A Line Down The Middle—The Landscape of Garry Winogrand’s Photograph, New Mexico 1957

 

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New Mexico 1957 by Garry Winogrand

By Neva Knott

Preface: each term in my composition classes I assign a photo analysis. I wrote this as an example for my students. The photo and the exercise allowed me to blend two of my loves–black and white photograph and nature, specifically thinking about the relationship between human spaces and landscapes.

***

A landscape divided. To the left, the carport and driveway of a small ranch-style house. To the right the flatlands and hills of a desert. A baby stands at the top of the driveway, having just emerged from the dark carport. The child’s tricycle lays abandoned on its side further down the drive. The desert in the foreground is dry and only partially covered in patches with shrubbery. There is one larger tree just to the right of the driveway, as if put there for landscaping decoration. The hills in the distance are also dark, shadowed by clouds that gather above them. A cloudscape covers the mountains and also floats above the roof of the house. There is a sense of anticipation in the photograph. The sharp contrast between the human area and the natural area in this photograph, taken by Garry Winogrand in New Mexico, 1957, suggest that humans might be out of place on this desert.

The baby is the brightest object in the frame. She is dressed in white and is standing in front of an almost solid black opening to a carport. Because of this stark contrast, her spot in the photograph becomes the focal point.  White is universally considered a color of innocent, nascence, and hope. While it may be incidental to this photograph that she is dressed in white, when I consider the baby within the setting of the photograph—in front of a new house in a presumably new development—I can infer she is part of the package of, and symbolizes, the pathos of beginnings for this family.

I begin to explore other aspects of the photograph to gain a sense of context for the baby’s positioning. The house stops at the left edge of the image. It covers most of the left of the frame, from bottom to almost the top.  The driveway runs along about three quarters of the bottom edge of the image and dominates the foreground. It is an upward-sloping drive; my eye is drawn along it to the baby and the faint shadow of another person behind. The house is also positioned in front of the picture, though most of it is cut off. The carport is in full view, but only the corner of the house to which it attaches, the edge of a bank of windows on the front of the house, some stones that seem to mark a planter, a patch of dirt not yet planted with grass, and part of the roof, show.  Bare soil extends from the driveway to what I can surmise is the lot line. The house is simple and sparse in design, suggesting that it is a starter home—the type first purchased when a couple begins their life together.

On the right of the carport there is a partial wall that’s held up by a simple ground-to-roof post. The house number, 208, is attached to the post. This low number designates this house as one of the first in the development and furthers the impression of new beginnings.

The partial wall forms a boundary between the house and the land, yet the desert and hills are visible through the space between the wall and carport roof. Beyond the carport wall, four aspects of the desert are depicted. Closest to the driveway is barren except for a few clumps of weed and one decorative palm. A few yards out, presumably at the lot line, some sort of scrub brush grows, standing just a couple of feet tall. Beyond the scrub, a sand pit comprises the middle distance of the image. More vegetation grows around its edges. Just past the sand pit the mountains rise up and meet the sky—just at the top third of the image. The most defined line of mountain peaks  are darkened by cloud cover. Along the side of the foothills is a U-shaped clearing that looks like a road and cul-de-sacs for a future housing development.  In looking at the vegetation surrounding the house, it is easy to see this is not a place that readily supports life.

The clouds are the only element in the photograph that span both human and natural spaces. They run along the top border of the image, whereas the rest of the image is abruptly divided by the line of the driveway and edge of the carport. There is no transition between the house and landscape except for the partial wall in the carport; furthermore, there is no overlap in use of space—the human side is devoid of anything natural, and except for a child’s wagon off to the right, there are no human elements on the natural side of the image.

Aside from the baby and the shadow figure in the carport, the house itself, the driveway, and the U-shaped clearing, the only human elements in the photograph are a child’s tricycle and wagon—both of which were left tipped over, one in the middle of the drive, and one along the lot line, just at the boundary between home and landscape—and an oil spot on the concrete. These indicate a haphazard regard and lack of care for one’s possessions. Toys are not put away, and cars are not maintained. The house itself is quite plain and appears to be kept tidy, but is obviously low-cost. Might the inhabitants be living beyond their means in taking on home ownership and parenthood? If they don’t care for the child’s toys or their own car, will they care for this delicate landscape upon which they live?

A desert is classified as such because of limited rainfall, yet a desert is a hardy landscape. Plants and some animals that live in such places have adapted to manage periods of drought, and extreme temperatures both cold and hot. Humans do not have the capacity to adapt so must convert their homes and man-made spaces to accommodate limited water supply, winters and summers. Humans are naturally unequipped to live within the carrying capacity of a desert landscape. The harsh line in the photograph made by the driveway and edge of the carport creates the impression that the people who live in this house intend to keep separate from the life of the desert, yet the clouds that cross over both parts of the photograph remind the viewer that nature surrounds them and its effects are inescapable, regardless of this delineation. The only connection between the house and the surrounding landscape is one of darkness. The carport is dark as is the line of mountain peaks in the cloud’s shadow. While the baby in her white clothes works to symbolize hope from within the darkness, the darkness of the clouds suggests that nature is the controlling force in this place.

Garry Winogrand is one of my favorite photographers. From my study of his work I know that it was not his practice to set up a shot—he took pictures of what he came upon, of what was in front of him. He chose subject matter based on what he felt would make a good photograph. In studying his work, I’ve come to realize that much of it documents some sort of incongruity between people and the places in which he found them. In this photograph, the incongruity draws my attention to the rationale behind suburban development, and begs the question, at what point must a homeowner consider livability of locale? Moreover, I’m analyzing this image 57 years after its making, at a time in human history where issues of water availability are critical. Photographs capture a moment in time, yet exist in the present and into the future; in this way, Winnogrand’s photograph of a starter home in the New Mexico of 1957 can speak to the importance of choosing a place for one’s nascence that can support life.

 

 

Nature Walking around Capitol Lake

 

Polaroid of the Capitol from Across the  Lake

The Capitol from across the Lake

By Neva Knott

The Lake’s bottom has been exposed at low tide since the snow storm. Rocks, muck, and detritus are exposed about six feet out from from the shoreline. Today, Sunday, I saw a pair of Mallards pecking in the muck, duck behavior I’d not seen before. I’ve been watching Mallards since I was a little girl living on a different lake, here in Olympia. They were the first wild species I knew to recognize.

Today, Ted–my little black dog–and I are making our way around Capitol Lake. It’s a man-made lake that sits at the mouth of the Deschutes River as it meets Budd Inlet, part of Puget Sound. Before it was a lake, this waterway was tide flats, an ecosystem of river and brackish water. The path we take extends from the Capitol grounds on the south shore hill, weaves down switchbacks that open to a view of the Olympic Mountains far north, and then circles the lake for about a two-mile walk. We’ve been snowbound for over a week, so today I seem to be walking with renewed awareness of nature and place.

During the storm I pondered the importance of snow. I like how it forces quietude and a slowness of human busy-ness. I like the silent softness of a snowy night. I know the importance of snowpack in the water cycle and health of watersheds. This week, I pondered the importance of snow in the climate cycle and how it might work within the structure of global warming. I researched and learned that the snow’s reflection, its albedo, reflects solar radiation back into the atmosphere, helping to keep the planet cool.

Capitol Lake was built in 1951 as a reflection pool for the grandeur of the Capitol building. The Lake has done its job well. Not only is it a spot of beauty at the city’s center, it has always been a gathering place. Each year, Lake Fair plays out in the shoreline park. As a teenager, I loved the carnival rides as they swung out over the water. When I was a little girl, we swam in the Lake, right from the shore down town.  Boating was allowed then, too. Even on a winter’s day like today, walkers, runners, families, and people with dogs circle the water. I feel a part of my community each day we make the trek.

Today, the ducks whose species name I don’t know, those with the velvet black heads, white shoulders and grey side panels, floated in a battalion, in formation across the lake’s surface. Then, on a mysterious cue, they’d take turns diving down, synchronized like swimmers in a show.

Some days, as the tide turns, the ducks float in a cluster, the whole bunch of them moving in circular motion as the water moves.

I wonder what the cold does to them.

Some days, in the ticket just along the shore at the bottom of the switchbacks, I see a blue heron. Today, as we rounded the edge of the lake near the road, a heron flew by, low to the water, magnificent wing span flapping. I’d had a feeling we would see one today.

What creates the lake is an earthen dam and concrete spillway at the north end. This is also where a bridge crosses the waterway, connecting down town to the west side. In college, in the late 80s, my housemate and I fished the salmon run from the “legal” side of the bridge. We were poor and happy to fill our freezer for winter with each day’s limit.

Many days, I see river otter near the spillway. Just one was there today, having toddled out of the water to nudge around in the bramble along the shore. There’s a bridge on the south end of the lake, too, and almost daily I count on seeing three or four otters there, swimming, playing, and when they notice us, watching Ted.

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River Otter, Christmas day

The lake has served good purpose in blending the beauty human architecture and natural. Not only has it reflected the values of community here, it also stands to reflect the changes–and challenges–in environmental science from then to now. Several decades ago, the lake was closed to swimming because of fecal matter from storm water. Too-warm water in the summer months increases algae blooms and makes for poor fish habitat. In 2009, New Zealand mud snails were discovered in the lake and it was closed to boating. And, because the river cannot pulse and flow through as it would in an estuary, sediment–the muck my Mallards were pecking in–is taking over the contents of the lake. As environmental science, particularly wetlands science, as advanced, it has become clear that blocking off river flow is detrimental.

In 2016 the State Legislature began drafting a plan for better management of the Lake. One idea is to take apart the actual lake and let the river remake the land as estuary. There is talk of a “hybrid plan.” And there is the option to leave the Lake as it is. Until change comes, Ted and I will circle the shoreline, watching the ducks, heron, and otters and the ebb tide at sundown.

Ted, exploring the shoreline bulkhead

Swamp Yankees, The Greatest Generation, and the Nagging Problem of Affluence

An interior view of the author's 1770 home mid-process during rehabilitation. Copyright: Richard Telford, 2010

An interior view of the author’s 1770 home  during the process of rehabilitation. Copyright: Richard Telford, 2010

By Richard Telford

Early in my first year of teaching in northeastern Connecticut, more than two decades ago, I heard a colleague refer to her husband as a “typical Swamp Yankee.” He had acquired numerous lawnmowers in various states of disrepair and was slowly pirating parts from one or another to produce a working machine. It was the first time I had heard the term Swamp Yankee, but it would not be the last. Though it has historically been used largely as a pejorative, albeit a tempered one, I have come to see it as complimentary. In fact, I believe that a Swamp Yankee ethic, as I will try to frame it here, is a potent tool in the fight to mitigate the effects of the environmental crisis with which we are presently beset and likely always will be.

The exterior rehabilitation of the author's home nearing completion. All exterior work, including reframing, sheathing, siding, and finishing was done by the author and his wife. Copyright: Richard Telford, 2010

The exterior rehabilitation of the author’s home nearing completion. All exterior work, including reframing, sheathing, siding, and finishing was done by the author and his wife. Copyright: Richard Telford, 2010

Ruth Schell, in the May 1963 issue of American Speech, published by Duke University, wrote what may be the only scholarly treatise on the term Swamp Yankee. Schell noted that the term appeared to have a limited geographic range in terms of popular use, largely confined to southeastern Massachusetts, northeastern Connecticut, and northwestern Rhode Island, the junction of the three states. In that region she found that a Swamp Yankee was seen as “a rural dweller–one of stubborn, old-fashioned, frugal, English-speaking Yankee stock, of good standing in the rural community, but usually possessing minimal formal education and little desire to augment it.” In communities where the term was most commonly used, she found that the colloquialism “refers very simply to a rural resident of Yankee descent and inclinations, who is of long and, generally, good standing in the area.” The more localized the term, the less focused it seems on education or the lack thereof, and this, for me, is a distinction that matters.

Front Room After

The same interior view as above, following rehabilitation. The brass light fixture at center was retrieved from the scrap metal pile at a local bulky waste facility. The staircase, which replaced a structurally unsound and lead-paint-laden one, was fabricated from church pews that had been removed during renovation from a local church. Copyright: Richard Telford, 2011

Having lived in northeastern Connecticut for the last 22 years, 14 of which have been spent rehabilitating our 1770 farmhouse, I have come to see myself as a full-fledged Swamp Yankee, a term which, for me, has no pejorative quality. For me, the Swamp Yankee ethic boils down to the practice of fully and wisely using all resources, both material and intellectual, and this, I think, becomes more critical each day as we continue to assess and understand more fully the deleterious effect our societal wastefulness has on the natural world and, ultimately, on ourselves. For my family, the Swamp Yankee ethic manifests itself in living frugally in economic terms so that we can live more fully in terms of living close to the land and to each other. We live only on my teaching salary, which allows for our kids to grow up in their own home. Our frugality manifests itself in buying nearly everything secondhand, doing nearly all home repairs ourselves (learned mostly through books), and, perhaps most significantly, in rehabilitating our 1770 farmhouse, which was being considered for demolition before I bought it. In simple terms, we have worked hard to distinguish between what we might want and what we truly need, and we have modeled that way of life for our children. As I note above, the benefits of our Swamp Yankee ethic extend far beyond the economics. Such an ethic rejects the disposability that defines our society, reducing our environmental impact significantly. For us, it is a kind of living governed both by necessity and by the desire to give to our children, and subsequent generations, a more sustained and sustainable natural world.

A United States government-produced propaganda poster promoting the planting of Victory Gardens during the Second World War. Source: United States National Archive, Identifier: 513659

A United States government-produced propaganda poster promoting the planting of Victory Gardens during the Second World War. Source: United States National Archive, Identifier: 513659

Tom Brokaw, in 1998, invoked the term “The Greatest Generation” to recognize the generation of Americans who had lived through the deprivation of The Great Depression and rallied to fight the rising Axis Powers both on the battlefield and through solidarity on the home front. Americans ran scrap metal drives, planted Victory Gardens, rationed basic staples such as sugar and gasoline, and halted commercial automotive production in deference to wartime production; they forewent luxuries in all forms to contribute to a cause on which the survival of civil society as they knew it hinged. In short, they provided an example of sustainable living in a world of limited resources, though their greatest concerns, understandably, did not center on the loss of biodiversity or the changing climate. They demonstrated a selflessness that is largely absent from American culture these days.

Those who challenge the validity of anthropogenic climate change, and even many who acknowledge it, might argue that the present environmental crisis is not comparable to a global war that precipitated the estimated loss of 70 to 80 million combatants and civilians worldwide. I disagree. At present, we are at war with ourselves, pitting consumption-driven self-interest against long-term sustainability. The evidence of this war is all around us, and the casualties are real, though not so easily quantified. According to the World Food Programme, for example, “Some 795 million people in the world do not have enough food to lead a healthy active life.” To what degree is this number directly related to unsustainable agriculture, or to ecosystem changes rooted in anthropogenic climate change, or to government corruption that values self-interest over the environment? Consider, too, the long-term effects of the recent drinking water crisis in Flint, Michigan; or the cascading effects of the loss of polar sea ice due to rising ocean temperatures; or the plastics that comprise the vast majority of oceanic litter; or the widespread, global loss of biodiversity; or the poisoning of groundwater caused by the extraction of natural gas through hydraulic fracturing. How can we quantify the loss of health and life that will occur for generations as a result of these and other manifestations of the environmental crisis we have wrought? How can we fail to see that this is a crisis of unprecedented urgency?

A political cartoon by Theodor Seuss Geisel, or Dr. Seuss, in which he critiques American isolationism at the outset of World War II. In particular, he takes aim at American aviator Charles Lindbergh, referred to as "Lindy" at the bottom of the sign, who led the America First Committee, which opposed entry into he war.

A political cartoon by Theodor Seuss Geisel, or Dr. Seuss, in which he critiques American isolationism at the outset of World War II. In particular, he takes aim at American aviator Charles Lindbergh, referred to as “Lindy” at the bottom of the sign. Lindbergh led the powerful America First Committee, which opposed entry into the war.

Seven decades after the end of the Second World War, though we lull ourselves daily into thinking otherwise, we stand at precisely such a crossroads faced by Brokaw’s “Greatest Generation.” In fact, the long-term stakes are higher. Climate change is not a brutal dictator whose rise to power can be abruptly halted. Nor can accelerated resource depletion, habitat fragmentation, biodiversity loss, or other dynamics of our present environmental crisis be cast in simple terms. Our assault on the environment, whether conscious or unconscious, is omnipresent. Yet it is also largely invisible to those who cannot or choose not to see it, rendering the threat even more potent. It is not just civil human society at stake, as it was in 1939; it is our long-term survival as a species, and the threat will continue for decades, perhaps centuries, or even millennia. It is easy to decry such a statement as alarmist, of course, but doing so ignores the staggering speed with which we are depleting resources and degrading the environment in ways that neither we nor the Earth itself can reverse.

The front cover of Ann Morrow Lindbergh's 1940 book The Wave of the Future: A Confession of Faith. From the author's collection.

The front cover of Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s 1940 book The Wave of the Future: A Confession of Faith. From the author’s collection.

In her 1940 book The Wave of the Future: A Confession of Faith, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, facing the rise of Nazism, Communism, and Fascism in Europe, wrote the following: “In fact, on the average citizen, even more than on the expert, falls the responsibility of decision, in present issues, and the burden of its consequences.” Seventy-five years later, it would be hard to sum up more eloquently the dynamic of our present environmental crisis; we, as “average citizen[s],” cannot ignore the critical role we can and must play in solving complex environmental problems rather than exacerbating them. There is, though, a darker dimension to Lindbergh’s treatise, one that is especially pertinent now. In the closing pages, she writes, “Because of this tradition and this heritage, many of us hoped that in America, if nowhere else in the world, it should be possible to meet the wave of the future in comparative harmony and peace. It should be possible to change an old life to a new without such terrible bloodshed as we see today in Europe. We have been a nation who looked forward to new ideas, not back to old legends.”  Though she seems reticent to state it outright in the 41-page text, it is clear by the end of her Confession that she advocates for an isolationist course. This is not surprising, given that her husband, American aviator Charles Lindbergh, headed one of the most potent isolationist groups in the country, the America First Committee. In the closing pages of her treatise, Anne Morrow Lindbergh argues that, by remaining aloof of the conflict in Europe and by “giving up part of the ease of living and the high material standard we have been noted for […],” i.e. the loss of European luxury imports, America “might gain in spirit, vigor, and in self-reliance.” The hindsight of history bears out the flaws her argument, and the application of that history in the present leads to one inevitable conclusion: such aloofness cannot save us now, just as it could not have done so 75 years ago. We cannot, in our comparative affluence as a society, isolate ourselves from the effects of the present environmental crisis. If we do not face it openly and act on all scales to change course, we are ignorant or willful conspirators in our own demise.

The author's father, third from left, during his duty tour in the Philippines, 1944-1945.

The author’s father, third from left, during his duty tour in the Philippines, 1944-1945.

Our affluence as a society allows us in the short-term to keep at a distance many of the direct effects of anthropogenic climate change that others now face head on—desertification, increased vulnerability to catastrophic weather events, and famine, to name only a few—much as geography allowed America, for a time, to isolate itself from the upheaval fomented in Europe by the Axis Powers. But in both cases, the “distance” from the respective problems was and is illusory. We can only buy our way out of the problems of anthropogenic climate change—and of many other manifestations of the present environmental crisis—for a finite time. The sooner we stop trying to do so, the better. On the individual scale, an ethic forged along the lines of the southern New England Swamp Yankee offers a good starting point. On the societal scale, we must look to Brokaw’s “Greatest Generation” and work to emulate their capacity to look away from themselves and toward the greater good. My father was born in 1926 and later served as a Staff Sergeant in the Pacific Theater of the Second World War, so I grew up surrounded by his contemporaries. I think Brokaw got it right. But for us to emulate that generation and to face the environmental crisis with like selflessness and resolve, we must first see the crisis as a crisis. To do so, we must come to terms with a complex and oft-hidden enemy—ourselves.

 

The Rachel Carson Reserve

 

Ghost Crab

Atlantic Ghost Crab (Ocypode quadrata). The Latin name Ocypode means “swift-footed.” Ghost crabs actually spend the majority of their time out of water and use fine hairs on the base of their legs to wick up water from sand to wet their gills.

All photos by Maymie Higgins

This past summer I visited a part of the North Carolina coast I had yet to explore in spite of being a lifelong resident of the state. My annual week long vacation was spent on Emerald Isle which is one of three communities on one of the southern Outer Banks islands and includes Pine Knolls Shore and Atlantic Beach. There are many historic and educational sites within a brief drive including one of the three North Carolina Aquariums, Fort Macon, the North Carolina Maritime Museum in Beaufort, NC and my most sought after site, The Rachel Carson Reserve.

Visiting_Rachel_Carson_9Jul09

Map courtesy of NC Coastal Reserve & National Estuarine Research Reserve as part of a brochure printed with grant funds provided by NOAA.

The Rachel Carson Reserve is located between the mouths of the Newport and North Rivers and directly across Taylor’s Creek from Beaufort. The main part of the site, just south of Beaufort, is a complex of islands which includes Carrot Island, Town Marsh, Bird Shoal, Horse Island and Middle Marsh. In 1977, Beaufort residents, civic organizations and environmental groups came together and prevented the development of a resort on the reserve. The N.C. Chapter of The Nature Conservancy purchased 474 acres of Carrot Island that year. The State of North Carolina acquired Town Marsh, Carrot Island, Horse Island and Bird Shoal in 1985, with the addition of Middle Marshes in 1989. The entire reserve is 2,315 acres.

Beaufort

A view of Beaufort through the cordgrass on the reserve, replete with periwinkle, a small marine gastropod (snail) that grazes on algae and detritus on the surface of plants and on the ground. They are food for many species of crabs and terrapins.

The reserve is one of 10 sites that make up the North Carolina Coastal Reserve & National Estuarine Research Reserve. The Rachel Carson Reserve is available as a natural outdoor laboratory where scientists, students and the general public can learn about coastal processes, functions and influences that shape and sustain the coastal area. This is in keeping with the reserve’s namesake, who did research at the site in the 1940s.

 

Periwinkle

Closer shot of periwinkle. I am fascinated by the multiple trophic levels that exist just among the varying heights of the cord grass. Estuarine ecosystems are quite rich.

Twice-daily, tides mix fresh and salt water in the reserve and create a very favorable estuarine environment for juvenile fish and invertebrates. The reserve is rich with coastal ecosystems including tidal flats, salt marshes, ocean beach, soft bottom, shell bottom, dredge spoil areas, sand dunes, shrub thicket, submerged aquatic vegetation, and maritime forest.

Devils Walking Stick

Devil’s Walking Stick (Aralia spinosa), a native shrub tree that produces berries that can be consumed by many birds and mammals but are toxic to humans.

The reserve is located within the Atlantic Migratory Flyway and more than 200 species of birds, including rare species, have been observed there. The site is an important feeding area for Wilson’s plovers in the summer and piping plovers in the winter. The shrub thicket of Middle Marsh supports an egret and heron rookery. Wildlife on the island includes river otter, gray fox, marsh rabbit, raccoon, and a herd of feral horses. Atlantic bottlenose dolphins, diamondback terrapins, sea turtles, and many species of fish and invertebrates are found in the estuarine waters surrounding the site.

Indian Blanket

Beautiful Indian Blankets (Gaillardia pulchella) were all over the reserve.

I accessed the reserve by taking a guided hike with the N.C. Maritime Museum, which included a boat to the trailhead and a pick up later. The hike was led by Benjamin Wunderly, Associate Museum Curator who provided lots of good information and species identification as we moved through the different ecosystems.

Horses

The feral horse herd, easily 500 yards or more away during the time of my hike. The horses travel to the parts of the reserve not usually accessed by humans during the hours that humans are likely to visit…because horses are smart like that.

Many visitors to the reserve are curious about the approximately 30 feral horses living on the island. No one knows exactly how they came to be there and there are many theories. Horses may have been on the islands as early as the mid-eighteenth century when Carrot Island was noted on a 1733 map of Beaufort. Horse Island was noted on an 1851 Sketch of Beaufort Harbor, administered under the US Coast Survey Office, most likely named as such because there were horses there.

The feral horses became the property of North Carolina when the land was purchased in the 1980s. The main food supply for these feral horses is Smooth Cordgrass – Spartina alternaflora and the primary source of fresh water is from holes the horses dig. The Beaufort reserve’s staff oversees the horse management. Individual horses are identified, photographed and maintained. Each horse is tracked for births, general health, social habits and eventually death. Beyond the birth control program, the horse population is treated as a wild herd.

Peas

Mr. Wunderly pointing out Spurred Butterfly Pea (Centrosema virginianum), which the horses will eat in addition to the cord grass.

While chatting with Mr. Wunderly about the horses, I expressed my affinity for such mysteries. It does this soul good to know that in my home state there is a reserve where I can visit and spend an unlimited time pondering how something domestic came to be wild. No matter how long I ponder, I will never know the answer but the wild will remain so, thanks to the good efforts of good folks who came together to protect and preserve the Rachel Carson Reserve.

Restoring the Johnson Creek Watershed with Native Plants

By Neva Knott

Restoring urban watersheds is an important part of developing a city’s green infrastructure. These streams and surrounding landscapes comprise an important ecosystem for wildlife and humans. Urban watersheds are habitat for fish, animals small and large, birds and plants. They also provide important ecosystems services, like filtering rain and groundwater and capturing carbon and other air pollutants. Urban watersheds are landscapes that connect people to nature within the business of city life.

Last Saturday, I donned rubber boots and rain gear and headed out to the Lower Powell Butte Floodplain along Johnson Creek, part of the Johnson Creek Watershed in Portland, Oregon, to lead crews of volunteers for Friends of Trees in planting several species of native trees and shrubs to restore a section of the creek bank.

Map of Johnson Creek

Map of Johnson Creek Watershed

Project History, provided by Friends of Trees: “In partnership with the Johnson Creek Watershed Council and Portland Parks & Recreation we will be planting native trees and shrubs to improve the creek side native plant community.  This project is supported by the East Multnomah Soil & Water Conservation District and Metro. PP & R has been working for a number of years to treat invasive species in the area, primarily Reed Canary Grass, to prepare the site for replanting. This planting will be the second at the site and will expand upon the area planted by Friends of Trees in 2014. FOT has performed summer maintenance and monitoring for the past two seasons to keep invasive species down and help previously planted natives become established. The native trees and shrubs planted here will provide greater wildlife habitat, increase native plant diversity, and enhance water quality by filtering pollutants and assisting with erosion control along Johnson Creek.”

On Saturday, the FOT crew and volunteers planted 690 native trees and shrubs–Black Hawthorne, Oregon Ash, Black Twinberry, Pacific Ninebark, Thimbleberry, Swamp Rose, and Snowberry. These species are often used in stream bed restoration because they tolerate wet-to-dry conditions.

Plant Flags

Each flag identifies where a shrub or tree was planted

My team was in charge of getting the Black Twinberries into the ground. We planted starts–each plant was just about four inches tall, dormant with no leaves or fruit yet, but with vibrant root systems. Thimbleberries grow rapidly though, and form dense thickets up to seven feet tall. The mature shrubs function as habitat in that they provide food for many types of animals, cover from predation for small species, and regulate ground, stream, and air temperature. When our thimbleberries mature, they will bring wildlife to the area–to include several bird species, rabbits, beavers, deer, coyote–helping to create a once-again functioning ecosystem along Johnson Creek.

Teaching volunteers to plant trees is something I enjoy and value because it allows me to help people interact in a very intimate way with the ecosystems we depend on. This past Saturday, I had several seven- to nine-year-old scouts on my team. Planting with children is extra fun; they are so simply in awe of the effects of their own efforts. And, they love finding worms.

Working with Friends of Trees not only allows me to help others connect to nature, understand ecosystems, and find worms, it allows me to learn more about plant species. I am intrigued by ethnobotany–the study of the relationships between plants and people. This cultural value of native plants is another important reason for using them, and is an aspect of plants that can connect the past to the present. A source I regularly look to is The Wild Garden: Hansen’s Northwest Native Plant Database, where I found that First Nations groups harvested thimbleberries for a variety of uses:

  • The leaves were mixed with those of wild strawberry and wild trailing blackberry to make tea
  • The sprouts were collected, peeled, and eaten raw as a vegetable
  • Berries were eaten fresh and dried, sometimes with the addition of clams and pressed into cakes, for winter use
  • While still pink, they were harvested by some tribes and placed in cedar bark bags, water was sprinkled on top and they would ripen in the bag
  • The leaves were also used as padding to line baskets
  • The boiled bark was an ingredient in soap
  • Dried, crushed leaves were laid on burns to prevent scarring

Native plants are most of the choice in restoration work. They allow for a sense of place and let flourish the botanical uniqueness of the region. They attract and feed native insects, birds, and wildlife. Their genetic design allows them to flourish with other native species in the same environment and in that particular set of conditions. And, native plants require fewer inputs–fertilizers and extra water–because they are attuned to the soil and weather of the region.

One of the goals of the restoration work along Johnson Creek is to improve water quality for the salmon who navigate through the watershed to breed and spawn.

Muddy Johnson Creek

Muddy Johnson Creek with clean rainwater in adjacent gully

Johnson Creek is unique in that it is the only salmon-bearing stream in the city. This is significant because salmon are a keystone species in the Pacific Northwest, supporting 137 other species. The viability of salmon is an indicator of watershed quality and health. Salmon also holds high cultural value in the region because it is a traditional ceremonial food of the Native tribes and has long been an emblem of Pacific Northwest culture and cuisine. Salmon definitely is a food that connects past to present and it is a fish species that pulls together the peoples of the region across ecological, economic, and cultural boundaries. A regional ecological concern is water quality for salmon.

Salmon

Salmon in stream

The ecosystem services watersheds like Johnson Creek provide serve wildlife and humans; more importantly, watersheds connect nature and humans and remind us that much can be gained by looking to nature for solutions to particular problems of urban (and non-urban) environments. Whereas technological structures, such as sewer pipes underground in a city, serve as solutions to many environmental problems, plants can provide cheaper and more readily usable solutions. Green infrastructure is forward-thinking, often more effective, and always less costly that man-made infrastructure.

There’s a lovely walking and bike path along the creek and our planting area, next time you need a break from hectic city life. And, the thimbleberries ripen in late July.

Media Credits

  • Map of Johnson Creek Watershed: US Geological Survey
  • Thimbleberries: The Wild Garden
  • Salmon in Stream: US Fish and Wildlife
  • All other photographs by Neva Knott

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Preserve or to Conserve: Navigating the Conflicted Language of Environmental Advocacy

Hampton Brook, Hampton, CT, during a mid-winter thaw. Copyright: Richard Telford, 2016

Hampton Brook, Hampton, CT, during a mid-winter thaw. Copyright: Richard Telford, 2016

By Richard Telford

Writing for The Ecotone Exchange during the last three years, I have advocated for certain actions I see as critical to mitigate the present environmental crisis. These actions have included engaging children with the natural world in a deliberate way, encouraging the exploration of one’s immediate environment, rethinking the disregard we sometimes afford to common species, and forming a more thoughtfully developed environmental ethic, among others. In writing these and other pieces, one dilemma of word choice has vexed me more than any other. Do I call upon the reader to act in order to preserve the natural world or to conserve it? To some, this may seem a trivial question, one of semantics or aesthetics, but for me the distinction matters. I have stared on many occasions at a particular sentence, reading it aloud, inserting first one verb and then the other, only to delete and start again, often restructuring the entire sentence to accommodate each change only to return shortly after to a previous revision. Quite often, it is in one of these sentences that I am trying to culminate an argument that I have shaped first for myself, through the process of writing, and then for the reader. The weight of such sentences only muddles the choice further; such sentences require an investment of belief.

When, for example, I challenged the long-term efficacy of using charismatic species to enlist public support for environmental causes, I wrote, Is this a sustainable long-term approach by which to conserve the Earth’s biodiversity?  However, in that same piece, when I argued for the value of local, common species and their capacity to build connections between us and the natural world, I wrote, All of these common summer residents of our region have evoked in our children and in us that sense of wonder that is so crucial to the long-term preservation of the natural world. When writing about my father, who, more than any other individual, helped me to form my own environmental ethic, I elected, with some concern about redundancy, to incorporate both terms side by side: Such relationships, I believe, can and must guide us as we contemplate the long-term conservation, preservation, and restoration of the natural world. Finally, when I examined the importance of forming and living by a conservation ethic, I opted for conservation as the more pragmatic and appropriate term with which to define the ethic, but I avoided both verbs in my culminating argument of what we must do with that ethic: As we work to develop a sustainable conservation ethic, we must seek questions as much as we seek answers—not in a way that paralyzes us and makes us put up our hands but in a way that empowers us to envision and bring to fruition significant changes in our resource use on all scales and in our broader treatment of the natural world on the whole.

So, in the end, does it matter which word is invoked? I think it does, not just in terms of precise word use—which in my view matters a great deal by itself—but in terms of how word choice, especially in this case, can shape public discourse, can clarify respective positions on complex issues, and can prompt action aimed toward the greater, long-term good. Thus, I set out here to answer this question of word choice that has vexed me so greatly. I do this realizing that I will not, in the end, be able to answer this question with surety, but I realize too that the questions with which we struggle are often more valuable than the answers to them.

When I wrestle with a particular word choice, I first consider the word’s denotation—its literal definition—and then consider its connotation—the associative and emotional responses the word may evoke. While a quick Internet look-up usually suffices to recall a forgotten denotation, for weightier word choices I turn to my 1988 reprint of the 1971 Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. The word “compact” here seems a bit out of place, as its two hefty volumes contain a total of 6,165 pages, each of which features four full pages of the original 13-volume OED “reproduced micrographically” and requiring the use of a magnifier to read. To this, I add my 1412-page 1987 OED supplement, and whole new word-worlds are opened to me. For context, the last print edition of the OED was issued in 1989 and is still in print; now, however, all updates are done quarterly and are maintained electronically, accessible through subscription.

The 1971 Oxford English Dictionary offers three related definitions for the transitive verb form of preserve: 1) “To keep safe from harm or injury; to keep in safety, save, take care of, guard,”  2) “To keep alive, keep from perishing, to keep in existence, keep from decay, make lasting,” and 3) “To keep from physical or chemical change.”  Interestingly, the definitions offered by the OED for conserve in its transitive verb form are strikingly similar. The first definition for conserve combines nearly all of the content of the first and third definitions for preserve cited above, reading as follows: “To keep in safety, or from harm, decay, or loss; to preserve with care; now usually, to preserve in its existing state from destruction or change.” In kind, the second definition offered for conserve closely parallels the second definition cited above for preserve, the former reading: “To preserve or maintain in being or continuous existence; to keep alive or flourishing.” By denotation, preserve and conserve are effectively synonymous. As defined, they are interchangeable, which should solve the dilemma I introduced at the start of this essay. But it doesn’t. Like all language invoked in meaningful discourse, these terms are evocative, loaded with past history, with present associations, and with future implications.

In historic terms, the preservation versus conservation conflict that profoundly shaped the modern environmental movement is most often associated with the early-twentieth-century feud between John Muir, who advocated for the preservation of wilderness for the sake of its aesthetic value and beauty, and Gifford Pinchot, the first Chief of the U.S. Forest Service, who advocated for the conservation of the nation’s natural resources—responsible, sustainable use with maximum benefit to society. That feud climaxed in the famous Hetch-Hetchy controversy, in which conservationists, led by Pinchot and former San Francisco, California mayor James Phelan, lobbied the U.S. House of Representatives to pass the 1913 Raker Bill (H.R. 7207), which would authorize the damming of the Tuolumne River in the Hetch-Hetchy Valley in Yosemite National Park to create a water supply for the city of San Francisco. In testimony before the House, Pinchot argued that “the fundamental principle of the whole conservation policy is that of use, to take every part of the land and its resources and put it to that use in which it will best serve the most people […].” Preservationists, led by Muir, lobbied vehemently against the project. In a pamphlet produced to garner public support “to save the famous Hetch-Hetchy Valley and stop the commercial destruction which threatens our national parks,” Muir wrote, “[…] this great natural wonderland should be preserved in pure wildness for the benefit of the entire nation.” Primary source documents from both sides of the debate are available from the U.S. National Archive, and some of these can be viewed here.

The Hetch-Hetchy controversy had profound effects on the environmental movement in the United States, and it polarized into camps individuals who, in many ways, were likeminded in their appreciation of the natural world but diverged on questions on how it best served humankind. Despite the denotative equivalence of preserve and conserve, the Hetch-Hetchy controversy entrenched a connotative distinction that manifested itself many times over and persists even now. At times, I hesitate to use the term conserve, even when it seems most appropriate, as, connotatively, it confers an implicit permission to exploit the natural world. In pragmatic terms, I understand that we must exploit the natural world to survive, but the idealist in me wants to aim for preservation even when conservation—the responsible and sustainable use of resources—is the only viable path. As I note above, the language of any cause that matters is necessarily evocative and loaded, especially for writers.

While it is easy to laud Muir and condemn Pinchot in the context of Hetch-Hetchy, to do so terribly oversimplifies the greater debate between preservation and conservation, both as it existed then and as it does now. It was Pinchot, for example, who fought vehemently against the common timber company practice of clear-cutting western mountains, leaving them bald and desolate for the sake of a profitable but unsustainable harvest. During the Raker Bill hearings, when Representative John E. Raker, for whom the bill was named, asked Pinchot if dead timber could be taken from Yosemite for commercial use, Pinchot replied, “I think we can have a little timber fall down and die for the sake of having the place look like no human foot had ever been in it. I do not think that the national parks should be used as a lumber supply.” When Raker pushed the question a second time, arguing that such a harvest “does not affect the scenic beauty of the park,” Pinchot responded, “[…] here is one of the greatest wonders of the world, and I would leave it just as it is so far as possible in the Yosemite National Park.” Pressed a third time on the issue, Pinchot added, “I will mention that among the greatest of the beauties are some of the fallen trees. I would not touch one of them.” These responses serve to soften the contrast between Muir and Pinchot, and they demonstrate that the connotative views of preservation and conservation are not mutually exclusive, no matter how fervent the debate, then and now.

As Aldo Leopold would later state so eloquently and succinctly in A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There (1949), published three years after Pinchot’s death: “Wilderness is a resource which can shrink but not grow.” Like Muir, Pinchot was certainly not ignorant of this fact. His testimony on the Raker Bill bears this out. Leopold’s own call for a land ethic acknowledged that preservation in the purist sense, as advocated by Muir, must be balanced with our need to use the land to our own ends and for our own comfort. In the closing pages of his seminal book, Leopold wrote: “We shall hardly relinquish the shovel, which after all has many good points, but we are in need of gentler and more objective criteria for its successful use.” While preservation is an ideal worth striving for when possible, conservation, viewed connotatively in the framework above, is more often the pragmatic approach, achieving many, though not all, of the aims of the former approach.

As I sit and write this piece in the early morning hours of the New England winter, looking out my kitchen window at a fresh snowfall, I am warmed by a 550-degree-Fahrenheit woodstove that requires harvesting the land and, in some ways, sullying the environment that Muir advocated preserving in its purest form. My computer is powered by electricity which, at least at present, necessitates burning coal or natural gas. Thus, my own environmental advocacy comes at an environmental cost, as does my continued existence in the simplest terms, and I would be naïve or disingenuous to ignore this reality. It is in this conflict within myself that my conflict of word choice—to preserve or to conserve—is rooted. It is not a question of semantics or aesthetics. It is a question driven by a complex set of realities that shift and change with changing anthropogenic influences and impacts. It is a question that lacks and always will lack a finite answer. All good questions do.

As I noted earlier, the Oxford English Dictionary, with its rich etymological entries, truly opens new word-worlds to the reader, and I will close here by sharing a few additional insights I gleaned when researching preserve and conserve. The OED traces the word preserve back to the 14th century French word, preserver, meaning “to save from an evil that might happen.” The use of the word “evil” frames the act of preservation in moral terms, which I find especially apt in our present time. As much as our actions undertaken to mitigate the present environmental crisis are pragmatic ones, aimed at not degrading the world’s biodiversity and habitat to such a degree that it leads to our own demise, our actions must likewise be framed in moral terms. Because our actions for or against the natural world will be handed down for generations, we have a moral obligation to those later generations. Our present environmental crisis is, at its core, a moral crisis, and where we fail the natural world through our careless actions, it reflects a failure on our part to realize our own insignificance in a complex and extraordinary world, and a failure to act in accordance with that realization. This links in a profound way to a final denotative entry from the OED worth examining here: the noun form of conserve, conservation.

The third definition for conservation in the OED refers to the scientific principle of the conservation of energy, the “doctrine that ‘the total energy of any body or system of bodies is a quantity which can neither be increased nor diminished by any mutual action of those bodies, though it may be transformed into any one of the forms of which energy is susceptible.’” Reading this, it occurred to me that an argument could be made that we are not truly destroying the natural world, no matter how terrible our actions toward it. Instead, we are reshaping it, redistributing its energy into heretofore unseen configurations. Viewed superficially, this could almost seem comforting. But it isn’t. While the transmuted energy may still be present, we will lose a complex and beautiful system built over hundreds of millennia, and we will lose ourselves, both spiritually and in real terms. For me, there is something deeply moral in the effort both to preserve and conserve as much of that system as we can, and there is something deeply moral in recognizing our individual insignificance and acting for the greater good. As we debate and plot a forward course, the words we choose matter, but our actions matter even more.

 

After the Wildfire

Flowers rise and oaks sprout in the fire scar. Photo by Shauna Potocky

Flowers rise and oaks begin to sprout in a fresh fire scar. Photo by Shauna Potocky

By Shauna Potocky

After the wildfire, you face the fire scar and all the standing dead trees turned to charred stoic poles whose fate now will be decided by the winter or the wind. If you’re curious, you find yourself walking the fire line, listening to the bugs eating into the wood, spotting the handful of wildlife that thrive here, specializing in preparing the burned landscape for its next phase. You hike through two worlds with no mirror or mysticism between them—they are separated by pink retardant or a hand-cut fire line—a line in the sand, if you will.

On one side, sound comes under foot as you crush leaves and dried pine needles, where your eyes can marvel at the bright green tones of foliage and the tall spires that point to the sun, yet carpet the forest with shade.

In the fire scar, your footsteps have no sound as the barren black earth turned soft and to ash gives to your weight. Sometimes you posthole, your foot stepping right through the surface, as the roots that once held the ground in place have left nothing but vacant tubes of air below ground and your presence collapses the labyrinth. There is no shade between the skyward poles, but there are water scars from the helicopter drops and pink splotches of retardant that have yet to fade away, and there are lupine, black oaks, and wild roses already taking the forest back for themselves. The seed bank and roots that survive will sprout, racing to compete for all that sun and any moisture that will come.

The beginning of the fire as seen from the authors house. Photo by Shauna Potocky

The beginning of the fire that changed the neighborhood dynamics, as seen from the author’s home. Photo by Shauna Potocky

After one fire you watch for the next. It is unnerving. These summers, I once heard them described as “white knuckle,” are relentless. And then there are all the opportunities for error, human actions that can spark a wildfire, sending people and animals into panic. The undoused campfire, a dragging trailer chain that throws a spark, the car that pulls over into the dry grass, or the dreaded cigarette launched without a thought into the roadside brush—so many things that, in the past had space for forgiving, today leaves no room for error.

Then there is this—you notice all of your new neighbors. The types who don’t knock on your door, or have a specific address, but come to your yard looking for water or in search of some food. Just as people lose their homes in fires, wildlife lose their habitat. They lose their den trees, or foxholes, their water sources, or the prosperous stands of Manzanita or the downed trees filled with grubs. So they come looking for what they need to make a living, and that place might just be the same place you call home.

I love all my new neighbors, the coyotes that are now coming into their winter coats, Great Horned and Western Screech owls that fill the night with breathy talk, expanded herds of Mule deer and the most elusive, a large Black bear who leaves only paw prints and scat.

The new neighbor, an American Black bear, as captured on a wildlife camera. Photo by Shauna Potocky

A new neighbor, an American Black bear, as captured on a wildlife camera. Photo by Shauna Potocky

Each night since the fire I can hear their footsteps crushing the fallen leaves and shuffling through the straw-dry grass. I can hear their deep inhales and sensing breaths as they determine where I am. I hear their snorts and their young peeping. At day break there is evidence everywhere—large bear scats filled with crushed Manzanita berries, clawed wood on the downed tree, deer pellets dotting the yard in patches, hedge high trimming to all of my edible plants, and flattened grass that reveals where the deer have bedded down for a rest in the lengthening night.

We respect each other, keep our distance, simply watch. I don’t leave out any food and make sure my car and garbage are buttoned up tight. It is too easy for wildlife to lose their foraging habits if they learn they can obtain food from housing areas; pet food, birdfeeders, trash, all of this can become a lure, which changes normal behaviors and can ultimately put wildlife at risk for conflict. It is a critical time, keeping this wildlife wild while they hover on the edge of the neighborhood and the forest.

Young deer following their mother on a well traveled route through the woods. Photo by Shauna Potocky

Young deer following their mother on a well traveled route through the woods. Photo by Shauna Potocky

Daily migrations of Mule deer are commonplace but the presence of a large black bear fills me with immense joy. There hasn’t been evidence of a bear here in nearly five years. Honestly, I am honored that the landscape of my property, which remains connected to the forest via an open fence, that has been tended exhaustively to clear for fire yet held space for native plants to thrive, can sustain large mammals found in the Sierra Nevada.

Manzanita berries are an important food source for many animals in the Sierra Nevada. Photo by Shauna Potocky

Manzanita berries are an important food source for many animals in the Sierra Nevada. Photo by Shauna Potocky

Now, I watch carefully to see how the Manzanita berry crop is doing and wonder how long the bear and I will both call this place home. It is welcome to stay as long as it likes and for certain, as long as it needs, though I hope things will return to a new state of normal, with the bear fattened in Fall in order to den for Winter and a return of rain and snow to California, in order to ease the drought and end this marathon fire season.