The Fauna Exodus and Flora Holocaust in Stanislaus National Forest

        One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds.  Much of the damage inflicted on land is quite invisible to laymen.  An ecologist must either harden his shell and make believe that the consequences of since are none of his business, or he must be the doctor who see the marks of death in a community that believes itself well and does not want to be told otherwise.

                                                                                                                                                         -Aldo Leopold

       One final paragraph of advice: do not burn yourselves out. Be as I am - a reluctant enthusiast, a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic.  Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure.  It is not enough to fight for the land, it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much, I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this: you will outlive the bastards.

                                                                                                                                                          -Edward Abbey

            Over the Fourth of July holiday weekend my friend, his two friends (whom I now consider my friends), and I went car camping at River Ranch campground on the outskirts of the Stanislaus National Forest in California.  Although the camping itself was more like tailgating at a football game due to the surplus of amenities (cots, chairs, three coolers, a standup grill, cheerleaders) and beer, the experience was valuable for many reasons, one of which is that through visiting a new place one gains familiarity with the surrounding environment, thus determining where to go when returning in the future (assuming it is a place worth returning to).  Therefore, I now know that when I return to Stanislaus I shall venture far beyond the azure lakes that flank Route 108 and journey as far as time, resources, and energy permit into the Carson-Iceberg and Emigrant Wilderness.  But that remains the subject for another blog post.  Until then, what follows are pictures taken on the trip to Pinecrest and Beardsley Lake, as well to God’s Bath (aka God’s Glory Hole/God’s Bukkake). 

            Above the Central Valley and below the High Sierras of Tuolumne County lies a subalpine wonderland of rivers, canyons, forests, valleys, and lakes.  Drive east from Twain Harte on the winding State Route 108 toward the Sonora Pass and enter Stanislaus National Forest.  Just off the 108, Pinecrest Lake (elevation 5,600 ft.) is a popular summer holiday destination for hundreds of families who come from the out woodworks to enjoy the refreshing mountain air and water.   If you seek peace and quiet, you’ll have to venture up from the lakeshore into the rocky pine slopes above the drone of motorboats and cackling crowds who should not be blamed for visiting the same lake at the same time.  (California is the most populous state in the nation, and it’s wrong to scorn the similarly or like-minded minorities whom have successfully escaped their concrete and drywall cells and the technological torture of urban monotony to seek reprieve at a lake in the mountains, unless they came here to watch or participate in jet ski races, wet T-shirt contests, or hot dog eating competitions.)

           In the cliffs and forests above the lake you will come across myriad animals that have fled the lake seeking refugee from the people and sound pollution. (In addition to the boat motors, the lake dissonance is augmented by car speakers blasting music and robotic female voices providing GPS directions for departing visitors.)  The ospreys, flickers, and tanagers will nest farther from the lake as the human activity at the lake increases, but for how long they will able to continue their resettling and survival efforts is unknown, for the arboreal ecosystem upon which these birds rely is in a state of terminal downfall.  When you go to Stanislaus National Forest, you can see dead and dying trees everywhere. They are dying by the millions.  It is a frightening sight: desiccated pine trees, dried and brittle, ready to light-up like matchsticks, spreading across the forest like a rust-colored cancer.  The implications are grave, and the reasons (drought, deforestation, pollution, development) for this massive die-off should be thoroughly contemplated and reflected upon by all Californians who care to act if we are to arrest this descent into an environmental holocaust.   While walking through the forest above the lake, I wondered what it was like a there century ago, and what it will be like in a century from now.

             In the streams trickling down the mountain ravines to Beardsley Lake in the summer live colonies of plants and insects such as spiders and ladybugs and water striders.  On the upstream hike to God’s Bath dozens of butterflies were observed marching on the sand and fluttering above the riverbank.  The lifespan of ladybugs and butterflies is less than a year, yet these insects have existed as respective species on Earth for over 50 million years.  While the lifespan of individual spiders and butterflies may be considered short, as a species they have collectively stood the test of time.  While there may be no purpose to life nor explanation for the existence of life, I tend to lean toward the school of thought which advocates that our species should follow in the path of the insects and try to make this game last as long as possible via achieving a homeostasis with the natural world.  The reason for this may be as simple as the deduction that by embracing a healthy and balanced lifestyle, the greater the chances that humans and our posterity will live longer and enjoy the universe.  But if we check out now that too is fine, for we’re not obligated to be here for any given length of time.  What is disturbing about the current mode of operations is that our species seems to be taking many other species out in our march toward the precipice.  The trees, insects, and birds (among myriad other creatures) have done nothing to deserve their participation in the diabolical demise of their habitat and the implosion of the natural world, but nonetheless have been thrust to edge of existence, threatened with extinction, and forcibly endowed with front-row seats to the grand finale of the greatest show on Earth.  They are the victims of a worldwide ecocide, and it is our responsibility to do more to prevent their annihilation, for we the cause of it, and by saving them we would be saving ourselves.  Indeed, saving them is the only way to save ourselves.

Wind turbines and freeways west of Livermore. 

Wildcat Canyon Park at Dusk and History Eclipsed

If you are lonely when you’re alone, you are in bad company.   

                                                                                                 -Jean-Paul Sartre

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

                                                                                                 -Oscar Wilde

          Here are a few pictures taken on a solitaire sundown stroll through Wildcat Canyon Park near Berkeley, CA.   Despite the park’s proximity to the populous metropolitan hives and suburban hubs in the Bay Area, the only other animals I saw on this hike were cows, vultures, wild turkeys, and quail.   The park trails are lined by magenta thistle and the slopes of the chocolate hills are covered in tall grasses and dotted by yellow and red wildflowers.  Looking west from a hilltop one can see the distant Golden Gate Bridge which spans the mouth of the San Francisco Bay and connects that electric city to the North Bay where the prevailing rising landscape feature there is the formidable Mount Tamalpias.   Mount Tamalpias is situated on the Pacific Plate side of the San Andreas Fault, the tectonic boundary of which divides the Pacific and the North American continental plates, the latter of which Wildcat Canyon is located upon.  The North Bay is linked by the Richmond Bridge to the East Bay which, at dusk, is sprawled out before you like a giant circuit board glowing with artificial lights beaming beneath the setting sun.  The most noticeable manmade feature observable in the immediate East Bay is associated with the steam rising up from the cooling towers of the Chevron Richmond Refinery, which is probably located a little too close to the San Andreas Fault Line. 

         At the bottom of Wildcat Canyon lie freeways, streets, and parking lots overflowing with cars driven by people whom, like myself, are buzzing across the surface of Earth like frenzied and bloated microbes in a globulous petri dish that becomes ever more polluted and populated with each passing day.  The East Bay cities and towns have swallowed up much of the marshland of the bay, and obscene housing tracts are stacked throughout the hills and valleys.  Further east, in the dry hills of Contra Costa County, bulldozers are tearing apart the grasslands to make way for monstrous suburban housing developments and soulless strip malls, further guaranteeing an intensified stress on water resources in a state that has just experienced it’s most severe drought in 500 years.   These houses will be filled with people whom, not unlike myself, unnecessarily consume vast amounts of resources and energy for mindless purposes.  These houses will be tiled and carpeted, air-conditioned and insulated, furnished with smart refrigerators and freshwater toilets, and connected 24/7 to the worldwide web thereby in effect eliminating the need for residents to ever leave the comfort of their sterile homes to enjoy the natural world, which they may instead experience through virtual reality.  They will read few books and watch copious amounts television.  They will take fewer walks at dusk to view the bloodred sun and glorious bay, the lenticular clouds and evening stars, the ancient mountains and full moons tugging at the ocean – incredible geologic and astronomical events which eclipse our lives, civilization, and history itself.   We think we are unstoppable.  We take more than we need  (unlike all other animals which are born and die naked) and feel that we are entitled to it all, and because of this insatiable greed we are doomed.  And perhaps rightly so.  As much as I want us (me, my family, and posterity)  to stay, I look around and see the way we are mistreating this planet, at the way we disrespect all forms of life (ourselves included) inhabiting Earth, and I can't help but wonder: wouldn't the natural world be better off humans closed-up shop (shutting down the nuclear power plants, dismantling nuclear weapons) and died?  I don't want that happen, but sometimes I wonder...

The Belize Barrier Reef - Part II

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

                                                                                                                             -Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Kubla Khan

          The paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was Julia’s life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal.

                                                                                                                              -George Orwell, 1984

           In the course of our mosquito studies we had found that each different species had its characteristic flight habits. Some kinds were found only near the ground, others only high in the trees; some that were most common high in the trees in the morning or afternoon would come down near the ground during the midday hours, showing a sort of daily vertical migration.  While I was explaining this to my friend, it struck me, that this is just the way animals act in the sea.  Most life is near the top, because that is where the sunlight strikes and everything below depends on this surface. Life in both the forest and the sea is distributed in horizontal layers.

                                                                                                                             -Marston Bates, The Forest and the Sea

            It is my pleasure to share with you the following pictures that I have had the privilege of taking while diving in Belize last month, but first, a glimpse into my writing process, or lack thereof.   I often fail to live up to the writing responsibilities I have bestowed upon myself because, as my mom says, I lack discipline and courage, and this is a tragedy of the highest order of magnitude and biblical proportions for I am depriving humanity and posterity of my ingenious insights, exceptional writing capabilities, superlative stories, and the potential game-changing impact they would have on the fate the Earth, not to mention the literary world which is currently suffering for want of good writers who have important things to say.  (That was a sarcastic remark, for I have read and can list myriad books authored by living geniuses whose writing accomplishments I shall never hold a candle to, The Invention of Nature, about the stupendous naturalist, scientist, and explorer Alexander Von Humboldt, being one of them).  The initial part of my writing process is writing notes in the notepad that I keep in my pocket or accessible whenever possible.  Because it is not waterproof, I didn’t bring it diving with me, but once I got back onto the boat I would saunter over to my backpack, take out my notepad, and jot down the things I had shelved in my brain while diving.  Thus, I had recorded the thoughts (which, in the case of my diving experiences, are just a few descriptive words of what the things I saw reminded me of or how they made me feel) for later transcription which doesn’t always happen as demonstrated by the conniving pile of sneering notepads that are stacked on my desk conspiring against and derisively mocking me for not transcribing the snide little bastards.  In the rare event that I actually transcribe onto my computer the notes pertaining to something I want to write about, I can then proceed to write about it, which is precisely what is going to happen right now.  One more thing: I would like to express the guilt I have about my journal entries and how I spend my time and resources in life in general.  I come to the altar as a sinner (mea culpa, or whatever).  I am painfully aware of and readily admit the hypocrisy inherent in my decisions and actions.  I incessantly rail against the way the elite are satanically ravaging the natural world and are oppressing or killing, at this very moment, innocent, defenseless, and voiceless civilians whom weep in agony in a world of rubble, and then I spend two thousand dollars on a ten-day vacation in Belize and a much greater amount of resources sustaining my luxurious and decadent lifestyle in heavenly Northern California.  I realize the contradiction here, and for this I am sorry to all those I am hurting as an American taxpayer not revolting against the despicable policies of my own government.  If there is justice in universe, unless I change my ways, then I will have hell to pay in some form or another, in this life or the next, and fully accept the retribution awaiting me.  Now on with the writing…

          What follows are slideshows of photographs taken on my second trip in as many years to the magnificent Belize Barrier Reef.  I feel no immediate need go back (although I hope to do so one day), because I have seen all that I wanted to of the reef for now, and would like to explore other reef systems on Earth while they and I still exist.  Rather than lament the grim prospects of survival that coral reefs are facing worldwide (that comes later), this blog entry will celebrate the uncanny and surreal beauty of these breathing underwater ecosystems that are teeming with life.  The first slideshow features wide-shots of various parts of the Belize Barrier Reef (Lighthouse Reef, Glover’s Reef, and Turneffe Atoll).    In these photos I have tried to capture the scale of the reef and present a panorama of the diverse coral formations that comprise it.   Coral reefs are like forests in that they are conglomerations of interconnected organisms (in this case coral colonies) which support an abundance of other wonderful creatures and are dependent on sunlight for survival.  They are highly active marine environments that are pumping and reverberating with observable lifeforms as miniscule as the tiny polyps of branching sea whip corals that close shut upon the brush of your fingers, and larger than the blacktip reef sharks and giant groupers that drift along the wall of the living reef.  The wall gradually descends into an indigo and sunless abyss where very few coral species can live because the planktonic zooxanthellae (algae) which grows in symbiosis within most coral species cannot photosynthesize due to the lack or absence of sunlight in the fathoms of these deeper realms.  (P.S – I have no idea what I’m talking about.) 

          One reason why I love coral such much is because of how strange they appear.  Different coral species compete for space and sometimes merge in such a way as to give the impression that they’re the giant faces of grotesque, muppet-like sea creatures that, while benign, seem humorously startled by your presence.  Whilst diving one is surrounded by these bizarre coral formations that are reminiscent of Gary Larson animal caricatures or a SpongeBob SqaurePants cartoon backdrop.  Swimming though these aquatic dreamscapes is like swimming through a Salvador Dali, Max Ernst, or Yves Tanguy oil painting – rich in color and fantastical in shape so as to induce the feeling of a flying dream or mild hallucination.  Some coral species are florescent and glow bright blue, red, or yellow.  Upon closer inspection of one can see thousands of tiny coral polyps extending their tentacles to catch floating zooplankton.  Nature expresses itself in replicative patterns, and many coral species resemble mushrooms, moss, and lichen (which is a combination of fungi and algae) found in forests, while other coral resembles anatomical features such as the cortex of the brain or the ventricles of a heart.  Isolated colonies of sea rod coral rise from the sandy seafloor like cacti in an underwater desert, the skeleton structure of sea fans parallel the vein patterns of leaves, tube and basket sponges are filter feeders that look like carnivorous pitcher plants, and lengthy sea whips hang from coral walls in great tangles resembling willowy liana vines. In other words: things look like other things.

            While coral reefs and the behavior of their animal inhabitants exhibit many similar characteristics to the flora and fauna of tropical forests, they also remind me of ancient temples, medieval castles, European fortresses and cathedrals – an encastellated kingdom where singing mermaids collect human artifacts and mermen kings are armed with golden tridents that can magically fire destructive energy bolts.  Although they are natural and free-forming, coral patchworks are like organized underwater cities, bustling with caravans of blue tangs commuting through coral highways as though they had some important fish meeting to attend on the other end of the reef.  Spotted-eagle rays and alien-eyed loggerhead turtles shuttle themselves over the reef with flat-headed remora hitchhiker fish in tow.  Moray eels weave lithely through coral crevasses where armored spiny lobsters and Caribbean-accented channel crabs filter sand through their mouths in a relentless sift for food.    In this phantasmagoric kaleidoscope of life where sunlight shimmers though the prismatic water like sequins, rainbow parrotfish dart from coral to coral, pecking at the polyps with their beaks like birds.  The incredible flying fish soars above the surface of the water, gliding further than any dolphin can ever dream of jumping.  There are camouflaged fish that have evolved to disguise themselves in the small coral colonies or seaweed patches in which they ride out the entirety of their beautiful and seemingly simple lives.

         Coral reefs are extremely delicate ecosystems, their survival is dependent on innumerable variables remaining constant in order to maintain the conditions necessary for life in a healthy reef.  Occupying a slim echelon in ocean, these vast organisms, magnificent unto themselves, harbor forms of life that are so remarkably stunning and unique that they take the breath away.  The beauty and wonder possessed by coral reefs and the diversity of creatures they support lies almost beyond the realm of comprehension.  As they continue to decline worldwide, their future is not promising.  Time is running out to save the coral reefs and arrest the ecocide humankind is perpetuating against the seas.  If they disappear into extinction, this planet will have lost one of the greatest and most fascinating jewels to have ever graced the solar system.  Alas, the sad truth is that as with the death of a family member or friend whose presence we failed to cherish in life, humanity will not realize how vital the coral reefs are nor understand how much we love them until they’re gone forever.  May they rest in peace.   

Mono Lake, Fern Lake, and Travertine Hot Springs

          If you cut east from San Francisco and drive through the Central Valley past Sacramento and into the snow-covered Sierra Nevada mountain range, you’ll hit Route 395 at roughly 6,000 ft. elevation.  Head south toward the ancient Mono Lake, which, at 760,000 years old, is one of the oldest lakes in North America.  Huge and blue beneath the winter sky, the alkaline water is twice as salty as the Pacific.   Twenty species of sagebrush populate the area surrounding the lake, which hosts eighty species of migratory birds over the spring and summer (in July and August upwards of 100,000 phalaropes, which winter in South America, can be observed frolicking and fornicating), and pinyon, juniper, and conifer trees climb the foothills of the Eastern Sierras from which the water flows that feeds the lake.  Many of these streams were diverted beginning in 1941 to slake the thirst of the burgeoning and still bloated population of Los Angeles.  As the lake’s water level dropped, the tufa towers were exposed.  Tufa towers resemble stalagmites of frozen, craterous bodies of liquefying mud.  These vertical limestone fairy chimneys form in the lake as a result of the underground calcium-rich fresh water spewing up against the carbonate-rich alkaline lake water.  According to the brochure, “This tufa-forming reaction happens only in the lake itself.”   Here are some pictures of the lake followed by a scanned slideshow of the California State Parks Mono Lake brochure.

        Fern Lake is a lesser known lake also fed by the mighty Sierra Nevada streams and supported by the hydrological cycle in general.  Fern Lake lies upon the more fashionable June Lake, and in the snowy winter one can rent snowshoes for $20 a day from Ernie’s Tackle and Ski Shop and then go snowshoeing in the mountains.  It’s a liberating experience which enables an abled-bodied person to explore winter wonderlands and the icy reaches of mountainous crests as though he or she were a non-hibernating animal such as a wolverine, polar bear, or yeti.  UFO-shaped lenticular clouds above soar above the mountain peaks and below lies a frozen patchwork of ice and rock and June Lake condominiums.  What follows are is a slideshow of the snowshoe trek to the frozen Fern Lake (which I overshot and ended up above), as well as the geothermal Travertine hot springs east of Bridgeport.

The Flatirons, Layers of Earth, and the Excavation of Civilizations

Twilight fall upon all souls
Darkening our skin and bone
Soon I’ll follow Prudence home
Until then, just let me chase this sun
Soon enough I’ll go, a winters way
Soon enough, though not this day…

                                      -Autumn, Puscifer

           The Flatirons is the name given to a several slanted slabs of rock that tower above Boulder, Colorado.  The gradual upheaval of the Flatirons resulted from a highly confusing process of tectonic plates colliding on the Earth’s crust and upper-mantle in the age of the dinosaurs 35 to 80 million years ago.  (The Late Cretaceous period abruptly ended, and I suspect that had it not there would be metropolitan dinosaurs carrying briefcases and headed off to work on Earth at this very moment.)  The plates and microplates of Earth’s crust (which reach a depth of 25 miles) and upper-mantle (a thousand miles down) lie upon the lower-mantle which is comprised of dense rock that has the consistency of asphalt.  Driven by internal convection currents, the Earth’s mantle flows slowly, shouldering the rigid crust above it.  As the continental and oceanic curst separate and merge over the eras, mountains and seas are diminished and formed.   2,000 miles down, beneath the lower-mantle, lies the outer core of the Earth, which is made up of nickel and iron and flows in a liquid state, touching the edge of the inner core at 3,000 miles.  The core of the Earth, 3,000 - 4,000 miles beneath of our feet (at 4,000 miles is you’re at the center), is so highly pressurized that it is solid, and it is hotter than the surface of the sun.  (Some people say that if you were there you’d be floating or that you’d be squeezed to the size of a marble.  These are irrelevant points because the temperature of the Earth’s core is 9,000 Fahrenheit and the pressure is three millions times that of the surface, so humans will never get there; the closest we’ve dug is 8 miles down.  Our data about the nature of the layers of the Earth is scientifically inferred.) 

USGS Geological Time Spiral

             The Flatirons are located 30 miles northwest of Denver, and when one gazes southeast across the winter farmland toward the mile-high city you wonder what it would be like to watch a nuclear bomb detonate over that capital.  There would be a bright flash followed by a billowing mushroom cloud, and general chaos would ensue.  Survivors of the blast would most likely attempt to leave Denver, probably walking on highways toward the Rocky Mountains, the nearest source of fresh water.   The reaction in the towns on the outskirts of the city would be mixed.  There would be crews of good Samaritans rushing to assist the survivors of the blast, while others, fearing the effects of the radioactive dust particles and impending nuclear winter, would pack up and head west in a frenzy.  Depending on the strength of the weapon, Boulder would be left intact, and the Flatirons would still prevail above that quaint college town on the foothills of the Rockies.  

            The hike to the top of the Flatiron is strenuous.  In the winter the trails are covered in ice and the buzzards wheeling above the rocks are just waiting for you to slip and crack your skull.  Pine tree forests surround the Flatirons and grow through the cracks of the lichen-covered rocks like bonsai trees. Above the canyons and steep hills and among the giant stones, the view from the top is extraordinary: Boulder and small towns are visible upon the vast plains that extend toward the eastern horizon, cold white clouds churn about the formidable snow-capped Rockies that dominate the western panorama, fairy-chimney rock formations rise up from the spectacular foothills stretching north in a range so beautiful that one could walk them forever. 

            I watched some people climbing along the tops of the Flatirons.   These impressive individuals were higher up than I, and I could not help but think that I was missing an adrenaline rush and better view by not being up there.  To assuage this frustration I told myself, “You go diving, and I’m assuming they don’t, so they’re missing some things you get to see and experience.”  (Although I’m sure there are plenty of divers who know how to climb.)  An estimated 350,000 people are born each day (an estimated 150,000 die each day).  The natural wonders of the world are inevitably being thoroughly explored and regularly visited, direct flights to places like New Zealand and Tahiti are increasing, remote diving locations that were formerly virtually unknown are becoming increasingly popular, Mt. Everest is being covered with trash and the dead bodies of climbers.  Certainly this is fine, so long as the environments of these places can be sustained, which is questionable but possible.  (Ecotourism in on the rise in places like Belize, but the cruise and cargo ships keep crashing into the reef.)  How wonderful it would be if we could strike a balance so that posterity of humanity and all species in the natural world would be given the chances and opportunities for happiness and survival similar to that of their ancestors.  But it may be that our species will have to start again, and our modern cities will be re-discovered and excavated by future humans just as humans have excavated the lost cities of ancient civilizations in places like Angkor Wat, Manchu Picchu, and Rome.   The way this folds out will be largely dependent on the way we treat each other.  During the war in former Yugoslavia American fighter pilots would take off from Air Force bases in Maryland to bomb people in Serbia and then fly back home in time for dinner.  We can use or technology to communicate and travel in effort to talk out our differences, or we can bomb the shit out of each other.  We chose the latter route in the last war in Iraq – a country which we have been bombing for twenty-five years now – and in doing so we squandered a chance to for dialogue and peace.  Now that region is in flames and their ancient cities are being bombed to dust.  If we continue on this destructive path there will be nothing left for future humans to excavate, not even Denver, but in spite of our actions, the Flatirons will likely remain for millions of years to come.