the hold of cold (1985)

(Another from the print archive I found in the garage this week while throwing everything else away. Written in Washington, DC  during a false and cruelly tempting break in that city’s slack winter, as I pined for California.) 

the hold of cold has lifted
green tendrils,
struggling yet calm
pierce the newly warmed ground.

they are possessed of thoughtless self-confidence.
one cell divides; divides again.
water presses water.
they seek themselves out in the earth.
pregnant, quickening,
smiling with knowledge unfelt
expectant and ready
begin the journey upward.

green tendrils,
struggling yet calm
pierce the newly warmed ground.

they are drinking red and blue
particle waves embraced by molecular arms they
think in light
light too faint to see
shines from wings like falcons
stretching in sun from dead tree limb.

from dark they reach for light

using no hands they grasp.
grasp light as water
grinds stone to sand.


mine is the politics of place

(Cleaning out old paperwork before my move May 1 to a smaller house, I found a stack of things I’d written between 1984 and 1989. I’ll share a few of them here. This one was written in 1985, and is the first in a likely regrettable series.)

mine is the politics of place
rivers run rampant by their own names

my thoughts spring from places i have been
like wildflowers, each portending the next hundred miles

susquehanna, colorado i have drunk
and watched the mud settle

in eddied rills like galaxies
(blistered eyes of a hundred interstates

surveying the muddy greenery
thinking “i could eat that

if i ever got really hungry”)
and walked a dusty twenty miles

from exit to exit near pittsburgh pennsylvania
as farm dogs grasped the backpack straps

and squinting farmers dashed my seventeen-year-old hope
that the ride was close at hand.

Cliven Bundy's cattle illegally grazing at Gold Butte. Photo courtesy Rob Mrowka.

Ed Abbey on Cliven Bundy

Cliven Bundy's cattle illegally grazing at Gold Butte. Photo courtesy Rob Mrowka.

Cliven Bundy’s cattle illegally grazing at Gold Butte. Photo courtesy Rob Mrowka.

Overgrazing is much too weak a term. Most of the public lands in the West, and especially in the Southwest, are what you might call “cowburnt.” Almost anywhere and everywhere you go in the American West you find hordes of these ugly, clumsy, stupid, bawling, stinking, fly-covered, shit-smeared, disease-spreading brutes. They are a pest and a plague. They pollute our springs and streams and rivers. They infest our canyons, valleys, meadows, and forests. They graze off the native bluestem and grama and bunch grasses, leaving behind jungles of prickly pear. They trample down the native forbs and shrubs and cacti. They spread the exotic cheatgrass, the Russian thistle, and the crested wheat grass. Weeds.

“I… suggest that we open a hunting season on range cattle. I realize that beef cattle will not make sporting prey at first. Like all domesticated animals (including most humans), beef cattle are slow, stupid, and awkward. But the breed will improve if hunted regularly. And as the number of cattle is reduced, other and far more useful, beautiful, and interesting animals will return to the range lands and will increase.”

(From “Free Speech: The Cowboy and His Cow,” 1985.)


Revisiting Old Terrain



The Berkeley Ecology Center killed Terrain a couple years ago. I visited the office a year ago and the one remaining staff person that remembered me apologized profusely, as if I’d be offended that they axed the journal I’d walked away from 16 years earlier. Honestly, I think it was inevitable. I’m surprised it didn’t happen a whole lot sooner. The center never really knew what to make of the publication, at least while I was editing the thing.

They didn’t kill the publication while I was working there, so I win.

Terrain was the monthly publication of the Ecology Center, at least during my tenure. When I left in October 1997 the Center’s Board of Directors voted, at my urging, to make the magazine a quarterly, thus cutting my successor’s duties by two-thirds. I think they also paid him more and hired an assistant.

But it was a monthly while I was there, which means that from June 1992 through that last issue in October ’97, I put out 62 issues of Terrain. (For those of you inclined to do the math, I took a month off in May 1995 to get married, and another in July 1996 for a vacation.)

It was a hellacious amount of work for almost no pay in a larger organization that was remarkably dysfunctional at the time, so my outward reminiscences since leaving have tended toward the gripe end of the spectrum. It was kind of like boot camp. Or one of those apprenticeships in Tibetan mythology where the supplicant gets told to build a master’s stone house with no tools, and then on its completion is told to tear it down and rebuild it a foot to the left.

When I left the job in 1997 I went to the desert. I took along one copy of every issue of Terrain I’d ever edited. On my first night out, in a campsite in the headwaters of the Owens River, I fed them one at a time into my campfire, in reverse chronological order. Three months later I was working at a similar publication put out by a more prominent organization, and there my boss (with whom I’ve reconciled since) was one of the worst I’ve ever had,  to the point where I gave notice a month into the gig which is a whole separate story to tell sometime, and that job was still better in many respects than my job editing Terrain.

And lately I realize that I could not be doing what I’m doing now if I hadn’t had that bad job. I can’t imagine having had a better bad job. I walked away from it, but — to fall prey to the predictable chiasmus — it never walked away from me.

I was supremely unqualified for the job when I took it. I’d written a column monthly or so for for the previous editor for a couple years, and helped with editing from time to time. And then that editor burned out rather dramatically, announced to the rest of the Center staff that she had hired me as her replacement, and then left. The next printer’s deadline was three weeks away. The process for producing Terrain involved editing the material, then printing it out in 12 point Times New Roman in 3.25-inch columns in Microsoft Word, then hand-waxing a paragraph or two at a time and pasting them onto big tabloid-sized cardboard flats.

My first issue was ready to go to the printer in an hour, and I noticed a prominent typo in the hand-drawn front page artwork’s headline. The artist had omitted a letter. After a moment’s panic, I improvised a solution.


That’s kind of what the job was like for the next five years: last-minute panic fixes with X-Acto knives.

Feature, not bug. I had to figure out how to make everything easier. I moved to page layout software from manual pasteup. I revolutionized the article submission process by telling people they needed to use email. I scrounged a copy of Photoshop 2.0. I found articles on Usenet and persuaded the authors to let me reprint them on treeflesh.

I also made every mistake possible. I misattributed articles. (The authors are mainly still speaking to me, thankfully.) I engaged in ransom note page design and typography. I took a very long time to figure out how to account for “dot gain,” the spreading of ink into paper, when preparing photos for printing. On newsprint, the beautiful photos I’d get of old-growth redwood forests would become muddy messes, hardly suitable to persuade readers that the old growth deserved not to be chopped down. (The issue was hot at the time.) I came up with some of the ugliest cover art in world history without meaning to.

I learned, in other words.

Not by myself, I hasten to add. A few months after I started a classmate of mine from the Landscape Horticulture school I’d gone to a few years earlier wandered in with a piece about horse manure. My garden columnist had just quit. I offered her the gig. She grinned fiendishly. Before long she’d taken the 1/4-time assistant editor job, which had previously been spent putting together a monthly calendar. Ron Sullivan took on that job and a whole lot else besides. There were months she worked full time on that 1/4-time pay. I’m pretty sure that was her idea. She saved Terrain from making more embarrassing mistakes in the editing department than I could possibly count. The writing in the rag got better. As did mine, from watching her work.

She brought in her husband, Joe Eaton, one of the best natural history writers I’ve ever read. He started devoting untold hours of volunteer time writing, editing, and fact-checking Terrain’s science. He also drew editorial cartoons worthy of Herblock or Feiffer. My (now ex-) wife Becky proofread and provided impromptu artwork. More volunteers joined. I was still working 50-60 hours most weeks, but the work I was doing in that time was better.

Within a few months we had the makings of an editorial board of five or six people. We met once a month to review the issue that had just come out and plan the next three. Though there were occasionally unpleasant politics on the ed board, and though some of those unpleasant politics were magnified by my increasing burnout as 1995 became 1996, the board was a core group of people committed to bettering environmental writing and reporting in Northern California. It was one of the best groups of people I’ve ever worked with.

In January 1996 we changed format from a free tabloid newspaper distributed in the Central Bay Area to a 40-page magazine, which we intended to sell for $3.00 a copy throughout California. The goal was to become the leading source of environmental news and ideas for Northern Californians. In retrospect, that was probably ambitious. We’d been planning it since 1994. Had I known then what I know now, I might have kept the free tabloid and expanded onto the early Web, just then coalescing. Terrain might have been much more influential if we’d staked out early turf online.

Then again, I was just barely able to check email in the office: I had to share a landline with the office manager.

We did good, though. We reported on Redwood Summer, on the ecocidal 104th Congress, on the aftermath of the 1991 Oakland fire and the 1995 floods in the Central Valley. We ran stories by Gary Nabhan, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Winona La Duke. We reported on methyl bromide poisoning in Santa Cruz County schoolkids, and on the backlash against protection for the Delhi Sands flower-loving fly. One afternoon having a meeting at the Missouri Lounge next door, Ron and I decided the house style included diereses wherever possible. Terrain blossomed with coöperatives, preëmptions, and microörganisms.

The 60-hour weeks took their toll, and I took that toll out on those around me. I drank too much coffee in the morning, then drank too much alcohol as I worked at home at night, waiting for my Quadra 610 to crank though sharpening one 500K Tiff file after another. Eventually I just couldn’t do it anymore, and in summer 1997 I told the Ed Board, which told the Ecology Center’s Board of Directors. By October I was sitting by that fire in the headwaters of the Owens River.

It took me a long time to let go of what we’d planned for Terrain: my old site was intended as Terrain’s heir, expanded to all of California, and it took a few years to admit to myself it wasn’t going to work.

It’s so clear now. All that work, all that thought and planning, all those illustrative mistakes and good habits forged almost accidentally? They make it possible for me to do the work I’m doing now. It’s not so much X-Acto knives and hand waxers and last-minute panic now.

This past week I saw a story I’d worked to break open since 2012 take the global stage. I didn’t get credit, and that would have been nice in some ways. But the story broke. The conversation changed. A place I care about got a bit more attention, and that attention was a bit more informed than it had been. And it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t spent that time in Boot Camp.


Beacon project is up and running

Here’s my inaugural effort:

Imagine that someone you love is dying needlessly. You make one plea for help after another, but to no avail. Instead, the health care providers you consult tell you that your loved one’s completely curable illness doesn’t exist. Or that her health is a lower priority than the other things they’re working on. Or even that she needs to be allowed to die so that her illness doesn’t spread to other, more important people.

That’s what it’s like these days for environmentally concerned people who love the desert.

Subscribers can read more here. You can keep track of new stories on my Beacon page, though I’ll post pointers here as well.