Category Archives: Activism

Do you suffer from Anthropocentric Personality Disorder?

Antisocial personality disorder is generally defined as a condition in which the sufferer exhibits a repeated pattern of disregard for the rights, feelings, and well-being of others. Tell me that isn’t how most people regard the non-human world.

(Originally published June 4, 2014 on Beacon Reader) 

White Mountains from North Shore of Mono Lake

Mono Lake is drying up again. The unprecedented drought that’s settled in over the state of California has dried out the snowmelt that usually feeds the picturesque, unearthly lake east of Yosemite.

Because the lake has no outlet other than evaporation, its water gets saltier as the lake shrinks: there’s no way of flushing out the dissolved minerals. In the best of times, when the lake is at its ideal level with the water surface at or above 6,400 feet above sea level, Mono Lake is twice as salty as the ocean. Right now the lake’s surface stands at 6,380 feet and an inch or two, and its water is closer to three times as salty. That increased salinity threatens to undo the lake’s ecology, killing off the algae and brine flies that form the base of a food chain supporting millions of migratory birds.

As the result of decades of bitter court battles against the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power, which diverts fresh water from the streams that feed the lake, 6,380 feet is a threshold level for the lake. With the lake above 6,380 feet, LADWP is allowed to take 16,000 acre-feet from Mono’s tributaries each year. (An acre-foot is the amount of water that would cover an acre to a depth of a foot; 16,000 acre-feet per year is enough water to fill Pasadena’s Rose Bowl to the brim every six days.)

Once the lake drops below 6380 feet, which it likely will by the end of June or July, LADWP’s exports are cut to 4,500 acre-feet per year. That’s still a significant amount of water to be removing from a lake in the desert, but it’s a steep cut nonetheless. And as a result, Los Angeles residents eager to make sure they help preserve the amazing ecosystem at Mono Lake have drastically cut down on the amount of water they use.

Wait, no, they haven’t.

Don’t get me wrong: ecologically conscious Angelenos exist by the tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands. That’s a lot of green-leaning people. But in a city of ten million, a hundred thousand people putting buckets under leaky taps to catch the water for reuse amount to a… well,  you know.

It’s not just Mono Lake, of course. The whole west is going dry, with California hardest hit. Los Angeles infamously gets water from the Owens Valley. It also gets a fair amount in typical years from the Colorado River and from Northern California, via the California Aqueduct. In other words, the city of Los Angeles has straws stuck into just about every major stream and a bunch of minor ones across the southwest, all of which are exceptionally dry this year.

I visit LA about twice a month, and here’s what I see when I go:

That’s a photo from 2006, but trust me: it’s easy to find it happening this week. After a year of increasingly urgent warnings from local water districts, the state’s governor, and federal scientists that there’s not enough water to go around.

Oh, people are doing their part in other ways. You’ll see little signs in restaurants saying that the servers will only bring a glass of water to people who ask for it. That does make a difference. If all of Los Angeles’ 10 million residents refused an eight-ounce glass of water each, the water saved would add up to 1.9 acre-feet. That’s something.

I’m picking on Los Angeles because it’s the largest city in the drought-stricken West, but people aren’t any better elsewhere in California. Even in the supposedly eco-conscious San Francisco Bay Area, the culture of the sodden lawn still reigns, and water use cutbacks are “voluntary” and mainly going unheeded. In less liberal environs like the state’s Central Valley, thought leaders — if I may use that term loosely — are actually calling for wildlife species to be allowed to go extinct so that industry can continue to use the state’s water.

If you knew someone who treated his family and friends the way Californians treat the ecosystems that give them water, you’d likely give that guy a wide berth. Taking resources from someone for your own benefit, and not changing your ways even as they languish and decline? On a personal level, that is generally considered the mark of a monster.

On the political or corporate management levels it’s standard operating procedure, and as a result the makers of the 2003 film The Corporation proposed that we regard corporations the way we’d regard individuals who acted the same way: as sociopaths. That term has been deprecated of late in favor of phrases like antisocial personality disorder, but the basics remain:

  • a pattern of behavior that fails to take the welfare of others into account or even deliberately disregards that welfare;
  • •a lack of either empathy for those affected by one’s actions or remorse for those effects;
  •  poor impulse control and failure to properly assess the risks of the impulsive behavior.

Treating people the way we treat the planet is considered a profound personality disorder.

And rightly so. Who’d want to be on the receiving end of the kind of treatment the non-human world gets dished out to it? Even just suggesting that the non-human world might be due a bit of concern and compassion can get you ridiculed in print, as witness the New York Times’ report on a recent controversy over negligient harm done to baby heron chicks in Oakland, California. Reporter Carol Pogash couldn’t just write about the heron chicks: she had make to unsubstantiated allegations that Oaklanders who cared about the birds didn’t care about homeless people. She did this not once but twice.

The inability to take part in a discussion without shifting everyone’s focus to one’s self is diagnostic of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. What do we call Pogash’s apparent inability to allow a discussion to proceed without making it focus on her species?

It’s a bigger issue than just individuals’ feelings about conserving water or helping urban wildlife. The conservation movement, which has always been opposed by those whose short-term profits might suffer if they can’t trample the natural world to their hearts’ content, is now being challenged by people calling themselves “new environmentalists,” who proclaim that conservation’s goal should be “Take Care Of People First.”

In other words, there’s a massive campaign to rewrite the goals of conservation away from protecting wildlife and their habitat, and in favor of terraforming the planet for humans’ maximum long-term comfort.

We should call out this point of view for what it is: a widespread personality disorder in which the sufferer is unable to empathize with the 99.9 percent of species in the world that aren’t human, feels wholly justified in any actions that benefit humans no matter the cost to those other species, is unlikely to feel remorse for the deleterious consequences of human actions on other species, and thus does not adequately assess the real-world risks of those actions.

Anthropocentric personality disorder hurts the planet. It hurts people who care about the planet. And it hurts the people who have it.

But there is help. If you think you might have anthropocentric personality disorder, just go outside and start paying attention.

Berta Cáceres and the California Desert

caceres

Berta Cáceres | Photo courtesy COPINH

In March of this year, Indigenous environmentalist Berta Cáceres was assassinated in Honduras. Her family is certain the assassins were sent to end Cáceres’ opposition to a twenty-megawatt hydroelectric project at Agua Zarca, on the Gualcarque River near Honduras’ border with eastern El Salvador.

The project, which is still being touted as a source of carbon-free power for more than 100,000 Honduran households, would have blocked Cáceres’ Lenca people from access to the river. The Lenca hold the Gualcarque as sacred. Cáceres’ work to stop the project, on behalf of the group National Council of Popular and Indigenous Organizations of Honduras (COPINH), was lauded worldwide. Her efforts won her the 2015 Goldman Environmental Prize. Her death is mourned by human rights and environmental activists around the world.

Also in March of this year, The Bureau of Land Management held a meeting with Native tribes in the California desert to discuss the proposed Crimson Solar Project, which would generate more than 20 times the power of Agua Zarca, using six million solar panels on as much as 4,000 acres of land adjacent to the Mule Mountains, which the Mojave people and others hold sacred.

The project is new, and local Native people sometimes take a while to draft opposition to specific projects. I don’t wish to put words in their mouths. But after talking to a few of them, it’s clear to me that Crimson enjoys little support among local tribes, and is opposed by many. Aside from infringing on landscapes held sacred for millennia, Crimson risks depleting valuable groundwater — solar panels in the desert do need washing, and dust control is a serious public health issue — and the Mohave in particular suspect their rights to use Colorado River water may be a casualty to increased water demand from industrial solar.

And yet few of the environmental organizations who lent early support to COPINH and to Berta Cáceres as they fought renewable energy development on the Gualcarque have not said word one to oppose Crimson Solar, or to support the project’s Native opponents.

There are two main reasons for this. One is sad, the other ugly.

The sad reason? While Agua Zarca is one of just four planned hydroelectric projects in Lenca territory, there are dozens of solar projects proposed, under construction, or completed on culturally significant lands in the California Desert. Across the interstate from the Mojave fringe-toed lizard habitat Crimson would convert to an industrial facility lies the nearly 2,000-acre Genesis Solar Project, which generates 10 times as much power as Agua Zarca would, and the construction of which was halted time after time as construction crews found cultural artifacts, habitation sites, and human remains. Being built not far to the east are the Blythe solar projects, which will generate 485 megawatts on a bit under 4,000 acres, and the adjacent McCoy solar project, now generating 250 megawatts on about 2,300 acres — though McCoy’s owners hope to double its output once they find a buyer for the additional power. To the west, the 3,800-acre Desert Sunlight solar project has been powering Californians’ video game controllers for a few years, at the cost of culturally significant landscapes and the views from Joshua Tree National Park, which surrounds the plant on three sides. Down the road from Desert Sunlight, the ever-changing Palen Solar project might convert as much as 5,000 acres if it ever gets built. The proposed 3,600-acre Blythe Mesa solar project and 4,900-acre Desert Quartzsite project, both within view of the shifting sacred sands Crimson would occupy, merely drive the point home: part of the reason you haven’t heard of the Crimson Solar Project’s harm to Native people is that Crimson is just a drop in the bucket.

And that’s only counting projects within an hour’s drive of Crimson. There are just far too many projects to track.

The ugly reason: It’s easier for American environmentalists to support Native activists living in lands far away, where their activism doesn’t risk cramping the environmentalists’ lifestyles.

And, of course, we do things differently for the most part in the United States. Cáceres’ assassination was an atrocity, as are the killings of her COPINH compañer@s both before March and since. In the U.S., we don’t bury our Native activists in unmarked graves so much any more: we bury them in paperwork and poverty and bureaucratic inertia. The Bureau of Land Management is obligated by Section 106 of the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966 to consult with federally recognized Native tribes when considering a project, and to take steps to protect the kind of artifacts and remains found on the Genesis Solar site and to protect the location of other sensitive sites by keeping them confidential. But while those distinct and discrete artifacts and sites are important to the tribes, they aren’t the whole story.

There are few generalizations one can make about the dozens of diverse Native cultures in the California desert, but here’s one, as near as my faulty understanding can manage: The whole desert landscape is considered something like sacred. That “S” word, mind you, carries connotations of piety that are both too exaggerated and too superficial to describe the actual relationship of people and desert. The people see themselves as part of the landscape. They see the landscape as part of the people. They see landscape, people, and a metaphysical layer of ghosts and supernatural entities inextricably intertwined.

In this world view, paving the living landscape of the wild desert is something akin to homicide. Wreaking massive changes on that landscape — industrial conversion of 40 square miles just in eastern Riverside County, if all plans proceed — is a blow to both Native culture and Native lives every bit as threatening as the joint Honduran-Chinese plan to dam the Río Gualcarque.

And yet some of the same environmental organizations that lauded Cáceres’ work, and wrung their organizational hands over her murder, are supporting the wholesale conversion of California desert Native people’s sacred landscape to power plants to run coastal cities.

It’s easier to oppose colonialism when it’s someone else doing the colonizing. When you are the colonialist, it’s important to mask it in procedure, to make a show of formal consultation and grinning respect, to speak in high-minded tones of stakeholding and win-win solutions.

That illusion must be maintained. Faults in the rhetorical armor must be defended. Those of us who’ve spoken up have often found ourselves criticized by our erstwhile colleagues; ostracized, barred from supposedly public meetings and conferences, having our jobs threatened for the simple sin of saying something about the growing cultural genocide that is renewable energy development in the desert Southwest.

 

Your grandchildren will ask

Your grandchildren will ask
how we could possibly have been so blind.

Your grandchildren will ask
what it must have been like
to live in a world with tigers,
sea turtles, to live in a world
where the tide line wrack
was made of wood and kelp.

Your grandchildren will ask
what the hell we were all thinking.

Your grandchildren will ask
why we didn’t just shut
the coal plants down,
what we were doing
with all that electricity
we bought with their future.

Your grandchildren will ask
why we put potatoes and oranges
in plastic bags.

Your grandchildren will ask
what it was like
to walk into a wild landscape
and not see the other side.

Your grandchildren will ask
what the fuck was wrong with us.

Your grandchildren will ask
how we could possibly have thought
it was ever a good idea
to bring their parents into the world.

Some folks may have the luxury

Some folks may have the luxury
to remember what Kissinger did.
Some folks may have the luxury
to be too far removed
from some othered authenticity
to forget the artists rounded up into the stadium,
the young women thrown out
of helicopter doors above the ocean,
their newborns newly adopted by junta families.

Some folks may have the luxury
of the barrier of maquila shanties,
heat waves fetid off the border creeks
to block their vision of the value in the Imperfect Now.

Some folks may have the luxury
of empathy.

Some folks may have the luxury
to be consigned to extinction
by Saudi princes, Honduran generals
for declaring
that they are hurting right now.

Some folks may have the luxury
of Workfare.

Some folks may have the luxury
of historical memory.

Some folks may have the luxury
of sight.

Return to Ivanpah

ivanpahSEGS

 

I hadn’t been back since they built it, since they denuded six square miles of old-growth desert, shredded ancient cacti and yuccas for a project with an expected functional lifespan shorter than my own remaining life expectancy.

I hadn’t been back. I’d been monitoring the plant’s construction, and then its operation, about as closely as anyone not in the employ of a government agency or energy company. But I couldn’t bring myself to go look.

The valley saved my life not long ago, less than a decade ago, reminded me in the midst of grief and dislocation that there was still beauty to be found among the head-high creosotes and the swooping nighthawks, and then I failed to return the favor. Instead, I heard from people who told me the sacrifice wasn’t all that big. The valley was worthless, they said, or at best a place it was a necessary shame to lose. And I didn’t go back. I didn’t force myself to go back.

And then, yesterday, in the pursuit of a walk and photography session in what will very likely become the Castle Mountains National Monument, I went back. I was well prepared: I took a pit bull. And some coffee, and a friend who likely feels the loss of those six square miles even more keenly than I do, whom circumstances have forced to drive past the fucking thing at frequent intervals.

After a ceremonial first glimpse of the lair of Sauron The Renewable, we went across the valley to Nipton, where I lived for much of 2008, and we ate burritos we’d imported from Barstow and the dog snoozed in the shade of a eucalyptus and we spoke to a long-time resident who hadn’t seen the place yet when I lived there. It was much as I’d left it, except that the restaurant was closed and the town was for sale and my little house looked slightly more inclined toward the ground.

And then, after I walked Heart through what had been my backyard, the three of us headed up the road toward Nevada and over the shoulder of Crescent Peak. The power plant is till intrusive as hell from that remove, and I fought the dangerous impulse to stare into it, blinding even from 15 miles distant.

I yield to no one in my regret that the thing was built, and when I sift through the ruins of the site in 2050 for shards of mirror to build solar cookers I will feel the same way, because I knew the land before the machines came.

But I can report that no matter how egregious, profit-driven and soulless the Ivanpah Solar Electric Generating System might be, no matter how bereft of clear vision its planners and admirers, no matter how visibly jury-rigged, insensitive and inappropriate the technology, no matter how it slashes the face of the valley like a hit man hired by the urban power companies, no matter how ugly and evil the power plant is, it turns out its power is insufficient to overwhelm the gut-punching beauty of the valley. I belong there, it turns out.

I will be back soon.

At that first glimpse, pulled on the little extension of Nipton Road at that road’s westernmost end, where the Interstate takes a deep breath and plummets headlong toward the state line, I swallowed hard and grabbed my camera, stepped out of the rented F-150. I took a few steps, raised the camera, took the shot above and a few others.

David and Heart sat in the truck, waiting for me to finish so that we could hie for Nipton and eat cold burritos. I tried to think of something sonorous and weighty to say to mark the occasion to the yuccas and the air, but no words came. Instead, I set the camera gently on the ground a few steps behind me, returned to my vantage point, unzipped, and then pissed in the power plant’s direction. It seemed appropriate.

As it happened I was pissing into the wind, which also seemed appropriate.

Grief

The realization came this morning. It was not the first time. I busy myself with small crisis after small crisis to stave it off most days, most years.

Today it persisted through noon,  through an afternoon of rain, through a moonlit walk under fresh-washed stars with a joyous dog.

We are losing. We have always been losing, the desert tortoises and the coho salmon and the Lane’s milk-vetch and the few humans who care to think about them. The losses come day by day, and I have taken the short view, fought for one desert valley or one small species at a time.

It is a form of triage, a way to focus one’s effectiveness, but it is also a palliative. A way of focusing on a discrete, winnable battle while the war is lost all around us.

It’s not just the one desert valley you choose to defend, its birds and herps and undocumented wildflowers written off as a sacrifice somehow more acceptable than unplugging your game console. Worlds of unknown species, unknown relationships among species, paved before the scientists get to them because we need those phone chargers ready to go while our phones are in our pockets somewhere else.

It’s not just the one valley. It’s the forested ridge above, ancient fire-scarred trees cut down to fuel biomass power plants, trees turned to pallets to ship cubic miles of consumer crap to the big box stores where the vernal pools used to be. It’s hundreds of miles of river, once wild and flooding in spring, now slack behind concrete plugs, bereft of fish and watering rich men’s investment export crops. Mountain passes once choked with eagles now industrial landscapes of whirling blades.

We have warmed the deep valleys beneath six miles of sea. We have bred monstrous storms, put plastic in every drop of ocean, thinned the glaciers and slicked the seas. The planet is heating up, and the damage done by deniers is rivaled only by the damage done by those who would remake the world because they fear climate disaster — but not enough to change the way they live.

I live too comfortably myself: I have power and running water 24 hours a day, a lifestyle that is likely unsustainable, a lifestyle that will soon be reserved for the very rich. I would haul my own water on my back if it meant I could see desert tortoises on my 75th birthday. I will not, and that birthday is less than 20 years away.

They are losing, the wild things. They are taking a hit for a team they never joined. We see the damage we’ve done by burning coal to feed our habits, and contrite, we propose to scour forest and desert to feed those habits instead.

And all the while the best and brightest concerned young progressives argue about themselves in comfortable chairs.

Last night, under a quarter moon, the dog and I stood not 50 feet from a trio of coyotes as they sang a counterpoint to the sirens on Route 62. They were mainly unconcerned by our presence, as if they knew we would not be here much longer.

Cynicism

If there is a phenomenon more dehumanizing, more destructive than hate, it is this: hopelessness.

That’s been driven home to me with a vengeance the last few days, but it’s something I’ve thought about for decades. Hatred can ebb. It can burn itself out. People can be educated out of their hatred. I have seen it happen, seen the former Klansman realize his world view had been broken, seen the fervent patriot come to realize the Enemy isn’t all that different.

But that stylish sentiment that nothing we do can ever change the world, that feeling strongly about issues is embarrassing and sincerity is not to be trusted, that world-weary and separate cynicism is, I think, far more pernicious, far less amenable to cure.

Hatred is fueled by fear, and fear has a half-life. Unless stoked, it eventually goes cold. Cynical hopelessness is self-healing. In other realms, other contexts, it would be called “learned helplessness”: the conviction that trying to improve your lot will only make you feel worse in the long run.

Cynicism is a form of depression. It is scar tissue covering that part of the soul that would dare to hope, if it had a little fresh air on it. I have spent time in the last years describing radical feminism to angry misogynists in Mojave Desert bars, and deep green environmentalism to off-road vehicle riders, and getting somewhere with each group. I cannot recall the last time I persuaded a cynic of anything: the very attempt to persuade is seen as selling something.

In his 1999 book Soul of A Citizen, Paul Rogat Loeb wrote:

Cynicism salves the pain of unrealized hope. If we convince ourselves that nothing can change, we don’t have to risk acting on our dreams. But the more we accept this, the more we deny core parts of ourselves. We deny even the possibility that our choices can matter…
Cultivated or crude, cynicism is treacherous. It converts the sense of not wanting to be lied to into bitter protection against dashed hopes: if we never begin to fight for our dreams, there’s no risk that we will fail.

Loeb quotes Lewis Hyde describing cynicism as “the voice of the trapped who have come to enjoy their cage,” and observes — in a passage that predated most social media by more than a decade but which rings ever truer with each updated Facebook feed:

[T]oo many activists almost delight in rolling around in the bad news, like dogs in rancid fish. If that’s all we do, we’ll reinforce the belief that efforts to change things are doomed. We’ll foster resignation and despair.

I hear him. My job for the last 25 years has been finding and sharing that bad news. I’ve fought that resignation, that despair, sometimes less successfully than others.

And I look back at my life over those last 25 years and find ways in which the world would be worse, at least marginally, had I not done the work.

I might as well quote Loeb again. (Really, you should read the whole thing.)

As an alternative to this impotent realism, I’d like to propose a clear-eyed idealism, which recognizes that these are bad times for many people, but refuses to accept that the bad times are inevitable.

That clear-eyed idealism is a difficult path: it requires you take a fair number of jabs to your soul right where that scar tissue might once have cushioned the blow. Walking the line between blithe and jaded isn’t easy.

But it is the best, most fulfilling way to live.

Some reasons I have been called a radical environmentalist

I often express approval of landscapes that show no specific evidence of human activity.

I find your profits over the next fiscal year way less important than the existence of the species your company threatens.

I think the stories told by species’ distributional ranges are way more compelling than your favorite multivolume fantasy epic.

I have wondered aloud whether running for elective office should be a privilege granted only to those who achieve a 4 on the Biology AP.

I mistrust people who assume human comfort is sufficient excuse for hurting wildlife.

I kinda thought that proposal to preserve half the planet as wildlife habitat was a weak compromise with The Man.

I’d rather listen to silence on the playa than techno.

I think people who wear earbuds while hiking need a couple weeks in a reeducation camp.

I would support Americans going without power for two hours every day as a more reasonable approach to limiting climate change than paving another square mile of desert with solar panels. (Hospitals and nursing homes could be exempt.)

I consider all writing that mentions the non-human world solely as scenery to be part of a minor literary genre.

I am unconvinced that human beings are more important than all other species combined.

 

 

Five Year Plan

In my last garden, 10 years ago. I don't even know who I am anymore.

Greens growing in my last garden, 10 years ago. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

I’ve been thinking a lot about propagating plants. I miss it.

I have spent so much of my time over the last 25 years collecting ideas into different shapes and then putting them out on the Idea Network, getting rapt over some ideas and getting angry over other ideas, and it is getting incredibly old.

I spend time these days in the real world, the physical, manifest world. I walk the dog and I see the Pleuraphis rigida leafing out, knitting the desert together, and I think that no matter how inspiringly I may eventually be able to write about the desert, no matter how many people read the first several words of some paean or other of mine to the Mojave and click “like” and move on with their day, even if I get better and better at this for the next 40 years, my entire life’s work will mean less to the desert than the work a typical mediocre-sized clump of Pleuraphis rigida might do in a year. I would do more good for the desert if I grew Pleuraphis and planted it out in scarred lands than I will in another century of writing, I think these days.

When I went to Santa Catalina Island in 2013 for work I rode past a small compound in the middle of the island, a nursery run by the Catalina Conservancy to increase the stock of plants endemic to the island, and even though I rode past on a fancy eco-tour on which I was comped due to my impressive gig as eco-writer for a large TV station in the nation’s entertainment capital, I envied the people working in that nursery so much it hurt.

In the real world, in the physical manifest world, I read some of my writing last weekend to a friend I met in the physical, manifest world, and we mutually and simultaneously observed the difference in my work of summer 2008 and my work today. I have polished my craft since then, a bit, through the simple expedient of writing multiple pieces almost every single day. But my writing in 2008 was unquestionably and ineffably better. More beautiful. More fulfilling to read, in retrospect. More meaningful.

In the summer of 2008 I was living alone in the desert, as now. I am far happier now than I was then, know myself far better, and yet in the summer of 2008 my access to the Internet was extremely limited. To post something on my blog back then took a walk across the road with the laptop to use the wifi in Nipton’s laundromat, and that wifi was slow. Once a post was uploaded, I could count on perhaps two dozen people reading what I had written.

I wrote much more for myself, in other words, and a few friends, and the artistry came first.

Sometime this month KCET will publish the 1,500th piece I’ve written for them, and I’m proud of that output. I’m likewise proud of many of the pieces I’ve written for them. This one comes to mind especially, though it was written in a much darker frame of mind than I generally inhabit these days.

And though KCET has in most ways been a dream gig for me, there will come a point at which I tire of finding the bad news, taking it into my soul, making it part of who I am, and then interpreting it for the reader.

No, scratch that: I grew tired of that 20 years ago. There will come a time at which I simply cannot do it any longer.

And there’s this: I love the Mojave Desert. It is home. And I learned last week that the Palen solar project, which was abandoned when its owner went bankrupt and then abandoned again when its new owner couldn’t gloss over the unimaginable toll the project would take on wildlife is going to be revived again by its remaining owner, and the state and the feds fully intend to approve it.

Will writing about it help? I have more of my articles introduced into the California Energy Commission’s proceedings’ official record on Palen than I can count. I could write a thousand more articles on the thing, or I could Kryptonite my neck to a bulldozer. Which would be more effective at stopping the project?

Or perhaps cutting the project fence, trespassing onto the construction site, and revegetating the landscape with Pleuraphis divisions ready to come out of their one-gallon pots. Though I’d probably only get away with that once.

And that’s just Palen. Palen is just one project in a desert full of them. The Executive Branch, and the California Governor, and the well-funded, comfortable sector of the mainstream environmental movement, have all decided that the landscape I love is an acceptable sacrifice to their larger goals, just as Floyd Dominy et al decided Black and Glen Canyons were acceptable sacrifices to the larger goals of building Phoenix and Las Vegas and Los Angeles.

I’m not about to pack up and leave just yet, but I am more and more certain I don’t want to be sitting in this here front row seat when the final act starts.

Increasingly I have come to realize I’d like to spend most of the rest of my life being somewhere else, doing something else. Growing plants to feed the people I love and to restore a little corner of the planet, in a place where the land is both slightly forgiving and in need of help, in a place where my household can be reasonably assured of a small amount of water to meet our needs, if we husband it wisely. I can easily imagine never writing again; I only started writing in my 30s, so I have a lot of years as a non-writer to use as a model. But even better: writing only when I am moved to write, writing only what I am moved to write, with as little of an online presence as I can reasonably manage.

Slowing all the way down, in other words; living my life at a pace to match the slow unfolding of seedlings and the passage of increasingly precious rainclouds across the sky.

Five years seems a reasonable timeline.

Orthodoxy in the Climate Movement: Franzen and His Deniers

Fair warning: tl;dr.

Fair warning: tl;dr.

 

Novelist Jonathan Franzen walked up to a hornet’s nest and hit it with a baseball bat in his recent New Yorker essay “Carbon Capture,” which you should read. Go ahead. I’ll wait. It’s a longish piece, but that’s fine. I’ll go make a sandwich.

Back?

When I read it approximately fifteen minutes after it came online, but not before I had a dozen emails asking me if I’d read it, my reaction was a little nuanced.

I wished he’d avoided the doom argument — not because he isn’t correct, but because people would attack it and miss what I thought was his main argument.

I wished he hadn’t taken on the National Audubon Society’s study on climate change and birds, but mostly because there are bigger, juicier, slamdunkier, lowhangyfruitier targets he could have chosen, and more on those in a bit.

Lastly, I winced hard when I saw Franzen didn’t disclose in lauding the American Bird Conservancy that he is on the fundraising board of the American Bird Conservancy. That’s a basic bit of journalistic ethics there, and Franzen blew it by not so disclosing.

But those winces aside, the overwhelming sense of my reaction as I read the essay was this:

Finally.

Finally, someone prominent is saying this.

Franzen’s main contention is that the overwhelming focus of most of the mainstream environmental movement on climate change has come at a steep cost: a shifting of that focus  away from biological diversity issues.

Those of you who have been reading my work for a while won’t be surprised at my being pleased at this idea’s hitting the pages of the New Yorker. For a while, the climate change movement has seemed from my perch here in the desert southwest to have abandoned any concern for biological diversity. Those who bring up concerns that renewable energy development might actually harm wildlife or their habitat have been scoffed at, accused of being climate change deniers or (to cite an example from 2011 that my Coyot.es Network colleague Madhu still ribs me about on occasion) useful idiots.

And some, myself included, have been working to promote the idea that we can address both the perils of climate change and the rights of non-human species to continue existing even if they’re in our way. So I forwarded the piece around myself, gratefully.

I saw three basic kinds of reaction to Franzen’s piece in the days that followed.

Grassroots wildlife protection activists and their supporters sometimes expressed regret about the essay’s weak points, but on the whole said “yep.”

Scientists working on biodiversity issues, whether independent, university-employed, or agency staff, often expressed those reservations a bit more forcefully than us lay folk, but also basically said “yes.”

And people who identify with the climate change mitigation movement completely, as they say, lost their shit.

In The Guardian, Robert Manne wrote:

Franzen’s claim about a conflict between conservation and climate activism is psychologically-driven, a product of his private prejudices, irritations and resentments.

Rebecca Leber, a staff writer for the New Republic, chose as her main criticism of Franzen’s essay his concern over the wildlife impacts of wind and solar, saying:

He makes the strange assumption that wind turbines are destructive, but doesn’t make any mention of the harm fossil fuel development already causes to the environment (ClimateProgress’ Joe Romm pointed out fossil fuels kill many more birds than wind or solar energy do). Franzen doesn’t sound much different than Republicans who mock solar and wind, like Mitt Romney did in 2012—even though renewables are becoming an economic force.  [Link added.]

Grist’s David Roberts was sophisticated enough to condescend to Franzen rather than ranting, saying:

A Climate Thing is not always wrong, though it frequently is. Just as often, it’s a kind of distortion, a lens that magnifies one aspect of the issue at the expense of all others. For some people it’s nuclear power. For some people it’s about models, how there was no warming when the models said there would be. For some people it’s Al Gore, or solar power, or consumerism, or population, or “I heard that we’re basically fucked no matter what,” which I’ve heard more times than I can count.

For Franzen it’s birds. His experience of climate change, in his social circles and intellectual orbit, is that it seems to be eclipsing bird-habitat conservation in the minds of environmentalists. And that bugs him.

So that’s his Climate Thing. And as with most people’s Climate Thing, it’s a little eccentric and a little myopic.

That accusation of myopia is a bit of irony I’ll come back to.

Roberts continues by invoking the big imaginary graph of deaths to birds leading climate activists seem to carry around in their heads:

Take one step back and you see that birds are far more threatened by the combination of fossil fuels and climate change than they are by any other threat, including cats and wind turbines combined. Times a thousand. 

I have written a couple times on the problems involved when you use “dead birds” as a metric of ecological harm from different things. Here’s one essay from January 2013, and here’s another from August 2014. The elevator version: a starling is not a condor. Or as I said in that second piece:

Say you’re a person passionately concerned about African wildlife, and in particular the plight of the white rhino, and you’re talking to a friend about the threat to that magnificent animal from illegal poaching. “It’s a shame,” replies your friend, “but you know, domestic cats kill far more mammals.” You’d likely look at your friend as if he’d lost his mind. Who would lump a house mouse into the same category as a rhino just because they both fit into the taxonomic order of “mammals”? … [and ] birds are far more diverse than mammals.

That’s not a controversial assertion, or it shouldn’t be. It’s an issue of scientific fact. And yet the “more birds” trope gets trotted out every. single. time. a renewable energy facility is scrutinized over its potential harm to birds and other wildlife.

Every. Single. Time. Despite its being scientifically illiterate.

One could reasonably decide that it’s used not so much as a way of advancing a scientific position on the issue of wildlife mortality at renewable energy facilities as a facile way of shutting down discussion of wildlife mortality at renewable energy facilities.

I certainly have decided that, because that has definitely been my own experience of the trope. In fact, after a couple days of climate change activists’ ranting about Franzen’s piece, I felt compelled to detail some of my experience since 2008 or so on Twitter. First, I tried sardonic and then, when the furor showed no signs of slowing down, I got more verbose. There’s a series of 15 tweets at that second link, detailing reactions I’ve gotten from climate activists and renewable energy advocates, including demands that I be fired and emailed threats.

The vast majority of people concerned about climate change I have met are quite concerned about the currently accelerating mass extinction. And Franzen’s detractors made much of that fact this week, with (for instance) David Roberts saying:

Ultimately, every green-minded person wants to save bird habitats and mitigate climate change. The big problem is that people who care about climate change and people who love birds are both vastly outnumbered by people who don’t give a shit about either. 

An interesting choice of phrase, that “wants to.” Wanting to do something costs nothing. Making that thing a priority, on the other hand?

Roberts just left the popular online environmental publication Grist this month after working there since 2004. Grist is an interesting environmental publication for our purposes here: it devotes a huge percentage of its editorial attention to climate change, and a scant amount to the issues of habitat protection or dwindling wildlife populations — unless the threat to that wildlife or its habitat happens to be climate change.

Here’s a screenshot of Grist’s navigation menu:

What Grist thinks we need to know about.

What Grist thinks we need to know about.

That’s a pretty human-centered list of options in the middle between “Climate & Energy” and “Science,” focusing on what humans eat, where humans live, how humans entertain themselves, how humans argue, how humans make money.

I’ve always found it a bit odd that Grist doesn’t have a “wildlife” or “nature” top heading, but if we look at the likely category that reports on endangered species and such would be filed under, Science, we find that Science is almost wholly given over to reports on climate change. Of 105 Science stories published on Grist since April 17, 2012 — a date I picked because I got tired of counting at that point — 47, or a full 45 percent, are about climate change. Ten of those concern climate change’s likely impact on wildlife or its habitat.  25 stories concern wildlife outside of a context of climate change, of which only seven — six percent of total Science stories — are reports on non-climate-related threats to wildlife or its habitat. The rest are “cool wildlife” stories.

Since January 1, 2010, if the site’s onboard search engine is at all accurate, Grist has run just 28 stories that even contain the phrase “Endangered Species Act,” one of which is David Roberts’ description of how everything changed for the U.S.’s premier wildlife and habitat protection law when environmentalism “gave way to … well, no one knows what to call it yet” in the face of climate activism. Another is Roberts’ interview with Atlantic writer Alexis Madrigal, in which Madrigal says:

I also think — and this may be a more controversial suggestion — that it might be worth trading some of the landmark ’60s environmental legislation for stronger support for green technology. The way the Endangered Species Act works right now is sometimes counterproductive. It rests on this odd structure of one animal standing in for whole ecosystems, at a local level, preventing changes we might need to prevent global-scale environmental change.

(By way of self-serving contrast, since July 2011, KCET has run 167 pieces that include the phrase “Endangered Species Act,” and some of the best ones weren’t even written by yours truly.)

Grist has some mighty fine writers, Roberts included, and it’s not fair to assume that those writers necessarily share the editorial policy sentiments of the site’s management. But my pal Judith Lewis Mernit did, in the course of an informative debate with Michelle Nijhuis on the Franzen piece, unearth this exchange she had on Twitter about six square miles of the best habitat in the Mojave Desert being destroyed for a wildlife killing power plant that turns out not to work:

For those of you unfamiliar with Twitter conversations, that’s Roberts answering “Yes” to Judith’s question whether the Ivanpah Solar Electric Generating System was worth the cost in habitat loss adjacent to the Mojave National Preserve — one example of dozens in the southwest of climate mitigation undercutting wildlife protection, any of which Franzen would have done much better to focus on.

Mernit asked Roberts a clarifying question, and he answered:

Sure, we all want to protect bird habitat. But reading sites like Grist, or listening to climate pundits like Roberts, we may never learn that anything other than climate change and fossil fuels threatens that bird habitat — and if we start to find out that our efforts at climate change mitigation may actually cause further harm to that habitat or the birds in it, our concerns over that cost are dismissed with a monosyllabic answer.

Grist has a right to whatever editorial focus it desires. But it’s not just Grist. Take a look at this graph, which shows the frequency of the phrases “climate change” and “biodiversity” in all the books and periodicals indexed in Google’s database, charted by the year in which those works were published:

Sometime just before 2006, probably not coincidentally the year Al Gore’s movie came out, climate change overtook biological diversity as the main topic of discussion in the environmental field. And since then, biodiversity’s importance in the public mind has actually waned.

People will think about topics that are being discussed. People will tend to lose track of topics that are not being discussed.

And even considering those outside drivers of our political concerns, most of us who are (justifiably) concerned about climate change are still also mightily concerned about the mass extinction in progress, when we’re reminded that it’s taking place. But there’s a difference between people in general and those public or semipublic figures who have created an identity as Climate Activists, who too often respond to reminders of the importance of non-human species with impatient dismissals, Argumentam ad Petroleum, or subtly attempting to get the writer fired.

The climate change mitigation movement has become an orthodoxy, and environmentalists challenge it at the risk of ostracism or worse.

That orthodoxy even carries with it its own special flavor of the science denialism with which it (again, justifiably) charges climate change deniers. One of the most frustrating responses to Franzen’s article has been the idea that instead of a novelist, the essay should have been written by an environmental journalist or a scientist, who would have done a better, more accurate job.

With regard to the “a journalist should have written it” idea, I’ll turn to Judith Lewis Mernit for a response, which she posted in a Facebook comment thread:

The problem… is that Chris and I, and many, many other writers *have* written that story, over and over and over and over. I think when you look up the phrase “Bleating Into the Void” in the Urban Dictionary you might see all of our faces lined up, as talking GIFs. It took a nationally famous fiction writer galumphing around in the issue from his personal slant to make it a Real Thing. 

The scientists have written that story too, and there’s no better example than the one provided by a group of scientists that were solicited to provide feedback on early drafts of California’s Desert Renewable Energy Conservation Plan (DRECP), an ungainly and complex document — 12,000 pages in its most recent draft — that would have planned renewable energy development within 22 million acres of the California Desert. That panel of Independent Science Advisors came up with a report in 2010 that offered a sober, not-at-all hotheaded, appraisal of the likely ecological effects of some of the developments then proposed for the California Desert.

The 2010 report’s Executive Summary includes this passage:

[S]iting and developing energy projects must be done carefully to avoid unnecessary damage to fragile desert ecosystems. Desert species and ecological communities are already severely stressed by human changes to the landscape, including urbanization, roads, transmission lines, invasive species, and disturbances by recreational, military, mining, and other activities. Additional stress from large-scale energy developments, in concert with a changing climate, portends further ecological degradation and the potential for species extinctions. 

And this one:

We also strongly advocate using “no regrets” strategies in the near term— such as siting developments in already disturbed areas — as more refined analyses become available to guide more difficult decisions.

And this one:

To the greatest degree possible, site all renewable energy developments on previously disturbed land (areas where grading, grubbing, agriculture, or other actions have substantially altered vegetation or broken the soil surface), and site all linear facilities within or alongside existing linear rights-of-way, paved roads, canals, or other existing linear disturbances, so long as this does not create complete barriers to wildlife movements or ecological flows. Habitat fragmentation and impediments to wildlife movements are among the greatest threats to desert communities and species, and maximizing habitat connectivity is essential to climate change adaptation. The combined effects of both new and existing linear features on wildlife movement should be mitigated with appropriate crossing structures or corridors to facilitate wildlife movement.

 

And this one:

To the greatest feasible extent, avoid and minimize any new disturbance of soil surfaces in the siting, design, construction, and maintenance of any and all project features. Arid ecosystems are strongly shaped by characteristics of soils and other geological surfaces that develop over millennia and that cannot be replicated by human actions. Ecological impacts of projects that disturb the soil surface should be presumed permanent, despite promises to decommission renewable energy projects at the end of their useful life and restore what came before.

How effective was the Independent Science Advisors’ 2010 report? To what degree has it been heeded? It’s worth noting that almost without exception, the large solar facilities that have broken ground on public lands in California are on sites that have been essentially wild, with largely intact desert soils and wildlife habitat, now lost. A few large solar projects on private lands in the Western Mojave and in the Imperial Valley have been sited on land that qualifies as “disturbed,” with a concomitant reduction in air quality downwind as those desert soils lift and blow away in the slightest breeze.

And the most recent draft of the DRECP places (energy) Development Focus Areas on important wildlife habitat and migration corridors, including the established Desert Tortoise Natural Area near California City.

The Independent Science Advisors report is just a very prominent example of scientific counsel going unheeded when renewable energy developers and climate activists see it as impeding their agenda. There are many others. In sum, the scientists have spoken, they have spoken in venues that should arguably be far more influential than a novelist’s essay in a literary magazine, and they have been — at best — thanked politely for their time and disregarded.

Federal land managers denied those scientists’ recommendations. Renewable energy companies want to deny independent scientists access to data on their projects actual effects on the environment. And now, by saying Franzen’s piece should have been written by a scientist when dozens of scientists have already weighed in, climate activists are in effect denying the scientists even exist.

Looks like no one side has a monopoly on science denialism.

Franzen may have made some mistakes in his piece, but his thesis — that a focus on climate change makes it harder to talk about preserving species and habitat — is essentially sound. If you don’t frame those threats to wildlife in terms of climate change or the fossil fuel use that causes it, climate activists simply do not want to hear it. They won’t write about it, they’ll criticize you for saying anything about it, and if journalists or scientists write about the conflict between climate activism and protecting wildlife, the climate activists will assiduously deny that that work even exists.

Which is why those climate pundits have reacted to Franzen’s piece with such outrage. His essay may have been a poorly aimed blast of buckshot, but a bunch of that shot nailed the Climate Orthodoxy in its ass.

Found while reading the Draft Desert Renewable Energy Conservation Plan

“Siting renewable energy only on private land would not provide balance or flexibility in siting renewable energy development because there is limited private land throughout the DRECP Planning Area and the private land does not always correlate with areas with the highest energy resource values. In some instances, development on private land would not align with existing transmission corridors. Meeting statewide and federal renewable energy goals within the DRECP planning area boundary exclusively on private lands would result in substantial conflicts with current and proposed land uses on private lands. Some counties expressed concern that development of renewable energy on private land could impact county land-use programs and controls, and could negatively affect local economies, county resources, local character, jobs, property tax revenue, agriculture, and recreation and historical resources (County of Riverside 2011a, DRECP 2011a). Private lands that were not incorporated into the analyzed alternatives have high biological resource conflicts and do not align with DRECP purpose and need. For these reasons, the Private and Previously Disturbed Lands Alternative was not retained.”

headdesk

Despair

Here is a story of a beautiful, once numerous bird going slowly extinct so that California can sell milk.
Here is a story of an agency delaying action to protect a disappearing predator.

I wake up in the morning to find bad news.

A new species of western pond turtle discovered: it’s already in serious trouble.
The Feds have refused to protect a rare lizard for decades, so activists turn in desperation to the state of California to do the job.

I find the worst of the news and take it in, bring myself to understand how bad it is, then share it with the world.

I look for good news. I do.

Here is a story about suing at significant expense to keep eagles marginally safer from wind turbines.
Here is a story about a much-heralded move to remove a handful of deadly poisons from the retail market, while others remain available.
Here is a story on common-sense measures to save water and wildlife that are too smart and sensible to be enacted.

Sometimes the only good news I can find is that someone, somewhere, has decided to stand up against the mounting horror.

I live alone now. I talk to others rarely. I see no one else for a week at a time. I awake at sunrise to read bad news that has been carefully emailed to me. Before the desert air warms I have had enough to sear my soul. I drink some coffee, bury any hopes of ever being happy, then keep reading.

This story is about why a virally popular idea to save the world won’t work.
This story is about why a virally popular idea to save the world is actually making things worse.
This story is about some good news that even its proponents say is only temporary.
This story is about our last chance to avoid catastrophic climate change being met with half-measures and compromise.

The stories linked above are a tiny fraction of everything I’ve written in the last month. I have been doing this since 1989. Technological advances allow me to compile and distribute the bad news much more quickly now.

Here’s a industrial energy project going in near a national park.
Here’s wildlife science being discarded at another industrial energy project near a national park.
Here’s a third industrial energy project threatening a rustic town’s groundwater.
Here’s an orchid being collected and trampled to the point of near-extinction.

If I stop I don’t eat. If I stop I don’t make the rent. Through disaster and dislocation, through moving everything I own into a storage locker at the beginning of May and then moving it all out again at the end of May, through the grief and isolation in my new life, I cannot stop this soul-destroying work.

This is no life. How did I find myself here?

Straining at good news: a lone condor visits Pescadero, and biologists say maybe if more come they can eat elephant seals.
Straining at good news: the tiny group of gray wolves poised to confront the guns of California’s wildlife-loathing yahoos may gain formal legal protection.
Straining at good news: A few fish spawn in a few feet of river downstream from an impassable dam.
Straining at good news: California may make it illegal to shoot as many coyotes as you can for cash prizes.

People tell me nice things. “Keep writing,” they say. They call my work important. It is intended as a kindness, and I take it as such. Lately I think the true kindness would be for someone to take this burden away. Is there a crowdfunding platform that helps people like me stop working for six months? A writers’ retreat where writers can retreat from writing?

I have known burnout before. This is different. I have worked in less than functional institutions with inadequate support insufficiently funded. It was bad. Now my world is burning to the ground.

In which I finally take notice of Peter Kareiva

I usually don’t bother with people like Peter Kareiva. His kind would be a dime a dozen, were it not for the fact that he operates in a part of society where dimes are probably considered litter. “Chief Scientist” for the Nature Conservancy, Kareiva has gotten himself some notoriety in recent months for signing on with a growing reactionary criticism of the conservation movement which says, to summarize, that conservation needs to stop thinking so much about non-human species, especially those that don’t offer direct benefit to us all-important humans.

I said what I think of that point of view on Beacon a bit earlier today.

But it’s a point of view that’s wildly popular with a certain sector of society, to wit: the corporate donors that ensured Kareiva’s employer reported $5,406,671,996 in net assets to the IRS in 2013. If one dominant species is properly the be-all and end-all of conservation, then that species’ short-term economic activity becomes more important weighted against the mere survival of lesser species.

We dominate the planet now, Kareiva has argued, and we might as well adopt that as our overarching goal. There are about six or seven logical steps missing in the road from that hard to dispute premise to Kareiva’s conclusion. That hasn’t kept him from becoming a darling of the present-day anti-environmental movement. For instance, he’s found supportive fellow travelers in the Breakthrough Institute (BTI). BTI was founded by the bantamweight environmental pundits Michael Schellenberger and Ted Nordhaus, who turned humiliation at being laughed out of the grassroots habitat protection movement in the San Francisco Bay Area in the 1990s into success, when philanthropic foundations bought the same line of argument that had caused the redwood defenders mirth.

Again, I don’t usually spend much time paying attention to their ilk. If I spent time pulling apart everything a well-funded antienvironmentalist said in public that happened to be wrong, I’d never have time to write about those unimportant non-human species. Especially if I started with Kareiva and BTI.

Buut in the course of pulling a few things together for my Beacon piece, I found a video by Kareiva on BTI’s site that I just couldn’t ignore. Those of you who know me will understand why almost immediately. Here’s the video. I’ve set it to start at the thing that set me off, 2:45 in. You could watch the whole thing, but why?

Here’s the transcript of that section:

You know, there’s this notion out there, and a lot of us have read these books, read these philosophies, of this pristine wilderness that exists out there in which we can venture — it’s almost always a solitary man — a solitary man can venture and rediscover himself and find himself and be inspired, and somehow learn something more about the universe and themselves [sic].

Henry David Thoreau was a classic take on that.

In the 1960s, when I grew up, I read Edward Abbey. Edward Abbey wrote a book called Desert Solitaire. A fascinating book. I loved it.

I recently discovered his personal journals.

In Desert Solitaire Edward Abbey has a couple lines in there in one of the opening chapters about sitting out there in Utah and being by himself and looking up at the stars and writing poetically about “Oh, I’m alone, there’s nobody else around, it is beautiful. I feel nothing but exhilaration and happiness.”

At the same time in his personal diary he wrote “Oh my god, I’m so lonely, why did my wife Rita have to go back to New Jersey?”

It’s a lie! It’s a total lie.

There’s a lot to pick apart here. There’s the odd insistence that expository and lyrical nature writing is the domain of the solitary man. True of John Muir, perhaps, but not of Thoreau, of whom I can only recommend that you read Rebecca Solnit’s deft unraveling of his complicated relationship with solo contemplation. What of Mary Austin, Terry Tempest-Williams, Ann Zwinger or Ellen Meloy? What of those men whose wilderness sojourns were as often as not in the company of others? For fuck’s sake, the genre in the American West essentially began with Frémont, with Powell, with Lewis and Clark, none of whom got any solitude on their journeys. Clarence King with his assistants, John Steinbeck on the boat with Ed Ricketts, any number of desert writers of the 19th and 20th centuries: convivial exploration of the wild world.

Kareiva isn’t the first observer to ding Abbey for misrepresentations of the degree of his solitude at Arches in Desert Solitaire. After the above transcript leaves off, he does mention Rita and their son moving into the trailer with him for the second season, which never gets mentioned in the book. That criticism is fair game.

But his characterization of Abbey’s opening chapter is orthogonal to how the chapter actually reads. It begins:

This is the most beautiful place on earth.

There are many such places. every man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary. A houseboat in Kashmir, a view down Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, a gray gothic farmhouse two stories high at the end of a red dog road in the Allegheny Mountains, a cabin on the shore of a blue lake in spruce and fir country, a greasy alley near the Hoboken waterfront, or even, possibly, for those of a less demanding sensibility, the world to be seen from a comfortable apartment high in the tender, velvety smog of Manhattan, Chicago, Paris, Tokyo, Rio or Rome — there’s no limit to the human capacity for the homing sentiment. Theologians, sky pilots, astronauts have even felt the appeal of home calling to them from up above, in the cold black outback of interstellar space.

For myself I’ll take Moab, Utah…

Hardly a paean to the illuminating properties of pristine wilderness.  Later in the chapter, mainly taken up with a description of the surroundings on his arrival, Abbey does wish that his time at Arches will provide redemption of a sort. But it’s a hard-headed and rational redemption he seeks:

I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and yet somehow survives still intact, individual, separate. Paradox and bedrock.

And then, in Chapter Two, Abbey is engaged in tasks with his coworkers. Worlds apart from Kareiva’s goopy misrepresentation.

As for those journals, I just happen to have them here. Here’s the sum total of what Abbey says in his Arches first season journal about his wife: On August 26, 1956, at the end of a purple-prosed passage describing summer storms, we have Ed saying:

It’s the evenings that are kinda bad; mostly around supper time; I sit down to my steak and beans with only a can of beer for company. Ah then, then I miss her, miss my friends, miss all the crazy irresponsible delights of my old society. But most of all then I miss her, the one true love-passion of my life on earth.

I mean — Rita.

On September 15 Abbey quotes from a letter from Rita in which she decrees that their marriage at an end, and he writes:

Terrible words; they make living rather difficult. Therefore, I must go back to her at once, even though she writes that there is nothing for me to come home to except “a glimpse of what could have been.” I must go back; three or four days, and then I leave this place. Probably forever. A lovely place, but tourists have come to depress me terribly. I can’t bear to look a tourist in the face anymore.

That’s what Kareiva is talking about when he says Abbey’s longing for a hardheaded communion with the beauty of the slickrock country while pining for his wife as their marriage crumbled is “a total lie.” As if a person’s heart can’t be broken in two directions at once.

Kareiva recorded this video in 2011, but I just saw it today — like I said, I generally have more significant targets for my time and attention — and I was primed to respond badly to what he said about Abbey and Desert Solitaire. In the interests of full disclosure, I share here my immediate reaction on Twitter:

I would like to take this opportunity to say that I regret that intemperate response. But I can’t without telling a total lie.

I have spent much of the last month grieving a change in my life I did not ask for or want, longing for the company of the one I love and being deeply sad. I have also seen simple, quiet things in the desert, those I meet out walking or those who come peer at me through my window as I work, that fill me with joy. And I write in some detail about those things. I exclude the sadness, mostly, because everyone whose business it is already knows about it.

So I write about verdins. One came to eat mandarins off the shelves outside my window today:

verdincropped

Is it really that hard to understand that I could grieve my lover’s absence and rejoice in this little subtly colored spark at my window? That both of those pangs could coexist in my heart?

If I don’t offer up my private pain for public delectation, is that verdin a “total lie”?

Kareiva’s main argument is that conservation is doomed unless it reorients itself to focus first on the welfare of human beings.

I don’t think he’s qualified to make that determination until he learns what it’s like to be a human being.