My senior year of college I took a Mammology class. We went on several awesome field trips, including to the Reid Park Zoo, where a zoologist taught about mammal care.
We saw food prep and veterinary areas. We watched a zookeeper feed an anteater a banana out of a long tube. We went into the back of the lion exhibit, a large concrete open air area with a separate place for humans to stand outside the lion cage. A large male lion was lounging on his side within the cage. Being prone to lingering and generally slow, I was at the back of the group and the last person to file into the room. The class made an arcing line across the human area that ended where I stood - a few feet from the cage wall that held in the great maned creature. The zookeeper guide instructed us to stay quiet as the lion stood and began to pace, showing some dismay at such a large group of visitors. We all stood quietly and the lion turned his attention to the pelt of a llama zookeepers had provided for his amusement. He nudged and dragged the pelt playfully and the zookeeper began to speak of the details of maintaining such a large and intelligent animal.
The lion moved and pawed at the pelt just like a house cat. He rubbed his face on it and slid onto his side, reveling in apparent delight. His handsomeness and playfulness made him seem almost like a big pet that one could pat on the head or run a hand through the shaggy mane. He sniffed the air and began walking again. After circling the pelt, he started walking toward me. The zookeeper's interesting explanations held my attention, so I was only half watching the lion, who had stopped walking, standing maybe 5 feet from me, took a deep breath..............
The lion I saw roared only one time, but you get the idea. On the African savannah, lion roars can be heard up to 5 miles away (Trout 89).
Being so close to this powerful cat as he emitted his awesome sound, I was impelled into a primeval mindset. I felt the sound as much as heard it. The roar rattled my insides. My pupils dilated, breath quickened and I felt a surge of adrenaline and an impulse to do... something! Humans alive today are the product of those who, in very ancient times felt "fear ... automatically triggered by roaring" (Trout 87). The lion's speech prompted a moment of stunned silence from everyone, followed by the nervous laughter of classmates. Who knows if the lion was roaring at me or if he just got it in his mind to roar and I happened to be standing there. He returned to his llama pelt.
~8 years later...
I found this book in the "new" section of the library and immediately gravitated:
Deadly Powers: Animal Predators and the Mythic Imagination by Paul A Trout, Promethean Books 2011.
In "Part 1," Trout elucidates the fact that deep in our past as a species, we were hunted by large cats (among other predators). During the Pleistocene, while our ancestors were figuring out how to use fire (Hirst, About.com), these formidable beasts predated upon them. Skilled at stealth and equipped for skull-crushing, large cats such as the ones below contributed to the nightmare-scape of mythologic creatures. At that time, it was imperative to human survival to discuss these creatures, to explain them to others and to strategize about how to deal with them. The stories were shared over and over again, passing through thousands of generations.
There were bunches of large, hungry predator-cats back then (Trout 31). Here's a small sampling:
"Smilodon" refers to a genus of Pleistocene cats featuring huge canines. Credit, http://ircamera.as.arizona.edu/NatSci102/NatSci102/lectures/intelligence.htm
Homotherium: Not quite as crazy-fierce as Smilodon, but for some reason there seem to be a lot of people drawing it on deviantart (an online art community). Here is a pretty cool illustration.Credit: User:Captmondo, from wikipedia
Megantereon: kinda like the others - in the same subfamily.
The "Cave Lion" a large relative of the one that roared near me, was beautifully depicted many times in Chauvet Cave, Southern France tens of thousands of years ago (Trout 34-35). Were people hoping to mimic the lion's predatory habits by studying them through art? Were they just in awe of the prowess of such a formidable creature? Nobody can say for sure, but that sure is a lot of animals being chased!
I can imagine many ways in which these formative experiences as a species still shape many of our concepts about nature and ourselves today. Here in the American West, many people vilify large cats and other predators. Today, these animals are under siege and considered 'varmints.' They are constantly hunted and trapped with spring-powered leghold devices. Have humans waged a campaign against these animals ever since the battle for survival during the Pleistocene? If so, this campaign only intensified with the invention and proliferation of guns and continues to gain speed with newer inventions, like bait poisons, even as the number of predators dwindles. In a classic and cliched paradigm, the hunters have now become the hunted. But humans don't/didn't just subdue cats by killing them off. We also domesticated them.
Felis silvestrus (left), the wildcat, found throughout the Old World, hypothesized to be the parent species of Felis catus (right), the domestic cat (O'Brien, et. al 2009). I don't know the cat on the left, but the image was graciously added to wikipedia by Michael Gabler. The cat on the right, my own TC, seems to have retained much of the original pelage characteristics of his distant wild brethren. His brother, however is totally black.
Why would we invite these killers of legend into our homes? A Scientific American author states, "Whereas other once wild animals were domesticated for their milk, meat, wool or servile labor, cats contribute virtually nothing in the way of sustenance or work to human endeavor." Hau and I have often joked that we should harness up our cats to drag in wood for the stove, but alas, it is true they would never do that. The article reports new evidence (DNA based) that a subspecies of Felis silvestrus started hanging around some of the first human agricultural settlements because of the mice that were attracted to grain stores. "Over time, wildcats more tolerant of living in human-dominated environments began to proliferate in villages throughout the Fertile Crescent" and at some point, people began to interact with the cats, bringing them into not just their grain silos, but their homes (O'Brien, et. al 2009). While they were not the only predator of humans in the distant past, cats do have a unique relationship with us in the present.
I happen to be one of those people who actively continues that relationship. I was raised with cats. As odd as that sounds to say, it is true. As an only child growing up in a household with two cats, I spent a lot of time crawling around, seeing things from a feline perspective. I spent countless hours playing, petting and bothering the household cats. The fact that I just cannot keep from posting the pictures below is an indication of how inextricable me and cats have been.
Bandit liked to sleep in the bathtub. Once or twice, she jumped into the bathtub when there was water in there, much to her dismay. This photo is circa 1996.
Here's another cat, Ashes (2000), who came along shortly after Bandit was gone. My mom adopted her from a then boyfriend of mine who couldn't keep her. She is shown here wedged in a bowl (her own doing) amongst all the paperwork and boxes associated with my move to college and the west. This cat never lost her predatory urges and would often attack the backs of my knees from across the room when I came home to visit on holidays.
Except for a couple years during college, I've lived with cats my whole life. For most of the past 8 years (a few more brief exceptions due to pet restrictions in government housing - a whole different topic), I have cared for Jack and TC. Sharing time and space with them has produced innumerable joys, curiosities, hilarious moments, and yes, some hardships (a recent two month pee-fest not being the least of those). It is amazing that over the course of a mere few hundred thousand years, cats and humans went from having a predator-prey relationship to domestic co-habitation. Today, cats are the most popular pet, both in the US and worldwide (O'Brien, et. al 2009).
Jackson likes to yowl, eat, and lay around. He also has a very loud purr and whenever he is awake he would prefer it if he was being touched affectionately.
TC spends a lot of time stewing in his own cute juices.
But if you think these images are gratuitous, check this out:
Why is this kitten wearing a dress? If you explore this user's videos, you will find he has a bunch of these Himalayan cats and spends a lot of time with them. I find it both endearing and a little bewildering.
But even in the United States, our relationship with cats is not relegated to Felis catus. I'm sure I've spent many a hike, traversing slickrock and clifflines, mountains and meadows, under the watchful eye of Felis concolor, the mountain lion. Their paw prints, fresh scent marks and poo piles at places where our paths cross serve as reminder of one of the risks assumed by spending time outdoors. And yet, except for at the Desert Museum near Tucson, AZ (where they have a mountain lion exhibit), I've never seen a live one.
While mountain lion attacks on humans are exceedingly rare, they do happen and are sometimes fatal (Chester, tchester.org). I was living in Tucson, AZ during the 2004 Sabino Canyon mountain lion controversy, where issues of public safety, urban sprawl, wildlife and politics all got into a cluster. Sabino Canyon is a beautiful natural area on the outskirts of Tucson, at the foot of the Santa Catalina Mountains. Recently, people accelerated home and community building in that area, effectively creeping the sprawl of the city up into the foothills. What zoning officials and property owners perhaps did not consider is that this area was habitat to a number of mountain lions. As more homes were built in the area, the number of lion sightings increased. The use of the Sabino Canyon trails intensified, often used by hikers, joggers and cyclists. People's pets started going missing from back yards. Then, a hiking party happened upon a mountain lion that did not back away. A lion was seen prowling the fringes of a schoolyard at a nearby elementary school. In part due to a recent fatality in a southern California park, the Arizona Fish and Game Department felt action must be taken. They closed Sabino Canyon and began a mountain lion hunt, planning to kill lions in the area to head off an attack on humans. There was a huge public protest, including some monkey-wrenching of traps by EarthFirst! activists (later resulting in jail time). Ultimately, some lions were killed and they reopened the park (Read more about this incident in the Tucson Citizen and Arizona Daily Star stories, references provided in Works Cited below).
National Geographic Adventurer picked up the story about the southern California attacks. One mountain lion researcher was quoted on the topic of a long-term prognosis of lion populations:
"It's not that lions can't survive in places like [Whiting Ranch Wilderness Park]," Bauer says, with a note of optimism. "But a lion is capable and willing and able to eat us, and when we come into conflict, we know who ultimately loses. A lion needs a place where it can be a lion. And the urban fringe is marching. In 30 or 40 years [...] it's hard to imagine any lions left in places like this" (Hoffman, 2004).
While I don't want people or their pets to be hurt in any way, I also empathize with the lions in these cases. Now that we humans have the overwhelming power to do so, we will probably always ultimately choose to kill that which we deem a threat.
Another book I recently read:
Tigers in the Snow, by Peter Matthiessen, North Point Press 2000.
Matthiessen (already a famous author at the time) was invited by a group of conservation biologists, working in remote parts of far eastern Russia, to experience the trials of their work with Tigers and write something about the imperiled state of the species. While reading this book, it is hard not view the biologists efforts as both brave and respectable and also futile. Much of the book is spent detailing the plummeting of Tiger populations throughout Asia as human population surged through the last century. Even the best attempts at protecting wild Tiger habitat are besieged by throngs of impoverished local communities, who feel they have no choice but to illegally continue to destroy habitat (cutting trees, poaching) just to live meagerly. The book does have a hopeful thesis: In order to mitigate the rapid species loss we face today, we must address humanitarian issues. We can help the Tiger (and biodiversity in general) by lifting human communities out of poverty.
While I totally agree with the sentiment of the thesis, it is again difficult to imagine success here. How will we truly help starving families in India? Sure, we can give to charities and even go over there and donate time to help. We could even quit the job, sell the house and move there permanently to do humanitarian work. Any actions like that would certainly help some people and I think we should all incorporate such activities into our lives. Our politicians, however, are intimately coupled with the coffers of the same extractive industries that benefit from keeping most of the world poor and powerless. I remain hopeful that someday we will get money out of American politics. However, even as an optimist, it is hard to see how progress might occur on a timescale meaningful to preserving endangered species. We are in the midst of a mass extinction ("Holocene Extinction," Wikipedia.com). Many more species will perish by the end of this year. According to Matthiessen, it is quite likely that Tigers will entirely disappear from the wild during my lifetime.
Far from being stirred by fear, this picture elicits, from me, feelings of empathy and sadness. Matthiessen describes the fate of some of the tigers in the study, many of whom meet an untimely demise by human hands, directly (hunting/poaching) or indirectly (vehicle collisions). Some of these leave young kittens behind who are also unlikely to survive. At the moment, I don't really care that some very distant uncle of mine was probably eaten by some very distant uncle of his. However, the families of those killed by man-eating tigers ("Tiger Attacks," Wikipedia.com) probably don't feel quite as removed from visceral feelings about this animal.
So how to reconcile these ideas? Is it right that we humans are now succeeding in wiping out the big cats? Is it somehow the natural order of things, as many people would argue? E.O. Wilson, perhaps the most renowned modern biologist, has often argued for the importance of biodiversity on our planet (Wilson, 1999). He and other biologists have warned that dismantling ecosystems by removing species and fragmenting habitats is not just an extinction threat for animals like tigers... it also threatens humanity's ability to survive here. I, for one, lament the loss of splendid and powerful predators. Their loss could bring not just environmental, but also mental deprivation for us humans. Will our experience and our stories lose richness over time as we become the dominant, comfortable character? Will that help or hinder us when facing challenges ahead? What are humans without our myths, our fears, our acknowledgment of suffering? Without suffering, one cannot fully appreciate the good feelings: joy, inspiration and the contentedness of a soft purring lap cat on a lazy morning.
Arizona Daily Star articles (you can't see these online without paying a fee, but excerpts can be found posted on various forums if you google some of the text strings (which is mostly what I did) - also you have one free view of one article on azstar website):
"Cougars bringing caution to Sabino." March 2, 2004.
"Lion hunt shuts down Sabino area." March 10, 2004.
"Lion hunt to start at end of this week." March 17, 2004.
"Visitors retake Sabino." April 1, 2004.
Tucson Citizen articles (available for fee online, but Sabino Canyon mountain lion coverage wasn't as detailed as in the Arizona Daily Star):
I don't know what the hell I am doing with this blog.
So, here's a random little bit-o-Utah for you:
Amongst all the this-and-that is a neat little mudstone hoodoo, reaching for the sky.
Sometimes when you find these old sardine tins out in the desert, they have an old mining claim paper in them. This one was empty, but in an area of old uranium exploration.
Two colorfully clad ladies, one of whom is fixing to eat a rock shaped like a round of filet minion.
I just moved to a new town, leaving behind the house, the yard, and an early surprise winter storm around the Waterpocket Fold. Hatches battened at the stone house.
Moab is this new town. I will admit that for many years, I have looked upon Moab with suspicion and caution. Moab has fast food restaurants. Moab has a REAL tourism industry that brings in, for example, thousands of Jeep drivers in one weekend alone. There are uranium tailings just a little ways over there. There is a lot of 'just upstream' oil exploration. You can put an 's' on the end of the word thousand to describe how many people live here. These are all things I tend to shy away from.
Moab also affords me the pleasure of getting things done without driving a car. Moab has Moonflower Market (literally a two minute walk from where I live). Moab has a library with regular hours and a meaningful selection of materials (also within a very short walking distance). Moab has local businesses that I could support and/or work at to earn a wage. Moab also has a community of people wanting to do good things - and doing them.
I could get used to Moab.
There is a narrow hallway carved into rock, allowing potash to be trained away from the mine.
Hau and I went on a walk up Mill Creek. There are remains of a historic dam up there.
The Slickrock Mountain Bike Trail is NOT easy, as we were led to believe by a bike shop attendent. We got maybe a 1/4 mile in before turning around. Amazingly scenic, though.
I went to the Sweet Branch Library tonight (Salt Lake City) and got a bunch of things. This gave me a renewed fervor for finishing the book(s) I already started. One of which was this one...
In college, I took a class focused on Indian culture. During the course of this class, I read a number of books by Indian women authors, including and especially A River Sutra, which particularly stuck with me. For this reason, when I was perusing the knitting section of the library and saw this book, I plucked it from the shelf immediately with that certain feeling of synchronicity I often experience in libraries. I have been reading this small book very casually for the last couple weeks in between actual knitting, working and doing other things. Therefore, I offer thee:
A short review of The Knitting Sutra: Craft as a Spiritual Practice by Susan Gordon Lydon
As with most books, I was very skeptical in the beginning. My first impression was that this book was going to regurgitate a litany of hackneyed new-agey quotations of recent spiritual leaders and somehow offer them from the slant of a middle-aged woman who enjoys knitting. What I found instead (after giving the book a chance beyond my initial poo-pooing) was biographical encouragement for any person laboring away at something they are open-mindedly passionate about. The book does indeed offer up a collection of quotations and references to people (the fodder for a lot of internet searches and library hold-making), but also a simple and inspiring recollection of a person undergoing a realization of the self through various hardships knitted into challenging projects. Of course, there is a lot in here that those familiar with modern knitting will especially connect with, but I think writers, painters, cloud watchers, basket weavers, blacksmiths and anyone else toiling away late into the night would get at least a little something out of picking up this book for a few moments.
I finished reading this book tonight, leaving that portion of my mental cue free for other endeavors...
I looked in the fridge the other day and saw a little slice of something I was supposed to do...
... a half eaten jar of peaches from earlier this year.
Actually, I have reminded myself just about every day over the last couple months that I assigned myself the writing of four tenusously-related blog entries. Procrastination is perhaps the most subtle and sinister form of masochism and self-loathing. Every time I think of something I should do, something I WANT to do, and don't do it - that little piece of myself withers and I am left feeling anxious, uninspired and low. And yet, the cycle continues, endlessly. Thanks to a conversation over at friends' El and Allen, along with chatting with Adam, and finally, a kick in the ass from a blog that specializes in knocking people out of their ruts, my resolve is renewed.
So, after forcing myself to consider how I want to prepare the last two parts of my series, I have decided the following:
- I will try to keep my blog entries more concise, so as not to feel so overwhelmed by the writing of them. A little OCD voice in my head thinks they should be the unabridged version of things (a problem I often have in journaling), when really they are whatever they need to be, which is almost never that.
- I will write the last two posts I was planning on into one post, thus making mental room to move on to another idea I have and have had for like three months now, but am now going to pursue (I already started today! yay!).
-After this post, the format of this blog will change slightly. The format will be more concise, more frequent, and maybe prettier too.
-quit using a not-so-contrasty color in picture captions
OK! So, here it is, the final installment of this 'last of the peaches' saga:
Part 3/4: Big City Farming/Into those Distant Mountains
Occasionally, a broody country girl gets the itch for the big town. This happened to me soon after I got done with work at the park for the year. And, how, you ask, does said girl manage to do this affordably and without offending her stalwart anti-everything-mass-population-consumer-centers sensibilities? Well, she goes and stays with an urban farmer. Then they, together, immediately begin a plan to escape the city into the hinterlands.
Such was the case in late September when I ventured forth from the little homestead and landed in Salt Lake City, City of the Saints, for about a week. I was there to visit my great friend, Sharon, and assist her with some harvesting from the plots on her urban farm. I won't go too much into Sharon's awesome way of making a living and how she's doing her part to end our dependency on corporate industry agriculture, but I will give her a plug right now and say: go see her website.
Sharon and I spent a few days working on her farm during harvest time. She plants lots of yummy things and sells them around SLC. I must say, it is hard work. After carrying tools all over the place, carrying fully loaded beet boxes all over the place and delivering CSAs (Community Supported Agriculutre - a way for people to buy veggie shares and get them delivered similar to how folks used to get milk), we decided that 'farming' is actually mostly 'schlepping.' This is why farmers are usually attractively glistening in the sun.
As usual when we get together, the first thing Sharon and I did was cook a delicious meal out of delicious local ingredients that she either grew or bartered for.
Once we tabled these beauties, I couldn't hardly control myself.
The farmer herself, among all her glorious crops; harvesting and glistening.
A very small portion of the harvest for the week - Chard bunches ready to be schlepped.
One person's full turnip allotment for the week.
Veggies picked, CSAs delivered, restaurant deliveries complete... now time for the farmer's market where some produce is sold and others bartered away for other things.
Harvest in September is the final burst of reaping benefits from the life of summer. Chard, carrots, honey or sweet, sweet summer peaches picked ripe from a tree are tastier than gold will ever be.
Throughout our week of schlepping, Sharon and I discussed an upcoming foray away from the city. Her business of farming (often 15hr/day work) kept her so busy all summer, she was not able to walk many dusty tracks, as is her custom. We were both eager for a trip to commemorate the long shadows of fall approaching. We considered numerous locations and finally settled on one: the Deep Creek Mountains. When Sharon first suggested this over the phone, I had no idea where these were. I had a mental image they were somewhere just west of SLC. I was correct, except for the 'just' - they were quite a ways from the city. Imagine a remote and dusty, seldom traveled highway. You are looking out the window across naked flats towards some jagged rise on the horizon - distant mountains only visible in shadow form for all the haze. These are the mountains we went to. The result: a spontaneous trip to the brink of two states, Utah and Nevada - Summer and Fall - Urban and Wild.
I am not generally in the habit of revealing super secret gems, however sometimes a place is such magic resting on the edge of tragedy that something has to be said. Due to water projects, supposedly to feed the thirst of places such as Las Vegas (boo!) now being deliberated, beautiful places like this Basin and Range range are threatened by a future drop in the water table as water development projects unsustainably suck dry prehistoric aquifers. Already dry and extreme, deserts and mountains all around (hundreds of miles around) these huge cities are in danger of losing their noble extremophile ecosystems. The entire trip was tinted with feelings of hope and helplessness as us two horizon women shot down 100 miles of washboard.
no black top = sign of a good day
Our first stop was an almost defunct gold mining community from the 1800s.
We could see the Bonneville Salt Flats back towards the east, from whence we came.
We saw a lush oasis where a creek comes out of the mountains and crosses the road (via culvert). There we found some rosehips and had a snack.
Warm springs.
Humans draw funny lines all over the place.
We enter the Blue Mass Scenic Area, where we plan to spend a while.
Home.
The following morning, we took a nice steep walk up to this ridge.
All the while, we guessed and hoped we would find one of these at the top: Bristlecone! There were a bunch of these ancient trees up there.
Even in solitude, you're never alone. This elk seemed particularly casual as he sauntered along a ridge below us.
Fall colors flare on mountainsides as we exit summer.
At the very base part of my brain is a craving for sweetness. Not just any old sugar will do it, but something special. Rare. Orange blushed red. I dream of you during the long winter nights. Peaches. Your skin speckled and bright, Clinging to the tips of branches like your flesh clings to the stone. Peaches. I put you in cans that wait down in the basement. In the dark, to be revealed. The feel of your firm sweetness in my hands is something I hold in mind. And yet no dreams of peaches. Only the anxiety of being out in the storm of missing the day of the test of snow in the eyes of losing a lens and everything is blurred as the flakes accumulate and challenge my ability to survive on this planet. In this universe. Where a large, sweet, creamy peach is rare. But deep in the cold season the memory of you persists and the sweet taste of summer every day every year gets me through to the next time I bite into you.
