Global weirding

I heard Thomas Friedman speak last night, and the following paragraph that he read from his book was powerful: "Later" was a luxury for previous generations, eras, civilizations, and epochs. It meant that you could paint the same landscape, see the same animals, eat the same fruit, climb the same trees, fish the same rivers, enjoy the same weather or rescue the same endangered species that you did when you were a kid - but just do it later, whenever you got around to it. Nature's bounty seemed infinite and all the threats to it either limited or reversible. In the Energy-Climate Era, given the accelerating rates of extinction and development, "later" is going to be removed from the dictionary. "Later" is no longer when you get to do all those things in nature you did as a kid - on your time schedule. "Later" is when they're gone - when you won't get to do any of them ever again. "Later" is too late - so whatever we are going to save, we'd better start saving now. From Flat, Hot, and Crowded, by Thomas L. Friedman.

Friedman is an inspiring speaker who makes a convincing argument that we need to take action now to stop global warming (or 'global weirding' as he likes to say). Being out in nature, observing the animals and plants of the forest, is when I'm happiest, so his words struck fear into my heart.

As we fled the city last night, I enjoyed leaving behind its light pollution. I gazed out to the west and saw a huge mountain range with no electrical lights marring the view. When we arrived home, the stars glittered against the pitch black sky.

The wind howled this morning, making me think that we should have a wind turbine to supplement our solar power, especially on a day like today that dawned gray.


For our ride today, I strongly wanted to avoid going near any roads - because I'm sick of roads and because the wind hits me harder when I'm out of the forest.



So, I set out determined to use the powers of the Fatback to stay on snowy trails for the entire ride. As I'm getting used to my Fatback, I'm becoming a more aggressive pilot at the helm. Today, I rode over and through snow drifts and managed to avoid walking even on forested north-facing slopes. I was awed by the powers of the Fatback - it can go over or through almost anything.


K and I made it to another trail network and another world opened to us. K seemed overjoyed to be exploring territory that she hasn't visited in months. She zipped around like a high-octane puppy and joyfully leaped over all of the downed trees.






















By the end of the ride, the Divide briefly peeked out from the clouds to the west and blue sky emerged to the east.













We didn't see many animals today but we did see a plethora of trees infested with the Pine Beetle - a destructive insect whose population is exploding thanks to the lack of bitterly cold winter temperatures - reminding me that 'later' will be too late to stop global weirding.

Summer in February

The sun shone so brightly that K couldn't keep her eyes open when we sat on an exposed peak.It feels like May. It reached 50 degrees up here at 8200'. I rode my mountain bike with no balaclava, no neck gaiter, and no chemical handwarmers. My tires rolled over some pure dirt trails. I wished for my Safire during one wickedly steep and rocky climb but, alas, I actually needed the studded tires on my Stumpjumper as I churned through some sunlight-bathed snowy areas. The snowy trail to the right traverses an old burn and has baby aspen trees sprouting all over the hillside. The dead trees stood like gnarled skeletons against the snow and sun while the aspens glowed with hope for the future. What a ride.

Today, I rode over the solid snow up to Hug Hill. I lingered on the top to hug K in the warm sun. The view to the west encompassed snowy mountains and the view to the east was dominated by crowded flat plains.
Fortunately, few people know how amazing it is to live in the mountains. Or, perhaps they don't want to live here, an unimaginable state of mind to me. Sure, driving up 3000' to get home can be nerve-wracking in the snow and ice. All of us mountain people have terrifying memories of sliding backward on black ice as we attempted to drive up the hill or sliding off the road while navigating hairpin turns on the steepest downhills. But, that's a small price to pay to live in nature. To have bobcats, coyotes, elk, and even mountain lions outside the door. To have Abert's squirrels peering in the windows like we people are the exotic animals in the zoo. To have only forest in sight. It's my dream life.As I drive home from the city below, I pass a sign that says 'Pavement Ends', and very shortly later, I see a beautiful panorama like the one above. At that point, I transition from city-mindset to mountain-mindset, a drastic change. In the city, I move faster, trying to efficiently 'get things done' and paying little attention to the concrete world around me. In the mountains, I slow down and notice the details of nature. If I wore a blood pressure cuff all day, I'm sure that the reading would drop precipitously when I crest the hill on my way home and see a panorama like the one above.

Today, I had a sweet and mellow mountain bike ride. I enjoyed K's company and then went out to explore on my own. A warm wind blew strongly out of the west. It made holding my line on the open ridges sketchy as the wind actually blew me sideways periodically. But, I didn't mind in the least. I just love the mountains. I rode through some dense pine forests and was shocked by the number of trees infected with pine beetle. In one stand that I passed, more than half the trees harbor beetles. It scares me to think of the brown wastelands that these hillsides might become in a few years. On the hopeful side, I noticed a Douglas Fir understory - and Pine Beetles don't attack Douglas Firs. Perhaps they'll shoot up very rapidly after the death of the pines.

The photo to the right shows a pitch tube on a Lodgepole Pine infected with beetles. When a beetle bores into the tree, the tree produces resin that pours out around the beetle's tunnel. If this defense works, you might see a dead beetle in the dried resin of the pitch tube. I've never seen that yet.

As I rode along the spine of a ridge, I thought of the cinnamon-colored mother bear and her two cubs who foraged there last summer. I imagined them curled up together sleeping through the winter somewhere nearby. Bears don't go into true hibernation. In true hibernation, the body becomes very cold. In contrast, bears maintain a body temperature only a bit lower than normal during winter denning. Consequently, they awaken easily during the winter and sometimes even leave the den. Although I watched for them, I didn't see any bears today despite the summer-like temperatures.

But, I did see another hibernator venturing out into the summer-like world. When I arrived home, I was shocked to see a Golden Mantled Ground Squirrel eating seeds under our bird feeder. These squirrels are champion hibernators who disappear at the end of September and don't reappear until late April. They sleep for more than half of the year! They literally go into suspended animation, and their bodies consume less than 10% of the calories per day than during summer. As 'true hibernators', they let their body temperature fall until it's only slightly warmer than the air surrounding them, and it usually takes them a long time to fully wake up. I've never before seen a Golden Mantled Ground Squirrel emerge during the winter. The little guy who was up and about today might not have stored enough fat to fuel him for a half year of hibernation. He was stuffing his cheeks with seeds and squirreling them away in his burrow. I kept thinking that he must be a restless sleeper - maybe he needs some Ambien.

After riding, I sat quietly with my three Labradors. All of them seemed content and happy. As the sunlight faded, they started to follow my every movement in anticipation of our sunset hike.