Country mouse

Every year about this time, my friends tell me I need to move to town. Ceaseless rain and untamed wind have brought down trees and power lines, and saturated soil is sliding into streets all through the mountains. Getting home from work becomes a game of musical chairs, with road closures changing by the minute and few, if any, signs posted to alert drivers of the obstacles. When things are really bad, my trip home expands to twice or even 3 times normal length, requiring navigation through a maze of 2nd, 3rd, or 4th choice detours.

Once I get there, it’s an even bet whether I’ll have power. It goes out frequently in winter, but most times it’s back on before I really miss it. I have food, candles, hot water, and other necessities on hand. TV and the internet? A break from the chatter every now and then feels heaven-sent, if not downright miraculous.

I know I should get a generator, but I’m loath to spoil the song of this forest I’m so privileged to live in. When the power’s out, the night is magnified and full. Its darkness and its smallest sounds no longer clouded by our civilized assumptions, it feels ample, satisfying, and restorative. Frogs and crickets, owls and possums, mice and lizards all contribute to the chorus.

Listen: you can hear the rain against the skylights, gentle but insistent tapping telling me it’s not yet spring. And if you close your eyes and clear your mind, you can hear the redwoods swaying in their winter dance as wind weaves through their branches. Listen, and you’ll hear the sound of the world as few of us do these days, the sound of seasons in their rightful place.

Move to town? I don’t think so, thanks. I’ll pass on that generator too, at least for now: I’d rather hear the lullaby the rain is singing.

Ants and grasshoppers

Last summer, while you were out playing, I was in the kitchen. Many weekends found me chopping, slicing, canning, drying, and freezing berries, stone fruit, tomatoes, basil, garlic, and more. All manner of bounty from local farms and my own garden now lines my pantry and freezer, neat and jeweled rows of summer sitting silent in the dark. They wait, their patience generous and infinite, for discovery, as I pass them over for another.

A friend asked why I went to so much trouble—why not just buy canned tomatoes, or frozen peaches, whenever you need them? And who bothers to cook anything from scratch anymore? Surely it would be cheaper, and so much less complicated, to buy what I need when I need it. There isn’t one good answer. Rather, there are many: supporting local farmers, eating fresher food, being able to control what’s really in that can. The lure of self-sufficiency is in there too, as well as pride that comes with mastering new skills. Respecting the cycle of the seasons, yet being able to enjoy a slice of summer in midwinter free of guilt: think of it as tivo-ing your food! This is how we all lived, not so very long ago.

Why do I bother? This cold, grey winter day is the truest reason of them all: as water for pasta comes to a boil, I pull a jar of pesto, alluring, secretive, and precious as emeralds, from the freezer and inhale its magical aroma. Long-imprisoned genies explode from the bottle, and fill my soul with summer: bright sweet basil, rich and savory garlic, toasted pine nuts, pure young olive oil, and aged Parmesan. Sun, warmth, and heart’s delight are born anew, here in my kitchen—at least for tonight. Add a few sundried tomatoes, and it becomes a regal feast. Don’t worry, I made plenty—and I’ll share.

This essay will air on KQED-FM (88.9 in the SF bay area) on 2/5/2010 as part of its ‘Perspectives’ series. See their website for downloadable MP3. (program = perspectives; search = peggy hansen)

Virga

[This was written after an August visit to Chaco Canyon....but my trip last month for winter solstice photography called it to mind again. Amazing place, in so many ways.]

It means rain that isn’t really rain, not yet–but coming on to it, in that half a promise, half a threat kind of way. You see it just at the horizon, mazy threads of vapor fingering the land, evaporating at the final moment. There it was, at vision’s far soft edge, as B and I walked in the long light of late summer afternoon. We’d hiked the cliff trail overlooking Pueblo Bonito, and found a silent patch of slickrock to ponder the Anasazi mystery in the stones and mortar far below. Where did they come from, and why choose this canyon over all the others? How many generations to understand the cycle of moon, sun, and seasons, and align their buildings to it? How hard to leave this place, and start again? How did they know it was time? What did they take away, what leave behind? We know so little, and we understand much less.

I wonder why they built so many kivas, huddled each to each like naked, unroofed eggs, and try to imagine the place in high ceremony, brimful with women, children, birds, and dogs, with shamans, drummers, and dancers. The press of noise and color seems impossible, now, where only globemallow, four-wing saltbush, and the occasional whiptail lizard or bull snake prevail. But I sense the symmetry of the construction, the harmony of nested rooms strung together in a pattern that is pleasing even if the meaning is long lost.

B takes in the angle of the sun, and decides it’s time to start back. We stride along the canyon rim, briefly losing the unmarked trail but pick it up again beside a knee-high prince’s plume. Its yellow blooms droop with new-formed seeds. Neither of us feels the need to speak, our tandem footfalls dialogue enough.

At mid-day the light was loud and flat, lacking shadows to entice the eye or lure the lens, and everywhere there was the sound of people and their infinite distractions from the self. Now we find ourselves alone, chasing dusk from room to room. My fingers trail atop a low curved wall, and I wonder at the tiny divots in the sandstone. “Rain,” says B—just as water shaped so much of this landscape. No doubt it shaped the builders and their fate as well—and lack of it became the shape of their new destiny.

We move on, seeking that perfect light more ephemeral than love, or happiness. I round a corner, and find an intact mano and metate, the smooth stones forever mated by long years of grinding. A few minutes later, we meet up in a hidden room that’s been replastered—an attempt to recreate the way this village looked long centuries ago. The ceiling’s tight with silvery wood beams, and the walls are thick, rich, and enigmatic. A small square window high in the outer wall gives onto heart-rending O’Keeffe sky. My hands caress the plaster, which feels like heaven. I could live in this room, I whisper to myself.

The light is going quickly now, and we aim our lenses up at jagged walls, down through lines of doorways, and high again to cobalt sky. The French call this ‘the blue hour,’ a name I love for both its meaning and its resonance. On our way out, there are red rocks, sandstone glowing as nowhere but here. And amazing, sun-streaked clouds: pale orange billows, greyish murky streaks, and wispy, tantalizing virga, tinged with sunset radiance. The land is mute, dry, and patient. We smell moisture hanging in the air, and question whether it will really rain. Virga shimmers on the horizon, a haunting promise or a shrouded threat: we won’t discover which, not this night.

Methuselah

Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
–As You Like It, II. i. 12

I’m 20+ miles outside the Inyo County town of Big Pine, itself about 15 miles from Bishop, past the Eastern Sierra into the White Mountains, about to make a personal, long-overdue hajj. I’ve come to the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest to hike the 4-mile loop to the ancient Methuselah Grove and photograph the trees—you know the ones, I’m sure. You’ve seen the pictures of bizarre twisted limbs, set starkly against vivid cobalt skies, weathered spiky wood with precious little greenery in sight, clinging somehow to a rocky perch that seems completely alien. Perhaps you’ve wondered why they look that way, or maybe how—or whether–they could possibly still be alive. The answers turn out be more complicated, and more interesting, than you might think.

The trail takes off from the Schulman Visitors’ Center, reached by a long, steep, and very snaky road marked by one terrifying dropoff after another. It’s a crisp early October day, and there’s a dusting of fine snow in spots, delivered a few days ago by the first storm of the season. The air is unbelievable: cold and thin, of course, but infused with something unexpected, a scent of mystery and spirit of defiance. After gathering my gear, lunch, and water, I head into the forest. Not 50 yards in, I am lost, solidly entranced by root and limb and bough.

At first I speak to them like they were children, or skittish horses. I place my palm flat against the complex bark, petting their gnarled flanks as if to comfort them. No, I tell them, I can’t take your picture, not today. Maybe next time, I say soothingly, though in truth I have no defined plan to return. There are so many, at every turn, I just can’t photograph them all. Somehow I have a notion that the ones I pass by might feel neglected, and I am compelled to explain, assuage, apologize. I feel terrible and shamed, as if I’ve failed to bring enough snacks for everyone and been called out by the teacher. The trees stand silent, twisty and reproachful.

Then I think about it, and realize how truly absurd this is, on so many levels: these trees are the oldest living things on earth, many over 4500 years old, and I a mere half-century. The Great Basin bristlecone pine, one of three closely related cousins (Rocky Mountain bristlecone pine and foxtail pine are the others), is famous for its longevity. These very trees were alive in the time of pharaohs, the great flood of the Old Testament, Socrates and Homer, and the empires of Genghis Khan, Alexander the great, and all the Caesars. Who, indeed, am I to offer solace to these ancient ones—or to impute emotion to them? I am a mayfly to them, my short and hurried life buzzing by unnoticed.

Later, it feels more like seeking—an osmosis of wisdom I hope to entice from their skin to mine. Tell me how it is you have survived these long millennia, I ask them. Tell me of the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve heard, the things you’ve dreamed. Tell me what secrets the wind has carried here from every unknown place, and what enigmas you’ve discovered as your roots went seeking in the earth. I think of all the human history their lives have spanned, and I am filled with questions. But I release them in the wind, irrelevant and transitory in the timeframe of these trees. What matters here, in the thin chill air at 10,000 feet above sea level, is pure survival. This environment is extreme, with few species that exist here full-time, but the bristlecones have used extremity to their advantage.

The brutal cold keeps bark beetles from reproducing in great numbers. Dry air and scant precipitation inhibit fungi that seek to rot hard-earned earlywood and latewood. Slow growth produces very narrow rings, with large amounts of small-celled winterwood. Heartwood so densely packed gives no space for flame to catch and bloom, and there is no undergrowth for it to feed on in the first place; poor soil offers few nutrients to other plants that might make a home in this isolated place. Scarce oxygen at these heights also deters fire, as does the trees’ wide spacing. Harsh, violent winds beat back less hardy competitors, while the bristlecone sapling, once upright, contorts and conforms itself to embrace the icy blasts.

Bristlecones are also masters of efficiency—a mere 3-5% of a tree’s needles are replaced each year, compared to 25% or more for other conifers, requiring far less energy. Older needles are tougher, and so better at surviving drought than younger, moister ones, a huge plus in this arid, windblown latitude. They grow slowly, these old ones—one inch in diameter per century where conditions are particularly cruel. An odd tidbit worth pondering is that bristlecone pines that grow in easier conditions, where there is more moisture or the soil is less impoverished, live less than half as long as those sited in the least favorable spots. Such, indeed, may be the uses of adversity: the easy life we hold as our ideal, full of comfort and indulgence, may not end the richest.

About an hour in, I reach the famous grove—thought to be over 4700 years old, Methuselah is not identified ‘in order to protect it’, says the brochure I picked up at the trailhead. I find this unspeakably sad, mostly because I recognize its truth: there are those who would despoil it if they knew its name. What is it about our species that compels us to destroy the things we don’t understand, to mark our presence in their flesh, or kill them and stash their relics on our mantels? Is it envy, fear, avarice, or some other impulse that drives destruction in place of inquiry and learning? I am disappointed, but in truth every tree in the grove is more amazing than the next—and it matters not a bit that one might be a few years older than another. Each one is Methuselah, at heart a concept rather than a label. Again I find myself unmoored, tiny, and insignificant, in a landscape where the word ‘unique’ has lost all meaning. My camera, my awe, my appreciation are not enough and it cuts me deeply: how can I possibly know these complex creatures in a few short hours, let alone do them any sort of justice? I try anyway, shooting frame after frame, hoping for just one good inspiration.

One of the most interesting things about the bristlecones is that, though they are immensely old, they do not age—or more properly, they do not senesce. That is to say they are not prone to the various degenerations we and other creatures endure as we get older, such as grey hair, stiff joints, diminished reproductive capacity, and so on. Scientists have studied them extensively, and found that even very old bristlecone pines produce new growth at the same rate as young saplings. What is more, their telomeres, the ‘end caps’ of each chromosome, do not get markedly shorter as they age—unlike ours, and those of nearly every other living thing. Telomere shortening is thought to limit the number of times a cell can reproduce itself, which requires copying its DNA precisely. An end to cell reproduction eventually means death. Could the bristlecones, at least in theory, be immortal? In fact, they do not die of their own accord; they must be killed.

Another odd thing about these trees is that, though they live at high altitudes where the atmosphere is thin and solar radiation levels high, they do not suffer from genetic mutations—no damage to their DNA that could send errors down the generations till the code becomes unreadable, or one too many misplaced letters spell disaster.

But what makes these trees so famous, and so picturesque, is wind training combined with ‘sectored architecture’. Every bristlecone is composed of semi-independent sectors, each with its own root, water transport system, and sapwood. Death of a root, whether from exposure, disease, or injury, cuts off nourishment to the sapwood in its sector, which then dies off. Large amounts of pitch deposited during this process preserve wood against heart rot and reduce water loss. Instead of falling away and leaving a blank void, the dead segments stay in place amid the living, their dense golden wood shining like lanterns amid spare green boughs. Remaining sectors, roots intact, continue growing. The gnarled, contorted trunks and asymmetric limbs that adorn postcards, calendars, and T-shirts are the result.

Despite these many adaptations, the ancient bristlecones face an uncertain future. Like many other species, they are threatened by global climate change. The chill that keeps bark beetles at bay is fading, and warming could also allow fungi to proliferate. This small alteration in the system may be all it takes to tip the balance. Like the polar bears, bristlecones are already at the limits of their habitat, with no higher or colder haven left on earth. As I complete my hike, I find myself talking to the trees again, this time apologizing for our carelessness and vowing that we will make things right again. I want these ancient ones to live on, clinging to their inhospitable slopes and forming to the wind’s desires. I want to know they will be here to witness more of history, and impart their hard-won wisdom to future generations—both conifer and human. Who knows what might be learned, to the benefit of all? I take another breath of that enchanted air, filling my lungs with infinite scent, and head toward the car. I will return, I promise them, and honor each and every one.

Sunwatcher

[This is for December 21st, but as I will be unable to post it on that day (due to the activity described), it's here now.]

If you have any sense, you will be in bed. It’s dark outside, and freezing cold, and the sun is nowhere to be seen—a perfect time to burrow deep under the covers and dream sweetly. Winter will soon be upon us.

I, however, am hunched outside in the predawn wind, comforting myself with hand-warmers, and waiting. The dark here in the high desert of New Mexico is absolute, allowing not a single hue of life. My tripod is deployed, camera and shutter release ready, checked a dozen times at least–but I check once more to ease the waiting. Slowly, darkness begins to lift, and the sky tries on a soft grey coat. A few more minutes, and it will be here: solstice.

The ancient ones who lived here, in now-ruined Chaco Canyon, were attuned to celestial phenomena and observed them carefully. Winter solstice, heralding the sun’s return and the gradual lengthening of days, was particularly crucial. Pueblos, kivas, and rock art were aligned to mark it, letting the sun-watchers know the seasons had begun to turn. The order of the universe was recorded in movements of light and shadow throughout their landscape. I’m here to help the rangers document these movements, hoping to glimpse a piece of what the ancients knew so well.

Today, we have calendars, cell phones, and computers to tell time for us, and no longer need to scrutinize the sky for clues about the world. We know the sun will return, and with it light and warmth, without having to look up—or even go outside. Yet our connection to the solstice is not lost completely: we may not know it, but our winter holiday traditions are rooted in the sun’s emergence from the longest night.

Sometime today, go outside and look up at the sky. Feel the thin rays of the winter sun as it is reborn into a new season, and give thanks.

Respect

Orders. That’s what we doctors give to nurses, technologists, and other so-called ‘ancillary’ healthcare workers. We’re telling, not asking, them to do something our patient needs. That’s how the system works, and for good reason—someone has to sit in the director’s chair and maintain consistent vision.

Like the military, medicine has a hierarchy, clearly defined and known to all. This promotes efficiency, delineates responsibilities, and generally functions well. Communication lines are set; players know their boundaries. The accepted argot does not rely on niceties, and everybody’s fine with that.

Too often, though, it seems power really does corrupt: doctors behave badly, treating those below them on the ladder with scorn and condescension. Yes, we work too many hours, we stay up all night on call or miss our kids’ games because we’re in the OR, we don’t have time or energy to exercise, and we are ever mindful that the buck stops smack on top of us. We’ve spent a big chunk of our lives in school, and we know an amazing amount of stuff. But that doesn’t make us gods, or entitle us to act like jerks.

Recently a colleague blew up at one of our techs. She’d been trying to help him with an urgent scan, and pointed out an error in his order. Later he apologized, sort of, but insisted that his rank trumped all and should have been respected.

Rudeness is popping out all over these days, not just in medicine. Like other nasty things, it tends to be contagious, and little lapses can have larger consequences—studies have shown, for example, that patient outcomes are worse in ICUs where incivility is rampant.

Perhaps our culture needs to step back, do a little yoga breathing, and get our collective blood pressure down a notch or two. Courtesy isn’t just a virtue, it’s crucial for society to function. Respect is definitely a two-way street.

The biggest leaf in the forest

This fall they are enormous. Leaves like dinner plates at every turn, gold and brown and yellow, all but eclipse the forest floor. Each seems larger than the last, and I scramble from one to the next in disbelief: how big can these monsters be? This sets me on a quest to find the largest, the king of maple leaves, in all Fall Creek. That’s no small challenge, since miles and miles of trails percolate through the redwoods in this corner of the universe.

I’ve got food, and water, and all day to be nowhere but here. I head off light as laughter, free of cell phones, computers, and concerns. My digital camera, sole remnant of the world that ended at the parking lot, is both companion and accomplice. The sun on its morning course paints impressionistic arcs onto the duff as it works to penetrate the mat of branches overhead. It’s a canvas to get lost in, beyond time and memory. The camera and I step off the edge together, deep into the heart of it.

Hours, or maybe days, later I emerge, clutching my leafy treasure and heading wearily toward the parking lot. I’m thirsty, hot, and spent. My feet berate my intemperance, as does my stomach—I’ve drunk all my water and eaten all my snacks some time ago. All I want is to get these boots off and sit down somewhere soft and comfy, but it’s still a half-mile to the car.

Did you took a picture of your fun leaf? The voice is high and small, and takes me by surprise: I’d been looking down at the trail, and hadn’t noticed the child and her mother coming toward me. The three massive gilded leaves I held in one hand, the camera in the other, and the magic they contained were all but forgotten. I looked up and met her open, milk-toothed smile. ‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘Yes, I did.’

The small stuff

Don’t sweat the small stuff, don’t lose the forest for the trees–great advice, generally. But little things sometimes make all the difference, as I’ve learned in both my profession and my passion.

My day job is radiology. I sit before a bank of flat screens and look at x-rays, ultrasounds, CTs, and MRIs—thousands of images a day. Each must be evaluated carefully, on its own and with its fellows, for every case. Often there’s just one that shows the crucial finding—an errant lymph node, a wedge of fluid where none belongs, a wayward spot in an unsuspecting brain. Sometimes it’s what we call a ‘corner shot,’ a flicker at the edge of vision. Far from the center of attention, like a kidney mass on the last image of a chest CT, these may be overlooked. Every detail, though, is created equal in my world, and as such must be respected. Of course, that doesn’t mean losing sight of the patient. Getting these details right is a necessary first step to seeing the whole picture.

Photography, my other occupation, is no different. Here too every detail counts, from gear to composition. Did I set the aperture right for the depth of field I wanted? What about the exposure comp? Did I remember to charge my spare batteries? Will this scene look better as a vertical, or a horizontal? And do I want a fast shutter, a slow one, or something in between? The crucial question is this: what image do I hold in my head, what am I striving to create? Sure, some things can be tweaked in Photoshop, but the fundamentals must be right before the shutter snaps.

Though I love the vastness of the forest, I recognize the value of each tree—not to lose myself in, but as pieces of that prized larger picture. That small stuff can be pretty big.

The last tomato

I should have done it weeks ago, but I just couldn’t. Now it’s mid-November, and I can’t ignore it any longer. Summer is long gone, and fall not far behind: there will be no more tomatoes, and the vines must go.

They are tall and proud, if a bit wilted and yellow with the turn of seasons, somehow still putting forth new flower trusses despite the cold. I hate to take them down, but I need the space for another crop. So I snip the ties that bind them to their cages, support for fruit long since harvested and eaten. I disentangle branches from the wires, and pull the cages free. The vines collapse like swooning gentlewomen, prostrate and dramatic. I kneel down and begin to turn the earth, cleaving root from soil and making sure that none remains. There is no going back.

Soon enough the roots are free, as much soil shaken or massaged loose as I can manage, and the vines are all unmoored. I’m about to toss them to the compost when I spot a pale green orb, about the size of a key lime, clinging to one fallen lady’s skirts. Carefully, tenderly, I pluck it from the stem and put it in my pocket. This is the last tomato, summer’s final shout of joy and lust. It whispers like an emerald—alluring, secretive, and precious.

Demon Wheels

Much as I love the ease, I am convinced my wheeled suitcase is the devil’s work. Capacious and accommodating, it entices me to make use of all that empty space—and so I do. I pile in clothes I know I won’t need, shoes I know I won’t wear, and books I know I won’t read on my trip. But why not—there’s plenty of room in there! And since I have to check a bag, I might as well fill it.

By the time the void is filled, I can barely lift the suitcase. It’s below the weight limit for extra fees, though not in any meaningful way. Thence springs our love-hate relationship: those little wheels mean I don’t have to carry it, so I am free to abandon the idea of traveling light. Those little wheels mean I can give in to the American way of excess without consequence, despite my best intentions.

Sit in any airport terminal for five minutes, and you’ll see this submission is nearly universal—the relentless clack of small plastic wheels against floor tiles marks our collective embrace of convenience. In itself that isn’t evil, but the intense desire to avoid anything requiring effort is another story.

Our unwillingness to exert ourselves, even in a small thing like carrying our own suitcases, does not suggest openness to solving problems that may call for sacrifice and self-restraint along with inconvenience. Climate change and the obesity epidemic come to mind, perhaps because I’m watching the American parade while waiting for a flight.

Next time I travel, I promise myself, I will pack only what I can carry under my own steam—and so restrict myself to what is truly needed. Will that solve the planet’s woes? Of course not; it won’t even solve mine. But it will make me feel more self-reliant, and less slothful. As for the suitcase, it may feel rejected, but that weight I can easily shrug off.