A Sevenmile Stream Story

By: | January 31, 2024

Years ago, Carol Evans, then a Bureau of Land Management biologist in northeastern Nevada, told me she wanted to write a book called Stream Stories — a series of vignettes about the many creeks that webbed her region and defined her career. I have no idea if she’s working on this today (Carol, if you’re reading this, I hope you are!), but it always struck me as a brilliant premise. Streams and narratives have much in common: they flow between points yet never truly end, they are subject to the forces of history yet shape it themselves. And they both have protagonists — in the streams’ case, the living beings who dwell within them and, in some cases, sculpt their physical form.

Here, then, is my stab at a brief stream story, featuring a waterway called Sevenmile Creek. And, like so many good stream stories, it co-stars beavers.

Sevenmile Creek runs down a shoulder of scraggly pinyon-juniper forest that looms above Buena Vista, Colorado, a town on the banks of the Arkansas River. For the last several years, Sevenmile’s flow has been diminishing, for reasons that aren’t entirely clear — drought, perhaps, or some subtle change in hydrology or land use. Regardless, the dwindling water has spelled trouble for its resident beavers, which, though capable of transforming even the thinnest streams into robust ponds, can’t conjure water from thin air. 

One January morning, I paid Sevenmile’s beavers a visit with Mark Beardsley, Cat Beardsley, and Jessica Doran, three beaver aficionados who restore Colorado streams under the banner of a company called EcoMetrics. We walked a couple of miles down one of the gazillion rutted dirt roads that cuts across public land in this corner of Colorado, our dogs weaving around our ankles. Distant coyotes yipped and wailed. 

When the road reached Sevenmile Creek, we found it had gone virtually dry. A stranded beaver lodge, its normally submerged entrances yawning like cave mouths, stood in a damp meadow, the crumbling ruins of an ancient kingdom. I felt a twinge of foreboding. 

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Under the Kitchen Table is One Option

By: | January 29, 2024

I have had occasion to mention January before, once with hard eyes and grit and once with faith and hope. I mean, it needs both, doesn’t it. Another option is always to become one with the cold, dark skies.

You finally get through the infinite holiday season, think you can relax for a minute, and there’s January. For instance, coinciding with the new year was a leak in the gas main running down the street outside my house. It’s all underground but the gas filtered through the ground, followed the water mains, and drifted up to the surface and then through the air, finally so obvious that not only were the neighbors reporting it but so were random people walking though the neighborhood. And with every report — eight of them — the gas company has to send out a technician who walks around with sensors and makes alarming marks on the ground and asks to inspect your basement in case you’re about to be blown to kingdom come. Luckily, I never was. And finally they sent out a team who looked like construction workers ready to become a bomb squad, dug up my sidewalk and down to China, and fixed it.

Which was just in time, a week or more later, for the yearly water main break to whose early signs I am now fully alert: water runs down the street, it’s not raining, you look for where the water is coming from, and it’s just oozing up through the asphalt. And in a mere matter of time, that water will carry away enough underground ground, and the street will cave in. Luckily this time it didn’t. And they sent out a construction team who can see in the dark, dug up the street and down to China, and fixed it.

UPDATE: A geyser has just blown up, like 10, 20 feet straight up, in the middle of a cross street around the corner. I mean, jeez.

A person could think this all was due to Baltimore’s 19th century infrastructure, which responds catastrophically to cold snaps. But the temperatures were unusually mild. The cold snap didn’t come until after the infrastructure go fixed and it came accompanied with the 5 or 6 inches of snow that now wouldn’t melt. And I’m thinking that once again, the fault is January. It’s a dreadful month. So that’s me complaining again, tired of facing life with courage and realism.

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Free the Tree

By: | January 24, 2024

One Sunday in November, my boyfriend and I were arriving back at his house at noon or so, after a visit to the market for a baguette and bacon. As I waited for him to unlock his door, I looked at the pretty maple tree next to me. It had Christmas lights wrapped around its trunks and limbs. “Do those lights work?” I asked. It was getting dark early – daylight savings had ended two weeks before – and I thought it might be nice to have some lights outside. They did not, he said. I looked closer and realized the tree was starting to grow around the wires. In time, that can kill a tree. I suggested that it might be time to take the lights down.

At first we tried unwinding the lights, but quickly realized they were too embedded. The tree had even popped the wires in places as it grew. The lights were beyond saving. With wire cutters, we started clipping and pulling and unwinding and clipping again. Gradually we released the tree from its bonds. The hardest bits were down at the branching of the tree’s two main trunks, which had come together as they grew and widened. But my boyfriend thought of applying a bit vegetable oil as lubricant – this felt unkind somehow, pouring a plant product on a plant – and, by pulling steadily, we were able to get the last bits of the wires out.

The whole process only took about 15 minutes and it gave this pretty tree a new lease on life. Below is what the tree looked like afterward – see, you can see the twist of the wires in the lower of the two crisscrossing scars. Two months later, the scars look much milder. I hope we freed it in time.

I took pictures of the tree knowing it would make a charming post for this blog. But I’ve barely done any writing since.

This event happened at the beginning of what turned out to be the worst week of my life. My father was 81 and extremely healthy. A stroke came from nowhere, as they do. One Sunday, I had a father; the next Sunday, I didn’t. One Sunday, this tree was wrapped in wires that would kill it; the next week, it wasn’t.

Almost everybody loses their father, and almost everybody has to live in a world without their parents, eventually. (How, though?) I want to write about him, but I don’t know how, but I want to make everything about him, because it is.

Here’s what comes to mind when I look back on this little episode: My father took great joy in nature and in being active outside, as did I, climbing around that tree, pulling on wires. He and I share a passion for spotting problems and wondering if we could make things better. He’s the one who introduced me to wire cutters. And he also would have thoroughly documented his work in photos.

Photos: Helen Fields, who is her father’s daughter, obviously

Chasing the northern lights

By: | January 22, 2024

I can’t remember why I decided I needed to see the northern lights again. Maybe it was nostalgia. I remembered seeing them as a child, standing in the big yard facing Canada and watching them dance above the pasture. Sometimes I spent the night at my aunt and uncle’s in town, we’d stand in the middle of the highway and watch them. In North Dakota the sky is vast and traffic minimal.

Or maybe I just wanted a distraction from a life that become rote, a break from the relentless schedule of parenting small children.

Whatever the reason, I found a Facebook group called Upper Midwest Aurora Chasers and I joined. Suddenly every night was filled with possibility. I monitored the group’s posts, and I waited for the right conditions. Southern Wisconsin, where I live, is almost never a good place to see the aurora. Too far south. But you don’t have to drive far to get a good view.

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The internet and the overmind

By: | January 19, 2024

When the internet was young, David Bowie was asked by a skeptical journalist whether it would ever have any real impact on the world. Wasn’t it just a fad whose transformative potential artists were exaggerating in a bid to stay relevant with the youths? It was 1999, and while this stance is easy to mock today, you might spare a little sympathy for the journalist. Jeremy Paxman was a heavy-hitting British national treasure. When politicians got scared at night, it was him they feared lurking under their beds. He had seen everything. And he thought, why is everyone losing their minds over a new content delivery system?

The entire concept of internetworked connectivity was swaddled in chirpy corporate AOL yellow, in unthreatening blueberry iMac vibes. This “sky’s the limit” techno-boosterism in fact had very clear limits, and these were predicated on the internet’s benign usefulness. It would make the world like itself, only more so, and more quick, more convenient, more fun.

Bowie saw it differently. “The potential for what the internet is going to do to society, both good and bad, is unimaginable,” he told Paxman.

Paxman made a sour lemon face at him. “It’s just a tool though, isn’t it?”

Bowie grimaced. “No it’s not. No. It’s an alien life form.”

It’s worth watching the whole clip, but especially starting around the 9-minute mark, the conversation will make you wonder if Bowie was hiding a time machine among his Ziggy Stardust paraphernalia. “I don’t think we’ve seen even the tip of the iceberg. We’re on the cusp of something exhilarating and terrifying.”

But if you think his prediction about the alien effects of the internet from 1999 is weirdly on point, check out Arthur C. Clarke’s first-contact novel Childhood’s End, published in 1953. The only trouble is, you might have a bad time sleeping afterwards.

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Our Moon

By: | January 17, 2024

Our Becky wrote a book. It came out yesterday. It’s beautiful. And I got to talk with her about it.

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Cameron: Could you tell the story about how this book came to be?

Becky: When I started working on this proposal, I imagined it as a sort of appreciation—here’s how cool the Moon is, here’s why you should care about it even though many astronomers find it dull, here’s what it has done for us. I wanted people to think about it in a way that transcends the modern rocket-measuring-contest obsession with going back there and mining or something. My editor, who is amazing, saw early on that this book was more like a history of human thought. 

So when I started writing it, I wanted to connect its existence to our own, and our process of thought through time. And I set out to find some interesting lunar connections. As I found these different connections—ranging from the earliest methods of timekeeping, to the roots of religion and philosophy—I grew convinced that this wasn’t going to be an appreciation, but instead an argument. Like: The Moon is responsible for every giant leap we have made as a species. We would not be here without it, and here are all of the reasons why.

Cameron: Before reading this book, I’d never thought of the Moon from the Moon’s perspective. That is, I’d only thought about it as it looks from Earth. You write so beautifully about the Moon and some of the things it experiences–its own seasons and solstices, even a water cycle–and what it might be like to be on the Moon. What was it like for you to think and write about the Moon this way?

Becky: I really wanted the Moon to be the main character of this book. At one point I mapped out the chapters according to Campbell’s traditional hero’s journey — like, the Moon is the central character experiencing a journey of supernatural wonder, encountering forces acting against its interest, triumphing over those forces, and reckoning with the transformation that ensues. I think the ultimate structure is not quite that, but there are some echoes of it in the narrative. In the middle, for instance, the Moon falls from grace; once it is divorced from our notion of time, and Galileo and his contemporaries prove that it is just one satellite of many, the Moon faces its abyss. I tried to keep those narrative ideas in mind as I was writing. If the Moon was a character, what would it feel? Without ascribing too much agency or personification to the Moon, I really wanted to keep it and its experience front and center, whether that was to consider the physical traits that separate it from Earth, or to think about how the Moon experiences the sublime. I also really just love thinking about what it would be like there. I tried to focus on the Earthly things we often take for granted, and how much we would miss them when they were gone.

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Guest Post: I Went Searching for Rattlesnakes and the Most Dangerous Thing I Found Was My Own Urine

By: | January 15, 2024

In the early days of the pandemic, I found myself faced with a test of courage even more daunting than disinfecting groceries: peeing in the woods as a woman, and a very pregnant one, at that.

As part of the research for my book, Curious Species: How Animals Made Natural History, I had contacted wildlife biologist Brendan Clifford, who invited me (with my husband, William, in tow) to track state-endangered timber rattlesnakes in New Hampshire. By that point, I was nearly seven months pregnant with my daughter. Our drive to find the snakes would last a good hour each way, the expedition several more. We shuddered at the thought of viral clouds lingering in a gas-station restroom given the effects of the disease on gestation and gestating people—then, in May 2020, still unknown.

But pregnant women pee. They pee a lot. It’s as if your bladder has shrunk to the size of a lentil and then someone dropkicks that lentil at intervals. And so, I had to learn the art of using a pee funnel—essentially a prosthetic penis that diverts urine outward from standing position—while growing more ungainly by the day.

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