Louisiana/Texas, Post 2
“Yes Ma’am...it’s alive. They be millions of them in pots out there in them rice fields”. Drawing by Jennifer Hershey. Follow her on Instagram at deeofo.
Welcome from Galveston, Texas, where we arrived from Louisiana by way of the coastal towns Cameron, Louisiana, and Port Arthur, Texas. Most of south central and southwestern Louisiana below the I-10 corridor from Houston to New Orleans is less than 20 feet above sea level. On both sides of the Intercoastal Waterway this land of marshy prairies, bayous, forests and intense wetlands supports many wildlife sanctuaries, cattle ranches, sugarcane and rice farms, and crawfish trapping. It was a pleasure to cycle through. People are friendly, and the inland towns are small and attractive.
A rice field east of Lake Arthur, LA.
We had an interesting encounter with a very busy and successful woodworker named Mark near New Iberia, Louisiana, who showed us his shop, and introduced us to some of his workers. After we got settled into a motel in nearby Abbeville, he and his wife Dona picked us up and took us out for a sensational seafood dinner. We enjoyed Louisiana hospitality at its best, with good food and plenty of libation and conversation. Although we could sense we weren’t all likely to be on the same page politically (even though we shared a concern for rising sea level and the fate of the lowlands), a strong and jovial spirit of acceptance and friendship remained intact. Interestingly, the next day Mark read my recent blog post, and texted me “Great post. Observe more, judge less. Good way to live. Just remember, sometimes you have to step up to the plate”. Jenny drew his picture, and I thought about what exactly he meant.
“I got three good sons in laws. I want my family to be healthy. But I worry that the land to the south of here is going to be under water”. Drawing by Jennifer Hershey. Follow her on Instagram at deeofo.
Michael biking through historic Jeanerette, LA.
Jenny with her bike on the way to Lake Arthur, LA.
In addition to their beauty and the warmth of their inhabitants, southern Louisiana and Texas can also be disturbing places to bike through. This bucolic landscape is riddled with debris, machinery, abandoned oil wells and new fracked gas compressor stations. It’s crisscrossed by pipelines carrying oil and gas from conventional wells found underneath the marsh, and an abundance of fracked gas piped in from the north. Much of the fracked gas in western Louisiana originates from the nearby 9000 square mile Haynesville Shale, a large shale play in northwestern Louisiana.
A view of Lake Arthur, LA.
Given the low elevation and the marshy characteristics of the land, it’s obvious that this area is very prone to coastal erosion, storm surges, tidal flooding, and extreme weather events such as hurricanes. A few days earlier, just west of New Orleans, we had contended with tornado warnings, which are quite unusual for the area. Locals agreed, although no one we spoke to suggested a changing climate as a possible cause.
Just south of the Intercoastal Waterway on Highway 24 in southwestern Louisiana. Under these marshes lie a maze of pipelines carrying oil and gas from local deposits and the shale play in northwestern Louisiana.
The sheer vulnerability of the lowland coastal areas of the Gulf Coast seems hauntingly palpable. It’s clear to any thoughtful observer that Louisiana is deeply and complexly affected by our changing climate.
A fishing boat moored near the site of the new LNG global exporting plant at Cameron, LA. The flag on the boat says Trump/Pence 2020 . The entire port area just south of this boat (which used to be public land) is now privately owned by the company building the incoming plant. We weren’t allowed to see it.
The town of Cameron, LA, (once a bustling resort town of 3000 people that was devastated by Category 3 Hurricane Audrey about 60 years ago, and slammed again by Ike in 2008) now only has a few hundred permanent citizens. However, it is now a site for a large liquified natural gas (LNG) global exploring plant that will compete with an equally large LNG global exporting plant under construction in nearby Port Arthur, Texas. This much larger blue collar town lies just across Louisiana's southwestern border, where the Spindletop gusher was struck in 1901, setting off an oil rush that resulted in nearby Houston eclipsing Galveston as the primary port for southeastern Texas.
Gas flares in the marsh about a mile from the Liousiana Coast.
Each new plant currently employs about 3000 construction workers. When complete, the Cameron plant will support 160 permanent jobs, and the Port Arthur plant will support about 200 permanent jobs. That is, of course, unless a major hurricane hits this part of the Gulf Coast, in which case operations will either be temporarily or permanently interrupted.
Abandoned oil wells in High Island, Texas, about a half mile from the Gulf Coast.
The reasons for this activity make economic sense in the short term. Cameron has been quite poor since Hurricane Audrey hit, and jobs are scarce. Consequently, the new plant is very popular among locals. Port Arthur is also poor, although it has more economic diversity than Cameron. However, the proximity of its site for a new receiving terminal will have additional benefit to Houston, so it’s popularity is even greater. Interestingly, in Houston, there is tacit, if not public, recognition among local officials that climate change is real. Based on a conversation we had with a local in Port Arthur, it seems there is hope that new sea walls east of Port Arthur across the Sabine River and further west across the Houston ship channel will mitigate storm surge issues for awhile, at least for southeastern Texas. …For how long, we wondered?
Jenny’s left arm marks the water line for Hurricane Ike in a bicycle shop we went to in Galveston. This 2008 hurricane holds the record for storm surge in Port Arthur, cresting at 22 feet.
So why do so many people in Louisiana and Texas embrace the very industry that may ultimately do them in? Isn't one definition of insanity, “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?”
“I moved one time..in 1954...from next door to here.” Drawing by Jennifer Hershey. Follow her on Instagram at deeofo.
Jobs are important, and 460 permanent jobs might have lasting value for your communities. But at what cost? When your home is losing land to coastal erosion at alarming rates, when scientist are warning us that sea level rise is occurring faster than their previous conservative estimates indicated, when extreme weather events such as hurricanes and tornadoes are becoming more frequent with every passing year, when scientists are looking at establishing a Category 6 for hurricanes because they are growing so much more intense, …..when does that community cut its losses, and change its economic base?
Yes, life will be harder in the short term, but potentially much more livable and rewarding in the long term. Maybe that’s a plate that’s worth stepping up to…
For those of you who geek out on map routes, please email me and I will happily include links to the Garmin maps in this blog post. Frankly, I simply don’t know if they are very important to my readers. If I’m wrong, I’d love to know.
Thanks for reading! More to come…
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Louisiana/Texas, Post 1
“I come after the grande hurricane...10 yrs ago.....from Guatemala . I fish for mi familia every day from aqui.” Drawing by Jennifer Hershey. Follow her on Instagram at deeofo.
The Amtrak Crescent from New York City to New Orleans is a small and somewhat understaffed train. Given their size and cultural stature, it seems like the Big Apple and the Big Easy deserve something more robust, if not all of America. Train travel is low carbon, pleasant, and offers so many other benefits to our transportation system. Apparently few people train between these cities (at least in the dead space of early February before Mardi Gras), so the train not only was small (9 cars total), it was challenging in its lack of basic amenities. Dining cars have been replaced by a limited option of previously prepared food that wears quite thin after a few meals. Bathrooms are few and poorly cleaned. There was no observation car. Yet - as always - I was appreciative of Amtrak’s efficient and inexpensive roll-on bike service. It is both easy and a joy to use. You roll your bike to a baggage car, remove your gear, and hand over your bike to an attendant. When you arrive at your destination, you do the same thing in reverse. Retrieving your bike takes minutes, and after restoring your gear, off you ride.
Jenny Hershey with her gear standing beside our bikes as we board in NYC.
I don't always make New Year’s resolutions, but this year I did: “Observe more, judge less”. It was simple once I said it out loud, although I had been struggling to articulate the thought to myself for quite a while. In addition to an unusual bout of self-reflection inspired by the quick and successive deaths of both my parents, I’d been reading the fascinating book “Why We Are Polarized” by Ezra Klein; a look behind the extreme politicized polarization plaguing America.
The Cathedral in Jackson Square, New Orleans, LA
I was coming to understand that just as we hide parts of ourselves from those we love, we are hidden from one another in a country we love, partly because we assume others should see the world as we do even if we cannot see the same world they do. I had been unsettled by several attacks on FaceBook about my apparent ignorance of the South based on a few inquisitive posts about life in North Carolina. Out of defensiveness, I found myself questioning how much conservative southerners understand, or care to understand, about my identity as a multicultural urban northern liberal. Conversely, I was forced to admit to myself that I knew, or cared, equally little about the identity of white rural southern conservatives.
Oil plant just northeast of NOLA on the Mississippi River.
In anticipation of this trip, both my traveling partner Jenny and I felt trepidation about biking in the Deep South. I hoped Klein’s book would help me frame an approach that would go beyond my own self-perceived static and somewhat predictable liberal perspective. It has not disappointed me.
Just east of NOLA off the Mississippi River levee. Quite alive.
A dead fox. Roadkill.
I admit that we partly chose to explore Louisiana and Texas on bikes because it is a warm place to go in early February. In addition, it is accessible by train (we thought other choices would be more carbon intensive, and low carbon travel is part of our objective). But our country's current form of political polarization also begs for greater interaction between our vastly different political cultures. Interestingly, as a northerner, I often feel greater affinity with European countries and cultures than I do with the political and social cultures of the American south. But since the 2016 election, I’ve come to believe that America is in need of a giant reset (or “rebooting”) and that if I - and other people like me (i.e., members of my group) - don’t grapple with our entire American identity, we are very likely to misunderstand how we arrived at, and might get out of, such a highly polarized present moment.
Near Donaldsville, LA.
My interest in climate change is a case in point. There’s so much about our changing climate that seems obvious to me that I simply cannot fathom the abyss in logic or understanding between me and climate deniers. While I’m very confident the science supports me, I’m learning that facts alone don’t change behavior. Even in an area devastated by Hurricane Katrina, and after numerous recent warnings that the sea level is especially troublesome on the Gulf Coast, plenty of locals remain willfully cavalier, if not downright defiant about taking action.
“I was 13....they took us out by boat. I slept on a bridge for a week with my Grandma. “ Drawing by Jennifer Hershey. Follow her on Instagram at deeofo.
Ezra Klein makes the same argument about rationalizing, or recasting, facts within political cultures. Essentially, his fundamental point is that identity is a far more important driver of political viewpoints than is logic or “facts”. In fact, logic may be the least important attribute of political identity - far less important than cultural, familial, socioeconomic and racial identity. I’m reminded of James Carville’s famous quip during the Clinton administration, “it’s the economy, stupid”. Maybe in the age of Trump, “it’s the tribe, stupid”.
A petrochemical plant just outside the bayou town of Donaldsville, LA.
Stupid, perhaps, but true nonetheless. And so very, very human. So, I’ve decided - and Jenny agrees - that the most useful way to explore Louisiana and Texas right now is to observe more, and judge less. For readers who hope we will brightly burn the climate emergency torch with the message that the apocalypse is well upon us and our southern neighbors need to wake up lest they suffer sooner than their northern neighbors (even though we think that’s true), we may disappoint you. Our agenda right now is simply to understand.
“Yes Ma’am...they got all kinds of plants here. Chemicals and oil and I don’t even know what they got. “ Drawing by Jennifer Hershey. Follow her on Instagram at deeofo.
Maybe a lot of folks just don’t believe that good jobs from a “green economy” will really show up when chemicals and oil companies have been the only big games in town for multiple generations. Or maybe they just don't feel like they can change anything anyway.
Bayou Country about 150 miles southwest of New Orleans.
We talked to a middle aged black man in White Castle, Louisiana, named Orville outside the local grocery store, who told us he had voted for Obama but didn't vote in 2016, and was probably not going to vote in the next election also, even though he thinks Trump is a crook. When we asked him why, he went silent. So we (thoughtful northerners that we are) explained “logically” why he should - since the federal voting power for a Democrat in Louisiana is arithmetically more powerful, given the Senate and the Electoral College, than a vote by a Democrat in New York. Orville looked dubious and replied, “them politician’s all gonna do what they want to anyway.” Jenny and I exchanged glances. We had failed to convince him. So, as we mounted our bikes and road off, Jenny yelled back at Orville, “If you don’t vote in the next election, I’ll come back here and kick your ass”! Orville laughed. Maybe he’ll remember that part of our conversation more then our logic.
Tractor in a fallow sugar cane field near Baldwin , LA. Photo by Jennifer Hershey.
Maybe Orville is right. Yet, Congressional behavior during the impeachment proceedings teaches us that politicians will do just about anything they think the majority of their constituents want them to (with a few exceptions). And maybe that’s a good thing, especially if we want them to do what’s right. But more agreement on what “right” looks like among us constituents would be very helpful, especially when the prevailing view seems so very wrong. And how will we achieve that? I used to think I knew. Now I no longer do… so for myself, I'm trying out the follow idea: Observe more, judge less. And please know, dear reader, it's myself that I am encouraging.
For those of you who geek out on map routes, here are the last four days of our rides on Garmin: Day One, Day Two, Day Three, Day Four.
Thanks for reading! More to come…
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Getting Real About Global CO2 Emissions
“The fear is real”. Drawing by Jenny Hershey, on Instagram at deeofo.
Greetings from New York City. For those of you who wonder what happened to me and Jenny Hershey along the GAP Trail as we left Pittsburgh last October, you can find a short blog post about that ride in the Archived Cycling Tours for 2019 in the drop down menu. And please look forward to following our next ride beginning in New Orleans and heading across southern Texas in early February, 2020. It’s an interesting time in the U.S. for blue state urban northerners to mix with red state rural southerners. We are certainly curious as to what our fellow Americans are thinking about climate change (and many other subjects), and we hope to see and learn some things worth sharing.
But let's attend to a present concern. Previous readers of these blog posts may have wondered about the CO2 icon in the upper left hand corner of this page above the carbonstories.org logo. That is a widget from the CO2.earth website, and is a reference to the latest annual average of parts per million (ppm) of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere as measured at the Scripps CO2 research project at the Mauna Loa Observatory in Hawaii.
This is the famous Keeling curve, which demonstrates a 25 percent rise in carbon levels in our atmosphere since 1960.
This research project was initiated in 1956 by Charles Keeling, and operated under his direction until he died in 2005, when his son Ralph took direction of the project. The iconic “Keeling Curve” chart shown above is a result of their work, and is a well known and accurate record of the rise in CO2 levels since the 1950’s.
As of this writing, the most recently reported measurements of carbon dioxide at the Manua Loa Observatory are:
It is a widely understood, and easily verifiable physics experiment to demonstrate how increasing CO2 levels causes air temperature to rise; in fact this was proven well over 100 years ago by both the Irish physicist John Tyndall and Swedish physicist Svente Arrhenius. Tyndall is widely credited with discovering the greenhouse effect that underpins the science of climate change by publishing a series of studies on the way greenhouse gases, including carbon dioxide, trap heat in the Earth's atmosphere.
Following their leads, other scientists established a clear link at least 30 years ago between the accumulation of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere and increases in surface air temperatures. Scientists have established that temperatures increase 1.8 degrees C for each 3.7 trillion metric tons of additional CO2 in the atmosphere. (Emissions are expressed in metric tons, each of which is equal to about 2,205 pounds). Today's CO2 concentrations and global average temperatures are typically measured against levels that prevailed before the Industrial Revolution, when humans began to have a meaningful impact on the planet's natural chemistry.
That influence has been extraordinary. As you can see in the graph below, current parts per million (PPM’s) are above 400, even though CO2 levels have consistently hovered around 280 ppm for the last 800,000 years until quite recently. The upward explosion in the line graph below begins in the late nineteenth century, corresponding to a rapid rise in the production and use of oil and natural gas in addition to coal. Where the graph ends in real time is anyone’s guess; it depends entirely on what we humans decide to do.
Sourced here from NASA. Note that although current parts per million (PPM’s) are currently over 400, CO2 levels have hovered around 280 ppm for the last 800,000 years until the late 1800’s.
Over the past few decades, scientists have come to understand that carbon dioxide emissions must be reduced to hold human caused global warming below levels that may cause dangerous changes in our climate. As a result, carbon budgets have become a staple of climate change analysis. One excellent source for immediate ongoing tracking is the Global Carbon Project.
Sourced from Climate Central, this chart shows the increasing impact CO2 levels are having on global average temperatures.
Clearly, we are running out of time. Here’s a simple countdown clock from the Guardian that has been in use since the Paris Accord goals were established. It is as specific (and accurate) as the current science will allow. When it comes to global CO2 emissions and greenhouse gases in general, well …it’s time to get real.
Continuing our steady rise in fossil fuel use without capturing emissions is essentially a march toward oblivion. Not only will we experience life-threatening escalating temperatures, sea level rise, increasing diseases, and widespread crop failures, we’ll most likely experience a breakdown of civilization as we know it. For a current and quite sober assessment, see the most recent report by the World Economic Forum, Global Risk Report for 2020.
“Sure, they’re rebuilding in Ocracoke because of Hurricane Dorian. So what? It’s always been like that here”. Drawing from the Outer Banks, North Carolina, by Jenny Hershey. On Instagram at deeofo.
So what do we do? Talking to others is a start, especially policy makers. As you may know, I am active with the Citizens Climate Lobby (CCL), a global organization of over 100,000 volunteer citizen lobbyists who advocate for specific legislation (HR 763) to establish a price on carbon in the form of a fee that returns dividends directly to citizens to mitigate increases in energy costs. This group works hard to convince conservatives that climate change can still be addressed through aggressive market mechanisms. However, the need to act is a nonstarter for those who historically deny climate change science. CCL has been active for over 11 years, and while this ambitious and hardworking citizen lobbying organization has changed many minds in Congress, their legislative agenda remains unmet. If we are lucky enough to get a Democrat in the White House in 2020, CCL’s legislation will most likely prevail, and a decade of effort will finally pay off.
However, the current science tells us that global carbon emissions MUST be cut in half over the next ten years for us to maintain a climate anywhere close to what we humans have enjoyed in our comparatively short time on earth. If we end up with four more years of Trump plus a Republican Senate, we will lose 40% of the time we have to create aggressive changes in national (and global) policies to effectuate change. Considering the stakes, avoiding that outcome is essential.
Anyone who understands climate science agrees that Trump's policies are dangerous, and that his willfully ignorant characterization of those faniliar with the science as “prophets of doom” is patently ridiculous and beyond pernicious. As a result, many environmentalists argue that trying to convince his Republican supporters (especially in Congress) to think effectively about climate change is a complete waste of time and energy. Among them are activists in the interesting and global new group “Extinction Rebellion”. I think this group deserves credit for articulating an approach to the climate emergency that might push policy makers toward meaningful action. They focus on mobilizing people who are already passionate about climate change, and then work to consolidate progressive support for drastic action. Their approach is explained more fully in the following PBS article.
Their philosophy is summed up as follows: “We have finite energy, and spending energy trying to win over the people who are absolutely not going to be won over to your side is peanuts compared to mobilizing the people who would be active or passive supporters,” said Leah Francis, an organizer with the Extinction Rebellion U.S. national team. “We really want to shift people’s perspective on what constitutes normal, socially acceptable behavior around responding to climate change.”
Maybe that's exactly what we need. Maybe, just maybe, those of us who are alarmed by the existential issues of climate change are being just too damn nice.
I’m curious to know what you think…
Thanks for reading! More to come…
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Illinois to New York City, Post 3
This short blog post features photos from the Greater Allegheny Passage (GAP) Cycling Trail in the final leg of a cycling trip from Galesburg, IL to New York City.
One of many views Youghiogheny River along the GAP Trail. Youghiogheny is a Lenape word meaning "a stream flowing in a contrary direction". The Yough provides the gradual ascent to the eastern Continental Divide known as the Great Allegheny Passage. It drains an area on the west side of the Allegheny Mountains northward into Pennsylvania, providing a small watershed in extreme western Maryland into the tributaries of the Mississippi River. And it's sensationally beautiful, although that wasn’t always the case.
A freight train of coal (we counted 102 cars) passes by on a track that follows the Monongahela to the Ohio River. In 1990, coal-fired power plants accounted for about 52% of total electricity generation nationally. By the end of 2018, coal's share of electricity generating capacity decreased to 27% of total electricity generation.
The GAP Trail is always sensational, and fall colors make it superlative.
Another of many views Youghiogheny River along the GAP Trail.
The big savage tunnel is the longest of three on the GAP Trail.
I rode the GAP Trail in 2015, and I don't remember seeing wind turbines before. I assume these have been installed recently. Because they use only a small portion of land and create no pollution and minimal noise, I find them far more attractive than oil wells or fracking pads.
The C&O Canal is full of water with algae that contains organisms that can severely lower oxygen levels in natural waters, killing marine life. Blooms can last from a few days to many months, and some are associated with toxins.
The tunnel at Pawpaw Mountain has a trail on one side and the canal on the other. It’s quite a spooky environment.
A lonely tree sits in the Conestoga Valley east of Lansing, PA. This valley is populated by Amish farmers, and is a stunning place to cycle.
York, PA, has a current population of about 40,000, making it slightly larger than my home town of Galesburg, IL. It was obviously a wealthy and bustling town at one time; the 19th and early 20th century downtown architecture is both sensational and stately.
Illinois to New York City, Post 2
Remains of a home in Brookfield, Ohio, in a populated suburb after a tornado touched down in June of 2019. When we saw it, nearby homes were fine and people were going about their business.
This house is on Main Street in Cambridge City, Indiana. It was intact until July of this year, when it collapsed. A local resident we talked to didn’t know why.
Hello from South Pittsburgh on the historic GAP (Greater Allegheny Passage) Trail. We biked here yesterday from Steubenville, Ohio, an old steel and coal town about 25 miles north of historic Wheeling, West Virginia. The night before we were near Morristown, Ohio, in the rolling western foothills of the Alleghenys.
Both yesterday and today we encountered numerous hills, a few with grades as steep as 15 degrees. But what goes up also comes down, so we enjoyed some great downhill runs. Although it’s grey and rainy today, the past few days have been sunny and warm, and the hill country has been spectacular.
The Cardinal Operating Company, a plant north of Wheeling where coal is made into coke for steel manufacturing. In the 1990’s there were over 100,000 jobs in the steel industry in this valley; now there are about 10,000 jobs.
Fall colors on the way.
After some reflection, Jenny and I decided to take the historic GAP bike trail from Pittsburgh, PA to Cumberland, MD, and then a portion of the C&O (Chesapeake and Ohio) Trail before heading up to Lancaster, PA, on our way back to New York City. Today we are resting and waiting out a rainstorm near the western end of the trail. We chose this alternate route instead of the northern ACA Route to NYC because it is less climbing (by about 20,000 cumulative feet)! I’ve done this route before, and remember it very fondly, so I'm looking forward to sharing it with Jenny. We have currently traveled over 800 miles total, and tomorrow we will start the 150 miles that make up the GAP trail.
This memorial is for 16-year -old Olivia Starrwallace, who ran off the road and into a tree in eastern Indiana while driving near the National High School (which she attended).
Jenny’s drawing of our bartender Dennis at the Pike 40 Bar and Grill in Morristown , Ohio. You can see more of Jennifer Hershey's work on Instagram at “deeofo”.
While such a distance is not new for me, I must compliment my biking partner Jenny. She’s never biked this far, and she has done so with great joy and resolve. She’s tackled intense hills, aggressive and threatening traffic, poor road surfaces, lousy and non-existent shoulders, cold and rain - all without losing her cool or diminishing her spirit.
A tired cyclist rests after lunch.
Locals tell us we’re in Trump country, and we’ve definitely seen a few 2020 campaign signs. The TV is on in our motel. It’s hard to imagine the nation isn’t focused entirely on the impeachment investigation and the Turkish invasion of Syria. But frankly, those issues are not the topic of conversation in most of the places we’ve visited. The Americans we are encountering seem more focused on the basic logistics of making their daily lives work.
Earlier today I found myself wondering what the connection to the outside world was like in small midwestern communities during WWII? Was our nation so focused on winning the war and supporting our troops that you could feel history being made even in the smallest of towns? Did the overwhelming majority of citizens feel like their daily actions were contributing to the creation of a better world?
Some new driving jobs have been created in the Ohio River Valley in the last decade as fracking has expanded. That said, isn’t all traffic (except for electric vehicles powered by renewables) essentially “oil and gas traffic”?
Or did life in rural America then seem more like now, when the unrelenting noise of the outside world seems so far away? Perhaps those who had a close relative involved in the war effort felt involved, much like farm families further to the west might feel more concerned about climate change now, after experiencing several very tough years of extreme weather. Yet, I don’t know how to reconcile the sense of urgent hopefulness I felt last month in New York City as I participated in the Youth Climate March, attended numerous panels at the ever busier annual Climate Week, and followed the extraordinary appearances of Greta Thunberg at the United Nations Climate Summit. It all seemed so significant, and a signal of shifting perspectives.
But in the Ohio River Valley, there’s still plenty of pain (and anger) over decades of economic losses. Worrying about climate change almost seems like a luxury… until one thinks soberingly about an even harsher future. So, as always, lets keep our resolve to change our trajectory. The future is waiting to be invented.
A bridge to another bike path near OSU in Columbus, Ohio.
Speaking of a bright side, we have encountered many long, beautiful and very well maintained cycling trails. About 20 miles west of Dayton, Ohio, we picked up a rural “Rail to Trail” cycling trail, and with a few exceptions of unfinished sections, followed the trail until we left Columbus, about 90 miles later.
The Olentangy River Trail makes its way through much of Columbus, including this lovely park.
This was a remarkable and incredibly pleasant run. We encountered another long section of cycling trail later the same day from Granville past Newark, Ohio, making our total run on trails well over 120 miles. Then, we enjoyed another 20 miles of trail along the scenic Ohio River out of Wheeling, West Virginia, as we headed north to Steubenville, Ohio.
Finally, we rode the Panhandle Trail most of the way into Pittsburgh, capping off a series of great trails through much of central and eastern Ohio.
So we are happy and content, and looking forward to another stretch of dry weather once the current storm passes over. The GAP trail awaits!
Thanks for reading! More to come…
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Illinois to New York City, Post 1
Soybeans wait for harvesting in Greenfield, Indiana.
Back in the Saddle Again
Greetings from my bicycle! My last blog post was in May, and I apologize to readers who may be curious about my disappearance in rough weather somewhere near Westgate, NV, on a cycling trip from Palo Alto to Salt Lake City.
If you’ve been wondering, you might be pleased to know that I did get back home to New York City. In fact, I spent a great summer there. While there, I wrote a blog about how I got home: backtracking to Reno, skipping my plans for Salt Lake, shipping my bike and flying back to New York City. But alas, I got distracted and never posted it. So much for the best laid plans of mice and men (and me).
Even so, I took a few more photographs in Nevada in May that I think are still worth sharing, even if the trip back to New York no longer seems relevant. I include these because I am fascinated by extreme weather events. They are increasingly part of our lives, and I think there is value in bearing witness to what we see around us. You may remember from my last blog that I was fighting my way through a very unusual rain and snow storm in a part of Nevada that is usually hot and dry in May. Along with many other folks I was surprised and challenged by the inclement weather I encountered. Below are a few more shots from that trip that I’m particularly proud of…
Water in the Westgate Bar parking lot on the day I left in late May, 2019.
Flooded salt flats east of Reno.
Rain clouds above the salt flats.
As the summer progressed, I made plans for future cycling with my friend Jenny Hershey, who had just retired from a 31-year career running building operations for Jujamcyn Theaters on Broadway. A founder of the Broadway Green Alliance, Jenny is both an environmentalist and an avid cyclist. To get our feet wet, we took a car camping/cycling starter trip to New Brunswick, the fabulous Cabot Trail in Cape Breton in Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island (PEI), and explored traveling together on bikes for multiple days at a time. If you’ve never been there, I strongly recommend cycling in PEI. There are numerous rail to trail conversions that allow cyclists to get everywhere one could want to go. The shoreline is vast and beaches are beautiful. The islanders take great pride in their environment, and they enjoy rich local culture. Prices are reasonable, and the pace of life is remarkably comfortable. At the same time, internet services and other modern amenities are easy to come by. Don’t miss it!
Jenny by the roadside in PEI. She is wearing a mourners ribbon signifying the period of shiva after the death of her mother Merle Weisman.
Michael gesturing toward the Northumberland Straight in Cape Breton.
Near our campground in Chetticamp, Nova Scotia.
The coast near Chetticamp, Nova Scotia.
Moving On
In addition to being busy, last summer was emotionally eventful. In June and July, as my brothers and I recovered from my Dad’s recent death, we helped our Mom move from an assisted living facility to a nursing home in Galesburg, IL. She didn’t like losing her independence, but is gradually getting used to both the irritation and value of full-time long- term care. Like most older people, my Mom has good days and bad days. A good day occurred recently when Jenny and I arrived via train to meet up with my daughter Saren and her family from Wausau, Wisconsin. My Mom was able to meet her new great grandson Landon.
My Mom Sue Chase and her great grandson Landon Spire.
As I joyfully watched my Mom, my daughter and her son, I realized there were four generations of us in the same room sharing our love. And of course, I found myself wondering what life will be like for Landon when he is my Mom’s age (it will be 2106). Will civilization as we presently know it even exist? Will animal species other than humans and their pets and feedstock still exist? Or will our species be gone as well?
There is increasing scientific evidence that we are quickly running out of time, and we must significantly turn the tide on greenhouse gas emissions over the next decade. I am so pleased that all the Democratic candidates for President are acknowledging climate change as an existential threat, and are developing policy proposals for meaningful change. Personally, I cannot think of a more important way to address our climate emergency right now than to back whatever Democratic candidate is nominated, and to work my heart out for his or her election. And if we are lucky enough to have an administration that understands climate science, then we must put our shoulders to the wheel for national policy that supports carbon pricing and returns dividends to citizens to help bear the increased costs of fossil fuels. We will also need policies to help build the next great economic expansion in renewable energy, carbon sequestration through changing agriculture practices, and carbon technologies to include air-based and flu-based greenhouse gas capture and carbon recycling through manufacturing of inert products such as polymers, fuel and even food. These nascent, yet promising technologies are very hopeful. We only need the will to make them happen. For more information check out the Circular Carbon Network.
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Today I'm writing from a motel in Richmond, Indiana. Jenny and I began this cycling trip about a week ago from Galesburg, Illinois. As I’m sure you are aware, the fall has been unusually hot in the Midwest and the northeast. That changed suddenly last Friday, just as we left Bloomington, Illinois, for Gibson City (with the help of a local Samaritan who drove us 37 miles in his pickup to avoid rain as the temperature plunged to the high 30’s). The next day was even more inclement. By Saturday evening, after Jenny and I had biked 72 miles to Attica, Indiana, we were very cold, wet, miserable and tired.
But the joy of biking is often in the recovery phase. The last two days have been lovely, and today was exceptional. Our trip has become glorious again. Galesburg is about 400 miles west of us at this point. We’re tired and windblown, and enjoying the pleasant and peaceful endorphin rush that comes after several days of hard cycling. It’s nice to feel used up.
The rainy view outside our motel in Gibson City, IL.
Fossil fuels are like this as well! We enjoy now, our grandchildren pay later….
Thanks for reading! More to come…
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
The Highway of Life; A Tribute to Kim Chase
Sand hills east of Fallon, Nevada.
Storm clouds forming to the east of Middlegate, Nevada.
Greetings. I am writing this from Middlegate, Nevada, in a pleasant ramshackle motel that must date back to the 1930's. It doesn't have a name, other than the motel.
This building across the parking lot does have a name - the guest house.
I am traveling by bike from Palo Alto, California to Salt Lake City, Utah, where I will catch a flight back to New York City. Since Carson City, Nevada, I've been on Highway 50; a road once marketed as "The Loneliest Highway in America.." It's part of the "Adventure Cycling Association's "Great Western Trail." It's raining today. A lot. It rained and hailed on Carson Pass. A lot. All along my entire route, locals have been saying it's unusually wet and cold. I wasn't expecting this - I took this route on my GRID Tour in 2016, and enjoyed pleasant and reasonably warm weather the entire time. But with extreme weather on the rise everywhere, cycling is impacted more and more by increasingly greater unpredictability in weather patterns. The same is true for outdoor industries such as farming and construction. Much of our knowledge - which is based in being able to make reasonably accurate predictions - is becoming less useful.
Outside and inside the bar at Middlegate.
Close up of the ceiling in the bar.
I didn't intend to take this trip a few months ago. I had a different plan in mind. But circumstances changed things. On May 4, a few hours after I had arrived for a visit, my Dad passed away. I was fortunate enough to be with him, along with my stepmother Dawn - my Dad's wife of 53 years. Our entire family and so many friends are devastated, of course, but after an amazing life that lasted over 100 years, there is also so much to be grateful for. My Dad lived a long and active life, much of it on his own terms, and he died a reasonably peaceful death with only a few weeks of a troublesome decline. Few are so lucky.
On May 19, many friends and family came together to celebrate my father. My brother Steve did a masterful job as "Master of Ceremonies", and the stories and eulogies for my Dad were very poignant and touching. I think we said goodbye well, in a manner that would have pleased my Dad. The next day a small group of us took a scouting party to a lovely nearby park in the coastal mountains to identify a place where we will disperse his ashes when the time is right.
On the following day I left Palo Alto to cycle to Salt Lake City. I wanted a challenge, and I wanted solitude. I am getting both. At the same time, this route allows me to stay near the California Zephyr train-line so I can easily get to my home town of Galesburg, Illinois, if need be (where my elderly mother lives) with my bike in tow. I guess I'm feeling a bit fragile, and don't want to be very far away if my Mom takes a turn for the worse.
Below is the eulogy I delivered at my Dad's commemoration. Perhaps it will mean something to others who weren't able to attend his memorial.
May 19, 2019, A Tribute to Kim Chase
Love and Loss
My Dad could be quite funny. One day, while I was stressing out about something, he put his hand on my shoulder and looked me straight in the eye. Then he grinned and said, "Stop worrying Michael. You'll get from one end of your life to the other".
Well, I haven't done that yet. But he has. And boy, I miss him.
We all know there's a shadow that comes with loving someone. That shadow is called loss. To love someone deeply means that, sooner or later, you will lose them, and they will lose you. There's no getting out of that experience.
Some of you may not know that Dad's first wife died during the polio epidemic in the early 1950's. It was a staggering loss for him, as it was for me and my brother Chris. It was 1953, and my Dad was just starting his teaching career. There he was, having lost his wife, with two toddlers to care for. But that was only one of many loves and losses. My Dad married again, and had another son, Steve. And then some years later, he married Dawn, bringing her into our lives. Yet, by the time he died at 100 my Dad had lost every other member of his immediate family except those of us in this room, and all of his friends from his own generation. Still, he lived and died surrounded by people who loved him, most notably Dawn, with whom he was able to share 53 wonderful years.
There's no remedy for losing a loved one. It happens to us all. We love, we lose. But still, we can do what Kim Chase did - we can love full out, completely present, gently, quietly, regardless of the cost. We can just keep showing up. My Dad was good at that.
Acceptance and Support
I should know; I tested him quite a bit as a young man. For a time, I was quite angry at him for ways I thought he had let me down. But my Dad would stand his ground, and gave me something to push against. And even though my harsh words and actions would hurt him, he remained steadfast. And I can say that I never, ever doubted his love and commitment to me, even when I was testing it in every possible way I could. No matter what I did or said, he'd come back for more, he'd keep fighting the battle for us to become whole - as father and son, friend and family, mentor and protege. Our relationship in those days was explosive, but I always encountered a man who believed we have it in us to find our own way in life, and we don't need to be coddled or indulged, we just need steady acceptance and support.
Luck and Opportunity
My Dad would often say he was very lucky. Some of you may know he attributed his luck to having been loved so unconditionally as a child by his mother, Elizabeth. She definitely doted on him, and he grew up knowing that - at least in her eyes - he was special.
I don't want to suggest that fortune and misfortune always distribute themselves equally. Clearly they don't. But fortune smiles more often on those who are ready to see and run with the opportunities that life offers up. My Dad's natural optimism and buoyancy allowed him to make the most out of any moment. He had an amazing life force. He lived through the Great Depression, the rise of fascism in Europe, WWII, the Korean and Vietnam wars, peacetime expansion, the civil rights movement, hippies, LSD, Reagan, the Gulf War, 9/11, Osama Bin Laden, our first black President, the age of Trump and the dawning of the age of climate change. He saw it all, with his eyes wide open.
And all the while, he kept learning and adapting. As many of you know, Dad was a backpacker. When he got old enough that he had to pee every few hours, he figured out how to build and use a pee jar in his tent at night. (God forbid he should drink less booze.) When he could no longer hike, he rode a mule. When he could no longer ride a mule he started going to aquatic exercise classes. When he was no longer steady enough with his cane, he got a walker on wheels. When that didn't get him around quickly enough he got a tricycle. He just kept growing. He even learned how to use Facebook, although he complained that he'd be damned if he'd ever do something that used the word "friend" as a verb.
Nothing stopped this guy. I am so proud he was my Dad. Kim Chase was an amazing man who lived an amazing life. I miss him so much, and I am filled to the brim with gratitude for the life he lived.
Lucky him. Lucky me. Lucky us.
Thank you.
And thanks for reading this blog.
Kim Chase, December, 2018
Kim Chase, December, 2018
Kim Chase, December, 2018, drawing by Jennifer Hershey
More to come.
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Phoenix to El Paso, ...no, Tucson, Post 3
Twilight behind a sugaro cactus in Tucson.
After a one day layover in Portal, AZ, where I hiked near Cave Creek Canyon, I woke to a very cold day. The wind was clocking about 24 miles an hour out of the southeast, so I decided to head northeast to Silver City, NM, thinking that I would then zag southeast the next day to Columbus NM, and then make my way eastward into El Paso.
The Chiricahua Mountains on the way to Lordsburg.
Life has a funny way of making us change our plans. The wind shifted to the east. Rain clouds gathered. The temperature dropped. After a very difficult slog of a ride directly into a punishing wind, I arrived in Lordsburg about 45 miles away from Silver City. I wasn't sure what the weather was up to, but I was worried. I found an inexpensive motel and downloaded another wind app for my cell phone, hoping it would give me better capacity to analyze and predict what the next few days were going to be like. I knew there was a raging storm in the Midwest (the Nebraska bomb cyclone) and I assumed its outer edges were the cause of the wind and cold weather coming out of Texas. So I sat in my motel room, finally warm again, thinking about what to do. Near as I could determine the winds were going to remain out of the east/southeast at approximately 15 mph for the next 4-5 days. Additionally, rain and some snow were forecast for the entire region for the next few days. I knew I could make it to El Paso one way or the other as planned, and I also knew the trip was likely to be difficult and miserable.
The wind stirs up dust on the way to Lordsburg.
I called my Dad in California, and my Mom in Illinois. I also called my kids. That might seem like a strange comment coming from a grown man in his 60's, But for those of you tracking older parents and grandkids, you'll recognize the behavior. I wanted to be certain my eastward direction under such conditions didn't make it difficult to get to either parent should the need arise. And I wanted to know if changing my itinerary and visiting my kids and grandkids a month or so later than previously planned would be ok.
I was improvising based on weather, just as humans have done for thousands of years. That is, before we insulated ourselves from it through our technology. Yet, our very attempts to tame it have only made it more foreboding. As the recent bomb cyclone in Nebraska - and the even more devastating cyclone in southeastern Africa - remind us, the weather will always humble us. We can't defy physics.
After discussions with various family members, I decided to return to Tucson where the weather was milder, and catch a train up to San Jose to my Dad's place. Right now I'm sitting in a lovely Landmarked train station in Tucson. I travel tonight on the Sunset Limited and will arrive into LA the morning in time to catch the Coast Starlight up to San Jose tomorrow. As usual, I will roll my bike up to the baggage car. For only $20 more a ticket there's no better way to get a bicycle somewhere (other than riding it, of course).
One of my intentions, for now, is to avoid an effigy in my honor. I came across this one on "A" Mountain east of Tucson.
Seen in western NM.
Seen in eastern Arizona.
Seen near Douglas, AZ
The new plan made me breathe easier, and sleep a bit more deeply. That said, I'm sorry to have missed exploring route 9 and the towns of Columbus, NM, where Pancho Via "invaded" the US at the battle of Columbus in 1917, and Antelope Wells, NM - which I am told is a hot spot for Border Patrol action. I'll be back.
The border near Nogales, AZ. Photo credited to USA Today.
I can't say that I've seen much near the border that suggests we have a crisis of "invasion". Where I've been it seems quiet, "normal" and only subtly militarized. As per the pictures I've already posted, the fences are ugly and the concertina wire is threatening. I've been reading an interesting book titled "Storming the Wall; Climate Change, Migration and Homeland Security" by Todd Martin. If the numbers of illegal immigrants on our southern border are actually increasing (recent reports suggest that is true) they are mostly immigrants from Guatemala, El Salvadore and Honduras. And, according to Todd Martin, these countries are experiencing devastating drought, and are climate refugee "canaries in the mine" for what lies ahead.
Apparently, migrants from these countries turn themselves into Border Patrol at their soonest opportunity with the intention of applying for asylum. Most are farmers who are no longer able to survive on their land. If they flee to nearby cities, they and their families are subject to horrific gang violence. So they come north, hoping they can gain asylum in the United States. If there is a crisis, it's a humanitarian one, and one that a wall might even exacerbate. Here's an article in "Scientific American" that explains the underlying issue more deeply.
One of hundreds of checkpoints on a north/south road just south of Interstate 10. They are intended to keep migrants from gaining access to our interstate system. I've passed through several. Each time I've asked the agents if it was busy that day, and each time the answer was no.
Fields of daisies are common here this time of year.
A view to the south about 50 miles east of Tucson.
A rattlesnake seen on a bike trail near Tucson. As it gets hotter, they get more active.
Next week I fly back to New York. It will be another month or so before I start my next cycling adventure, so you'll notice a lag in my blog posts. But, as always, there's more to come.
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Phoenix to El Paso, Post 2
The Chiricahua Mountains near Rodeo, NM.
I spent several days in Douglas, AZ. The first day was sunny, and my friend Dave and I went across the border into Agua Prieta. It was like many other border towns I have visited -- cheerful, dusty and enterprising.
The main square in Agua Prieta.
The Mexican side of the border fence.
A Periodoncista office in Agua Prieta.
It's no secret that there are many thriving dentistry businessness in the border towns that cater to Americans looking for affordable dentistry. I'm told that lots of Mexicans come to the US to study, get their board certifications in California, Arizona, New Mexico or Texas, and then set up business across the border where they can count on a ready supply of American patients happy to travel across the border to pay lower prices. Cleanings, fillings, crowns, etc, are all hundreds of dollars cheaper than what similar treatments cost in the US.
It rained heavily the next day, and was also cold, windy and occasionally snowy, all very unusual for this far south. During a break in the rain, Dave and I drove the gravel road that follows the American side of the border to Naco.
The US side of the wall looking west.
This will make intruders cower!
A reengineered wash.
US fencing currently seems to be a hodgepodge of different construction phases over the years, from a simple barbed wire fence that spanned much of the border for decades, to various high slat based versions that were built consecutively by the Bush and Obama administrations. Trump has primarily brought us concertina wire (see Post 1 of this series) that will slice up anyone attempting to rope-climb down the US side of the fence.
Someone's view of US trade policy.
The next day I left Douglas and biked (with a 27 mile an hour backwind) northeast along the Chiricahua Mountain Range over a mild pass to the east, and then downhill to the north with the Chiricahuas to my left. With the back wind, I could go 10-15 miles an hour simply by sitting on my bike and using my back as a sail. Thank God I didn't have to go the other way.
Just north of Douglas on the way out of town.
I had this view for about 20 miles as I headed northeast.
The Chiricahuas are stunning, as is the Animus Valley to the east. I really can't express the (almost painful) beauty I find in such uncompromising and imposing environments. I was enthralled every fleeting moment the sun made an appearance.
The view from cave Creek Canyon near Portal west of Rodeo.
Another view at Cave Creek looking west.
In closing, I'd like to include a link from an article from Inside Climate News that refelects on two different (but potentially complimentary) legislative proposals in Congress right now that address climate change. We may be nearing that seminal moment when the shoe falls on climate science denial, and our normal public narrative becomes that it's soberingly real, and must be addressed thoughtfully and urgently. That outcome is inevitable, but will it happen soon enough?
I, for one, would like it to be characteristically warm in the southwest when I leave the northeast to cycle here. Two days ago I sat in a bar in Bisbee, AZ watching snow fall. It was March 12, and I was about 15 miles north of the Mexican border. I hear it's been a whacky year for our jet stream and polar vortex to the north.
Sure looks like climate change to me.
More to come, of course.
For those of you missing my Garmin posts, here is yesterday's ride.
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Phoenix to El Paso, Post 1
The Border Fence in Doulgas, AZ
My last post was January 19.
I've heard it said that "time flies like an arrow, and fruit flies like bananas." I do not doubt the veracity of either concept.
I did get to Phoenix (after my last post), where I put my bike in storage and returned to NYC to take care of personal business, attend some Citizen Climate Lobby meetings, and reconnect with friends. Then in late February, I returned to Arizona for another cycling adventure.
I'm trying out a new structure for cycling this year: a month or so on my bike, and a month or so with friends in NYC, or visiting my kids and grandkids in Wisconsin (my daughter Saren just gave birth to a boy), or in Illinois (where my Mom lives) or California (where my Dad lives). The upside of this way of life is that I can remain engaged in both love and work. The downside is that although cycling generates no carbon, I must still find ways to travel on something other than a bicycle to get long distances (especially in the winter months). There are few good options, and although I would prefer to use trains on a regular basis, I fly more than I feel good about. Recently, I started purchasing carbon offsets to mitigate the carbon load that flying generates. But it's important to recognize that there's a difference between neutralizing a carbon load and actually reducing one.
We all live in an imperfect world, so almost every way we travel generates carbon (bicycles may be the only exception). Think of how most of us get food or go to work. Think of solar installers or wind technicians who must drive trucks loaded with equipment to create renewable energy projects. Think of the several thousand Climate Citizen Lobbyists who gather in DC twice annually. Think of world leaders who travel internationally to annual COP meetings. Think of annual meetings for the American Geophysical Union (AGU), probably the largest annual conference of climate scientists in the world. The carbon load for every event - productive or unproductive, useful or useless - is part of the extraordinary two and one half million tons of carbon we dump into our atmosphere every second.
Our detractors aren't worried. I deeply wish they were right. Life would be so much easier if physics didn't cause air temperature to rise as CO2 levels rise. But that basic principle of physics has been understood for over 100 years, and it's not going to change. It's we who must change. And one outcome is certain - if we don't change, physics will change us.
I am writing this (12 days after arriving back in Phoenix) from a motor coach in an RV Park in Douglas, AZ, owned by my friend Dave Henderson (a fellow cyclist, I met Dave several years ago near Asheville, NC, when I cycled the Blue Ridge Parkway).
Dave in his RV offering me a beer after a very windy ride.
I have been pretty busy breaking in, outfitting and test riding a new bike. It's a Trek CrossFit, part of a class of athletic electric bikes that uses a Bosch electric motor powered by a 500 watt lithium ion battty to increase speed, climbing and wind endurance capacities in graduated intervals. It is only pedal assist and has no throttle. The mileage capacity is about 60 miles on a charge, but with tweaking and careful use, it's range can be extended to 80-100 miles.
The bike is marketed for long commutes, so I'm pushing its boundaries a bit. So far, so good. And if you're wondering, my beloved Surly Long Haul Trucker is being shipped back to NYC. And yes, that's another way I am adding carbon to the atmosphere. How do we make good decisions in this life?
Bisbee, AZ, is an old copper mining town just west of Douglas. At one time it was the largest community in Arizona. No longer a minIng town, it is now a wonderfully funky tourist town, with early twentieth century architecture and featuring lots of festivals to attract tourists.
I happened upon a parade celebrating "The Return of the Turkey Vultures." I didn't know turkey vultures migrated, but apparently they do.
And who says everyone in Arizona is a Republican? Someone still drives this car around.
Just outside of Douglas.
Douglas is on the US/Mexico border and is the sister city to Agua Prieta in Sonora. After arriving at Dave's RV home, we headed down to the border, where I took photos of the imposing steel slat fence that cuts through the town.
On the US side of the border.
We were able to speak with a border patrol agent. He told us the barbed wire is only several months old. Illegal crossings have never been very common in Douglas and since the wire was put up, things are even quieter. The steel slat fence was built 7 years ago, and replaced a solid wall about six feet high. I asked if the steel fence (it's about 20 feet high) was built under Bush. The agent said no, it was built under Obama. I asked him if there was a border crisis. He said it wasn't his job to say.
The window guards are intended to protect agents from flying rocks.
More to come.
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Palo Alto to Tucson, ...no, Phoenix, Post 3
The roads of America are scattered with effigies. My guess is they are missed by most motorists, even though they are most likely responsible for their presence. On a bike, they are hard to miss. They are almost always poignant, and sometimes strikingly beautiful.
From Niland, I headed to Brawley, CA, a reasonably significant town in the Imperial Valley, about 22 miles north of the border town of Calexico.
A stockyard north of Brawley. Kind of makes one wonder what our feedstock endures to becomes a hamburger.
I turned left on Main Street, and headed several blocks toward what is identified on Google as the least expensive motel in town. It all seemed familiar, and I knew I had passed through Brawley on my "Southern Tier" trip several years ago. But I wasn't prepared for what happened. I turned right into a parking lot for the Townhouse Inn and was instantly flooded with memories. I had stayed here before. In my five years of long distance cycling adventures, this was the first time I had ever repeated myself. It was a comforting experience. Slowing down time on a bike means ratcheting up experiences. It's impossible to remember everywhere you've been. I've stayed in hundreds of cheap motels, RV Parks and campgrounds, yet until this moment I had never come upon the same place twice.
I remembered the proprietor - an industrious South Asian. I instantly felt safe and secure. I love mid-century motels, and they are in abundance in small towns in the southwest the same way that mid-century drug stores can still be found thoughout NYC.
Memories from two years earlier came instantly: almost falling off my bicycle upon arrival, talking to my Dad on the phone while standing next to the washing machine that I knew was still hidden on the upstairs balcony. I remembered the flyboys from the nearby Air Force base I had eaten lunch with earlier in the day, I recalled my initial amazement by the fertility of the highly irrigated Imperial Valley, and the surprisingly good dinner I had at the one "hip" restaurant in Brawley that served draft beer - "The Inferno." I knew I'd have a nice stay.
Apparently the part of the cortex that a memory center is also active in imagination. Brain scientists think that we form memories as an act that occurs in the present moment from isolated and distinct fragments of sounds, smells, sensations, feelings, thoughts and other bits of information that are stored throughout the brain and body, and we reconstruct - in the very moment we have the memory - this pastiche of unconnected information into a coherent narrative. In that way, remembering is an act of imagination.
So then, what's the purpose of an effigy? Maybe first and foremost, it's a warning. It tells those passing by that someone died here, and they are also not immune. But for the artists who constructed the effigy, maybe it helps them construct and reconstruct their own memories of the departed. We know the dead speak to us, maybe they do it in our very own imaginations as we remember them?
I cycled the section of the Southern Tier route I am doing now between Brawley and Phoenix a few years ago. The sand dunes above loom large in my memory. The little town of Glamis, which sits right in the middle of the dunes, looks like a set in Bladerunner.
I thought an easy day to Brawley and a good rest would help me to easily get to Paso Robles the next day, even though much of the 61 mile trip is uphill and known as brutal for the many rollers on both the ascent and the descent. I got an early start. But at Glamis I was enjoying the scenery of the Algodones Sand Dunes National Wilderness just a bit too much, and after a leisurely conversation with a couple of other long distance cyclists, I abruptly realized I had to climb 30 miles up a pass notorious for its rollers, and I was going to run out of sun in 3 hours. I wasn't scared, but I knew I had to push. Then, after 10 more miles or so, I remembered something I learned during the last trip along this route. There were no accommodations in Paso Robles. In fact, I'd be lucky to find a restaurant. I tightened up a bit. How had I forgotten THAT in my planning, when I had remembered so many trivial things about the motel? How had my memory/imagination failed me? It was 4:30. The winter sun was beginning to set. It began to rain. Now I was scared.
Was I going to become an effigy?
The short answer is not this time. The gods were kind to me, and forgiving of my poor memory. I was saved by some very helpful people in a small trailer park community in Paso Robles. It rained hard that night while I slept comfortably on a couch in the community room.
I was kept from a wet and chilly evening by the good people of Tamarisk Park in Paso Robles.
Ironically, as I write this now, the remarkable evening I spent in Paso Robles seems far away. So much can happen in a few days and 100 miles! Today I fixed my fifth flat since Quartzsite, AZ. Now in Wickenburg, I'm about 50 miles west of Phoenix. A few days ago decided to return to New York City from there. I will be leaving my bike in storage there for a month or so until I return for more cycling in the great southwest.
Just west of Wickenburg, AZ.
We have a lot of knowledge about death in our culture. Although children and adolescents (if they are lucky), don't imagine their own deaths, the rest of us do sooner or later before we die. Probably, many of our fears can be traced to an underlying fear of death. That said, I've always found it odd that (beyond certain theological myths about judgement days) we seem to have no contemporary narrative for imagining the death of the human species. Yet, climate change is a genuine threat to our existence. But look around. Doesn't it seem that we are living on our earth as if our species is adolescent? We take extraordinary risks with our earth, and we ignore those around us who are likely to be wiser about what we are doing (ie, climate scientists). And somehow, we persist in the folly that our way of life will remain stable. Yet, as individuals we understand our mortality. Why do we not imagine that as a genuine possibility for our species?
We behave as if our entire species has a smoking habit, while the world's best oncologists are telling us that continuing to smoke will drastically shorten our collective lives. Yet, we make only half hearted and ineffective efforts to change regardless. Are we crazy, or just foolish?
But there are signs of hope. You might enjoy reading an article that was recently published in Bloomberg about the growing conservative support for a carbon dividend plan at the federal level. Of course, there's so much more we can do as well. But large systemic change is critical. Let's move those "Energy Innovation and Carbon Dividend" bills in Congress forward!
Hope is about 20 miles east of Quartzsite. There's a church there. It's called "The Little Church of Hope".
My rig, before my fourth flat.
I'm comfortable and happy in Wickenburg, AZ, at the Aztec RV Park as I lay over for a day, and try to sort out why I keep getting flat tires. Interestingly, there are no bike shops on the Southern Tier between Brawley, CA and Phoenix, a distance of about 270 miles. Ingenuity is called for. How like life.
Here are some Garmin Maps:
More to come.
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Palo Alto to Tucson, Post 2
The Los Angeles River Cycleway.
Once I got to Ventura from Santa Barbara, I called my old childhood friend Debra Dralle in Woodland Hills in north LA. I was in luck. I had stayed with Debra on my GRID trip two years back, so she and her husband Richard weren't surprised to see me arrive the next day on a fully loaded bike. Getting to Woodland Hills from Ventura presented a small challenge - such as the Santa Monica Mountains. It was raining, and I was challenged by the climbing, so I didn't notice the clues I was passing through the Woolsey Fire area. Fast moving and capricious, that fire was one of many that has turned life on its head. Much has been written about the intensifying and record breaking fire seasons in the American and Canadians wests. Here's one example. Of course, climate scientists tell us this is only the beginning. Record droughts, warmer temperatures, longer fire seasons, and encroaching development are the new normal, which isn't going to be normal at all. There's no normalizing the future when it comes to climate.
A saloon and hotel?
A storage room?
Fortunately, I had a chance to rectify my poor observations the next day when Debra drove me back to the Paramount Ranch, which - sadly - had burned to the ground in November of 2018. As we drove, I asked Debra if she knew of climate deniers living in the area. She said no; in fact, her view is that southern Californians are united around climate change - the fires of the past several years have diminished any doubts.
A large burnt out camper van sits by a highway near Delta, Ca. The Woolsey and the Delta fires took place in September and November, 2018, respectively.
Today I read a comment by Tom Di Liberto, a scientist who worked on a well publicized Ocean Warming Report. He was quoted as having said that he thought we wouldn't reduce GHG emissions meaningfully until 2040. His comment made me wonder.
A water pump?
More debris.
There's something beautiful about a fire area in recovery. Only 3 months after the fire, a hillside in the Santa Monica Mountains near Paramount Ranch makes a comeback.
What will our "pain point" be? Because climate change is as real as the sun, the shoe will drop on climate denial at some point, and we will finally unite in our understanding of what we are up against. But how many people will die first, how much degradation will we endure, how crippled will our economy have to become? Hopefully sooner, rather than later, Americans will say, "enough is enough", and put their shoulders to the wheel of change in a serious way, joining the many other countries attempting to transition their own economies. Some days that seems a long way off - especially as I cycle through the desert near the Salton Sea in January. But there's nowhere to hide. Check this out.
The northern and eastern shore of the Salton Sea is remarkably empty. The first 20 miles of the coast from the north shore are protected by at least three county parks. I was surprised and delighted to see this.
Some days there is progress. I've written in many previous posts about the Citizens Climate Lobby, but I have not yet mentioned that CCL has helped two carbon dividend bills become introduced in Congress. Here is the House Bill, and here is the Senate Bill. Please check them out. If you find these thoughtful bipartisan climate bills hopeful, let your Representative and Senator know you support them. We know that politicians respond to popular will, so we must make it clear to policy makers that we expect them to be effective leaders on climate.
Looking east away from the Salton Sea toward Joshua Tree National Park. Someone told me that Joshua Tree poachers were in the Park because of limited staff during the government shutdown. If that's true, it's heartbreaking.
This is no small task, as we all know. The world's largest economy (ours) is dominated by policies favoring corporate interests and rich corporate-bought climate deniers who are outside mainstream thought, and insulated from extreme climate events. Imagine what this must feel like in smaller countries.
I have some adventurer friends, Ken and Fi Morton, who wrote the following in an email to me:
"Interestingly, we are in Ecuador right now where everyone acknowledges climate change as an obvious event, and not a divisive partisan issue, where private industry and gov't are investing in "clean" infrastructure like solar, and electric/LPG public transport. Also, sadly, is the realization that it, like most developing countries, they are powerless to slow or curb global climate change, as despite all efforts, the world's biggest economies will dictate how climate change plays out... which doesn't give one cause for optimism, currently."
The pass from Banning to Palm Springs is quite windy and there are hundreds of wind turbines along the way. They can be attractive, and far less noisy than traditional oil wells.
There's so much to do. And I think the most important thing of all is not to capitulate to dispair or cynicism, no matter how large the obstacles seem. We've proved the resiliency of our species over and over. Yes, we may be entering the greatest challenge we've ever faced, because none before now has required no less than global economic transformation. Clearly this is no time for "me first, or us first" policies. Let's screw our collective heads back on straight and meet this historical moment with clarity and resolve.
For those of you who like the Garmin maps, here are the past four days of riding:
More to come.
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Palo Alto to Tucson, Post 1
Fog on the Guadalupe River Trail, which extends from San Francisco Bay to downtown San Jose, near the Amtrak Station.
Hi. Greetings from Ventura, CA. I am warm and dry in a Motel 6, after having spent three days cycling here from San Luis Obispo. I got to SLO by train from San Jose, after attending a family celebration in Palo Alto.
Irrigation on a basil field just north of Lompoc.
A stretch of cycling path along CA Highway 101.
I am beginning another cycling adventure toward warm and sunny weather, and intend to enjoy the Pacific Coast route as mapped out by the Adventure Cycling Association (ACA) and then the lovely Southern Tier route as far as Tucson (see my archived blog posts on a Southern Tier trip I made a few years back). If time allows, I hope to get as far as Big Bend National Park in Texas, but family matters may intervene. But no matter how far I get, I will be returning to the Pacific Northwest in the spring/summer. This coming summer I am aiming for Alaska.
The California coast just south of Santa Barbara.
I enjoy loving connections on both generational sides of my life - my parents are still alive, and I stay close to them (trying to be "a phone call away") and my two grandkids (with a third about to arrive) as I split time between cycling in beautiful (or climate stressed) places - which I adore - and New York - which I also adore. Between those activities and my friends in many places, my parents, my kids and my grandkids, I'm a very lucky man.
A drawing of my Dad, Kim Chase, by Jennifer Hershey. You can find her work on Instagram under "Deeofo.".
On December 30, 2018, my Dad turned 100. When I asked him how he felt, he said, "the same as yesterday." When a neighbor asked him how he managed to live so long, he replied, "Well, I haven't died yet." At a Christmas dinner a few days before, he told someone else who asked a similar question, "it's an accident."
A good moment on the bike on my Dad's 100th birthday.
So much for formulas. That said, my father has been unusually active all his life. He took up backpacking at 60, and didn't stop until he was 87. He owns a three-wheeled bicycle, which he still rides. Last week, I took him over the pedestrian bridge that spans highway 101 to the Bay Lands that border the San Francisco Bay (he needs another person to push his bike up the bridge while he walks up with his cane). It's sensationally beautiful at the Bay; a mixture of grasslands, marshes and tidal mud flats teeming with shorebirds.
When the tide recedes, the birds dig for food.
A Great Blue Heron takes flight.
A snowy egret.
Sunrise on the Bay Area Trail, a bike trail that will eventually follow the perimeter of the entire north and south bays.
Whatever his secret is, my father's longevity has been widely celebrated by friends and family. His life has been a rich one, characterized by adventure, lots of hard work, plenty of love, a healthy dose of common sense and good daily practices. He was born just as the "War to end all Wars" (WWI) started, lived through the Great Depression (the family story is that he had only one pair of shoes and set of clothes all through high school), was a naval officer in the South Pacific during WWII, went to Columbia for a Masters degree on the GI bill after the War, then got his Doctorate, had careers as a professor and college administrator, raised three kids and had three wives. Now, near the end of his life, he is witness to the Trump Presidency (according to him, the mayhem is unparalleled), and even more unsettling, the dawn of the age of climate change.
I don't know how much my Dad thinks about climate change, although he seems to have no problem understanding it. If he was still driving, I'm sure he would own an electric car (he loves Teslas), and would have installed solar panels on his home. But he's a realist (and an existentialist of the Sartre vintage: "Three o'clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do."), so he's never been particularly optimistic about civilization's prospects.
A climate stressed place - I took this shot in last month near Redding, CA. It's from the Delta Fire, which took place several weeks after the CARR Fire was contained. Locals refer to it as "the forgotten fire".
But my Dad is not a gloomy guy. I'm sure he holds out some form of hope for the future, as we all do. Still, every once in a while he jokes that he's lucky he'll check out before the worst is upon us. And he means it.
I think he's right. In some ways, his generation's retirement (with an intact pension, decent healthcare and reasonable wealth) may turn out to have been the pinnacle for the developed world. Subsequent generations may not be able to enjoy the same stability, quality of care and basic prosperity that some in his generation have.
We're likely to face global challenges that are unprecedented. I am reminded of the recent IPCC report on climate, which warns us starkly and unequivocally that the scale of the climate crisis will be beyond anything humans have faced before. Climate Change is unique in that its causes and its impacts are global. Greenhouse gas molecules disperse into the atmosphere, equalizing their distribution everywhere. In one way physics makes climate change extremely democratic, although its impacts are neither geographically nor socially equal. Some geographic areas are more vulnerable than others, such as low lying areas near the sea. And some people are more vulnerable, such as those who live in compromised housing, drought stricken or flood prone areas, or those who depend on livelihoods that cannot tolerate significant climatic shifts, such as fishermen or farmers.
We have to change our way of life. What an extraordinary challenge. Has this ever been done before? Some people bring up the Marshall plan after the Second World War as an example. I find it an apt but incomplete metaphor. In short, over $12B (in 1946 dollars) were put into rebuilding the industrial economies of Western Europe. But the world needs a plan with a global impact. We need a Marshall plan on steroids. Could it be the Paris Accord? Time will tell.
To see my cycling progress over the past days, look here, here, and here.
More to come.
All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Love in the Time of Climate Change
Fort Tryon Park in Manhattan, New York City.
Hello from New York City. It's been several months since I wrote my last blog post. I'm reminded of that often quoted aphorism, "life is what happens while you are making other plans."
You might recall that some months ago I intended to cycle a portion of the ACA Pacific Crest Route (an Adventure Cycling Association route that parallels the famous PCT through the Sierra Cascades and the Sierra Nevada from Canada to Mexico). My chosen section was Portland to San Francisco. I went back to Portland in early August, and managed to cycle as far as the lovely and alarmingly vulnerable-to-forest-fires town of Sisters, Oregon (about 140 miles north of Crater Lake).
State Forest land about a mile north of Sisters, Oregon.
While there, my Mom was unexpectedly admitted to the hospital. After some conversations with my brother, I chose to abort the cycling trip to help my Mom transition out of the hospital. I spent most of the next month in Galesburg, Illinois (my hometown, btw).
I returned to Oregon in early October with a mind toward completing the cycling trip to the Bay Area where I planned to visit my Dad in Palo Alto. Yet, as fate would have it, I was simultaneously balancing a newly amorous relationship in Portland. Historically, I have remained pretty true to my cycling ambitions, but not so this time. I got more acquainted with Portland while I tried to get a bead on what I wanted, all the while feeling a strong pull to get to the Bay Area.
From my bike south of the Columbia River in Portland.
As someone in his late 60's, I am remarkably fortunate that both my parents are alive. At the same time, I live with the curse of American mobility (an odd comment coming from a long distance cyclist, no doubt). My family is scattered all over. My Dad and his wife live in Palo Alto, CA. My Mom lives in Galesburg, IL. I have a brother in DC, and another in Anaheim, CA. My kids and grandkids live in Milwaukee and Wausau, WI, about 4 hours apart. I live in New York City. Could my immediate family be any more spread out? This reality makes attending to elderly parents a complex and challenging process. And being a long distance cyclist both helps and hurts that responsibility.... it's great when I'm near, and worrisome when I'm not. At any given moment I'm both near and too far from someone I love, no matter where I am. But I have no right to complain. I have the good fortune to travel as I wish, as long as I am reasonably thoughtful about time and resources. My biggest problem is not being able to be in more than one place at a time, and I'm pretty sure there's no solution for that.
Alas, the romance in Portland didn't work out, so after a few weeks in limbo, I eventually packed up my bike and panniers, and hopped a train from Portland down to San Jose. You might be thinking, why not cycle there as planned? Well, here's my excuse - by that time it was mid October, and the rains had started in Oregon. And I was worried the weather would be inclement to the east and south in the Cascades and the Sierra.
It was, but not the way I imagined it. Although I would have preceded the fire, my route would have taken me along the Sierra crest above Paradise, CA. I had imagined snow. But given how the fall played out, I would more likely have encountered unseasonably dry and warm weather. If predicting weather is becoming increasingly complex for a long distance cyclist like me, what is it like for farmers, construction workers or so many others who make their living out of doors? Or homeowners in vulnerable areas, for that matter?
The view from the train in central Oregon on the way to California.
Like the Empire Builder in the north, the Silver Meteor on the east coast, and the Coast Starlight on the west coast, I was able to roll my touring bike on board the train for a small extra fee. I arrived in sunny San Jose in morning on a weekday in the middle of October (only 2 months later than my original plan) and rode an easy 25 miles to my Dad's home in Palo Alto.
I'm fond of Freud's idea that human life can be summarized in two words - love and work. I also suspect that both are essentially conflated into one essential motivation with two expressions - love of others, and love of work. You might remember Gabriel Garcia Marquez's novel, "Love in the Time of Cholera." For a few years I have imagined a working title for another great novel - "Love in the Time of Climate Change." I imagine it as the name of a contemporary story in which most of us are protagonists and a powerful few are antagonists. Sound familiar?
Marshland in San Francisco Bay.
Few things motivate us more than love. It's about people, yes. And it's about work, especially the work of saving ourselves from ourselves. And for some of us it's also about the open road, a distant horizon, the exquisite sense of breathing hard while pedaling a bicycle, the coolness of air streaming through the nose, expanding the chest, tightening the calves and thighs. And the exquisite pleasure of noticing marsh grass and cattails stretching to the sea, or chickory and switchgrass bending toward a hazy blue mountainside in the far horizon.
Central Minnesota, summer, 2018.
Or the bittersweet pleasure of gazing at a swollen river encroaching nearby buildings, a tinder-dry forest at the edge of conflagration, a bone dry plateau losing topsoil in the wind, a rapidly melting glacier of blue ice at the waters edge; all visions made more palpable through our rapidly changing climate. Because we inevitably lose what we love, it hurts to love under the best of circumstances. And with so much uncertainty around us, it's heartbreaking. And imperative.
A rapidly melting glacier in Wengall/St Elias National Park in Alaska. Picture taken in 2007. The foreground is now a lake.
We are all protagonists (or antagonists) now. We are all in a shared story of encroaching climate change, whether we know it or not, and whether we believe it or not. If you haven't read the latest International Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) report, or the National Climate Assessment, or the recent CO2 emission figures published by the Global Carbon Project, you probably should. A well informed protagonist might be able to direct the plot of his or her story a bit more to his or her liking. And an antagonist might realize that it's only a matter of time before his efforts turn him, and his loved ones, into unwitting protagonists in the most challenging story ever told.
A burned hillside in California after the Carr Fire. Photo uncredited*
There are things we all can do. You are probably already doing some of them, and if you are like me, wrestling with others. We all know what we should do, even when we fall short -- fly less, eat less meat, drive hybrids or electric, become more carbon literate.... I have great empathy for how hard it is to do those things, and I hold no individual responsible for failing, including myself. Fortunately, there are other forms of direct action. If you aren't following them yet, check out the promising young people's Sunrise Movement, and the bipartisan Citizens Climate Lobby inspired bill, the Energy Innovation and Carbon Dividend Act H.R. 7073, that was recently introduced in the House of Representatives. Some actions are simple and direct, such as gently and repeatedly writing letters of support and asking your Congressional Representative to sign on as a sponsor to H.R. 7073. Other actions are more complex and less direct (but no less important), such as taking more time out of a busy life to savor the natural environments nearby. We all fight harder to preserve what we come to love, even as it slips through our fingers. So, in this holiday season, let's recommit to savoring each other more, and to savoring our Sacred Earth more. In this way, our love and our work will coincide.
More to come.
*All photos, unless credited or otherwise noted, are copyrighted property of the blog post author.
Glacier to Seattle, Post 7
Mt. Hood looms in the distance off the Saint John's bridge across the Willamette River.
I'm sitting in the bucolic backyard of a friend's house in Portland, realizing that my trip is currently misnamed because I am ending this leg here, and not Seattle (I fly back to New York this weekend). But I hope to return to the Northwest later in the summer, and ride the Northern Tier cycling route west to east from Anacortes, WA (north of Seattle) to Whitefish, MT. If I do that, this trip name will make sense. Whoever said that two legs does not one trip make? No one that I know.
As I sit here on a beautiful day in the low 70's and near perfect humidity, I am well aware of my good fortune to be in the Northwest this past week. This has been a rough week weather-wise for much of the world. You may have been baking, but if you'd like to see how much you aren't alone, take a look here.
The view to the north from the Mt. St Helen's visitor station about 75 miles north of Portland.
My train trip from Whitefish, MT to Edmonds, WA was uneventful. I have friends in Edmonds, and didn't realize when I boarded that I could get off there before I got to Seattle. Once again, I want to mention the pleasure I take in combining cycling with traveling by train, and how appreciative I am of Amtrak's roll-on bike service. This is such a great example of intelligent planning for public transportation options, and figures into the creation of sustainable systems of transportation that will help us get away from our unhealthy reliance on cars. May this service thrive! Additionally, after a wonderful day in Edmonds (where I went crabbing with an old college friend), I was able to catch another train to Centralia, Washington, where I paid $5 extra to board my bike. This saved a day of biking to Portland. That said, It took me two days to get there anyway (every summer some people cycle between these cities in one day - a distance of 190 miles)! You can see my modest routes here and here.
I stayed at a KOA campground (showers!) near the Mt. Saint Helen's visitor station about 40 miles south of Centralia, WA.
The ride into Portland was gorgeous. This town lives up to its reputation. It's funky and gentrified all at the same time, and features great restaurants, bars, coffee shops, cycling routes and in keeping with its nickname - the City of Roses - extraordinarily beautiful flowers. Even Portland's way of celebrating the 4th of July is unique - fireworks are ubiquitous, and although the town has "official" fireworks on the Willamette River, fireworks are everywhere. It seems that every backyard has its own display. The result is a three or four hour period starting just before sundown that sounds like being on the Western Front.
Knowing that it's only fireworks gives comfort to the metaphor of "the rockets red glare, the bomb bursting in air." But I can't help wondering - am I alone in this thought, or do others also feel that our way of celebrating our country's birthday has become strangely dissonant? Why do we celebrate a symbol of independence by conflating it with conflict?
It is my deep hope that we have hit bottom in our way of being divided. Conflict doesn't solve problems. Rich and poor, rural and urban, evangelical and secular, white and non-white, immigrant and non-immigrant (a label that really only applies to native Americans), Republicans and Democrats, and so on. Currently it seems we are the most divided between rural and urban, and probably white and non-white (which is related to views about immigrants and non-immigrants). As a New Yorker who grew up in a small town in the Midwest, I enjoy being in the rural United States, and I feel at home in the countryside. But I am careful about what I take for granted in terms of how others will think about me and why I am there. The truth is, I'm there to see how climate change is affecting communities. But I am learning to be covert about what interests me. Yet, most people are concerned about extreme weather wherever they live regardless of their politics. And it's not hard to get people to talk about the weather if one avoids politics.
That said, in some parts of the US, I think communities are quite unprepared for what is coming. This semed particularly true to me when I biked through the Southeast. Happily, I don't find that as much in the Northwest. But are Northwesterners ready for climate refugees? After all, where will southerners go if, and when, the South becomes overly distressed? Climate change is first and foremost a slow moving ecological catastrophe (average temperature increases, rising sea levels, and extreme weather events like hurricanes), but it won't be long before public health and economic problems follow. And like other parts of the world, Americans may be on the move in great numbers. I certainly would move here before anywhere else in the United States. I'm sure many others will feel the same. After all, the NW will stay reasonably pleasant longer than most other regions of the US. There will be more forest fires, but there will also be more fresh water than the southwest, and less heat stress and extreme precipitation than the Midwest and Northeast.
Although they have fluctuated over time, CO2 levels remained under 300 parts per million (PPM) for the past 800,000 years until about 1900. Since then they have soared by about 60%. This rapidity of change is unprecedented in the history of the earth.
Clearly, it's time for our Congress to work together to solve the very real problem of a changing climate. And it's time for us to shift our national narrative from one of dissonance to one of clear-eyed assessment. Clean renewable energy is the right way to go, but the current transformation is too slow. We must speed up the rate of societal change to match the urgency of our situation. Global carbon pricing, while not a silver bullet, may be our best global option. Let's make it happen. It's not as preposterous an idea as it may seem at first glance.
There's more to come later in the summer, but not for some weeks. Thanks for reading.
Glacier to Seattle, Post 6
There's a beautiful reservoir between Eureka and Libby, Montana. Highway 37 follows it for 40 of the 65 miles between Eureka and Libby. The reservoir is called Lake Koocanusa, and it was formed by damming the Kootenai River, which was central in the development of Libby. It's beautiful and sparsely populated. In fact, my trip to Libby and back to Eureka (more on that in a moment) was extraordinarily peaceful. Cars come by at the rate of 1 or 2 every ten to fifteen minutes. Although challengingly hilly, I really enjoyed this ride. Beyond the reservoir lies the river, and it's pastoral beauty makes the ride into Libby a genuine pleasure.
The Kootenai River about 5 miles north of Libby.
I knew as I approached Libby I would have to make some decisions. Now that I am able to gauge the challenge of biking in this environment, I was going to be able to make some calculations about the timing of my arrival into Seattle and my trip down to Portland, where I will leave my bike (in a friend's basement) for more cycling in the Pacific Northwest later in the summer. I hadn't been too worried about distances and time when I started the trip. In the back of my mind I knew the Adventure Cycling Association (ACÁ) route called "Northern Tier" followed the Amtrak "Empire Builder" route (this route has walk on bicycle service) from East Glacier to Sandpoint, Idaho. So I thought I could board the train at any point up to Sandpoint should I run short of time. I started to think about this in Libby, with the thought that I might use the train once I got to Sandpoint. But as I looked into it, I learned that many of the smaller towns have no staff, and consequently no way to put a bike in the baggage car designated for bikes. So although the Amtrak website suggests otherwise, it's not possible to get on the train at certain stations with a bike. Both Libby, Montana and Sandpoint, Idaho, have this limitation. But alas, I had already made plans to see friends in Seattle and Portland, and even booked a non-refundable flight back from Portland to New York (far earlier than I could ever get there by cycling). What to do?
Then it struck me. I could ride back to Whitefish (two days east), and still catch a train west to Seattle where I could board my bike. So I did. In fact, I'm writing this blog post in the Whitefish train station while I wait for the train. Forward or backward, life has a way of working out. If you care to see my past three days of redundant rides on Garmin Connect, look here, here and here.
On my return trip From Libby to Eureka, I came across a Washingtonian named Blaine who was driving this extraordinary 1961 Thunderbird. How cool is that?
Yellow and mellow.
As much as I enjoyed Blaine and found him an intelligent and informed guy, I couldn't help but reflect on the gas milage of his vintage Thunderbird. He told me with some pride that he got 8 miles to the gallon. How interesting that a car that symbolizes a simpler age when freedom was a much simpler construct could still seem so comforting. I can indeed remember when gas cost 19 cents a gallon. At that price, and at a time when we'd never heard about climate change, why not? Whatever it is about Blaine's car that made me feel good is similar to why I like RV parks, and why American kitch delights me far more than it irritates. It's represents a time we long for, a time that's gone, a nostalgia for a much simpler, less complicated world.
So, I spent much of my backtrack to Whitefish thinking about the mess we are in with our changing climate. I almost never meet a person who agrees with the science who feels like they can make more than a superficial difference. And, at the individual level, that is probably the case, unless one is wealthy enough to do what many corporations do, and offset the carbon that results from activities they cannot mitigate by purchasing carbon offsets (a viable and underused option that will probably increase over time.) But for "regular" folk - we're just stuck in a way of life that isn't of our making but still offers us some joy. Blaine believes in climate change, by the way. And he also loves his Thunderbird. And why shouldn't he? So if it's not Blaine's job to change things by selling a gas guzzler he loves, then who's job is it?
We all could use some help living in ways that are less harmful to our climate. More and more, I think that our best way out of the mess we are in is through market based adjustments on the price of carbon. For generations we have allowed fossil fuel companies to pollute our atmosphere without having to factor the external costs of that pollution into their profit margin. So instead, the rest of us are paying that cost for them through degradations in our weather, health, economic well being, and social stability. And without meaningful intervention these trends will only accelerate. It's time to put a price on carbon.
There are many good groups working on these problems. My favorite is this one.
From the New Yorker, late June, 2018.
Thanks for reading. More to come.
Glacier to Seattle, Post 5
Jackson Glacier can be viewed from the "Road to the Sun", or "Going-to-the-Sun Road", or simply "The Sun Road" depending on who you talk to. This road was started in 1921 and finished in 1932. It is the only road that crosses Glacier National Park. Jackson Glacier was once part of the largest grouping of glaciers in the park, including the Blackfoot and Harrison Glaciers. The glacier was most recently measured in 2005 at 250 acres. Between 1966 and 2005, Jackson Glacier lost almost a third of its acreage.
Some quotes are worth repeating.
"Every morning I awake torn between a desire to save the world and an inclination to savor it. This makes it hard to plan the day.
But if we forget to savor the world, what reason do we possibly have for saving it? In a way, the savoring must come first".
E. B. White
Beargrass is one of the first plants to appear after a forest fire. This area last burned in 2015.
On the Sun Road.
On the Sun Road.
On the Sun Road.
It's been 2.5 days since my last post. In the meantime, I rode the iconic "Road to the Sun" from St Mary's, MT to West Glacier and then on through Whitefish, to a small pleasant town in western Montana near the Canadian border called Eureka. Today I am taking a day of rest.
The view behind my motel in Eureka, MT.
My route took me about 120 miles over two days with a lot of elevation gain. You can see both days in 3 installments here, here and here. The day on Sun Road is broken into two segments because I lost my GPS connection on the pass, and then again afterwards. If you study the trajectories you'll see my GPS has me biking across MacDonald Lake on the west side of the Park. If only I could do that!
At Logan Pass on the Continental Divide, elevation 6646 ft.
I've already mentioned the wonderful visitors center on the west side of the Park. When I was there last Sunday I was given a brochure written by the National Park Service about Climate Change at Glacier National Park. It tells us that over the past 100 years the Earth's average temperature rose by 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit. It goes on to explain that if we continue to emit greenhouse gases at current rates, temperatures could rise from anywhere 2 to 7 degrees Fahrenheit by the end of this century. In general, we will see more deadly heat, intense hurricanes, rising sea levels, extreme precipitation and drought, and vanishing glaciers and sea ice. At Glacier National Park, there will also be changes in the water cycle and major changes to the many plants, animals and people who are adapted to the present climate.
Coming down from Logan Pass on The Sun Road.
In addition, the same brochure explains that mountain ecosystems in the northern Rockies are experiencing temperature increases 1.8 times faster than the general global warming pattern. And at elevations above 6000 feet, temperatures are rising at 3 times the global average. This is what has driven the extraordinary loss of glaciers from 150 in 1850 to the 25 that remain today, with the largest losing roughly 75% of their size during that period. And, although I've already written about this, scientists predict the glaciers will be entirely gone by 2030.
It's hard to distinguish a glacier from a snowpack at first glance, but glaciers are made of ice. This is snow butting up against a rock face. Most likely, this will be gone in a few weeks. Glaciers in this park, on the other hand, are at least 7000 years old.
One might wonder why a layperson like me would spend so much time dwelling on such disturbing news? I do have a reason. I think our current social narrative about climate change falls way short of the climate conditions occurring all around us. The situation is no less than an emergency that demands an emergency response, yet we live as if civilization isn’t facing the threat of ecological catastrophe in the coming decades. But it is.
Coming down from Logan Pass on The Sun Road.
In this instance, our capacity for cognitive dissonance may literally kill us. I recently heard a psychologist explain how our social response to climate change (or lack thereof) is a form of "Pluralistic Ignorance." I had not heard this clinical term before, but I saw it's usefulness immediately. Pluralistic Ingnorance refers to how we take cues from those around us to determine the severity of a situation. For example, if someone sitting on a bench in a subway platform in New York City is slumped over with his eyes closed and people are walking by without reacting, most other people will assume that person is simply asleep. Yet, it's possible that person has had a medical emergency or may even have died. But most of us take our cues from others, so if others are not alarmed, we probably will not be either.
The land to the west of Glacier National Park.
So it goes with climate change. The situation is not good, and we need our social narrative to better reflect our true situation. In the meantime, what can we do? Well, for one thing, we need to talk about our worries, even when others don't wish to listen (or shut down quickly when they do) because the news is so alarming. We need to flip the narrative, so that deniers are the crazy ones, not those of us who are alarmed. To my mind, being alarmed is the sanest possible response. Of course we should be alarmed. After all, based on the estimates of the most conservative scientists, if we continue our current rates of emissions we will push beyond the outer threshold of the 2 degree Centigrade limit agreed to at the Paris Accord in less than 20 years. Clearly, we have little time to waste if we are serious about reducing emissions.
There are solutions, however. I recently heard climate scientist James Hansen refer to a recently published study that demonstrates we can slow down temperature rise in a significant way if we will start reducing carbon emissions by 3% a year beginning 2022. This is why we need groups like the Citizens Climate Lobby. This citizen led lobby works in every Congressional District in the US and up to 90% of all Congressional members have been visited by groups of climate lobby constituents. The ask is a carbon fee and dividend legislative proposal that would place a fee on carbon based fossil fuel at the point of sale and then redistribute that fee as a dividend to help taxpayers offset increased energy costs (driving renewable energy to become more plentiful than carbon based alternative). This market based plan appeals to both parties, and can be a true bipartisan solution to climate change (the only kind of legislation that will last in the current political climate). Check it out here.
Thanks for reading. More to come.
Glacier to Seattle, Post 4
Minnesota sunset from the window of the train.
The rain finally passed and the temperatures stayed cool, so my arrival Into Minneapilis was dry and comfortable. But there was flooding on the St Croix. It's amazing what "rain bombs" can do these days. Fueled by additional water vapor, clouds can dump enormous amounts of water in short periods of time. With increased surface temperatures, there is increased humidity as more water is drawn into the atmosphere, and sudden and violent downpours are increasingly common.
The waterline encroaches on a parking lot on the St. Croix River East of Minneapolis.
I watched this young man lift his bike up over the waterline in another section of the same parking lot, but wasn't able to get a photo until after he had waded through the water and made it up the steps.
After two days in Minneapolis, I boarded the Empire Builder on Amtrak.
Minneapolis vies with Portland for the most bike friendly city in the US; I was able to travel through much of it on bike paths. They are plentiful and well kept.
The sightseeing car is a pleasant feature of the Amtrak Empire Builder.
This iconic line has been around since the early days of the railroad and was used to get Easterners out to National Parks around the turn of the 20th Century (think Ken Burns). I am very appreciative of Amtrak's bike boarding service on this line. For $20 one can walk a bike to a baggage car where it is strapped to a special rack. No boxing and no adjustments - a perfect setup for a long distance cyclist. It's amazing how fun train travel can be. People are mellow - they are there because they want to be. Things are not rushed; it's a reach back to a time when we had time, and when traveling on the surface of the earth looking out the window was considered worthwhile. I guess I still have a little kid in me; I like watching out the window.
Train Depot in Minot, North Dakota
View from the train at Williston, North Dakota
The Empire Builder begins in Chicago and is timed to pass through Glacier National Park just in front of the sunset. I got out (two days after the summer solstice so daylight hours were long) in East Glacier, Montana.
I had prearranged a place to stay because I would be arriving around 7 pm, and "The Road to the Sun" (more on that later) had just opened so I thought there might be a tourist rush on lodging in this small town. I was wrong but I wasn't disappointed with my digs.
Today was stunning. I pedaled up "Looking Glass Hill" on my way north to St. Mary's, where the eastern side of "The Road to the Sun" begins its long trek up to the Continental Divide and beyond to the west side of the Park. There were many great views along the way.
This Park is massive, and has no fewer than six regions in which one can backpack, boat, and view the 26 remaining glaciers.
My digs in the Johnson RV Park in St Mary's. First time I've used my tent since I started this trip.
The Visitor Center at the east entrance of the park is superb. I spoke to a thoughtful young ranger who was very supportive of my desire to learn more about the glaciers. Some of the facts she verified I have already shared here in a limited form. In 1850 there were 150 glaciers in this park region. Now there are 26. All of the glaciers are smaller then they were in 1970, many of them are up to 80% smaller. Some scientists predict their full disappearance by 2020, although others are estimating 2030 or beyond depending on emission scenarios. Literature (including signage) at the Park says either 2020 and 2030, depending what one is reading. Whatever the reality is, if you want to see the glaciers in this park, plan a visit soon.
The ranger pulled out a notebook full of "repeat photographs". These are contemporary pictures of glaciers in the Park alongside pictures of the same glaciers taken anywhere from 1900 - 1930. All these photographs can be located on the USGS website, and another great website that is similar can be found here.
In closing, please know I think an important solution to the problem of carbon emissions (that are driving the changes here) is the Citizens Climate Lobby. I hope you will check it out at citizensclimatelobby.org.
You can see my route today here.
Thanks for reading. More to come.
Glacier to Seattle, Post 3
This will be a short post. I'm relaxing in the David Motel Lodge outside Ellsworth, WI.
It has been raining off and on for days, but today the sky began to clear. The sun came out in the afternoon and the temperature hit 88 degrees. I made good time, and expect to get to Minneapolis tomorrow. You might enjoy checking out my road cycling activity on Garmin Connect.
However, I had to reroute myself several times because the Chippewa River bike trail has been washed out in many places.
Looking west at an underpass on the Chippewa Falls Bike Trail.
Looking east at an underpass on the Chippewa Falls Bike Trail.
Looking west away from the underpass.
Another shot of the swollen Chippewa River.
A local gricery store manager told me that 15 inches of rain fell on Saturday night in Durand, WI, so I checked it out.
He was right. Four days later Durand is still flooded by the swollen Chippewa River.
In spite of the challenges, I am warm, dry, well fed, and just finished a very, very good beer. Earlier today I was reminded of a quote by EB White:
"Every morning I awake torn between a desire to save the world and an inclination to savor it. This makes it hard to plan the day.
But if we forget to savor the world, what reason do we possibly have for saving it? In a way, the savoring must come first".
Thanks for reading. More to come.
Glacier to Seattle, Post 2
The sunset in Abbotsford, WI, was beautiful. I went to bed thinking Tuesday would be a beautiful day, but I awoke to extreme rain, and to the news that there was more damage to the west and north. A friend sent me a photograph taken in the UP of Michigan near Houghton.
Houghton, MI. This is how extreme rain can ruin a road.
The rain was coming down hard, so biking wouldn't be safe. I waited. The rain tapered off, and finally I left for Eau Claire, some 69 miles to the west. Like yesterday, I was lucky, and except for a few drizzles, I stayed dry all day. And cool. For the first time since I arrived in the Midwest last Friday, the temperature didn't go above 77 degrees. It was a good day for biking, and I covered some distance. You can check my Garmin Connect here:
I had my bike computer set to avoid major highways, so it put me on this gravel road heading west. Under dry conditions it wouldn't have been so bad, but the rain made it soft under the gravel and challenging to cycle on. But one does what one must, so I persevered for about 10 miles until I was able to create an alternative route on County X. That got me all the way to Chippewa Falls, a town to the northeast of Eau Claire. I made my way down to Eau Claire and found a Motel 6, where I am currently relaxing and watching rain out the window.
Climate change and extreme weather aside, why are exes so complicated?
En route from Abbotsford to Eau Claire, WI, fields are inundated. The rain had been more extreme than I had even realized during the night. The problem was most apparent when I got to Chippewa Falls and turned onto a bike path on the Chippewa River.
A sign said the bike path was closed, but I didn't know why. And then I noticed a family walking toward the closed path. I followed them, hoping the path was open, even though the sign said otherwise. And then I saw why the path was closed. I asked the father of this family why the water was so high. He answered, "I think it's because of the heavy rain last night." He went on to explain, "Last week the river was at normal levels. I really think this happened last night."
It sure seems like a lot of water for one rainstorm. I tried another route to another section of the path. And I found this. The tunnel to the right at the bottom of the stairs is where the bike path is supposed to be.
I stayed in the higher side of the bank and followed the river. And I came upon another section where paths were inaccessible.
I found another route, although I never strayed far from the river. It's not easy to see in the picture above, but the bike path is again under water beyond the trees. I suspect the bank is at least 10 feet above its usual level.
The swollen Chippewa River.
I wonder what tomorrow will bring? And how can we slow down extreme weather events?
Take a look at https://citizensclimatelobby.org. I will be writing about their carbon pricing plan in future blog posts. There are genuine solutions out there; they may not be silver bullets, but by working together we can create market based economic incentives that will favor clean energy over energy that is pushing our climate toward ecological catastrophe. Let's do what is necessary.
Thanks for reading. More to come.