Chinook Salmon, Stamp River, Cascadia 17.9.17
A half hour after the skies broke at last with rain.
In a year of stress, everyone, from those ants to the right to the leaf miner that left its trail in this cottonwood leaf, is mining the last pools of spring water for life. Deciduous tree behaviour doesn’t just benefit trees. It stores large amounts of water, builds protected environments, and maintains them with deep, underground water through the heat. Without this so-called inefficiency, the land would burn to a crisp, even the fire-adapted grasses, native and feral together, below.
Yesterday, I mentioned that Naomi Klein’s critique of this past season of storms and fires missed a Cascadian perspective. Here’s one, from Shuswap Lake.
Let me decode that. When one is of a place, instead of moving into place from a position of external power, one cannot speak of the trees, the rock, the fire, the air or the water without speaking of oneself. The image of the ponderosa pine tree “reflected” in Shuswap Lake is a good approximation of what that is like. So is this Kokanee, from Redfish Creek on Kootenay Lake:
Kokanee are what are called “land-locked” salmon. I doubt they see it that way. There are powerful political and economic forces that make the story of Big Oil critical to weather patterns this summer. There are equally powerful local forces, often expressions of external forces, that make the land susceptible to these global forces, which are called weather but are really economic, social and political, which have great power to amplify or deaden the effects of such global patterns as Big Oil. When we as the people of Cascadia develop intellectual traditions that begin with this migrating loon on a lake drenched in smoke and the light from a red sun, rather than from the smoke and the red sun, we will have the ability to resist Big Oil:
Until then, we will be helping Big Oil along, no matter how much we protest. In other words, protest against Big Oil is vital. Beneath its veneer, however, deeper structural work of bringing the earth into the human social group will need to happen if we are to heal or be in any way whole. We can do this. But it has to be whole, and it has to begin here:
Distance is a dangerous illusion.
Drought makes it easier for birds. They need the help. Sucks for stink bugs and lilacs-planted-in-the-wrong-place, though.
Men have been digging at the hill to make a level place to build houses, and have put up a wall of blasted rock to hold the hill back. Note the deer.
In the two months since this wall was constructed, it has rained, oh, 0.5 millimetres once. It was enough to barely wet the soil.
But still it flowed.
Imagine what 2 mm. would do!
Imagine 1 cm.!
What were they thinking?
Were they thinking?
It sure doesn’t look like it.
It will be the city’s problem some day.
As for the deer, she has been doing a little erosion of her own.
Her angles are precise. Note how she has loosed a little avalanche on the left.The rain ought to make good use of that when it comes.
There should be laws against this kind of stupidity and carelessness.
When it gets too hot and bright out …
… there is always the dark.
Spider runs the solar shuttle best.
It’s simply beautiful how it is done. First, water sorts out the finest grains of silt, and deposits them on the surface of low points in the earth, filling them in. Then the sun evaporates the water, and cracks the silt all crazy like.
Wind and gravity (and birds passing through the seasons) deposit feathers and leaves. The angular effect of the sun on the fluid shape of the silt holds them from drifting.
When the rains come again to the lowest ground, it fills the cracks, softens leaf and feather, and then deposits new silt around them.
They are now mixed in.
The cycle repeats with each season, or each thundercloud.
This is the lightning of the earth.
Beautiful, isn’t it!
What exquisite music.
When you rely on animals brushing up against your seeds, or pecking at them, to knock them to the soil, it’s best to fall over with the weight of your flowers, so your seeds are a whole body’s distance away. After all, right down in the middle of beautiful you isn’t going to work so well. Alfalfa is great at this kind of walking.
In this way she marches a whole body’s distance away, every year. What’s more, because clear ground has no dry stalks of vegetation to hold her up (and prevent her from falling over), it’s exactly there, where there is space for her, that she walks. We too.
Humans and alfalfa share an ecosystem and go out walking there together on a summer’s day.
This wetland beauty is what a real tourism is made of.
I witnessed busloads of Asian tourists scattered across pastures in Iceland, to take pictures of exquisite light.
The timing, the location, the season, all have to be right.
These are ancient, honourable traditions. They are alive here.
So often, though, I have seen Asian tourists in Vernon trying to find some nature to photograph off the front of their main stop, the honey farm, and the meadery, which closes its tasting counter for their arrival, by the busload.
So often have I seen them crossing traffic to shop at the Dollar Store.
Well, if they came for beauty, we have cattails. What are the tour bus companies thinking?
We also have feral squiggly willows.
They are worth $3000 of Nikon equipment, too.
And a plane ticket.
But why just Asians. Why don’t Canadians come for Beauty, too?
It’s not particularly hard to find, even in the ruins in which we are forced to live.
It’s easy. You go by foot. Then you stop.
Then your mind stops.
It’s all ephemeral, but here’s the thing: ephemerality is continuous. We have the ability to flow, but also to pool.
Let’s follow the turtles for awhile and give our guests the respect they deserve and open our social forms to the living world for them.
Look at how the water turns to turtle shell with the lightest breeze!
And by doing so, open them for us.
Well, she thinks so!