Sonic booms above, tiny wildflowers below

I wasn’t going to write about the most recent trip to the desert. With all that is going on in the world, isn’t it self-indulgent and tone deaf to share about another glorious nature jaunt? But when I got home, I saw this on social media, and it changed my mind:

It made me realize that bringing to light what remains right in the world, however big or small, is an act of peace.

 So peace it is.

Black Mountain Wilderness

 Last spring, as I hauled my tired bones out of my tent after a too-short night’s sleep, I told my colleague, “Welp, I’m earning my winter rest.” I remind myself of this a lot during the sometimes-exhausting field season. I love living my life seasonally: my actions in sync with the weather and the swivel-tilt of the earth. In spring and summer, when the work days are long and the rest minimal, though my body is tired, I have a wellspring of internal energy that propels me and surpasses logic. I used to refer to this phenomenon by saying, “I’m solar-powered,” as the long sunny days seemed to feed me beyond anything I ate.

Big Sur, April 2021: Body exhausted, the rest of me high on fieldwork and freedom.

 When I’m in the thick of the field season, it’s as if there is a separate engine driving me, one that exists outside the usual caloric bank. But I know in the midst of it that I’m drawing it down; and that eventually I will need to pay it back, fill the reserves. And that part is much harder, because it requires deep stillness and rest in winter, something that is very difficult to carve out when all the things I shelve during the field season (peer reviews, writing, data analysis, reporting, reading the literature, and enjoying the rest of my non-fieldwork life) beckon.

Hometown hike in winter.

 Last November I kicked off winter resting season with another trip to the desert—a much-needed unplugging from the frantic scramble to ‘get it all done’ before the holidays. What I remembered in the wide open spaces and bottomless silence is that it never all gets done before the holidays; or after, for that matter. ‘It all’ is never finished, just a continual stream on the conveyor belt of to-dos. So these two trips to the desert have bookended the winter rest intention this year: one to kick it off in autumn, and one deep inhalation to bring it to a close at the spring equinox.

The bliss of morning coffee (and camping hair). #camperlife

 We are in a groove of exploring the many designated wilderness areas in the Mojave Desert: areas that are formally closed to motorized vehicles and development of any kind. This time, we chose the Black Mountain Wilderness. South of Death Valley and immersed in a sea of surrounding military bases, it was spacious, peaceful, and quiet.

 The deep silence was occasionally broken by the practice flights of the jets overhead, and I had only a few small heart attacks when they broke the sound barrier.  I asked aloud, “Aren’t they not supposed to do that?” and the reply was, “It depends on how you define ‘supposed to’.” And it’s true: when you make the rules, what, really, are the rules?

 Martial law aside, I actually have a lot of respect for the Department of Defense (DOD) from a conservation perspective. As an extensive public lands holder, DOD has become one of the largest de facto conservation lands managers in the federal government. While conservation isn’t specifically part of their mission (in contrast to, say, the National Park Service), they actually do a considerable amount of work to conserve native species.

 Simply by setting lands aside for security and training purposes, and barring them from disturbance or public access, DOD has found itself in the stewardship of a large number of endangered species—and many who have lost their habitat anywhere outside DOD lands. A few of many examples: Vandenberg Space Force Base, CA, home to the Vandenberg monkeyflower and an extremely rare, newly described species of salamander;  the Golden-cheeked warblers of Fort Hood, TX; and the San Clemente loggerhead shrike on San Clemente Island Naval Auxiliary, CA.

 Section 7 of the U.S. Endangered Species Act (ESA) requires federal agencies to do all they can to conserve listed species whenever possible. Unfortunately, many agencies minimize or choose to ignore this mandate. By contrast, DOD largely takes its responsibilities under the ESA very seriously, and even takes proactive measures to conserve listed species in their charge.

 The wilderness areas in the Mojave are an example of how defense objectives and conservation objectives coalesce. All of the wilderness areas we visit are in close proximity to some military lands. Wilderness is a special designation (from the 1964 Wilderness Act) that closes areas to automated vehicles and other activities that are hard on the land. By designating areas (mostly managed by the Bureau of Land Management) near military bases as wilderness, it not only conserves species and habitat, but reduces the number of onlookers poking around in the vicinity—you know, fewer things/people/objects/activities to keep an eye on. This results in a win-win: national security and conservation in one.

We drove the rutted roads past where anyone in their right mind would take a toy hauler. We found a place to park the truck and camp that had been disturbed but not trashed, and just outside the wilderness boundary so we could explore in the wilderness on foot every day. Because there were no designated trails, we walked up washes. We found tiny wildflowers, desert tortoise shells, and shotgun shells: remnants from before the wilderness was designated in the 1990s.

Remnants of an endangered desert tortoise.

A few days in, after my nervous system finally let go of stress mode, I became less task-oriented and more landscape-oriented. There was so much to see, to explore, to take in—without even moving. When we were moving, we found an astonishing number of mylar balloons tangled in the desert scrub to add to the growing database. But we also found petroglyphs, and the tiniest stirrings of the desert awakening from winter: fresh sprouts on the creosote, and flowers so small you’d miss them if you didn’t stop and stare at the ground for awhile. We did miss the carpets of color by a week or two, but in exchange we got to experience the place in near-solitude. 

The final morning of our visit, as I lay on the ground taking in the last rays of the morning sun, I rolled over on my side, not wanting to leave. The jets had quieted. Maybe the pilots were on their way back to the galley for lunch. Tiny yellow poppies were growing next to my mat at eye level, an infinitesimal sequoia towering over boulders of quartz not much larger than sand. The sky and mountains and outstretched desert behind were a universe of possibility that I only needed to refocus to see. And there it was: everything I prepared and scouted and walked and sat and explored and drove all that way to learn. At that tiniest level, in that exact moment, everything was OK. The flower would soon wilt and die in the desert sun, because that is life. But in that tiny slice of time, all was well. The tinier the slices of time and space, the easier it is to see what is still right in the world.

The Rishikesh Autorickshaw Ride

Have you ever come across a photo from your past and not been able to take your eyes off of it? I recently found a mesmerizing image from eight years ago. I am sitting in an autorickshaw in Rishikesh, India, between two fellow travelers. I remember the exact moment it was taken, and the unfettered joy I felt.

Maybe it was the shirodhara treatment I’d had. Or the handful of unlabeled over-the-counter antibiotics I’d taken a friend’s word for the night before. Or the overwhelming refreshment of Rishikesh, where the streets are clean and the Ganges headwaters run with the clear ice blue of glacier melt. (We did get chased down the street by monkeys, but that may have added to the invigoration—the adrenaline rush of the pursuit followed by the relief of escape).

The rickshaw wasn’t taking us anywhere particularly special, I think; just to get the best lassi in the world (and it was). After floating on the Ganges past the ghats in Varanasi, sitting under the Bodhi tree in Bodh Gaya, and marveling at the stunning mosaics of semi-precious stones in the Taj Mahal (the architecture was lovely, but I just kept staring at the walls!), the trip was winding down. The sightseeing was over; it was time to just be, to rest, to let it all soak in before the transition to the long journey home—a vast geographic and experiential distance.

I have always loved the thrill of travel—the joy of being on the move, every single experience something new. In India, every blink of the eye, every inhale, every sound presented a different perspective from anything that I’d known before, and it brought me completely alive. Despite the harsh realities of life all around me, I had many moments of profound joy and wonder. Staring at the rickshaw photo, I started to feel melancholy, wondering, where is that kind of ecstatic joy in my life today?

The week before the photo was taken, had a profound experience in Varanasi: in a temple, I was suddenly overcome with intense emotion. Bells started ringing in all directions, someone started playing a drum set, and without warning I broke open, weeping uncontrollably. People stared, not in confusion, but with a curious understanding. As if this type of thing happens there all the time. Afterward I felt cleansed and clear, from the inside out. For the next few days, I walked a little more softly, worried a little less, judged a little less, gorged myself on the delicious food a little less.

Hedonist that I am, I’m tempted to think I just need to repeat that trip, go back to India, get myself another healing. Aside from the sadly greedy, grasping nature of the urge, I also know that it probably won’t work. I don’t think we can have these things when we seek them, want them, expect them. It is in the not-seeking that these experiences can take us by surprise, and in the surprising give us the change we need. Just like earthquakes: they never, ever happen when I am thinking about them.

Also, I am wrong—there have been countless moments of joy and adventure in my life since my trip to India eight years ago; there just isn’t anyone there taking my photo to record it. Field work in the High Sierra, the Big Sur Coast, and everywhere in between; camping under the Milky Way in the vast desert; the magic of living in Yosemite Valley in all four seasons; the nervous system-soothing tropical ocean breezes in Mexico: all places where I have taken several moments to stop and think, “what did I do to deserve this amazing life?” Alongside every single one of these memories are also recollections of the accompanying trials: the poison oak rashes, the muscle cramps, the cactus spines, the trenchfoot, the hapless visitors, the sunburn. This bitterness is what makes the moments of joy possible.

When I came across the Rishikesh rickshaw photo, I couldn’t stop staring into the eyes of my eight-years-younger self. The still image is full of movement. The people next to me are slightly blurry. But there I am in the middle, the bindi on my forehead the centerpiece. My smile of the rare, genuine sort. My eyes clear blue as glacial ice. In that instant, I am fully awake, aware, alive, and present in what is.

I may have looked just as joyful if you had taken a picture of me last summer as I was driving on a solo roadtrip across the Utah desert, singing to Dolly Parton with electricity in my veins and not a care in the world—no illicit substances required. The day before, I had just wrapped up a short but intense field season, and left the heat, the wildfire smoke, and the group dynamics behind for six weeks. Part of the elation was being relieved of the job that I love for a break to see family and friends, and spend some time alone with my thoughts and whatever the open road brought next.

In India, I simply showed up for whatever happened, because I knew I needed to surrender all expectations of comfort and time to travel with sanity. I got pure, unfettered joy as my reward. Today, leveling up this skill will require mustering this attitude while sitting at a computer screen, staring down the barrel of a dank peer review. I’m at my desk, thinking I know exactly what will happen next, how it will play out, but I really and truly don’t.

Travel is wonderful, but what I’ve learned from the joys of travel and adventure is that it’s the mindset of a willingness to be surprised that makes the joy possible. So, even in these long desk days, what if I saw each day as a new adventure, with new eyes, believing that whatever came my way would be a marvel, even if it was unpleasant, because I am alive and each breath is a gift? This time of year, I trade poison oak for peer reviews, sunburn for seasonal affective disorder, sore muscles for restlessness. But life can still be an adventure, even if I don’t leave home.

The Rishikesh autorickshaw ride, February 2014.

Desert Reset

Our annual fall journey to the Mojave Desert has transformed into a kind of pilgrimage. As our careers and responsibilities expand and intensify, the world’s demands on our time have increased; and with it, the need to remove ourselves from it for several days. We always go somewhere that cell service cannot be found; somewhere that we are unlikely to encounter other humans; somewhere with abundant space and sky and not much else. It is in this expansiveness and unplugging that we feel we can finally and deeply rest.

In November, the intense desert heat has waned, and we settle into comfortably warm days and cool nights conducive to deep sleep. This year, we left on the heels of yet another heatwave driven by the east winds, somewhat doubtful that the temperatures would diminish to our comfort level. But when we arrived on the vast Bureau of Land Management (BLM) lands south of Death Valley National Park, we were pleasantly surprised.

We had a general area targeted, but otherwise no plans for where to go. This is the beauty of the vast public lands that allow open camping in the West: drive any one of thousands of dirt roads in some direction, find a spot that suits, and camp.

Turning off of Highway 395 on a warm Monday afternoon, we found ourselves on a well-maintained but sandy road. As we drove eastward, spurs—labeled with tidy alphanumeric markers—branched off in all directions. There was a designated wilderness area we had hoped to camp outside of and hike into, so we found the roads that seemed like they would get us there. Eventually, we turned north, and soon the going was slow as we crept with our fully loaded truck-bed camper over the deep ruts. We stopped at most intersections as we approached the wilderness area, looking for places to camp. Some large campground areas were present but uninviting—strewn with broken glass and trash, presided over by a few opportunistic ravens, the weekender ATV folks having recently departed, leaving their more-than-a-trace behind them.

Eventually, we made it to the wilderness boundary. A newly-constructed, high-quality wire fence demarcated the perimeter as far as the eye could see in either direction. Occasionally, a break in the exclosure produced a low square set of bars that could be stepped over, but not driven over: an attempt to keep ATVs out, with some—but not perfect—success. The telltale single tracks of dirt bikes were present on the wilderness side, but had not worn the delicate desert soil into a powdery sand the way the tire tracks had on the roads outside of the fenced area. I wondered how old these single stripes through the desert were, how long they had been there. It takes the desert a long time to recover from even the slightest disturbance.

We continued along the perimeter for a while until we came to an intersection: a large, flat area littered with some broken glass and some older, rusted mining-era refuse. Typically, waste left behind that is more than 50 years old constitutes an artifact and can no longer be removed from the site as trash. Someone had clearly cleaned up the site because there was no trash other than the broken glass and the rusty old metal cans and mining paraphernalia. This was surprising: remote outposts like this tend to be abused, but someone with a conscience had recently visited. Either the regular campers out this way are more conscientious than we give the ATV crowd (of which we are technically a part?) credit for, or we had recently arrived on the heels of an organized effort to clean up the site. It was cause for celebration as well as a shift in perspective (and judgment), and a commitment to leaving the place better than we had found it too.

On our walk into the wilderness the next day, we kept coming upon what we thought at a distance were shiny pieces of mining trash that turned out to be Mylar balloons. The novelty of such a thing has worn off: I have found this air trash in the most remote places I’ve ever been, and can now nearly count on it. Walking up to one, we would guess what was on it: most donned faded Disney characters with HAPPY BIRTHDAY on them; others proudly proclaimed, IT’S A GIRL! Once again, human celebrations turned into an ecological menace, if not outright disaster.

It was astonishing how many balloons were in the small area we covered that day. This inspired a new project: I mark the location of every Mylar balloon I come across in a wild area (I’m not pulling over on the freeway to do this). Likely someone else has already started such a project; perhaps my data could someday contribute to theirs. Now, picking up the Mylar balloons and marking their spot is my small contribution to collecting data and remedying the problem.

There was so much room to wander in the desert, it was often difficult to choose which direction to go. The day I started the Mylar balloon project, we started gradually ascending a large alluvial fan, where we discovered USGS markers, mining pits, and a curious abundance of dragonflies. I recalled a recent, harrowing frog survey with my colleague Sarah, a 30-year veteran ecologist of California streams. This past drought-stricken year, we were searching for water in which to conduct frog surveys. As we bush whacked our way into what should have been the stream corridor, she exclaimed, “Look! A dragonfly! There has to be water around here somewhere,” plunging herself deeper into the thick, tick-infested (we would come to find out later) underbrush, with me trailing behind her. We didn’t find water in that streambed, but it was about a half mile away in another stream.

In the desert, the mounting frequency with which we observed dragonflies was puzzling. There was definitely no water to be found anywhere nearby. A spring would have given itself away by a depression or at least a change from brown to green vegetation on the landscape. But we saw nothing. Perhaps the dragonflies were visiting the alluvial fans and flats of the desert valleys to forage before returning to the springs in the mountains. The dragonflies were always landing on the tips of the creosote branches: the places where the single autumn rain that has arrived thus far encouraged the tiniest bit of growth. Maybe these tips have little insects on them that they like to eat; or a drop of moisture to drink.

We observed surprisingly little wildlife. Though this area is home to the desert tortoise and Mojave ground squirrel, we observed no tracks and little movement; not even lizards. It seemed odd. Flocks of horned larks flitted through the creosote and took dust baths at our campsite. Tiny flies kept drowning themselves in the cup of coffee placed at the corner of my yoga mat in the morning. Occasionally I thought I saw a raptor soaring overhead, only to be disappointed when the sound betrayed that it was just another jet returning to Edwards Air Force Base. Though the roar of the jet engines parting the desert silence was more frequent than we would have liked, it was a small price to pay for the quiet in between.

The valley hike on our last day led us into an area with Joshua trees. We marveled at each one of these large, magnificent monocots that are quickly becoming the last of their kind due to climate change. We stopped to take photos of the quirky, spindly, tallest ones. Later, after rounding a bend and dropping into a narrow valley, there it stood: the most perfect, tree-like Joshua tree I had ever seen. Its branches were numerous and short. Its trunk was stout, reminding me of an old, stalwart oak. We approached it, noticing that despite the parched desert in every direction, there was a carpet of tiny green sprouts on the ground all around the north side. I walked up to the trunk to get a better look at the alligator skin-like pattern in the cavernous bark.

I took one step closer, and a large bird flushed from the branches. As it flew away, I could tell from its silhouette that it was some kind of owl: long, sleek, with a wide head and rounded wings. I felt badly that we had disturbed its daytime roost, hoping it would bank and return, but it flew on into the desert and kept on flying, out of sight.

Taking a few steps back, I circumnavigated the tree to admire it from more angles. Then, Chris shout-whispered, “C’mere! Look!!” Through a porthole in the branches, perfectly framed by the blade-like leaves, was a long-eared owl, head tufts erect, eyes peering just as surprised and curiously back at us, perfectly still. As it held steady, the strong up-valley wind blew some of the feathers on its breast upward, the tiny movements giving it away. We stared agape and took photos for a while, then decided to move on so that its partner or parent—which likely flushed in order to get us to chase it and not seek the owl left behind in the tree—could return.

Perhaps, just like us, the owls had seen something special about that particular Joshua tree—for them, it was likely the dense cover it provided from predators, and shelter from the wind; for us, it was the unique shape and branching structure, looking like an oak tree, reminding us of home.

After a few days, the owl moment and the length of time with no computers, phones, email, or screens of any kind had allowed the quiet of the desert to seep into us. The stream of songs stopped playing in my head. The emails I couldn’t get to before I left were forgotten. The pressing urgency of everything had disappeared. Space, silence, and time to reset, recalibrate, and remember what lies underneath our commitment to everything that demands our attention is often all we need replenish the energy required to carry on.

We sat at our campsite overlooking a broad, spacious valley and took in the desert sunset as the full moon rose over the hills behind us. When night fell, the strangest view emerged across the valley: an entire hillslope was flashing red off and on, like a neon sign that stretched for miles. I knew instantly what it was, though it was hard to believe. Thousands of tiny red lights on thousands of enormous wind turbines blinked in unison. We could escape cell coverage and other people for a few days, but we could not escape the ever-present encroachments of the modern world on nature, even at night. Especially at night.

On the final morning at our remote desert outpost, I lay on the ground, listening to the sound of the wind threading the creosote branches. The flies continued to drown themselves in my coffee, despite the lid. The dogs lifted their noses to the breeze lazily, sensing creatures we lacked the instrumentation to notice. This was also a vacation for them—with longer walks and nothing to bark at for days, no UPS delivery driver, no dogs with their jangling collars being walked down our street. All four of us breathed in the last precious moments of peace before packing up to return to our busy lives. We made the journey back slowly and intentionally, with the fresh eyes of calm. Though we have to leave the solitude of the desert behind, the feeling of spaciousness—the sense of what is really important—can be brought home.

The road trip of imperfection: California to Utah

Warning: this story contains no unicorns or rainbows; but there are horses and beams of light.

It’s been a long time since I drove cross-country. Twenty years ago, I was always driving back and forth, it seemed, between Arizona, Washington, Colorado, Michigan, and California. Since settling in California, though, only half the length of the state is my usual long-distance road sojourn. Road trips are hard: on the body, mind, and vehicle. I haven’t had the urge to drive cross-country in a very long time.

I’m not sure what prompted me to take the road trip this summer—probably much the same as many other folks—a post-vaccination desire to get out and make up for the cloistering of 2020. Wanting to see friends and family, and really spend time in a place—more time than I usually am afforded when I travel by air for a visit. 

And so it started. On the heels of a work trip to Yosemite, where I led an eDNA training and participated in a mountain yellow-legged frog reintroduction, I started east on highway 6 from Lee Vining, winding through the hills and national forest, until I came to Nevada, where the land opened up in vastness and scorching heat.

The Nevada desert is always hot in summer, but with yet another Western heat wave on top of it, I was concerned about the ability of my truck and its tires to withstand the heat. Would the coolant give out? Would the hot pavement melt the tires? With no cell coverage and more than 50 miles at a stretch with no services, if you break down in the desert, you are at the mercy of whomever happens to drive by. It happens in Death Valley every year—people break down, and instead of waiting by the road for help, wander off into the desert for the last time. 

Route 375 is apparently near Area 51.

I have more advantages than the average traveler, though—I have a camper (shelter) that can carry 15 gallons of water—enough to keep me alive for a few days. And some food. I’m not really afraid of the desert—we come here on camping vacations every winter to get away from it all and get some much-needed space for ourselves. We carry plenty of food and water. We have a full-sized spare. We tell family where we are going and for how long.

So on this long drive through the desert the other day, I tried to calm the low-level anxiety of the real dangers of the undertaking by taking in the landscape—noticing everything. What I noticed was death.

The desert is not a void. It is teeming with life, if you know where to look. There are living crusts perched atop the soil; and plants and creatures specially adapted to living in high temperatures and low moisture. But it’s a delicate place. “Busting the crust” by trampling it can undo millennia of the slow buildup of biodiversity. Pumping precious groundwater steals from the plants that have astronomically deep tap roots to reach it, and sucks dry the oases and springs that plants and animals rely on.

It began with the wild horse. Miles from any town, alone, it wandered across the desert. Its chestnut coat was surprising—it looked healthy. Maybe it had escaped from its well-tended pasture? Either way, it was not doing well. Its head hung low, and it sauntered on, slowly, presumably in search of water. What was going to happen to this poor creature?

Wild horses are controversial in the West—introduced by Europeans, they can denude desert vegetation and spread disease to native ungulates. Public lands agencies have conducted roundups to sell them, and even resorted to giving them birth control to try to control their populations. They have their advocates. And why not? They are picturesque symbols of the idyllic silver-screen version of the Wild West in our imaginations. Twelve inches tall at the shoulder, the native North American horses (Eohippus) went extinct in North America more than 10,000 years ago. It may be nice for some people to see horses wandering the desert when they are healthy; but when they have no water, it becomes clear how out of place they are. By keeping them around, we are causing more suffering, not alleviating it.

Miles beyond the horse, it was the cattle. Why it was decided that the fragile desert was a good place to graze a European forage- and water-guzzling ungulate is a mystery. Out on the range or locked into dense pens next to the highway, the poor creatures had no shade in the 114-degree heat. Many times, there was no water in sight. In some places, they stood, heads held low like the horse, awaiting their fate, either to die of thirst or wait it out till slaughter. Either way, it was clear they were miserable. They seemed to avoid areas around their fallen compatriots, if they could. A dead one lay by the side of the road every dozen miles or so. Is this just the price of doing business? Why, again, are we allowing grazing of animals on public lands (almost entirely Bureau of Land Management) in such a fragile ecosystem?

Before leaving Yosemite, I got some travel tips for crossing the Nevada desert into Utah from some friends who do the drive often. “Stop for gas in Tonopah,” they said, “then get the hell outta there.”

I was intrigued. What could be so bad about Tonopah? Just last week I was watching an LA-based show that involved the protagonist taking a trip to Tonopah in winter. It didn’t look so bad on TV.

Upon asking this, I got more reasons than I could count from my friends. I decided to make up my own mind on the drive through. Gassing up was easy enough, and I was happy to see Nevada prices at the pump. Driving into town, I noticed a nearby hillside had been reduced to rubble. This is an old mining town. As my friends had described, the suburban housing at the edge of town was actually built on mining tailings that had been graded flat. Is that safe? Is it legal? Once the mining boom was over, a town still needed to survive somehow.

Tonopah. The name sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure why. It sounded familiar when I heard it on TV last week too. Tonopah. Why would I know this place?

On the approach to town, I remembered. Far out into the desert was an eerie sight—a giant tower with an extremely bright light at the top of it. Extending out from the light on either side was more light—two shimmering reflections floating in space. It looked like a dystopian future on another planet. I knew exactly what it was. This is the state of alternative energy development on present-day planet earth.

Solar energy is good, right? Sure, but what proponents neglect to tell you is the true cost. For example, solar panels are filled with heavy metals that, when burned—as when a wildfire comes to your neighborhood—turn the area into a toxic site that needs to be remediated with proper equipment and disposal.

The way plants like the one near Tonopah work is that mirrors arrayed around the tower reflect the solar energy back at the tower, where it is concentrated at a central point. Remember those two reflections I saw outside the tower? That is superheated air. When birds fly into it, it incinerates them.  It’s easy to think of solar energy as free, but it’s not. Everything has a cost, and we can’t sweep the true costs under the rug, or they will catch up with us eventually. 

Bejezus, Dr. Adams—I didn’t want to read the Bummer Blog! I wanted to hear about how fun your road trip was, all the cool things you saw!

I know. That is what I expected to write, too. We’ll get there. In the meantime, let me say that becoming an ecologist and natural historian—someone that can read the landscape and what happens on it and interpret its implications—is akin to taking the red pill.  I don’t regret knowing what I know, because it brings me closer to reality. The closer to reality I am, the more empowered I am to create change. Ignorance can be bliss, but I am responsible for helping take care of the corner of the world I call home.

Perfectly imperfect (but clean) rest area bathroom outside Tonopah, Nevada.