The message to the Florida Legislature is clear: Don't mess with our state parks!

I feel nostalgic today. Not sure why although it may be that I have many years to be nostalgic about. To begin, I was reading the Sunday paper after freeing it from its two protective envelopes but first I had to shake off the water from my neighbor's pre-dawn sprinklers (the lawn looks great!). The meaty part of the Daytona News Journal, Sunday edition, is its Outlook section or op-ed. It includes some meaty opinion columns such as Bill Cotterell's exploration of next year's governor's race ("We're in for a fun race" wrote the headline writer with just a smidge of sarcasm) and Ingrid Jacques' "Trump's tariffs might bring back jobs at a price" and that price may be -- in my opinion -- America's democracy. That anyone might believe that the witless White House resident actually has a policy of any kind, well, I guess that's how we got to this dystopian hell in the first place.

My attention was focused in Florida state parks, trails and historic sites. Rick Christie's column featured letters from state park fans. Six weeks ago, Florida opinion journalists of the USA Today network asked residents to send in written and visual memories of state parks in an effort to save our 800,000 wonderful acres of pristine land from greedheads fronted by the State Legislature. Many writers have warned us about the paving instinct of developers. We can go back to Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' writing about Cross Creek and Paynes Prairie among other places. She was friends of some of Florida's early women environmentalists. From Florida Memory at the Florida State Archives: 

In Florida, Marjorie Harris Carr, May Mann Jennings, Jeanne Bellamy, Marjory Stoneman Douglas and Mary Grizzle are just a few of the women who worked to protect Florida's environment.

When I was growing up in Daytona, John D. MacDonald raged in "Condominium" about unbridled development. From afar, I read Miami Herald columns by Carl Hiaasen. I don't know most of Florida's recent environmental history as I was working to save and improve Wyoming state parks through  the arts. But those who never left and those who moved here for the Florida that is rapidly disappearing, you were on the front lines to save this heritage. 

I am a retiree returning to Volusia County. My prime growing-up years (13-27) were spent here in Florida's prime growing-up years (1964-1978). My eight brothers and sisters had their globe-trotting years. My brothers Pat and Dan were in the USAF and my sister Molly spent several years tending to new mothers at a base in Italy. My sister Mary tried out New Hampshire and my sister Eileen joined me in Colorado for awhile. Sister Maureen has lived in Mexico City and Lyon, France. Brothers Tom and Tim tried California. They all returned to Florida. I did not. Their roots were deep. Their memories are of sand dunes and unspoiled beaches, heading to Juniper Springs and Ichnetucknee, fishing for snook. camping in the woods. Mine too. 

So I wrote a letter supporting Florida parks and the legislators trying to protect them with House Bill 209 and SB 80. Mine is not featured in today's Outlook. But you can read it here. I reminisced about my days at Tomoka State Park and the Loop Trail. And the beaches where I surfed and hung out with my friends. Florida is a state park and a historic site for its rich heritage. Some of the latter is being scrubbed from school history books as I write because it involves genocide and slavery which apparently never happened although the park has a nice statue of Chief Tomokie of the Timucuan People based on a legend. There is a Timucuan Heritage Trail at Alexander Springs in Ocala National Forest. For some reason, it is "temporarily closed." I give you one guess as to the reason. 

I love this country!

I learned a lot from reading today's letters. Dana Hunsley of Panacea, a former park ranger and park safety officer at St. Joseph Peninsula State Park, reminded readers that the the Florinda Dep0artment of Environmental Protection (DEP) is better know as the "Department of Environmental Prostitution" for its tendency to favor greed over environmental preservation. Military veteran Tom Wonsiewicz of North Naples celebrated Thanksgiving with his family at Delmore Wiggins Pass State Park. He writes this: "The joyful noise, in many languages, of people enjoying life and each other in beautiful, natural settings is unforgettable." Frank Cover of Cape Coral credits a 2014 visit by boat to Cayo Costa State Park got him hooked on wildlife photography.

The message is loud and clear: Don't f*ck with our state parks. Make sure your legislators hear your pleas. Earth Day is April 22. That's a good day to fire off a letter or e-mail. 

Dear Florida Legislators: Don't monkey around with our state parks

The Sunday Outlook section in the March 2 News-Journal included an editorial by the USA Today Network-Florida Opinion Group. Header: "Support legislation to restrict future development in Florida's parks." An excerpt: "Floridians don't want to see their state parks spoiled by excessive clearing, paving, and building." There was an outcry last year when someone in state government leaked a plan "to put hotels, golf courses, pickleball courts and other development in nine targeted state parks." That plan disappeared but now there's a bill threatening state parks in the Florida Legislature. So USA Today staff requested letters, op-eds, and photos "to remind lawmakers that they should vote to protect some of our most prized assets."

They asked. I responded with this op-ed:

Save Florida State Parks

The road known now as The Loop was uncrowded when our family first visited Tomoka State Park in September 1964. Two adults, eight kids, and a dog crowded into a Ford Falcon station wagon and made the drive along a tree-shrouded road to the park. We grew up in Colorado where you drive to a park through wide-open vistas until you get to your mountain destination where the trees were. This was a different kind of experience, almost magical. It was jungle full of snakes, alligators and armadillos.

We were kids on that first visit 61 years ago, We romped around the park. Mom warned us about snakes and we didn’t hear anything she said because we were busy playing. We went down to the Tomoka River and looked for rocks to skip along the shore but found none. But we saw turtles and imagined giant gators around the bend in the river. We knew there were creatures called sea cows under the tannin-infused river water.

What a place. “The Legend of Chief Tomokie” statue was still in fine form in ’64. Built by noted sculptor Fred Dana Marsh in 1957, the legend was based on one invented by the daughter of the founder of The Halifax Journal. I thought it was amazing, impressed that Florida had Indians too, most of them long-dead from the civilizing effects of white explorers and settlers. Over time, my brothers and I camped with our father in Tomoka and we ventured out there with our Boy Scout troop that met in Ormond’s First Methodist Church. We eventually saw many snakes and gators. Florida wildlife was amazing. The following summer, when my brother Dan and I went to our first Scout summer camp at La-No-Che near Paisley, we were told to watch out for water moccasins dropping into our canoes from the Spanish Moss-draped cypress trees. To a teen, what could be cooler than that?

Over the years, I’ve camped in Juniper Springs, O’Leno, and Sebastian Inlet state parks. I’ve floated the iconic Ichetucknee, canoed the Withlacoochee (Crooked River), and cruised the Wakulla. We spent our honeymoon on a scuba trip to John Pennekamp Coral Reef. It all fed my love of nature. When I graduated from UF and returned West for a job, my wife and I spent all of our spare time in Colorado and Wyoming state and national parks. We shared these experiences with our children; they are stored in memories and photo albums.

My wife and I returned to Ormond Beach in August. One of our first trips was to Tomoka State Park. Retired and disabled from a bad fall, I get around on an electric scooter. Much of Tomoka was accessible to me. I rode my scooter down the road to the dilapidated Tomokie statue but then got stuck in the sand. Two young mountain bikers pushed me out. They were there to ride the trails. We retreated to The Outpost near the boat launch area and drank lemonade. We listened to the birds and watched boats navigate the river. We enjoyed the day and vowed to return. We will continue doing so as long as it remains a state park and doesn’t morph into some raucous Disney-style resort.

Our daughter moved to Ormond Beach in January. A Wyoming native, she’s already explored Tomoka, viewed the manatees at Blue Spring State Park, and taken a scenic cruise on the St. Johns.

I send an appeal to the Florida Legislature. Do not despoil our great state parks with golf courses, pickleball courts, and tourist lodges. We have enough of those elsewhere. Leave us the Great Outdoors, our sacred spaces.

We got trouble, trouble, right here in Beach City

Chris and I are looking forward to our April trip to Florida. Both of us did some of our growing-up on Florida's east coast, Daytona Beach for me and Ormond Beach for her. Daytona was (and is) a beach town with all of the trappings: beachside motels and souvenir shops, lots of bars, and a very nice beach. Daytona also has the speedway for auto races. 

Ormond begins just north and it was looked at as the more genteel neighbor. We went to the Ormond beaches when Daytona's were crowded. The beach sand was deeper and less drivable, but most of it was open to surfers with the main destination the Ormond Pier. If you go further north, there is Ormond-by-the-Sea which is a bit redundant and then Flagler Beach, named for the robber baron railroad magnate of the 19th century. 

Flagler used to be a funky little beach town with a good surfing pier but growth has changed it. Palm Coast development is in Flagler County and it replaced thousands of acres of wildlands. For one of my jobs, I used to drop by city and county offices to get lists of building permits and then rush over to Orlando to type all of it into The Construction Report, printed and distributed each Friday. It wasn't really writing but kind of fun.

In case you didn't know, construction is big business in Florida. Big, big business. Florida's big challenge, besides its dingbat governor and legislative troglodytes, is people trying to find affordable home insurance. They could be cast into the homeless by the next climate-change-caused hurricane which can't possibly exist due the state's GOP-heavy legislature banning teaching anything like it in school. I grew up by the beach and we had sand dunes then, created by the Lord Almighty to blunt the impact of big storms' tendency to wash tons of sand back into the ocean. 

The so-called peninsula I lived on is a barrier island. It is supposed to serve as barrier to tropic thunder. It did for many millennia before promoters decided they could make beaucoup bucks by selling plots of sand to Howard Johnson's and Steak-n-Shake and Americans bent on living the dream. I lived that dream and it does seem dream-like to me now, a retired bureaucrat in Wyoming. 

It was a beautiful place to grow up. We surfed by day and waited on tourists at night. Me and my eight brothers and sisters grew up freckled and barefoot, one of the wandering tribes of Daytona. We had a home to go to but, as time passed and my parents got older and more frazzled, we were turned loose to have fun but not get into trouble. We mostly succeeded.

If I sound sarcastic in my Florida appreciation, I sound like this all of the time. Chris has a whole different set of beachside stories. Most involve teens getting fake IDs at 16 and going into tourist bars. They had fun but didn't get into too much trouble, or so she says. 

Ballad for an old friend

Can you call someone a friend if you haven’t seen him in 40 years?

On Monday, I heard the news of the death of my old friend David. He suffered a stroke and was being transferred to rehab in Daytona Beach when his body gave out. The news came to me on a Facebook post from Dave’s sister in L.A. I was shocked. He is not one of the first to die in my high school class – Class of ’69. We’ve all hit 70 now and the inevitable cohort replacement grinds on every day.

The last photo I saw of David showed him holding an AK-47 which he was using for target practice out in the Florida woods. He had a gun hobby. He also was a dedicated fisherman. He once ran a popular bait shop in Daytona. He could talk your ear off about fishing and often did. We went to high school together and were roommates once on a little acreage we called The Farm. It was anything but a farm. It was an old house on Hull Road in rural Ormond Beach. The road was named after the family who built the house, one of the area’s first human residents besides Native Americans and the occasional Spanish explorer looking for the Fountain of Youth or cities of gold. Our high school, Father Lopez, was named for the priest who accompanied Pedro Menendez de Aviles when he landed in St. Augustine in 1565 to kill French Huguenots. Ponce de Leon had claimed Florida for Spain in 1513 during his fruitless search for youth, something, I guess, many Floridians search for.

Our little house had three bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, a massive fireplace, and an outdoor shower. Our girlfriends hated that shower even though we assured them that nobody could see them as our property was surrounded by forest. Didn’t seem to make a difference. They would take baths in our big iron tub or wait until they returned to their respective civilized indoor showers. Picky, picky.

The property was owned by a group of physicians who had bought it for an investment. This place will someday be filled with houses, they contended, and we laughed about it when we got stoned on the weed stashed on the farm by a friend who swore us to secrecy. Years later, as time marched on, the land was bought by a developer and now is a thriving neighborhood called Tymber Creek. That’s timber with a y as in “some tymber was sacrificed to build these spacious homes.”

I have fond memories of a man who meant so much to me long ago. In 1971-72, David and I were college dropouts. The military draft passed us by. I worked days as a hospital orderly and David worked evenings as a cook at a pizza joint. He brought home the leftover pizza that became our breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We could exist on pizza because we were 21 and always on the move.   

Our futures had already started. I wandered the property with our dogs, always alert for rattlers and coral snakes. At twilight, we stopped at an open field and watched the bullbats. As they dive for insects, they make a strange whooshing sound. I’d come back to the house to write, always writing. David was out casting for bass or snook on the Little Tomoka River, looking for something out there on the Florida waters. I hope he found it.  

Anything was possible then.

During the 1970s, I went back to school and then returned to the area many times as I looked for work and finally decided to light out for the western territories. That’s where I am today. Still writing.

David, may the fish be plentiful and feisty in the Beyond.

The universe of the heart is a strange and lonely place in "Bewilderment"

In Richard Powers' novel "Bewilderment," Theo Byrne’s nine-year-old son Robin may have ADHD or Asberger’s or is somewhere on the autism “spectrum.” He is suspended when he clocks a kid at school. He always says the wrong thing. Therapists try to convince Theo to put Robin on medication such as Ritalin or Concerta. Theo, an astrobiologist searching for the universe’s exoplanets, refuses to do so. He’s a single parent, his environmentalist wife Alyssa killed in a car wreck when she swerved to avoid a possum.

Father spends many hours hiking and camping with his son. Together, they travel to imaginary planets that Theo only knows through the signatures of critical elements picked up from thousands of light years away. Those are wonderful chapters, journeying to quirky planets that come right out of the scientific imagination. Their names include Stasis, Isola, and Tedia which, not surprisingly, reflect their namesakes of isolation, loneliness, and tedium. One planet doesn’t spin on its axis due to the pull of competing suns. The planet’s few living things can only exist in a narrow band of twilight because they would die from heat on one side or freeze to death on the other.

Theo the astrophysicist discusses various terms regarding the existence of life on other planets. The Fermi Paradox asks the question once asked by Enrico Fermi: Where are the aliens? Drake Equation measures the probability of exoplanets that support life long enough for intelligent beings to emerge. In the novel, Theo proposes other possibilities. No sentient lifeforms anywhere. Civilizations so far away that we would never meet them. Some posit the idea that there is intelligent life in the universe but those beings want nothing to do with us. So they are silent.

All of this returns to Theo’s struggle to understand his son and deal with the death of his wife. A colleague opens a research project that might have answer. It involves a kind of neurofeedback, the AI linking of a person with electronic energy created by others. Neurodivergent Robin becomes part of the study, linking up with some feedback loops his mother made when alive. He gradually gets a better grasp on his behavior and exceeds the researchers’ goals. But disappointment awaits -- and a surprise ending. Think “Flowers for Algernon” by Daniel Keyes. “Charly,” the movie based on the book, really got to me when I saw it in 1968.

Powers is a powerful writer and “Bewilderment” resonated with me for several reasons. This tale got real early on. My wife and I put our son with ADHD on Ritalin when he was five in 1990. I resisted. I couldn’t imagine my little dynamo on drugs. But he needed help. His working parents needed help. Directors of preschools and kindergarten teachers pushed us to go the medication route. Three decades later, I can still feel the pain. I had to stop reading Powers’ novel at some points because the author does such a great job of describing the pain of the bewildered parent.

“Bewilderment” also asks this question: Are we as alone in the universe as we are on Earth? The book says yes but also provides the reader with transcendent moments.

Still, loneliness may be as endemic to the universe as hydrogen and helium. We may never see intelligent lifeforms. If they exist, they are far away and the distances too great. We are early in the exploration stage. I will be stardust by the time humans leave our solar system for another.

Powers creates a world where the reader feels the weight of the universe and the weight of people’s attempts to know ourselves and our loved ones. I finished the book, sat back in my recliner, said “we are all alone,” and then grabbed a beer. I have family and friends, a wife and two grown children. They will miss me when I am gone. But the earth will keep spinning, a sunrise will be followed by a sunset. One generation will be replaced by another and another and another.

Today I am going to pretend that I am not alone. I will reach out to those important to me. What else can I do?

Return to the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens

I returned to volunteer duties at the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens this week. In March of 2020, volunteers were put on hiatus during the pandemic. A few months, is what I thought at the time. A few months turned into a year-plus. We're still not out of it but the vaccine and safety measures brought us to a point where we can return to some public activities. 

Touring the Botanic Gardens Conservatory and its grounds are among them. Hours are limited and safety protocols are in place. There is no mandatory mask policy but I wear one as do other staffers and volunteers. All three floors of the Conservatory are open. The Children's Village held its Color Festival yesterday. Based on the Holi Festival in India, it led to a bunch of very colorful families coming over for the tours once they painted themselves with colored chalk. They all looked so happy to be out doing fun things on a sunny spring day. It was a great day for me, too, as I was happy to be back at the Gardens introducing people to its treasures. 

I met a retired couple from Casper out with their adult daughter who now lives in Cheyenne. I met a young man from Massachusetts wearing an Orlando Jai Alai T-shirt and we talked jai alai and permaculture. A group of guitarists and wedding planners came by to practice songs for the upcoming wedding at the Gardens. A group trooped in to hold a baby shower. A middle-aged bearded man in his 40s from Santa Fe walked with a cane and we talked about heart conditions. His sounded a lot worse than mine. He may move to Cheyenne to be closer to family. 

Many young couples visited, some with babies and others looking like they were on their first dates and getting to know one another. I discussed growing giant sunflowers with a woman from Denver. At the close of day, a photographer came in with her model to shoot some scenic photos (the Gardens only allows photography before and after hours). She said she saw some photos taken at the Gardens by another FoCo photog and wanted to shoot the place herself.

I spent time acquainting myself with new procedures. I ate my bag lunch -- no more food items in the Tilted Tulip Gift Shop. I leafed through the binder of CBG memorials which had been assembled by staff during the break. Many trees and flowers dedicated to loved ones. Plaques and pavers and benches, all done as remembrances. 

I thought about my father, a dedicated gardener who learned from his gardener father when growing up in Denver and transferred his skills to a very different Central Florida climate. He enjoyed year-round gardening at home and tending the plants at St. Brendan the Navigator Catholic Church, the same one I was married in. Dad nurtured tropical plants and battled tropical bugs and diseases. Different challenges from those we face in Wyoming.

The Pandemic of 2020-21 is not over yet. Covid-19 may be with us forever, just like the common cold which is related to the current plague. Gardening provides hope as well as food. When you dig deeper into it, you learn about dirt and bacteria and chemicals and the origins of your plants and flowers. Covid emerged from the natural world to infect and kill millions. I was afraid at the beginning of the pandemic. Now that I've been injected with a vaccine that is based on dogged scientific research, I am less afraid. Messenger Ribonucleic Acid (mRNA) provides instructions to our body on how to make a viral protein to trigger an immune response.

At my front-desk station, I checked in more that 240 visitors. The second-largest count of 2021 after that wonderfully warm Saturday before Easter. I will be there every Thursday and Friday afternoon through April. Come by, tour the place, and talk to me about the art of growing things. 

Gary Snyder: "I pledge allegiance to the soil of Turtle Island"

Jane Hirshfield has teamed up with the Wick Poetry Center at Kent State University to form #poetsforscience which will commemorate this weekend's March for Science and Earth Day. Hirshfield will read her poem "On the Fifth Day" on Saturday's march in Washington, D.C. This poster is part of a series celebrating poetry and science and the environment. Gary Snyder's "Turtle Island" was my favorite poetry book in the 1970s and I took it with me on backpacking trips in the Rockies: "Ah to be alive/on a mid-September morn/fording a stream/barefoot, pants rolled up/holding boots, pack on,/sunshine, ice in the shallows,/northern rockies."

CRMC sponsors first Culture Fest Promoting Health and Justice April 29 at LCCC

This comes from a press release:

Culture Fest sponsored by Cheyenne Regional Medical Center

The first Culture Fest Promoting Health and Justice will take place in Cheyenne on Saturday, April 29. The goal of this festival is to celebrate the various cultures represented in our Wyoming community and address social determinants of health that often contribute to health disparities of minority groups. During the festival, there will be opportunity to display your cultural arts and educate community members. There is also opportunity for performance on the “big stage. 

The main event will take place on Saturday, April 29, at Laramie County Community College’s Pathfinder Building, 1400 E. College Drive, from 10 a.m.-4 p.m. 

Check out the Participant Letter and and the Market Registration Form2. 

FMI: Monica Jennings at 307-432-3640 or monica.jennings@crmcwy.org

A line in the participant letter caught my attention:

We sincerely appreciate your willingness to devote your time and share your expertise with the multicultural communities in our state. Your commitment to the well-being of others does not go unnoticed.

Sounds as if this might be a good event to talk about the ACA, Medicare, Medicaid expansion, and any number of timely topics. Wyoming has many health challenges, not least of which is mental health care. I've written often about the challenges my daughter faced in getting the appropriate mental health treatment in Wyoming. She finally found resources in Aurora and Denver. The feds played a role, too. Which raises concerns about the Trump administration's proposed gutting of health and mental health agencies. If Trump continues to wage endless wars, veterans will continue to have mental health challenges. No aircraft carrier task force or joint strike fighter jet can effectively challenge a stubborn case of PTSD.

The Wyoming wind (finally) blows itself out

It's as if I went to sleep in winter and awoke in spring.

For the past two days, hurricane-force gusts have toppled semis on the interstate and ripped roofs off of businesses. In Laramie County, we had gusts measured at 73 mph, just shy of the 75 mph that makes a hurricane. Big Horn Basin monitors measured a 91 mph gust. A weather station on the crest of Colorado's Monarch Pass, recorded a wind speed of 148 mph. Now that's a gust that could knock you down or send you flying, depending on your BMI.

Last night, for the second night in the row, wind rattled my window frames. The metal frames were installed with the house in 1960 and are not energy efficient, even with the storm windows in place. The cold greets the window and radiates inside my house, causing my furnace to kick into gear more often than it should. We replaced our 25-year-old gas furnace last winter. It went kaput. The new machine is as energy-efficient as I could afford. I looked at some fancy systems, some more than $10,000. Gas condensing furnaces, geothermal heat pumps, high-efficiency boilers, radiant floor heating, You could go totally solar, or combine wind and solar. Once you open to door to new energy, the sky's the limit.

This morning, spruce tree branches wave lazily in the breeze. The sun shines. When I turned on the TV this morning, a gardening show was on. The personalities on the Weather Channel spoke of a phenomenon called spring. Apparently, in some parts of the country, flowers and trees bloom in March. That's an odd concept at 6,200 feet in the Rocky Mountains. The arrival of spring here just means more snow and wind and cold. We get some blossoms in May, and usually delay planting until Memorial Day weekend. On the plus side, summers are glorious and often extend into October. Warm, dry days and cool, clear nights.

It takes its time getting here. But summer is worth the wait.

Young Wyoming activists come up with unique way to save the elephants

The Tooth Fairy is real. 

Two young people in Jackson Hole have come up with a compelling project to help save elephants. You may have heard that elephant poaching increases even in the face of stepped-up preservation efforts. The reason: ivory from elephant tusks. The market: China, which seems to have an insatiable appetite for the stuff. Here's the project:

THE TOOTH FAIRY PROJECT presented by Elephant Daze and WILD SCIENCE

October 4-5 from 10 a.m.-4 p.m.
FREE & OPEN TO THE PUBLIC
Center Theater Lobby, Jackson

- Elephant photography exhibit by Joachim Schmeisser and Kate Brooks
- Elephant Art Contest (awards announced Oct. 5 at 4 p.m.)
- Elephant Lifespan Exhibit
- Activism: Kids write letters asking the Tooth Fairy to send his baby teeth stockpile to China where 70 percent of elephant ivory tusks end up and where 70 percent of Chinese citizens believe elephant tusks FALL OFF and REGROW. This provocative and endearing community activation message will engage the public and the press to advance our mission: to garner media attention to save the elephant by ending legal (and illegal) ivory trade and carving in China.

The Tooth Fairy Project is supported by two young Jackson Hole activists: LILY MARVIN (11) and ALEX FRENCH (9), who are working hard to save the elephant, which they know also saves you and me.

You can see the end of coal from the People's Climate March

More than 300,000 rally for the People's Climate March Sunday in NYC. Can you say, "Goodbye, coal?" I thought you could.

Gun totin' in schools, El Rancho Avalancho and red state energy bound for blue state

Some things that irked and/or entertained me this past week:

The state legislature is in session. Opening day included the Gov's State of the State speech, a "legalize pot" march by Wyoming NORML and performances in the House chambers by WY Poet Laureate Echo Roy Klaproth and the UW Collegiate Chorale. The week was filled with debates over Medicaid expansion, gun-totin' in schools, minimum wage increases, early childhood education, more guns, Common Core, increases to hunting and fishing licenses, a decrease in coal taxes and, of course, more gun-totin'. Most bills were killed early so the Housers and Senators can get on to the issue at hand, the budget. Only three weeks left to do so. The big surprise is that Sen. Chris Rothfuss (D-Laramie) fashioned a bipartisan bill on Medicaid expansion that still is in the mix. Way to go, Sen. R! This is a miracle in this Obamacare-bashing state.

From the library shelves: "This Land was Made for You and Me (But Mostly Me)" by Bruce McCall and David Letterman. Yes, that's the same David Letterman as seen on late-night TV. And illustrator Bruce McCall was one of the Scots-Irish geniuses behind the rise of National Lampoon, the others being Michael O'Donoghue and P.J. O'Rourke. Letterman is a millionaire with a Rocky Mountain getaway in Montana. I'm not sure about McCall's portfolio, but it's intriguing that Dave and Bruce would turn their comedic sights on the super-rich and their favorite playgrounds in the West, places like Jackson Hole. This from the book's intro:

It all began a decade and a half ago or so in the far American West, in Montana and Wyoming and those other states that appropriated and misspelled the Native American words for "Big Empty Space" and "Much Bigger Empty Space"; there, a few daring pioneers from the pharaonically wealthy top crust embarked on a spree, powered by lust, inspired by a vision only they could see.

Because it takes more than money, privilege and cronies in high places to ransack nature's bounty for the private pleasure of a privileged few, in what poets might call acts of sublime idiocy (as if anyone would ask poets their opinion!), in other words, obliterating what always was, and making out of it what never existed before, then flanking it with armed guards and electric fences and Rottweilers.

The writer/illustrator duo go on to explore "the only Montana hunting lodge with its own indoor airport,"  El Rancho Avalancho in Idaho -- the world's first skiable mansion, and "the biggest goddamn bison in Wyoming." During the legislature's first week, it was good to once again laugh at the humor of wretched excess.

Speaking of wretched excess.... A Los Angeles Times story excerpted in my local paper today is about the largest wind ranch in creation, coming soon to Carbon County. Big enough to fit all of L.A. inside of it, the 500-sqare-mile ranch -- owned by gazillionaire Philip Anschutz -- will be home to 1,000 wind turbines and the starting point for a transmission line to carry all the energy to California. Cali needs clean energy and Wyoming breaks wind incessantly -- a match made in heaven. The irony in all of this is that the the most blue of blue states, with more enviros per square mile than anywhere else on earth, will be getting its energy from the most red of red states, a place that keeps its energy rates the lowest in the nation by burning coal, the dirtiest energy-creating substance there is.

California has until 2020 to ensure that one-third of its energy comes from renewable resources. Meanwhile, its cities are clouded in a haze that travels from pollution generated by coal-burning plants in China. Some of that coal comes from Wyoming's Powder River Basin. Wyoming currently is working with officials in Washington to build new ports to ship more coal to China.

The world is indeed an odd place.

September Colorado floods spawn toxic sludge

Wyoming writer Laura Pritchett surveyed the Colorado floods as a passenger in a small plane. Her article appeared today on OnEarth. Also on board the plane was a camera crew from CNN. The big story is one that's been almost ignored by the media -- how the flooding affected fracking wells in Weld County, the sprawling swatch of land just to the south of Laramie County in southeast Wyoming (my home). Great article, and scary for all of us on the High Plains. Read it at http://www.onearth.org/articles/2013/09/a-view-from-above-shows-how-the-colorado-superstorm-damaged-fracking-facilities

350Cheyenne screens award-winning "Chasing Ice" Sept. 12

This announcement comes from writer and Wyoming Tribune-Eagle columnist Edith Cook:

We are showing the film Chasing Ice at the Laramie County Library in Cheyenne on Thursday, September 12, 2013, at 6:30 PM.

The event is free of charge, sponsored by 350Cheyenne. 

This film of electrifying beauty documents the quest of one man (National Geographic photographer James Bolag) to explore glaciers and ice-sheets worldwide; he wished to determine how and why they melt. 

Winner of the 2012 Sundance Film Festival, Roger Ebert labeled the film “heart-stopping.” The New York Times made it its Critic’s Pick and the NY Daily News gave it a five-star rating.  Please attend if you can do so.

ISLE Journal issues a "call to writers" on behalf of climate change

Saw this call for entries on the Facebook page of author and environmental activist Terry Tempest Williams. Terry divides her time among Utah, Wyoming and assorted worldwide destinations. She will be the closing keynote speaker at the Wyoming Arts Conference in Jackson Oct. 12-14. I'm really looking forward to her talk, as are many others. Register for the conference here. 

This "Call to Writers" on behalf of climate change by Kathleen Moore and Scott Slovic for the ISLE (Interdisciplinary Studies of Literature and the Environment) Journal.

A Call to Writers

As the true fury of global warming begins to kick in — forests flash to ashes, storms tear away coastal villages, cities swelter in record-breaking heat, drought singes the Southwest, the Arctic melts — we come face to face with the full meaning of the environmental emergency: If climate change continues unchecked, scientists tell us, the world’s life-support systems will be irretrievably damaged by the time our children reach middle-age. The need for action is urgent and unprecedented.

We here issue a call to writers, who have been given the gift of powerful voices that can change the world. For the sake of all the plants and animals on the planet, for the sake of intergenerational justice, for the sake of the children, we call on writers to set aside their ordinary work and step up to do the work of the moment, which is to stop the reckless and profligate fossil fuel economy that is causing climate chaos.

That work may be outside the academy, in the streets, in the halls of politics and power, in the new street theaters of creative disruption, all aimed at stopping industry from continuing to make huge profits by bringing down the systems that sustain life on Earth. These activist efforts need the voices of writers, the genius of thought-leaders, the energy of words.

But there is essential work to be done also in our roles as academics and writers, empowered by creative imagination, moral clarity, and the strength of true witness. Write as if your reader were dying, Annie Dillard advised. “What would you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?” Now we must write as if the planet were dying. What would you say to a planet in a spasm of extinction?[2] What would you say to those who are paying the costs of climate change in the currency of death? Surely in a world dangerously slipping away, we need courageously and honestly to ask again the questions every author asks, Who is my audience—now, today, in this world? What is my purpose? 

Some kinds of writing are morally impossible in a state of emergency: Anything written solely for tenure. Anything written solely for promotion. Any shamelessly solipsistic project. Anything, in short, that isn’t the most significant use of a writer’s life and talents. Otherwise, how could it ever be forgiven by the ones who follow us, who will expect us finally to have escaped the narrow self-interest of our economy and our age?

Some kinds of writing will be essential. We here invite creative thought about new or renewed forms our writing can take. Perhaps some of these:

The drum-head pamphlet. Like Thomas Paine, writing on the head of a Revolutionary War drum, lay it out. Lay out the reasons why extractive cultures must change their ways. Lay out the reasons that inspire the activists. Lay out the reasons that shame the politicians. Lay out the reasons that are a template for decision-makers.

The “broken-hearted hallelujah.” Like Leonard Cohen, singing of loss and love, make clear the beauty of what we stand to lose or what we have already destroyed. Celebrate the microscopic sea-angels. Celebrate the children who live in the cold doorways and shanty camps. Celebrate the swamp at the end of the road. Leave no doubt of the magnitude of their value and the enormity of the crime, to let them pass away unnoticed. These are elegies, these are praise songs, these are love stories.

The witness. Like Cassandra howling at the gates of Troy, bear witness to what you know to be true. Tell the truths that have been bent by skilled advertising. Tell the truths that have been concealed by adroit regulations. Tell the truths that have been denied by fear or complacency. Go to the tarfields, go to the broken pipelines. Tell that story. Be the noisy gong and clanging cymbals, and be the love.

The narrative of the moral imagination. With stories and novels and poems, take the reader inside the minds and hearts of those who live the consequences of global warming. Who are they? How do they live? What consoles them? Powerful stories teach empathy, build the power to imagine oneself into another’s place, to feel others’ sorrow, and so take readers outside the self-absorption that allows the destruction to continue.

The radical imaginary. Re-imagine the world. Push out the boundaries of the human imagination, too long hog-tied by mass media, to create the open space where new ideas can flourish. Maybe it is easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism or fossil fuels or terminal selfishness. But this is the work that calls us—to imagine new life-ways into existence. Writers may not be able to save the old world, but they can help create the new one.

The indictment. Like Jefferson listing the repeated injuries and usurpations, let facts be submitted to a candid world. This is the literature of outrage. How did we come to embrace an economic system that would wreck the world? What iniquity allows it to continue?

The apologia. Finally this: Write to the future. Try to explain how we could allow the devastation of the world, how we could leave those who follow us only an impoverished, stripped, and dangerously unstable time. Ask their forgiveness. This is the literature of prayer. Is it possible to write on your knees, weeping?

And a Specific Invitation

In the case of global climate change—or, to put it directly, global warming—the importance of this call to the world’s most eloquent voices and most powerful imaginations cannot be overstated. The virtue of applying literary—and more broadly humanistic—voices to this issue is, in part, the fundamental pluralism of such voices. Our goal is not to ask for a single, unified perspective, but to draw forth a chorus of diverse responses to global warming. At this time, we urge our colleagues to apply their talents and their wisdom to the phenomenon that is altering the inhabitability of this planet more profoundly than any other anthropogenic impact. What do you have to say on the subject of global warming? How might your poetic, narrative, philosophical, teacherly, or scholarly voice make a difference?

Are you a poet or a storyteller? A philosopher or an ecocritic? A journalist or a script writer for film? Perhaps a literary essayist who weaves together many different modes of expression? Or is your medium the letter to the editor or the course syllabus? Recognizing the diverse forms of writing employed by writers throughout the world—and perhaps the need to invent or reinvent forms of writing equal to the emergency of global warming—we call upon you not only to feel the heat we all feel in this warming world, but to think about the heat and to find find le mot juste to match this unparalleled environmental and social challenge.

We have previously published climate-related articles and literary work in the pages of ISLE, but there has never been a focused cluster devoted to this essential topic. Now, with a short turn-round time that reflects the unprecedented urgency of this challenge, we invite readers of ISLE to send us scholarly and creative work for a global-warming cluster that will appear in the Winter 2014 issue of the journal. We can consider work received by September 30. Please contact us if you have any questions (kmoore@oregonstate.edu and slovic@uidaho.edu).

We also wish to encourage our students and colleagues throughout the world to devote their efforts to this pressing issue with an eye toward publishing in future issues of ISLE; in other scholarly, creative, or popular forums; and through untraditional and even non-public media, such as behind-the-scenes letters to elected officials or corporate leaders.

Your voice is needed. We call upon you to put your mind to the meaning of climate change. Do you have something better to do?

Kathleen Dean Moore and Scott Slovic

Wyoming coal dust a pollutant -- or not? Ask a bride...

On Saturday, I posted about Seattle and the fact that urbanites in that green bastion might have to drink their lattes with a spritz of coal dust if Wyoming and Montana and Peabody Energy get their way and send swarms of coal trains to West Coast ports. Most of the coal will be bound for energy-hungry China.

One reader told me that Powder River Basin coal companies are now spraying the tops of their coal cars with "surfactants" that adhere to the coal and prevent the dust from flying every which way. Burlington Northern Santa Fe officials said that "spraying cuts dust by 85 percent," according to a story in the Portland Oregonian.

I also found out from the same article that coal companies now load coal in a "bread loaf shape that reduces dust." Not sure how that works, but I'm willing to accept the fact that changing the aerodynamics of a train load can have a positive effect.

A war is being waged here between energy-producing red-staters and bluish greenies on the coast. Some of my fellow union members in the Pacific Northwest are in favor of the coal train shipments as it could mean up to 15,000 jobs at the ports and the railyards. Some of my fellow red-state Dems in the northern Rockies are against the coal shipments and the coal burning that will lead to more global warming. The mayor of Missoula, for instance. But you know how Missoula is. 

Yesterday the Army Corps of Engineers announced that it will not do an in-depth study of the possible pollution caused by a flurry of coal shipments to West Coast ports. The coal people saw this as a victory while the anti-coal people did not. As we all know, only part of this struggle is about scientific fact; the rest is about emotion and political clout. Repubs will shout about jobs and the free market. Dems will shout about pollution and global warming. 

But what will the brides be shouting about?

The in-laws, probably, especially the groom's drunken uncle. But they won't be complaining about coal dust ruining their dresses if they're getting married outdoors in Gillette "Coal City" Wyoming.  

I caught a short status update on Facebook today that addressed the issue. It was by Joe Lunne, PIO of the City of Gillette.  I work as a PIO when I'm not blogging, so I know that Joe is just trying to do his job in the face of overwhelming attacks from environmentalists and The Liberal Media Monolith. Coal pays the piper in Gillette and throughout the state. I thought his approach to this issue was touchingly personal, which is really what most political fights come down to. Take a look at the accompanying photo and then read the status update:

"This picture shows a stretch of the walking path around Cam-Plex park. The park is only 75 feet from Highway 14/16 and about 175 feet from the railroad tracks that carry millions of tons of coal out of the Powder River Basin every day. 

"Around a hundred weddings take place in the park each year, and that would not happen if coal were as dirty as its critics say it is. The park is clean...and so are the wedding dresses. The brides wouldn't have it any other way!"

I don't think that Joe will be called to testify at any Congressional hearings. Or any of the hundred brides that get married this year down by the railroad tracks. But who knows? Weirder things have happened. 

The future was now at the 1962 Seattle World's Fair

Michael McGinn, the mayor of Seattle, was interviewed on NPR's "Science Friday" today. He rides his bike to work and wants to make his city the greenest in the nation. During his remarks, he mentioned that the city was celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Seattle World's Fair and was looking ahead to city's next fifty years, which includes significant threats from climate change. 

I was a bit shocked to realize that the world's fair, subtitled the "Century 21 Exposition," was 50 years ago. In the summer of 1962 (that's actually 51 years ago, but Seattle likes long parties), my father and mother bundled their six kids into a Ford Falcon station wagon and drove us from Moses Lake in eastern Washington to Seattle. We were taking the long way to a new home in Wichita, Kansas. Dad was a builder of ICBM missile silos and apparently Washington was full up with missiles so we were now moving on to the wheat fields of southeastern Kansas. We needed more nukes lest a missile gap develop with the Soviets which would threaten our American way of life, our precious bodily fluids, and so on.

In Seattle, we rented an apartment a few miles away from the fair. If I had only forecast how hip Seattle was going to become, I would have stayed right there. Alas, we were only in residence for a few days, long enough to go up in the Space Needle, ride the monorail and eat some Swedish food that made me sick.

I'm not sure what possessed me to eat Swedish food when there was all sorts of good American grub around every corner. My parents may have wanted to give me a taste of a foreign country, expand my horizons. That way, when I turned 18, I would feel the urge to flee my homestead for foreign lands, thus opening up another place at the dinner table for the three additional siblings that soon would join us.

I got sick. It wasn't food poisoning, I don't think. It just didn't agree with me. I had recovered sufficiently the next day to eat a burger and fries at the American pavilion which was located a long way from where the Swedes were hatching plots against Americans.

It was a fun trip. We left Seattle via a ferry that took us by the Bremerton Navy Yards where we viewed hundreds of mothballed World War II ships. We cruised the Olympic Peninsula and ended up at a beach where I got my first glimpse of an ocean. As we ran barefoot into the cold Pacific, little did I know that in a few years I would be living by another (much warmer) beach, this one in Central Florida, while my father worked for NASA to get some guys on the moon.

I visited Seattle in 1972, ten years after I was almost poisoned at the world's fair. I was 21, hitchhiking cross country with Sharon, my 21-year-old girlfriend from Massachusetts. We were both college dropouts, footloose and fancy free. The Selective Service System lads had sent me a nice note earlier that year. Three years as draft bait was long enough and they were moving on to younger targets.

We stayed in a hostel near the university. We went to the world's fair site, rode the monorail and went up in the Space Needle. No Swedish food for me this time, thank you. I probably couldn't have found it if I wanted it. Seattle was still working on becoming a hipster enclave. Now it's probably lousy with Swedish food and Turkish food and Peruvian food and all the rest, although the portions are probably smaller.

I send my best wishes to Seattle. Global warming and rising sea levels are not going to be kind to this storm-tossed outpost on the Pacific Rim. Your air may also be fouled by coal dust from the myriad coal trains Wyoming soon plans to send to the West Coast. The coal is destined to shipping to China which will burn it, adding to the CO2 levels which in turn will fuel global warming which will send waves crashing into the base of the Space Needle. I live in Wyoming, by the way. But don't blame me. I'm on your side, Seattle. In case you have to flee the raging seas, there's plenty of room out here in the Wide Open Spaces under The Big Sky. Just be sure to bring along your blue politics (we few Wyoming Dems crave company) and some of those funky food trucks --Big Boys Filipino Food Truck, Kaosamai Thai Cook Truck or Tuk Tuk Mobile Feast. And don't forget the seafood, although the salmon may be swimming a lot closer to Cheyenne in fifty years.

Surf's up!

Celebrate Earth Day! Buy a Bulgemobile!

Bruce McCall's Bulgemobiles, first seen in National Lampoon.

I was a clean-cut lad of 19 when the first Earth Day was christened on April 22, 1970. I remember it well. The magnolias, dogwoods and the Carolina coeds were all in bloom. Not that it mattered much, as my chances were better going out on the town with a bloomin' tree than a real-live coed, most of whom seemed to be focused on their hippie boyfriends. A year later, I would trade my weekly ROTC haircuts for none at all. But in the spring on 1970, I was one squared-away but clueless guy. I was unaware that such a thing as Earth Day had sprouted amidst the counterculture. The earth was a mess. Polluted American rivers, such as the Cleveland's Cuyahoga, caught fire regularly. A few years earlier, Rachel Carson's had exposed the deadly effects of pesticides in Silent Spring. Counterculture types were getting back to the earth with Whole Earth Catalog as their bible and ganja as their guide.

Here it is, 43 years later, and Earth Day has shown a surprising persistence. In some places it's treated as an official holiday, without the day off and newspaper advertising supplements. Celebrate Earth Day! Buy a Bulgemobile!

Yesterday, while perusing the library's electronic card catalog, I saw a number of Earth Day books, most geared to young readers. There were surprisingly few for adults, although there is a new bio of Rachel Carson. The library had plenty of titles on climate change and global warming, many reflecting the battle over the topics, one that has been settled on the side of real science instead of right-wing fantasies.

Governmental entities are even getting into the act when it comes to sponsoring Earth Day events. The much-maligned Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) is sponsoring a bunch of Earth Day events all over the U.S. Our region (CO, MT, etc.) boasts a number of them. Alas, there are none in Wyoming, which should make WY Rep. Cynthia Lummis very happy.

My employer, the Wyoming Division of State Parks and Cultural Resources, has teamed up with the Cheyenne Parks and Recreation Department to celebrate Earth Day and National Let’s Get Outside Day at the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens' Paul Smith Children’s Village on Saturday, April 20, from 9 a.m. until 1 p.m. Activities including the making of trash robots, plant necklaces, a story time and a Story Walk, featuring the Giving Tree. Parents are encouraged to recycle old garden hoses by bringing them to the event for use at the Children’s Village. FMI: Ashley Rooney at 307-777-6560 or Ashley.rooney@wyo.gov.

In the "health and fitness" category, local gubment is stepping up to the plate with Step Up Cheyenne. What does health and fitness have to do with the environment? You don't want to be the human equivalent of a bulgemobile, do you? My family participated in StepUp last spring and summer and it did wonders in reducing our unwanted bulges. Walking 10,000 steps a day took 20 pounds off of me, leading to a svelte appearance that caused me to consume fewer resources. This is a public-private collaboration, sponsored by businesses (Wyoming Tribune-Eagle, WinHealth Partners) in partnership with Cheyenne Parks & Rec, Cheyenne Greenway Foundation, Laramie County School District No. 1 and a host of others.

New Greenpeace video about our Powder River Basin coal

New video about plans for our Powder River Basin Coal (includes model trains and special effects).

We have winter-hardy strawberries in the High Plains thanks to the USDA Horticulture Research Station

Ogallala strawberries. Winter
won't last forever.

On Tuesday, Feb. 5, 8:30-8:30 p.m., in the Laramie County Public Library's Cottonwood Room, learn how the USDA High Plains Horticulture Research Station helped to settle the region and how the City of Cheyenne has acquired, and hopes to develop, 62 acres as a public arboretum. Presented by Shane Smith, Cheyenne Botanic Gardens Director. Lecture followed by cooking demonstration and food provided by Triumph High School Catering: warm salsa, pico de gallo and tortilla chips. Free and open to the public. This is part of the "Key Ingredients" series held in conjunction with the Smithsonian's traveling exhibit at the library and Botanic Gardens.

Farming is a challenge at 6,200 feet. The growing season is ridiculously short, the weather is capricious, winds are brutal and water is scarce. And that’s in the age of air-conditioned tractors and, irrigation and genetically-engineered crops. Imagine what it was like 100 years ago in the Great American Desert. Let’s say you were rolling into Laramie County, Wyoming, by train, having left the lush forested clime of Ohio or Tennessee a week earlier. You might have been tempted to say, “WTF,” or immediately get back on the return train. The United States Department of Agriculture established its High Plains Horticulture Research Station outside Cheyenne in 1928. At the station…

Over 1,300 varieties of tree fruits, (apples, pears, plums, cherries, etc.) and 300 varieties of small fruits (raspberries, strawberries, currants, and gooseberries) were tested for hardiness to drought and cold. To find a winter-hardy strawberry for the High Plains 42,000 native strawberries were collected from Montana to New Mexico. This work led to the release of several superior varieties, including Radiance, Ogallala and Fort Laramie. 

My modest strawberry patch has a selection of Ogallala and Fort Laramie varieties. I cover them with mulch every fall and they’re blooming when I uncover them in May. The station eventually moved on to study grasslands and grazing but it had a big impact on the area during its 80-something years. Its director during the 1970s was family friend Dick Hart, a cowboy poet and unofficial poet laureate of Cheyenne. He also recreates Teddy Roosevelt on occasion. His wife Helen is an artist and once led the Cheyenne Artists Guild. They’re retired now but remain active in the community. They've made a huge difference to their adopted land.

Interesting to note that the feds brought this oasis of fruits and vegetables to the Great American Desert.  Your taxpayer dollars at work.