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What We Lose Giving Away Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante

In the late 1970’s, Cindy and Donny drove their canoe to Lake Powell—the highway south to Hite was newly paved, sliding across the landscape that would someday become Bears Ears National Monument—and set out for a nook called Hall’s Creek. The reservoir was still filling in and they’d heard about a unique jut of land where you could land your boat and climb out. The high water made new spaces accessible, opening up routes impossible to reach just a few years earlier, standing on the shoulder of the submerged spaces underneath.

They found the spit of land someone told them about, stashed their canoes, and hiked into the backcountry without a map. It was late summer and the potholes were dry. They had enough supplies to last a few days, but it was too hot, and they worried about running out of water. After three days they turned around and followed their tracks—the only tracks, breaking the fragile bio crust—back to the lake. They were thinking about the long drive home and a hot meal back in Salt Lake. They were thinking about the weight of their packs, but they weren’t thinking about their canoe until they realized it was gone.

When we followed Cindy and Donny’s route last spring, paddling our own canoes across Lake Powell towards the southern edge of Grand-Staircase Escalante National Monument, we had the canyon-turned-lake, mostly, to ourselves. There were houseboats—Serenities and Nauti Bouys—anchored near shore. A beach with overturned tires roasting in the sun. Another beach with a pontoon canopy frame sticking out of the sand like spider legs. These human structures sat listlessly waiting for somebody to move them, fix them, take them somewhere else.

We didn’t stay on the water long. Within a few hours we reached a sandy peninsula, pulled our boats onto the beach and left a message taped to one upturned bow: These boats are not abandoned. Please do not steal. Our lives depend on them. We will return on March 26. Our trajectory was a climb into the Waterpocket fold, a 100-mile-long buckle of sedimentary rock stretching from Thousand Lake Mountain to Lake Powell. It’s a buckle filled with sandstone arches, gypsum walls, and potholes filled with snails crawling along the rim. This is not a landscape I had immediate language for: the slick rock we gripped without falling. The slot canyons we disappeared down not knowing what might be on the other side. The wide, flat areas filled with sand, the wash, where the water wants to run when it rains.

The drizzle started on the third night as we cooked dinner, a relief after two days of sun. We pulled on rain jackets and watched the direction of the clouds. We could see real rain in the distance, miles and miles away, and we watched it pass as we finished eating. At midnight the wind picked up and the tent poles started to bend. I put my hand out. Whether or not our tent would really cave in, it was a gesture. I pushed and the wind, tunneling down the canyon, pushed back. Then I heard it—water running past the tent.

I stepped outside and found the flood—a stream I could step across—winnowing past in the darkness. It was impossible to know how much water was gathering in the plateau above, so we started pulling up tents. Sandals and stakes float away. The thunder is already in the distance by the time we’ve moved camp safe above the wash. I imagine the whole desert shifting itself under the miles and miles of rain. The streams are carrying sandstone into Lake Powell, and the canyon at the bottom is filling back up. I spent a million years moving this shit out of here, the canyon under the lake might say, and when this dam is gone, I’ll do it all over again.

Cindy and Donny never found out what happened to their canoe. It’s at the bottom of the lake or in someone’s Salt Lake City backyard. Donny followed the shoreline for a day until he found help, and another boat, to retrieve Cindy from where he left her by the edge of the water. Our boats were waiting for us when we climbed down from our campsite and paddled back to the landing.

There’s a game I’ve played since childhood, a habit that flickers every time I visit a familiar city: first I try to see past the telephone poles, then I readjust the slope of hills cut flat by roads. I’m curious about landscapes before they were occupied by my ancestors, before short-term profits superseded ecosystems, before trash was left along a shoreline that used to be a canyon. The closest word I’ve found for this game of uncivilizing is anamnesis, a Platonic belief that we can possess knowledge from past incarnations. Its root contains a forgetting, amnesia, but the word believes in the act of remembering.

President Trump’s recent decision to shrink Bear’s Ears and Grand-Staircase Escalante National Monuments and expose those public lands to extraction is a form of state sanctioned amnesia. It denies future generations the opportunity to experience and know a landscape bigger than ourselves. Glen Canyon will not return in our lifetime, and neither will the public lands our President is currently turning over for profit and consumption.

The day after the storm, high into one drainage, we wandered towards a willow tree and found two balloons caught in the bushes nearby. One said Congratulations. The other was shaped like a shamrock. We tried to retrieve them but the sun-bleached latex disintegrated in our hands.

Five Questions for the Author: Gleb Raygorodetsky, The Archipelago of Hope

To celebrate the recent launch of an important and relevant new book, The Archipelago of Hope, I reached out to its author, Gleb Raygorodetsky, to learn more.

Born and raised in a small village on the Bering Sea coast of Kamchatka Peninsula, USSR, Gleb immigrated to the United States in 1988. He made his way from New York City to Fairbanks, Alaska, where he continued his studies in wildlife biology. Since then, Gleb has traversed the Americas, from Canada’s Beaufort Sea to the Brazilian Amazon, from the Andes to the shores of Lake Superior, living with Indigenous peoples as diverse as Aleut fur seal hunters, Amazonian Caboclos pirarucu fishermen, and the Gwich’in caribou hunters.

After earning his PhD in ecology, evolution and environmental biology, he continued working with Indigenous groups around the world. Gleb has written and contributed to books and scientific articles on Indigenous issues, traditional knowledge, and conservation in both English and Russian. He wrote Gwich’in Words about the Landa book on the Indigenous ecological knowledge of Gwich’in people in the Northwest Territories. He has also written popular articles on Indigenous and environmental issues for various magazines. Gleb is a co-founder of Conversations with the Earth (CWE)—an Indigenous-led multimedia initiative that amplifies Indigenous voices in the discourse on climate change.

1) Your recent book is called The Archipelago of Hope. Can you give us a synopsis on what the book is about and how the word “archipelago” made it into the title? 

The Indigenous communities and their traditional territories are the islands of biocultural diversity in the ever-rising sea of development and urbanization. The Archipelago of Hope takes readers on a journey to explore the inextricable links between Indigenous cultures and their lands, and how they form the foundation for climate change resilience around the world.

Indigenous peoples have a millennia-long track record of maintaining intimate relationships with the natural world, which has nourished their communities and sustained their cultures. This is the track record that they have maintained despite formidable odds, including multiple “izations”—colonization, Christianization, sedentarization, and globalization.

What makes Indigenous communities indispensible in the search for climate change solutions is that their ancestral territories are the “living laboratories,” where the traditional practices and understanding of nature meet modern technology and scientific insights, generating new knowledge critical for developing relevant climate change responses.

2) You are an expert in the field of “biocultural diversity” conservation. Can you define this field and tell us how you entered into this sort of work? 

In recent years, a number of integrative disciplines—systems science, resilience science, ecosystem health, ethnoecology, deep ecology, Gaia Theory, and others—have sought ways to advance our understanding of the relationships between people and nature, incorporating insights from both the biological and social sciences as well as Indigenous knowledge.

Various organizations working on biodiversity conservation, cultural preservation, and sustainable development are increasingly relying on such holistic approaches in their work. Out of all these approaches, biocultural diversity has particularly resonated with me. Biocultural diversity is a product of millennia of coevolutionary relationships between humans and their surroundings, when people rely on their environment for survival while adapting to and modifying it.

(Photo: On sacred Ukok Plateau, Maria Amanchina, a traditional Altai shaman and healer, lights a pipe to send her prayers with the smoke to the Sky, the Land, and the Spirit of Altai.) 

3) Can you explain Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK), and how it’s being used (or not) when making important climate and environmental policy today? 

TEK is the cumulative body of knowledge, practices, and beliefs about the relationships between people, other living beings, and their environment, handed down through generations through oral and hands-on transmission. It provides valid and practical information about various ecological processes including, for example, daily movements of animals, their seasonal distribution, and multi-year changes in abundance. TEK-based monitoring allows for timely detection of environmental changes, and development of appropriate community responses that help maintain the integrity of local social-ecological systems.

Until recently, TEK has been largely ignored, but increasingly it has been recognized for its important contributions to such fields as wildlife conservation, land use planning, environmental monitoring, and human wellbeing. New emerging frameworks, such as Multiple Evidence Based approach, creates a platform for an equitable knowledge co-production. By focusing on the complementarity of diverse knowledge systems based on both Indigenous and scientific knowledge systems, this leads to better decision-making on multiple scales. 

(Photo: Inside a Nenets herders’ traditional chum, Gosha Khudi is taking a break from his daily chores and checks text messages on his cell phone. A young reindeer doe, a survivor of the 2013–2014 “rain-on-snow” extreme weather event, hides from mosquitos inside the tent.)

4) What are some takeaway lessons you learned while immersed in Indigenous communities to discuss such global challenges as climate change?

All of the Indigenous peoples featured in the book are intimately aware of the web of relationships that sustains them and their traditional territories. The interdependence of animate and inanimate, spiritual and physical, past and future, rights and responsibilities, traditional knowledge and science, are fundamentally important for sustaining our planet’s biocultural diversity.

Despite everything the modern world has thrown at them, the Indigenous peoples I profiled have found ways to persevere and even thrive, by keeping their links to the land and other living beings. What makes these Indigenous communities resilient is that their stewardship of the land is based on Respect, Reciprocity, and Reverence (3Rs) to each other, their neighbors, and the Earth.

Traditional territories of Indigenous peoples continue to support the majority of the earth’s remaining biological and cultural diversity, intact forests, undammed rivers, and ecosystem services, which are fundamental for regulating the climate. Recognizing Indigenous peoples’ inherent rights to fulfill the responsibilities of looking after their traditional territories—the obligations they inherited from their ancestors—is a prerequisite for sustaining the resilience of these places.

(Photo: The Islands of Clayoquot Sound (British Columbia, Canada) are reluctant to get out from under the cover of morning fog. But later in the day, the summer sun often burns through the mist, and the light throws land- and seascape into sharp, vibrant relief.)

5) What’s next?

My hope is that The Archipelago of Hope becomes more than just words on paper, that it turns into flagstones on a road to healing, reconciliation, and positive transformation. I am working with my long-term partners to create “The Archipelago of Hope” outreach program and a community-focused traveling exhibition program that would enable Indigenous community members to share their own stories with one another, their neighbors, decision-makers, and the broader global community.

We are also establishing “The Archipelago of Hope Indigenous Resilience Fund,” so that any profits earned from the book sales, as well as any donations to the projects profiled in the book, can go directly to the relevant communities, their representative organizations, or their partners. So that eventually, in the words of my friend and teacher Tero Mustonen, the “complete rebirth on the land” becomes a real option for all communities facing climate change. 

Find more information on The Archipelago of Hope:
Visit the Official Website.
Explore Facebook, and Twitter.
Listen to WNYC Studios feature.
Read an excerpt from the book at Cultural Survival.

Letter to the Editor: In Response to “Native or Invasive”

(This owlet and her two siblings were raised, over a two month period, in the crook of this Eucalyptus tree, as have been 13 previous clutches of Great Horned Owls. Photo: Janet Kessler)

This March, we published a thought-provoking article “Native or Invasive,” by Anjali Vaidya, a writer who divides her time between Bangalore, India, and Southern California. What resulted was some interesting conversation and responses, one of which we’d like to share below:

We applaud Anjali Vaidya’s bold and poetic “Native or Invasive” (March/April 2017), which suggests a parallel between the native plant community’s rampant hostility toward “invasive” species and xenophobia regarding human immigrants. “Othering,” whether directed toward plants, non-human animals, or humans, has never done much to advance either science or human rights.

Fortunately, a sea change is now under way in the scientific community, as more and more researchers acknowledge that migration is a fundamental right of nature, and that in our militaristic assault on “invasive” species, we have hubristically done more ecological harm than good. Here in northern California, a group of environmental activists have fought—successfully, so far—against a plan to clearcut, on public lands, hundreds of thousands of a stigmatized tree species (eucalyptus). The shortsighted folly of such a plan–in an era of climate chaos, when every tree is a precious carbon sink—cannot be overstated. Like many “restorationists,” the plan’s supporters—who, shockingly, call themselves environmentalists–hitch their wagon to the heavy use of pesticides, including Roundup (which the World Health Organization has pronounced a probable carcinogen) and other toxins intended to kill “weeds” and prevent regrowth of the hated species.

Readers interested in exploring a more enlightened approach to the native/invasive divide might check out: Beyond the War on Invasive Species: A Permaculture Approach to Ecosystem Restoration, by Tao Orion; Where Do Camels Belong: Why Invasive Species Aren’t All Bad, by Dr. Ken Thompson; and The New Wild: Why Invasive Species Will Be Nature’s Salvation, by Fred Pearce.

Finally, a blog recommendation: https://milliontrees.me/.

Jean Stewart, El Sobrante, CA
Marg Hall, Berkeley, CA

View more of photographer Janet Kessler’s work.
Learn more at the San Francisco Forest Alliance.

Running for Climate: An Interview with Pavel Cenkl

Pavel Cenkl is a man on the move. A well-published writer, Associate Dean of Academics and Director of Athletics at Vermont’s Sterling College, Cenkl weaves together his love for humanities, wild space, and endurance running in response to today’s ecological crises. Two weeks ago, Cenkl returned from his latest project: running over 200 miles across Scandinavia to raise awareness about climate disruption and community resilience. I caught up with Cenkl to learn more about his motivation, the worst moments along the way, and what’s next.

NT: Tell us about your most recent expedition. 

PC: Between August 1 to 8, 2017, I completed a run of 360 kilometers (224 miles) along the Nordkalottleden from Sulitjelma, Norway to Abisko, Sweden as part of a multi-year project to foster conversation and build community around individual and ecological resilience. At the heart of this project is an intention to change the narrative about climate change from resistance to resilience by focusing on the individual’s relationship with place through endurance activities.

On this most recent run I typically averaged between 50 and 65 kilometers a day (30 – 40 miles) and was self-sufficient for several days at a time between resupply points. This run proved to be a far departure from my 2015 Climate Run: Iceland. The terrain was more consistently mountainous and remote; the route was significantly longer; I was largely self-supported and carried everything I needed for days at a time (from tent and sleeping bag to food to extra clothing, navigation tools, and solar panels).

NT: What is Climate Run and how did it all start?

PC: Climate Run is a project I launched in 2014 in preparation for a solo 3-day, 150-mile run across Iceland in 2015. The goal was to bring attention to the relationship between endurance athletics and the broader ecosystem that we all share.

I began my planning convinced that the project would focus on ways that we in the outdoor recreation community could change habits to lessen our global ecological impact – buying more locally sourced equipment, recycling and repurposing used gear, and being more intentional about how we choose to access the outdoors. Over the course of the run I realized that these small individual choices, though important, distract our attention from the much broader concern of how we engage with one another in our communities. Only by building resilience in communities can we hope to develop a lasting relationship with the non-human world and shift our conversation about climate change from one of resistance to one of resilience.

Since then, I’ve given over 20 presentations and workshops to groups ranging from middle school students to outdoor professionals. I’ve nurtured partnerships with gear manufacturers, retailers, and nonprofits to spread the mission of Climate Run. Based on feedback, the project has served as an inspiration for hundreds of people to engage in running events, conversations, and initiatives that integrate ecological thinking with sports.

NT: Have you always been a runner? 

PC: My love of mountain trails began on family hikes in New Hampshire’s White Mountain National Forest in the 1970s and 80s. This led to a series of summers working in the Appalachian Mountain Club’s hut system and moving quickly over trails. I didn’t sign up for my first official race until a nearly a decade later, and I didn’t run a marathon until 2011, and even then it was a trail run that I organized in support of my wife, Jen, who had been diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Since then, I’ve finished several races of 50k to 100 miles, as well as my two multi-day Climate Run events, and I started the nation’s first Trail, Mountain, Ultra Running Team here at Sterling in 2014. I continue to teach and coach running today.

NT: What makes endurance activities such a strong medium for raising awareness? 

PC: At the most basic level, endurance running – with its many hours of pushing one’s body to its physical and mental limits over a range of challenging terrain and weather conditions – exposes our vulnerabilities as humans in a larger world. I revel in both the literal and the more subtle ways in which I find myself bound up and immersed in so many different interconnected systems – whether fording rivers, plunge-stepping through late season snowfields, bounding across spring-loaded heath of mosses and arctic birch, falling into bottomless bogs, or following reindeer tracks to find an easier route.

These adventures force me to explore how the boundaries between self and world begin to blur when we bring our intention and awareness to our experience. And, finally, sharing my stories with audiences around Europe and the U.S. can become a foundation for conversations about building resilient relationships between humans and the environments in which we live.

A long conversation I had with Alexandra Messerli, a glaciologist at the Norwegian Polar Institute in Tromsø, Norway, helped to crystalize the profoundly complex relationships of snowpack, glaciers, permafrost, and both local and global ecological systems. In Norway, glacial melt and recession are critical issues because of the country’s reliance on hydroelectric power, which sometimes ties directly into sub-glacial water flows. Recognizing and measuring glacial recession is nothing new, of course, but with it comes dramatic changes to local ecosystems and impacts on marine life, reindeer populations, and the changing nature of arctic flora in a post-glacial landscape.

I’m both by training and by passion an environmental humanist, endurance athlete, and teacher. I believe that by embarking on these longer high-profile endurance adventures in the Arctic, I can leverage my experience to make significant change to the conversation about our relationship with the non-human world.

“It is at the limits of ourselves that we come
in closest contact with the world.”

NT: Illustrate for us the most challenging moment(s) of your run. 

PC: The unforeseen challenges were principally weather-related: Norway and Sweden had a very snowy winter, cold spring, and cool summer, so according to locals snow melt was 4-5 weeks behind seasons norms. I chose August because it typically offers less snow and drier conditions, but I encountered late June conditions on my run — many undermined snowfields, deep rivers, endless small streams, bogs, and sunken bog-bridges. Temperatures were, though, fairly typical for August — lows approaching 40 degrees Fahrenheit at night and highs of 65 or so in the daytime.

The biggest physical challenge was the toll this mileage and terrain took on my body. I was spent by the end — specifically, I started to suffer a lower-leg pain similar to something I had experienced in Iceland in 2015. By the end of day 8, I was ready to stop, although I still had half the trail left to complete. I felt it was a good decision, for reasons I talked about on my blog, and I had also had several terrifically generative conversations with biologists, glaciologists, and social scientists about the role that climate change is playing in Arctic Norway, along with many experiences both before and during the run itself that underscored my thinking about the deep relationships between the human and non-human world.

NT: What did you eat along the way?  

PC: I carried about 25 pounds of equipment. This included a tent, sleeping bag and pad, stove, clothing, food, and other equipment. For food, I had hot oatmeal and coffee for breakfast and a two-serving re-hydrated freeze-dried meal for supper. During the day, I ate constantly: bars, nuts, chocolate, energy gel, and electrolyte tablets in my water. Despite taking all these calories in, I noticed a decrease in weight by the last days of my run, and for about a week post-run, I simply could not stop eating. 

NT: Are you planning to return? What’s next? 

PC: I do plan to return to Scandinavia, though not necessarily to complete the second half of the Nordkalottleden. I made many good connections during my time there, and I am hoping to return with students on a Sterling College field course, possibly in 2019. In the short term, I am planning a tour to share my experience and perspectives on the human/ecological relationship with as many diverse groups as possible. In 2018, I plan to travel to Hokkaido and run the Daisetzusan Grand Traverse with a group of students as part of a collaborative college-level field course on climate and culture.

For more information, visit Climate Run or contact Pavel Cenkl at [email protected]

From the Vaults: Blessed Inheritance

One year ago, Orion Magazine featured “Blessed Inheritance,” an article and photo essay written by Sierra Crane-Murdoch and photographed by Terray Sylvester. The piece covered land policy issues on Montana’s Blackfeet Reservation. Here in the Great Plains, a mutualistic relationship between the Blackfeet and white cattle ranchers continues to provide both opportunities and challenges in the wake of the 1887 Dawes Act, a paternalistic move on behalf of the federal government to divide reservations into allotments and encourage private land ownership.

Since publication we’ve experienced several plot twists: Standing Rock’s fierce resistance to the Dakota Access Pipeline, an incendiary new president, and growing land policy questions—native lands, public lands, wildlands, homelands. Because of this, here are some words and images from “Blessed Inheritance,” a work that remains just as relevant as it was a year ago.

“Lately, the question of what to do with Indian land has caused fierce debate. Some would like to do away with allotments altogether — this vestige of paternalism — and return the land to tribal governments to hold in common for their people. There have been various federal efforts to do just that, but they have met resistance from Indian landowners who do not want to give up their land, even to their tribes. Some say, Why cling to a system designed to ruin us—a system that rendered Indian land functionally useless? The reply: There is no sense in trying to go back; the tribe will never be what it once was. Besides, my grandparents are buried here.

“There are no clear fixes to the problems wrought by the Dawes Act. But a thin yet durable thread still ties some people to their land: it exists in the cemeteries that top the hills, in the creeks where people go to fish, in the pastel prints — each one a prayer — cinched around the trunks of trees. It is also in the pastures people keep. One day that October, we visited another Indian rancher, a man named Al Boy, who managed his own small herd. We rode with him to the corral, where he fed his cattle, and then out across the dry, brittle prairie. He stopped to show us a circle of half-buried stones, a tipi ring more than a century old. This, I thought, is what people mean when they say they want to “go back to the land.” The feeling is not an abstraction; it is the desire for a physical thing. It is the wanting to be in the place that reminds you every day of where you come from.”

Learn more: 
Read Robin Kimmerer’s “Speaking of Nature” in this month’s issue.
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