will that further impact the landscape? And how will that affect the way we manage the areas we have protected and the way we target other areas for protection going forward?

There are several big hurdles to figuring out these issues. As academia requires, these scientists are all specialists, virtuosos of the narrow focus. One analyzes fog, another plants, another landscape connectivity. But nature, of course, is made up of all those parts, and more, and functions through interaction. So to understand the whole, the group will need to integrate their individual approaches—not easily done. Further, climate models provided by the authoritative Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) show future temperature and precipitation patterns, but at enormous scales. Natural interactions do add up to big signatures, but for grape growers, for farmers, for ranchers, for water district supervisors—for everyday people who need to make decisions about the landscape—what happens on the small scale is much more important. The group will therefore “downscale” climate models to the level at which we actually live.

TBC3 co-leaders David Ackerly and Lisa Micheli inspect the project's master fog and weather monitoring station in the grasslands of Pepperwood Preserve. (Photo by Tom Greco, Pepperwood Preserve)

TBC3 co-leaders David Ackerly and Lisa Micheli inspect the project’s master fog and weather monitoring station in the grasslands of Pepperwood Preserve. (Photo by Tom Greco, Pepperwood Preserve)

Multitudes and Multivariates

Looking up close and personal at California means taking into account both our Mediterranean climate—warm, dry summers and cool, wet winters—and our beautifully varied landscape of hills, mountains, rivers, creeks, and marshlands, with the myriad microclimates this topographic diversity produces. As species are having their habitats pulled out from underneath them, the good news is that our heterogeneous landscape means a cooler or wetter spot might exist for a species just a bit to the left or the right or up or down from where it is now. Where exactly those climate refugia are likely to emerge is a big question for conservation, since we need to make sure we protect—and connect—these places, to give time and space to plants and animals to rejigger their relationships and adapt. But where will they be? Even as the ensuing years of nose-to-the-grindstone research and analysis go forward, TBC3 retains a palpable sense of questioning, of poring over the complexities and dynamics of nature with an attitude, yes, of discovering the previously unknown.

Solid as a Rock

“As much as we are all interested in the biological effects of this, there was a broad consensus to start with the abiotic,” explains Dr. Lisa Micheli, referring to the primary products delivered by TBC3 thus far. The star so far is a set of “high-resolution climate hydrology scenarios” for the San Francisco Bay Area. Micheli is the executive director of Pepperwood Preserve, the co-leader of TBC3 with Dr. Ackerly, and more. She is both a scientist contributing to the research and a land manager keenly interested in applying it to the landscape for which she is responsible. Micheli is a geomorphologist, so while strolling the grounds of Pepperwood, she is likely to point out a rift in the terrain and tell you how old it is. By “abiotic” she’s mostly talking hydrology—that is, how water moves through the precipitation cycle and also through the landscape. Other big abiotic factors include soil and sunlight, and putting those two together with water, we arrive at the piece of the puzzle that has absorbed these scientists for four years, “the climatic water deficit.” It turns out to be a central signal in understanding the effects of climate change on biodiversity.

Rogers Creek

Pepperwood Preserve technician Joel Cervantes and volunteer Sam Herniman measure water levels and stream flow on Rogers Creek on the preserve’s Stream Flow Monitoring Project. (Photo by Dennis Fujita, Pepperwood Preserve)

I’m Thirsty

Lorrie and Alan Flint are U.S. Geological Survey scientists. Married for 38 years, they’ve worked together nearly as long, and they don’t so much finish each other’s sentences as toss the conversational baton back and forth between them. The Flints developed a model that is exciting because it produces a value representing the amount of water available for use by a plant, discernible not by making big generalizations from space, but by measuring the capacity of the soil to hold water, right where the plant grows, and also measuring the amount of that water the atmosphere sucks away from it (evapotranspiration). Because of this tension between the soil’s ability to hold water and the atmosphere’s ability to evaporate it, even if we get more rain in the future (the IPCC models differ on this), we will still experience more drought due to the increased heat in the system, which will evaporate the water at a higher rate. The plant winds up with a debt—the amount of water it would have used for growth and reproduction had the water been available.

“Instead of a blanket look at the Mediterannean climate,” Lorrie says, “we can characterize [the landscape] right down to the level of creeks at Pepperwood.” At one meeting she demonstrated by showing graphs of the lower Laguna de Santa Rosa and Franz Creek.  Pepperwood contains the headwaters for both. “They have different soil and storage capacities,” she notes. “The Laguna can hold water longer and thus has less accumulated deficit. Franz Creek gets more rain but experiences a longer deficit anyway.”  Flint counsels land managers to “know your watershed! You may not have to worry so much about some parts of your lands.” She emphasizes that the models don’t tell managers exactly what will happen on their land, but present a framework within which they can ask themselves if it will make sense in the future to continue to manage their land as they are now.

On the Watchtower

The climatic water deficit at Pepperwood is measured partly by soil probes the Flints have strategically placed across the landscape. The long metal spears stuck in the ground are joined by weather stations, fog sensors, and wildlife cameras arrayed to capture animal movement. In addition, David Ackerly has demarcated 50 plots of oak trees to capture physiological and life-cycle responses over time. All these data points collated together will create a “biophysical knowledge base” from which to track how species respond to climate change as it unfolds. Micheli and Ackerly will watch keenly to discern where and when a vegetation “transition” might occur—for example, where Pepperwood’s oaks may be at the edge of their range and so more likely to disappear from it as temperatures ratchet higher and soils get drier. Many other complexities are at play, and one sunny spring day I tagged along while Ackerly showed a group of plant ecologist colleagues “some crazy hybrids.”

These are people obsessed with the minutiae of green growing things, so we don’t move very far very fast. Micheli explains that oaks are rampant interbreeders and the genetic resilience of hybrids poses an interesting question vis-à-vis-climate change. The hybrids seem to capitalize on the best of two sets of genes, but as ecology has unfolded thus far, their flashy dominance is short term. Over the long haul it has been the purebreds that have persisted, based partly on the power of conserved traits, the genetic raw materials that old lineages have passed on for millennia. But with climate change, the evident flexibility of hybrids to adapt to novel conditions in relatively short order may trump other survival strategies.

The group stops. “I love this spot,” says Ackerly. Appreciative growls concur but I’m flummoxed. It’s all beautiful to me. “You see these grasses?” says a postdoc along for the tour. “These are native perennials. This is a snapshot of pre-Mission California, before cattle grazing and imported European grasses disturbed the environment.” He draws my attention to the delicately hued tips of purple needlegrass (Stipa pulchra, the state grass of California). Its long root systems hold water in the soil, which creates drought resilience and specifically supports the oak forest around us, keeping oak seedlings hydrated. We are looking at an ancient relationship that’s still functioning.

climatic water deficit

The TBC3 team has augmented online vegetation maps produced by the Conservation Lands Network to show the impacts of climate change on key landscape characteristics. The above maps show the projected increase in the climatic water deficit (the amount of dry-season water stress on the vegetation) in the region around Pepperwood Preserve from “recent” (1981-2010) to “end of century” (2070-2099), based on the “hottest, driest” model from the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. The changes projected at Pepperwood are 100-150 mm (4-6 inches) of water, which will drive transitions to more arid vegetation types through fire and drought. (Image courtesy Stuart Weiss, TBC3)

Bringing Adaptation Home

Change on this landscape is not new, after all.  The question going forward is, how well will the ecosystem continue to function, and to what purpose? In the end, it is people who will have to adapt to the resulting changes.  From its inception, TBC3has been about developing cutting-edge science not just for its own sake, but with the express purpose of making it useful for people. Micheli sees her task is “to not just give land managers this climate future information, but to work with them to integrate it in actual places.” On this score, conversations are just beginning.

In November 2013, a subset of the TBC3 group presented initial findings to local North Bay land managers. “Today we are here to get feedback,” Ackerly began. “Things are fresh out of the oven here.” Offerings include high-resolution data sets from the past 100 years that make it possible to project scenarios for the next century, given a doubling of atmospheric CO2. Dr. Stuart Weiss, of the Menlo Park–based Creekside Center for Earth Observation, presented his integration of the Flints’ climatic water deficit data into a comprehensive interactive mapping model called the Conservation Lands Network (CLN). What in other hands might have remained academic models are thus provided through TBC3 for virtually anyone who wants to use them to help grapple with climate change impacts on the ground.

Pepperwood itself, all wired up with probes, sensors, and transects, has become a “sentinel site” through which regional climate change impacts can be glimpsed in microcosm. Micheli envisions a Bay Area network of such sites, including related work being done by uc Berkeley and the Nature Conservancy on Mount Hamilton and Stanford researchers at Jasper Ridge Preserve. At the rollout to land managers, participants take mini field trips to various habitats on Pepperwood. I follow a group led by Stu Weiss. Weiss points out a clump of invasive grass; a rancher opines that he loves the stuff because it’s rich fodder for his cattle. A conversation ensues about the juggling act of applying generalities on specific landscapes. Although TBC3 has provided new tools for grappling with nature, the road map for what lies ahead is of necessity a collaborative work-in-progress. Rich Burns, field manager of the Ukiah office of the Bureau of Land Management, tells me, “Lisa’s group just stands out as a community-based tie-in to academia that you can’t find in many places. Pepperwood and TBC3 are an incubator, bringing people together and guiding creative thinking.” He pauses and adds, “I guess I’d call that leadership.”

You can find a subset of TBC3 findings on the Climate Commons, hosted by the California Landscape Conservation Cooperative: http://ow.ly/xNzrR. The
Conservation Lands Network map-based tool is at 
bayarealands.org/explorer/.

Mary Ellen Hannibal is an award-winning environmental journalist and author of The Spine of the Continent: The Race to Save America’s Last, Best Wilderness (Lyons Press, 2012). Her forthcoming book on citizen science will be published in 2015

A Statistical Inquiry into Vincent van Gogh

July 21, 2014 | Uncategorized | Permalink

 vegetation map models the climatic water deficit around Pepperwood Preserve over the last 30 years. (Stuart Weiss, TBC3)
This is a blog adding a fillip to a piece I wrote about the TBC3 Initiative and Pepperwood Preserve in the July issue of Bay Nature.
Biodiversity scientists tend to love the outdoors. Ironically, most of their work occurs inside. At the first meeting of the Terrestrial Biodiversity Climate Change Collaborative (TBC3), a three-day workshop held at the Pepperwood Preserve in Sonoma County in July 2010, one of the attending scientists chose not to bunk with the others at nearby lodgings, but instead elected to sleep under the stars. Have sleeping bag, will travel to conferences. At one point during a long discussion about computer models, someone entered the conference room and announced there was a snake outside. Every single person in the room jumped out of their chairs and out the door – to look at the snake, which was kind of hilariously unmoved by the attention (soaking up the sun).

I felt akin to the snake.  Pepperwood is so darn beautiful, and the warm sun, the oak trees with their outstretched craggy branches – I wanted to stay outside too.  But we headed back indoors to discuss “veg models,” which, of course, are not perfect red peppers. When the conversation went too far over my head I utilized wi-fi and searched out some of my sticking points. “Marxan,” if you really want to know, is a software used to inform the design and management of nature reserves. “Raster” has nothing to do with marijuana or reggae: It’s part of a “dot matrix data structure.” “Vector”? Please.

At lunch one day one of the organizers of the workshop, Dr. David Ackerly of UC Berkeley, asked how I was doing. “Fine,” I said. “Why do you like statistics so much?” Ackerly’s kindly face became painfully concerned as he took a moment to translate his thoughts into a language I could understand. “Statistics,” he said, “let me know what story I can tell.” I have thought about this sentence frequently over the four years since he uttered it. (He suggested I read Statistics for Dummies. Thanks David; the truth is I’ve tried and it’s too hard for me.)

The beauty of science is that it really does search for truth. It is easy to follow the tracks and trails of one or several of nature’s patterns and yet be completely lost as to the whole picture.  So statistics are numbers that tell you what, exactly, is where, and in what amount. Scientists use them because they know the human eye is blinkered by biases we so take for granted we can’t possibly see past them. Statistics are a tool in service of the earnest desire to depict a picture of nature that is more accurate than we are yet capable of otherwise defining.

These scientists break down every piece of nature and every natural interaction into a tiny point to which they assign a number. Then they look at a map of all those numbers, and  try to discern patterns in them. As I listened to these people talk about what patterns they are seeing where, and as (I confess) my mind wandered, I looked out the window and thought about how painters similarly express truths of nature. Seurat, for example, is a raster-master, reducing his scenes to little points of color that can be seen discretely like grids. Nature is both flattened and amplified in his technique. Van Gogh can be said to bring vectors to life through color, adding magnitude and direction and creating motion on the flat surface of the canvas. Van Gogh made nature all about color while science takes all the color out (usually). But the resulting pictures are similar in depicting vertiginous, dynamic, seemingly infinitely continuous interactions the whole of which is not just a picture, but a process. Almost makes me want to take a math class. But I think I’ll step outside to the living art gallery instead.

Dig Deeper

June 25, 2014 | Uncategorized | Permalink

9781610915595 (2)Over the past couple of months I’ve been immersed in researching and writing a piece on indigenous burning practices, particularly in California.  My mind is blown! I’ve long kept tabs on the Northern California Prescribed Fire council, which is a very interesting consortium of fire ecologists, state and federal agencies, tribal members and all sorts of people who are trying to get “controlled burning” back on the landscape here.  Right now, because of the drought, every day is a wildfire alert day, so no burning allowed anywhere.  At the same time, not burning the buildup of duff and debris in our forests is adding tinder to any eventual spark, and the resulting inevitable fire is going to be big.  We have a fire problem here.

 

But under the guidance of Jon Christiansen, my editor at BOOM!:  A Journal of California, I’ve been going farther into the flames.  In sum, California is fire-adapted, meaning the special plants and animals we have here co-adapted with fire on the landscape.  Solid archaeological research conducted by tribal members and researchers from UC Berkeley (the categories overlap) is showing that Native Americans burned the landscape here for at least 1000 years and probably much longer than that.  When you look at a map of Native American presence in the state before European contact, you will see a multitudinous jigsaw of hundreds of small polities or “tribelets.” If you look at a map of microclimates in the state, it looks like a similar mosaic.  Native Americans in California burned small landscapes to promote a succession of growth and habitat for the plants and animals they gathered and consumed.  They maximized the microclimates to cultivate an incredible cornucopia of varied foodstuffs.  In the title of Kat Anderson’s landmark book, they were Tending the Wild, and in many places still do.

 

Here’s one mind-blower.  California Native Americans don’t fit into the traditional “hunter gatherer” category nor do they fit into the “farmer” category.  Kent Lightfoot (Berkeley prof.) and Otis Parrish put it this way in their encyclopedic drill down on the subject, California Indians and Their Environment:  “They Are Not Farmers.”  Since anthropology traditionally puts hunter gathers on the primitive-ish scale and then posits the emergence of agriculture as the first step towards modern culture, this step-out by California Natives is of profound import.  Let’s just fast-forward to the Anthropocene, our dubious moment in time characterized by our over-use of natural resources, which we are using up faster than they can be renewed.  In general surmise the birth of agriculture led us down this path.  There are many dimensions to the story (I turned in about 6000 words when Christiansen only asked for 3000.  Oops. Get out the red pencil).  But one important part of it is that California Natives did not subsist on domesticated plants and animals.  They kept the wild wild.  One thing that means is that historical ecological relationships between species – like between pollinators and plants – were not disrupted.  Diversity of species was not reduced under their stewardship; contemporary agriculture has by contrast reduced diversity to the point of extinction for many species.

 

So I press “send” on my tome-in-progress and pick up a book:  Keeping the Wild:  Against the Domestication of Earth, published by the Foundation for Deep Ecology in conjunction with Island Press.  It’s a collection of essays mostly targeting the pernicious and cynical arguments of what some of its authors call, tongue in cheek, “the new environmentalists.”  These are a handful of people who have gotten a lot of press with their swaggering claims that degraded nature is A-Okay. Eileen Crist’s solid essay, “Ptolemaic Environmentalism” takes on the practically unconscious consensus that seems to be going on here that puts Homo sapiens in a special place above other life forms.   She says this started with the Greek concept of oecumene, “one of the first human imperialist concepts,” which describes the inhabited world.  The world inhabited by people has become the “real” world to many; this anthropomorphism “constructs an existential apartheid between humans…and…all other life forms regarded, more or less, as the usable or displaceable ‘merely living.’” This fateful separation provides justification for increasing human numbers at the expense of most other life forms.

 

Harvey Locke, one of the founders of Yellowstone to Yukon, did me a big favor by writing “Green Postmodernisms and the Attempted Highjacking of Conservation.”  I struggle with ‘what on Earth is post modernism anyway?’ and Locke explains that after the paroxysm of the world wars and all the “isms” that had fed the maw of mass destruction, intellectuals decided that any codified body of thinking calling itself special knowledge was suspect.  So, baby out with the bathwater.  All is relative. Locke reviews the infiltration of postmodern thinking into conservation and puts a marker at William Cronon’s book Changes in the Land.  The way Locke puts it Cronon’s book “suggested that aboriginal people were farming everywhere and that there was no wilderness when the pilgrims arrived in New England.”  Therefore, Locke implies, Cronon was calling wilderness a relative concept.

 

Locke’s essay is well worth reading and makes much clear.  He’s a warrior of conservation and has been a participant in its major conversations for decades.  But on the Cronon front and on the Native American front he needs to look a bit deeper.  In documenting Native American land use practices, Cronon is not de facto arguing that every piece of landscape from sea to shining sea was thus cultivated, and certainly not arguing that this kind of historic precedent provides some sort of justification for “domesticating” every inch of land today.  Cronon’s 1982 book opened academia’s eyes to the fact that humans don’t have a history separate from that of nature.  He practically invented the discipline of “environmental history.”  Locke falls into the trap of eliding reference and asserting partially-sourced generalizations here – the very faults of the “new environmentalists” he is avowedly countering.

 

Additionally, there’s this little old thing called “colonialism” that Locke steps up to in the postmodern definition but then steps away from too quickly.  Back to Crist’s thesis, humans in general have taken up the colonial modus operandi, and we are all the colonists now.  The deconstructing tools developed by postmodernism are still useful for assailing the original enemy.  Colonial expansion was predicated on the assumption that one race was better than other races.  Now we’re on a different page; we know all races are equal.  But the problem has mushroomed onto the species level.

 

It is at the species level that the Native Californians had it right and still have it right.  Frank Lake, of tribal descent, a research ecologist with the USDA Forest Service, shared with me a perspective about tribal world view.  “Every tribe has a creation account, the premise of which is that people came to this world, and they learned the First Teaching,” Lake said.  “They learned that the natural laws are learned from animals and from place.  And people have a reciprocal obligation to conduct themselves in a particular way with place, with how they use fire, water and other resources and the way they interact with their relations with nature.  And nature is everything out there:  rocks, trees, insects, plants and animals. They have this deep cultural stewardship responsibility to the environment, and that comes first. And only then are you responsible to your culture and your people.” This philosophy is much older than the Greek “oecumene.”  Why don’t any of the authors in Keeping the Wild investigate or even acknowledge it?

 

To the “wilderness” concept or idea – the point is not that humans have no place in part of the biosphere.  We are agents of creation and destruction in the biological hurly burly no less than other species.  We are not specially more than other species, nor are we specially less.  It is not that we are here or have been here, it is how we are here.

 

 

 

Sleeping with the Enemy

May 31, 2014 | Uncategorized | Permalink

seven deadly sinsIt’s strange to see a subject you know a lot about treated by another journalist.  “Green is Good,” T.D. Max’s story mostly about The Nature Conservancy (TNC) in the May 12 New Yorker, starts out covering TNC’s current strategy to partner with big polluters to get them to mitigate in the interest of their own bottom lines.  But a big part of Max’s narrative focuses on the philosophical kerfuffle TNC scientist Peter Kareiva set off a couple of years ago when with Michelle Marvier and Robert Lalasz he published “Conservation in the Anthropocene” in Breakthrough Journal.  In sum, Kareiva et al. said that conservation strategies to protect parks and other discrete areas is essentially misguided.  They trace the idea that wilderness is a special place to Henry David Thoreau and Edward Abbey among other writers; crowing that Thoreau’s mother did his laundry and that Abbey was actually lonely out in the desert, they claim the very foundation of a special wilderness idea to be dishonest.  They go on to say that things are not really so bad.  Even the polar bear might have a bright future, because seals might be  driven northward by climate change and so into the polar bear’s jaws, and because the polar bear can always interbreed with brown bears to save some scrap of its genetic lineage.  Finally, they resolve that conservation should not be focused on species or landscape protection but instead on “economic development for all.”  The idea is that nature belongs to everyone; what’s left should be purposed to help the poor and underserved get a better life.

 

Yup.  There’s a ton wrong with every single thing they say.  Kareiva et al. employ an ad hoc, scattershot attack.  They glide over ecological realities and it seems willfully misread great writers. To the idea that we should give the last remnants of intact nature to poor people – can we just think about that for a second?  As climate change and continued ecological degradation make clean air, clean water, and beautiful landscapes scarce, do we really think that the wealthy people who have the best access to such are going to voluntarily share it somehow with the underserved?  The reality we see on the ground is that even right this minute, those of us in the so-called First World are having something of a sanguine response to climate change, because it’s quite clear that the biggest and worst impacts are going to continue to be felt by the Global South.  Those are other people over there, so what if they suffer?  If we were inclined to be fair and generous with the rest of the world, we would be doing much more to stop climate change now.

 

So why does Max spill valuable New Yorker ink on the subject?  There are so many bigger fish to fry.  TNC’s experiment with Dow Chemical, for example.  Max might have dug into the history of Big Green attempts to make peace with the devil.  “We can’t beat them so we’ve got to join them” is not a new idea in conservation.  Sociologist Douglas Bevington’s 2009 book The Rebirth of Environmentalism:  Grassroots Activism from the Spotted Owl to the Polar Bear, researches and analyzes deals made between large conservation outfits and industry in this spirit of “partnership.”  Bevington’s data makes it clear that big industry plays around with earnest conservationists in a proverbial cat and mouse in which the mouse is always eaten in the end.  Big Green ends up giving away more protection than it secures.  By contrast, small nonprofits that challenge industry have continuously racked up legislative protection for nature.  Bevington singles out the Center for Biological Diversity (CBD), which basically sues the states and federal government to protect species on the Endangered Species List. CBD has been nearly 100 percent successful in preventing species from going extinct.  TNC has protected 119 million acres – this is fantastic, this is great – but CBD has protected 233 million acres designated as special habitat when species are listed as threatened or endangered.

 

Max seems to fall into a false dichotomy set up by publicity-seekers like Kareiva in which passionate, long-time advocates for nature are painted as self-deluded wilderness-hoarders.  Why doesn’t Max look into the spotty and haphazard ecology upon which Kareiva bases his bromides?  It just disappoints me that Max paints Michael Soule, whom I profiled in depth in my book, The Spine of the Continent, as some kind of Old Testament crank, still railing on behalf of nature after all these years.  Soule is one of the foremost scientists who have defined conservation biology as we understand it today (Kareiva also made valuable contributions to this science). Max says Soule is working on a book about “human wickedness and its impact on nature.”  It’s worth clarifying that Soule’s project is an investigation into the “seven deadly sins” and how they prevent us from seeing what we are doing to nature.  Ever the evolutionary biologist, Soule is constructing a phylogeny that combines religious, cultural, and physiological traits.  Soule may periodically take a sonorous tone, but he is motivated by anguish and compassion, not just for one species, Homo sapiens, but for all species.  As he has said on more than one occasion, “it’s all one system.”  The context for his work, for TNC’s and CBD’s work, for all our work, is the current vastly accelerated rate of species extinctions brought on by the activities of just one of nature’s denizens, us.  That Soule persists in reminding us that there are other fates involved here is heroic and worthy.