Contemplating Fire

It is the third time in four days that a single raindrop has fallen on my skin, a reminder of why I am here, sitting in the shade of a living ponderosa pine, in the Jemez Mountains in Bandelier National Monument. I am a lookout, a sky watcher, praying for rain in a landscape of dried grass and shriveled flowers. This land is dusty, dry, parched, splitting at the seams, splattered black with ashen trunks and scorched limbs.  I wonder what on earth is providing sustenance for hummingbirds? The air is thick, acrid and stings my lungs with each life giving breath. What movie-set have I stumbled onto? I want rain.  

The ponderosa pine providing my comfort has a laminated 8 1/2 by 11 sign stapled to its bark. The irony of the message stands out like bold letters printed on a huge signboard, “Area Closed” Due to extreme fire danger. All Bandelier trails and backcountry are closed to entry. Effective 8:00 am June24th.”

The morning the sign was posted I hiked to the top of Cerro Grande, making sure people were compliant with the message. They were. People stayed away, keeping the forest safe from accidental ignition. The closure would be lifted when monsoons arrived. Briefly refraining from hiking in this tinderbox landscape was a relatively minor inconvenience compared to the major inconvenience of inadvertently introducing catastrophic fire to an already stressed ecosystem.

In the weeks prior to the the closure, I hiked in steeped walled canyons, along broad mesas, up peaks and across meadows in Bandelier National Monument.  With each twist in the trail and open vista, I became reacquainted with a landscape first introduced to me on a cross-country road trip many years ago. It was back then that I thumbed the pages of a tattered southwest hiking guide and stumbled upon a place called Bandelier National Monument. The hiking sounded good and I was eager to explore.

I was captivated by the landscape of Bandelier on that first visit.  The afternoon of my arrival I hiked out of Frijoles Canyon and roamed the mesa top until I reached the breath of a canyon called Alamo. I sat under a large pinon tree, along the edge of canyon, devouring pine seeds. It was a banner year for pinon seed production. I got my fill. Someday I will return, I mused, my eyes bathed in a palette of sienna, pink, ochre, buckskin, green and blue shading the canyon, sky, mesa and mountains.

In August of 1997, I returned to Bandelier and stayed, my love affair with color, light and beauty continues fourteen years later and strengthens with each step placed upon this land. I share my passion for this sacred ground while giving tours and programs, as an interpretive ranger, to countless people from all over the world.

Over the years, I have observed a changing climate and landscape within Bandelier.  During the first summer of my arrival rain fell and the verdant land became irresistible to those who sip nectar. Broadtailed and black-chinned hummingbirds zipped from blossom to blossom lapping up sweetness. In subsequent years, summers arrived with record-breaking heat and diminished rainfall.

Weather graphs now illustrate the hottest and driest summers on record and winters lacking significant snowfall. Pinon and ponderosa pines fail without moisture. Native bark and twig beetles thrive on the weakened trees eating away what little life is left.  Only pinon skeletons remain, leaving juniper to shoulder the burden of green in a land of terra cotta cliffs.

I grieve the loss of the pines and pinon jays that followed suit.  Intellectually, I know weather patterns cycle, climates change and land rebounds. But this cycle is different, its scope broader, its effect strengthened by the impact of our behavior. I am in-part responsible for the loss of that which I love. This is a lot to shoulder.

I continue to watch the sky. Through the haze of smoke, I see expanding blue.  The threat of rain recedes with the afternoon. I am stationed at the headwaters of Frijoles Creek ready to alert workers in the canyon near Headquarters of precipitation. I take my post seriously.  The Visitor Center and Frijoles Canyon has been closed to the public for three weeks.  Rain has become a threat.

A small storm can drop enough moisture to cause a flash flood. There is nothing to hold back the water. The land above headquarters is charred. There is no vegetation to keep the soil in place. Rainfall will bring logs and mud and ash slurry crashing down Frijoles Creek in the wake of the Las Conchas fire.

On the blustery afternoon of June 26^th. at approximately one o’clock, a tree fell on a powerline near a private ranch in the Jemez Mountains along state road 4 igniting a blaze, exploding into a funnel of wind and flames, blasting upwards and out, rapidly devouring all in its path.

On Sunday, June 26^th, I shared a lazy day with a friend in Santa Fe. At 3 pm we stepped out of the house, our arms laden with sliced watermelon and cold beverages, treats to share at an afternoon party. “Hey I think the Pacheco Canyon fire blew up, the air is so smoky.” It took a few moments to get our bearings and realize this fire was new. This fire was different. My friend exclaimed, “ I think Bandelier is on fire.” “No, I think it is a bit west of the Monument” “Are you sure?  I think we should drive up and get your things.” I live, or should I say lived in the historic district of Frijoles Canyon near Park Headquarters. “No I don’t think we need to drive up. Someone from the Park will call if there is a problem.” Two and a half hours later I got that call. “Have you heard, we are officially evacuated.”  “What?”

That evening some friends and I grabbed a few important things from my cabin. It was not until we were driving out of the Park did I see the gravity of the situation. Orange flames mixed with a black and purple sky. Already bruised I thought. Maybe an hour or two before headquarters is gone. ”This is crazy. Lets get out of here.” It was hard to sleep that night wondering how life would be changed in the morning. Two of my co-workers had already lost their homes that afternoon to the fast and furious fire that would become the largest in New Mexico history. How much of Bandelier would be gone by sunrise?

When all was done, over 20,000 acres of Bandelier’s 33,000 acres were affected by the Las Conchas fire. Some areas scorched to mineral soil and other areas lightly burned. Owing to the heroic efforts of Bandelier’s firefighters, the historic district stands, but not without threat.

Three out of fifteen miles of Frijoles Canyon, not consumed by flames, is now vulnerable to flash floods. A week after the fire ignited a decision was made to close the historic district. Bandelier employees were ousted from their offices and for others, like me, their homes; ousted from the canyon we love. Bridges have been removed, barriers and sand bags have been placed; Headquarters is at the mercy of rain. I sit patiently waiting for rain to return this brown land back to green.

Full length:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mju9oYwI36c&feature=youtu.be

closeup of the vortex:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMJOeVF7eQg

Where Dinosaurs Roamed

Tuesday May 17, 2011

The day before I left Bandelier I happily wore shorts while tackling last minute chores. The following day arrived with the chaotic weather of high altitude spring. I packed my car while shivering in biting wind and swirling snow. Ugh, it is May and I just want to be warm! Determined to find the sun, I pointed my car toward summer. I knew Southeast Utah would be compliant with warmth strong enough to penetrate sandstone.

In Utah, I  hiked through canyons, around arches, fins and up and over huge slabs of red and buff colored sand, cemented hard with time.  I gazed into the eyes of a ram and into the brilliance of paintbrush sparking fire in sage. I hiked until my muscles grew weary and my heart content to be in a place of silence so intense that it became hard to imagine the quality of sound.

 Friends urged me north. “When are you coming? We can’t wait to see you.” “I will be along in a day or two, I just want to do a few more hikes.”   My response was lame, not good enough. Carrie and Paul were persistent.  “You can hike up here.” Our friendship was cemented with the glue of more than three intense years of academic study. We were students of Asian medicine. We spent full days in the classroom, studied and stressed over exams, vacationed together, called each other to say, “Turn on your TV, quick, the Twin Towers are going down in flames.” Our friendship was rock solid.

Each time they called, I told them “just one more hike” and then I would head north. Reluctant to leave the comfort of my tent nestled among pinyons on the sun-drenched mesa, I was “dig my heels in the sand” unwilling to travel north into a latitude of winter. There was one more call. It came as I arrived at Grandview trailhead, “Hey it’s us, we thought maybe you would come up today and surprise us.” There will always be plenty of opportunity for a another red rock hike.  Carrie and Paul beckoned. Their love was hard to resist. I got into the Honda started the ignition and traveled the road north.

They fed me well when I arrived; spinach salad with tomato, onion and avocado, cooked broccoli, sautéed breaded eggplant with spaghetti and marinara, all made fresh, a delight, after a week of simple travel food. We shared stories before a night of dreams. At daybreak, they left for Lander  leaving me behind in the company of swallows.

The latitude kept its promise, I woke to falling snow mixing in a shower of rain.  Now, I sit snug on a leather couch looking out toward red rock hills draped in juniper at Cedar Springs Marina in Flaming Gorge Recreation Area.This boat is cozy, a home complete with an electric fireplace, a  perfect place to wait out a spring storm. 

 The reservoir straddles state lines on a route to nowhere. The marina, tucked in a southern arm stretches down into northeastern Utah. I drove up and over a mountain to get here. Along the way road signs informed of crocodile teeth found in the area, the presence of dinosaur tracks, rock that suggests the presence of oil, marine fossils and of the sea itself. With each mile I journeyed back into geologic time.

Today, alone, I float on top of clear lake water, home to record size trout. I have come here for respite, a time out, to rest my weary body, content to muse about reptilian-like creatures that grew larger than me. I wonder what or whose tracks lay buried under this water that has inched up these canyon walls with the damming of this portion of the Green River. The afternoon drizzle is a good excuse to sit still. Each time the sky begins to clear I think that I should dash out, explore, take pictures and find a trail to hike. I know before the day is through I will do this but for now I contemplate time on a boat.

 

 I have sailed, kayaked, cruised, ran a skiff and paddled canoes, but this watercraft is different. It is not merely transportation. This boat is a nest, a floating home.  Once I was aboard a vessel that carried lots of gear and biologists. The kind of boat where you sleep in a bare bones berth queasy from ocean swells and then at dawn you are asked to gather your things. Unwittingly, before you are truly awake your pile of gear is dumped into a zodiac, where it lays besides your feet as a stiff breeze rudely wakes you into the reality of life on a windswept barren island in the Gulf of Alaska, because that is where you are headed. The kind of place where your tent can barely withstand gale force winds as you cling each night to your survival suit for a pillow hoping no tsunami will find it’s way to your new beach-front property. Why would anyone endure such circumstance? To study storm petrels. Petrels are a small sea bird that spends their entire day feeding at sea on small fish. In the evening they return to land to incubate or feed their young.

In March 1989, I was finishing up my last few months as an environmental educator at a center in New Jersey when I heard the news that the Exxon Valdez split its hull, hemorrhaging gallons of crude oil into pristine Prince William Sound. Black death spread for miles with the tide suffocating the life out of the northern sea.  I did not understand how this event would impact my life. Just weeks after the spill, I accepted a position with the Marine Maritime Refuge in Homer, Alaska.  I headed north to montitor seabirds in Katchemak Bay and on the Barren Islands. The spill changed the focus of my work.

The petrels were vulnerable. They fed far out at sea increasing the likelihood of ingesting species coated with crude oil. Oil in their bellies and oily feathers would mean death to the petrels. But the Barren Islands were so far from Prince William Sound, surely these birds would be okay.

After setting up camp on East Amatuli I walked the shoreline idly dragging a piece of driftwood. What I saw horrified. Oil rose in the sand where the driftwood scraped the surface of the beach. If the oil reached the island it surely reached the petrel’s feeding grounds. How could we know for sure?

My study partner and I set out to find the petrel burrows. We would collect the stomach contents of the birds. We took turns reaching into the burrows in the early morning before the birds returned to sea to feed. We would gently feel for eggs or an adult. We would grasp the adult firmly in our hands and quickly pull it from the burrow poised and ready to collect the stomach contents as the bird regurgitated in defense. Agitated, the petrel would hurl an oily bright orange fishy smelling liquid into a strategically placed plastic bag. Labeled and sealed these bags were sent off be checked for oil to be used as evidence in a government lawsuit against Exxon. This proved to be odd but gratifying work. After two weeks on the island I welcomed the return of the boat that made me want to puke.

Carrie likened her boat to a floating hotel room. Not quite. When I think of a floating hotel I think cruise ship. No, this boat is definitely a small and cozy, home away from home, moored not far, by way of modern travel, from where oil oozes deep in the earth and dinosaurs roamed.

Bidding 2010 a Sweet Farewell

 The thrill of Autumn was a trip to Hawaii.  The islands  offered stunning beaches, clear water, lava rock (lots!) and an abundance of papayas.

Papayas at Hilo Market

Papayas became my favorite island indulgence. My quest for this fruit became an obsession. I ate papaya for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

Aside from "Braking for Papaya," at every local fruit stand, snorkeling was a favorite activity. I grew up in New Jersey where I spent many blistering summer days along the coast. Splashing in salt water is familiar but sucking air through a plastic tube is weird, maybe even a bit scary. Body surfing is what you do in Jersey, not snorkeling.

The first couple times in the water with mask and breathing tube made me a bit nervous. Even though I know how to swim, the ocean and its depth prompts an irrational fear of being dragged out to sea and drowned. This fear, however, does not keep me out of the water and it certainly did not keep me from snorkeling.

Mostly, I snorkeled along shallow reefs observing an extraordinary array of shapes and colors belonging to fish. If you seek amazement stick your head underwater. I prefered to snorkel at a place called Two-Step, named for the stair like formation of lava that allowed snorkelers to climb in and out of the sea. Spinner dolphins like to rest in this area at night before spending their day near Captain Cook Monument.

No dolphins materialized during my first visit to Two-Step. Therefore, one visit to Two Step would not be enough. On my second visit, shortly after staking claim to an area of lava rock large enough to place my gear, I saw a large group of dolphins swimming offshore. The distance between the dolphins and me was beyond my comfort zone. I settled on the rough black rock, a bit disappointed, and pulled out some lunch and began to eat. After awhile I noticed a small group, perhaps five or so swimmers, in the area where the dolphins had been seen. Maybe I could do it, swim that far into the sea.


With snorkel and mask adjusted I slid into the ocean and began to swim, popping my head out of the water periodically to locate the other snorkelers who were also in quest of dolphins. Along the way, colors sparkled on the backs of fish as sunlight penetrated the reef.

Without warning the shelf gave way, I was far from the two tiered rock that offered an easy to return to my unfinished lunch. As hard as I tried I could not see the bottom.  As the water deepened  my heart rate quickened and I kicked harder and faster to match the adrenaline surging through my limbs. I popped my head out of the water looking for the swimmers. They looked like dots on the watery horizon.  I started to question what I was doing. A voice in my head ranted, "you are too far from shore, you should not be out here" and  then in the stillness of my gray blue world shapes emerged from below.  Disoriented, I stared deeper into my underwater world.  Gray forms morphed into dolphins. I saw a mother and her child and others. I swam faster, pumped my fins furiously to stay in sync to what appeared to be a dream, until suddenly, dolphins surrounded me. I swam close enough to touch the gray sleek bodies that effortlessly moved beside me. I did it. I left the safety of the land and entered the domain of dolphins.  

Two days later I looked into the massive mouths of manta rays as they rolled over exposing their underbellies in a quest to gulp down plankton. These creatures are massive and swim with grace. My eyes, as wide as a child’s on Santa’s lap, watched the manta’s feed until my skin chilled in the night. 

The islands are abundant with gifts. While hiking under the thick canopy of Kauai’s Napali Coast, I bent over to pick up a piece of fruit that had fallen from tree growing along the trail. I split the fruit open and immediately smelled the fragrance of Kauai. The sweetness of guava exploded on my tongue. Reaching for another, I knew I could live here; content to bear witness to water caressing the ample land.

Napali Coast, Kauai

  

I bought an ukulele in Hawaii. I have been practicing chords as the days grow short into winter. With each strum I can taste coconut, papaya and guava and see electric blue, flashy red, bright orange, yellow and iridescent green sunlight, shimmering on the backs of fish.

I am thankful for my travels and equally grateful to spend time in northern New Mexico. These past weeks have been a grand time for late night adventure. The other night I awoke in early morning dressed for cold and stumbled groggy into darkness with a pocket full of wishes, eager to see Geminids streaking through the pitch-black New Mexico sky. That was just days before a fresh foot of snow surprised us all in this La Nina winter. Recently I stood witness, in the silence of Frijoles Canyon, as the December full moon disappeared in shadow on solstice. Earlier that evening I snowshoed in the same full moonlight.

2010 has given me many gifts, the greatest being gratitude for the here and now. I never lose sight of the richness and beauty that each day offers. I am thankful for it all.

North Shore -Oahu