Since the popular tourist town of La Fortuna was only 30 miles away from Nuevo Arenal where we were staying, we decided to drive over and check it out. La Fortuna had avoided being destroyed by the violent eruption of Mt. Arenal in 1968 and used the continuing volcanic action over the following 40 years to draw tourists from around the world. While the volcano ceased its activity in 2010, its smoking top still provides a popular attraction for visitors.
Mt. Arenal looms above the Costa Rica town of La Fortuna, a mere 6 miles away. It was cloudy when we visited so we couldn’t see the smoke that that escapes from the top. The red sign on the right proclaims Vulcan Arenal and points toward the mountain. A fan palm reaches out from the right. We were on the Big Island of Hawaii last year when Kīlauea was erupting, so we understand the attraction of a live volcano— as long as it is behaving itself.This photo from Wikimedia Commons of Mt. Arenal during its active but non-destructive phase shows why millions of tourists would have made their way to La Fortuna.Signs along the road advertised different ways tourists might want to enjoy the mountain. Options here included on the back of a horse, from a zip-line, or on your feet. The unreadable sign down on the right pushed using ATVs. For more laidback tourists, several hot springs— created by underground water’s close proximity to lava— demanded a visit. Numerous storefront operations along the streets of La Fortuna were eager to sign up visitors for these, and other tours. For example, one could repel down a waterfall, hike on hanging bridges, tour chocolate and coffee farms, or go on wildlife tours. The latter included seeing sloths.Good views of Mt. Arenal can be seen from anywhere in the town, including behind Iglesia de La Fortuna de San Carlos, the town’s Catholic Church.A small but attractive town park in front of the church featured Costa Rica’s flag…A large heart where visitors could have a photo taken. Peggy decided that I should be in one. And…Bunches of Cana lilies. These beauties, which can be found in flower gardens around the world, are actually native to Costa Rica.A block away, we found a mural featuring a jaguar and a woman. The thrush seems to be whispering something in the girl’s ear while its cousin, a robin, looks on.For lunch, we decided that eating in the lava lounge (on the right) was appropriate.A painting inside displayed an exploding Mt. Arenal. Peggy insisted on taking a photo, a challenge since the glass covering it reflected light coming in from the windows.
We thought the message was clear. An exploding volcano might be a mind boggling sight, but it isn’t something you would want in your backyard. The name of the town reminded me of the Roman Goddess, Fortuna. She was the goddess of fate, and could be rather fickle, bringing both good and bad luck. La Fortuna was on the good luck side. The nearby villages of Tabacón, Pueblo Nuevo, and San Luís were on the other. They had been completely destroyed by pyroclastic flows in 1968. The explosion had been so powerful that it had tossed up massive lava bombs weighing several tons. The giant boulders had been thrown a distance of a half mile traveling at speeds of 1300 miles per hour. If volcanos played baseball, I’d want Arenal on my team!When I went to use the men’s restroom in the restaurant, I found a kitty litter box right next to it, complete with a kitty taking care of business. How appropriate! Peggy and I laughed. We had to take a photo. The Lava Lounge is known for its rescue work with stray dogs and cats roaming the streets of La Fortuna.A sign on the wall declared “Love for all living creatures is the most notable human attribute,” a sentiment we agree with.After lunch, Peggy and I wandered around the small town checking out various shops. Peggy, whose love of chocolate is legendary, had to buy a dark chocolate bar. It came with this interesting wrapper. The label on top declared it as Nahua Costa Rican Chocolate. The Nahuas are an indigenous tribe of Mexico and Central America, ancestors of the Aztecs. They would have used chocolate extensively, consuming it as a bitter, frothy beverage known as xocolātl. Cocoa beans were also used for money. If you are familia with the movie Chocolat, Vianne would likely have been a descendant of the Nahua.On our way out of town we passed an artist’s studio with this statue. A carved sloth is climbing on the tree behind. A primitive monster posed above Earth. Was it going to gobble up the planet? And why did my mind jump to politics?Our trip to and from La Fortuna from Nuevo Arenal produced several interesting sights. This large truck demonstrated the width of the road. Passing wasn’t much of an option. When two large trucks met each other they slowed to a crawl, almost stopping to get by. Bridges along the road narrowed even further, with room for one vehicle at a time. While there were rules about who went first, using them felt like Russian Roulette to us, especially on a blind curve. We wondered why a number of cars had pulled off the road. We discovered that it was to watch a band of coatis foraging for food. They have long sharp claws for digging and a tough nose for ferreting out food.This guy had a dirty nose to prove it. We read that their diet ranged from insects to fruit. Tarantulas and scorpions were downed with the same enthusiasm they used for other items on the menu.Costa Rica is a ‘grow your own fence’ kind of place. Shove a stick into the ground, wait for it to root and grow limbs, connect the trees with barbed wire, and voila! you have a fence.The fences can be quite impressive once they grow out. And they don’t rot, which is a real problem in Costa Rica with standard wood posts. When Costa Ricans do choose to use fence posts, they are made out of cement.Restaurants ranging from a roof on poles to more elaborate establishments were found along the road. Each providing an adventure in eating. This Toucan Lane restaurant came with its own toucan out front There was a good chance it also came with a bird-feeding station that attracted toucans in the back. The sign in the background declared “That’s how fairy tales taste.” I’m not sure what the ‘taste’ referred to. Toucans?We passed over the Lake Arenal Dam coming and going.And were also treated to several views of the lake. That’s it for today. Next on UT-OH, I will take you to Sierra College where my conservative upbringing was put to test. President Harold Weaver and College Trustees review plans for the soon to be finished Sierra College in 1961. It was brand new when I arrived in that fall. While I would go on to UC Berkeley for my Junior and Senior years, many of my views of the world were developed in my time at Sierra. I’ll use Wednesday’s and Friday’s post to summarize the four most important.
A note on you never know who is going to read your blogs. I got an Email this week from Emily Bell, a producer for the Discovery Channel. The channel is doing a Revolutionary War feature on Brandywine, Fort Mifflin, and the Pennsylvania Navy as part of the Nation’s 250 Anniversary celebration. In doing her research she had read my post on Fort Mifflin and wanted to know if I would be available to participate. Here’s what she had to say:
The story of the Mekemson brothers is truly remarkable. We are focusing on the Battle of Brandywine, the siege of Fort Mifflin, and the heroic, often overlooked role of the Pennsylvania Navy. Because all four brothers fought together at Brandywine before splitting up, with Andrew and James heading to Fort Mifflin while Thomas and William joined the PA Navy, their journey offers a deeply heartfelt thread that ties these massive historical events together.
Unfortunately, I’ll be in Greece when the Discovery Channel is doing its filming at Fort Mifflin. I will be talking with Emily this week with more background information on the family before the war, however.
My college education consisted of two very different experiences. The first was at Sierra Community College, which had a student population of around 1600 students in 1961. The second was at UC Berkeley with a population of over 30,000 plus. I’m glad I went to Sierra first. Berkeley was complicated. It was easy for a country boy to get lost.
I knew all of my professors at Sierra and a significant portion of the students. I even ended up as Student Body President my sophomore year. There were a variety of projects I undertook. The weirdest was responsibility for a pick-ax. Our cross-town rival was American River College in Sacramento. Like most such rivalries, ours was consummated in an annual football game. The winner received undying glory— and the coveted Pick-ax.
“Why a pick-ax?” I had asked. Who wouldn’t? I was told it was because of the area’s 49er heritage. Northern California is steeped in history of the 1849 Gold Rush. Picks, along with shovels and gold pans, were the go-to tools that miners wielded in their endless search for gold. The gold discovery site at Sutter’s Mill, Coloma was a mere 30 miles from campus.
The day before a football game with A.R., a bonfire rally was held on campus. A local lumber company in Auburn, Cal-Ida, provided the lumber and a truck to haul it. One of my jobs as president was to drive it. “You will have to post a guard at the bonfire site, Curt,” the Dean of the college told me. “American River might try to light the wood in advance of the rally.” The two women who appear to be beating back the crowd are actually cheerleaders setting the mood for the game. (Photo from the 1963 Annual of Sierra College.)The 1962 Executive Council at Sierra College. I’m in the upper row second from left. (Photo from the 1963 Annual of Sierra College.)
We had won the previous year’s game so we had the Pick-ax. It was my sacred responsibility to carry it to the game. A special ceremony would be held during A.R.’s Homecoming Dance where we would formally give up or retain the Ax depending on who won. One more thing: In addition to possibly lighting our bonfire early, there was a good chance that A.R. would try to steal the Ax. It was a tradition between the two colleges: Whoever lost it tried to steal it back. My job was to protect it— with my life if necessary, I was informed.
I recruited a few guys to help with the protection detail including my friend Hunt Warner. He’s on the lower right. Hunt, with my encouragement, had run for and won the Freshman Class Presidency. These were his fellow officers. In the small world category, it was Hunt who had hosted the beer party the night I was called away to fight the forest fire. Brian Morris, sitting next to him, was stepson of Mike DeNatly, Placerville’s Chief of Police who had threatened me with arrest the day of my graduation from high school. (Photo from the 1963 Annual of Sierra College.)
To reduce the possibility of theft, we arrived a few minutes before the game was supposed to start, and moved watchfully along the walkway in front of the stands. I was surrounded by muscle power and carried the Ax firmly in my hands. About half way down walkway, my former girlfriend from high school, D, was sitting in the front row. After graduating from high school, she had come to Sierra, too, and was a freshman.
“Hi, Curt,” she greeted me with a large smile. I swear she was purring. Instant regrets of lost opportunities and more than a little guilt played tag among my memory cells. “Can I see the Pick-ax?” she asked.
“No, sorry D,” I responded. “I am supposed to protect it with my life.”
“Oh come on,” she urged, “what possible harm can it do?”
I gave in. What harm could it do? UT-OH!
I must admit the theft was neatly planned. The guy sitting next to her grabbed the Pick-ax, leapt over the railing, and handed it off to another guy who was waiting. That guy dashed across the field with a burst of speed that almost guaranteed he was the anchor on A.R.’s championship relay team.
My security team jumped the rail in hot pursuit, but they didn’t stand a chance. They were recruited for their size, not speed. By the time they reached the opposite bleachers, the Pick-ax had disappeared into an ocean of A.R. supporters. A thousand voices roared approval. Pursuing the ax would have been suicidal.
Well, needless to say, I felt terrible. I had failed in my duty, been done in by a pretty smile.
At half time, the A.R. mascot, who happened to be a diminutive woman dressed up as a beaver, came prancing over to our side of the stands, taunting us with the fact A.R. had stolen the Ax. She strolled by and flipped me off with her tail.
“Grab the Beaver.” I ordered my muscle men in a moment of sheer inspiration. And they did— gently.
“Let go of me you son-of-a-bitching goons,” she screamed in un-lady like beaver prose. The air turned blue.
“Gnaw on it, Beaver,” I growled as I took hold of her papier-mâché head and lifted it off. The invective level increased tenfold. The little Beaverette had an incredible vocabulary.
“Quick,” I urged Hunt, “make this beaver head disappear for the time being.”
We lost the game, I am not sorry to say. Had we won, my losing the Pick-ax would have been a much more serious crime, punishable by banishment from Sierra. As it was, A.R. had simply obtained the Ax an hour early. And I had the beaver head— well hidden.
I made my way through the dispersing crowd to the dance. The floor was already packed with gyrating Beavers. The bandleader willingly turned over his microphone when I looked official and said that I had an important announcement to make.
“Hello everyone, my name is Curtis Mekemson and I am President of the Student Body of Sierra College,” I jumped in. There was immediate silence. “I came here to present you with your Ax but you already have it.” (Laughter) “But,” I went on with a pregnant pause, “I have your Beaver Head.” (More laughter)
The crowd was in a good mood. They had won the game and could afford to be generous to this enemy within their midst.
“Getting it was not easy. Do you have any idea of the extended vocabulary of your Beaverette?” (Extensive laughter) “I do, however, wish to apologize to her and note that the language was justified. Having your head ripped off is never a pleasant experience. As for my defense, she flapped her tail at me one too many times. In wrapping this up, I have a proposition for you. Do you want your beaver head back?”
“YES!” was the resounding answer.
“Okay,” I replied. “If you will send an appropriate delegation up to Sierra next Wednesday at noon, I will personally return the head.”
That was that. Arrangements were made for A.R. to appear at the Sierra College Campus Center the following week. The day came and the Center was packed. I had turned the head over to our cafeteria staff for a special presentation.
The A.R. delegation showed up at noon on the dot. I welcomed them to our campus, complimented them on their victory and encouraged them to enjoy the Pick-ax for the short year they would have it. I also urged they keep it well guarded.
“And now,” I announced, “it is time to bring out the Beaver Head.”
Out from the cafeteria came a formal procession, complete with the campus cook and her assistants. The Beaver Head had been carefully arranged on a huge platter that included all of the trimmings for a feast. The piece-de-resistance was an apple carefully inserted into the Beaver’s mouth, like a roasted pig. Needless to say, a great time was had by all, including the A.R. delegation.
D’s revenge over my dropping her in high school, and my debacle with the Pick-ax had been turned into a minor victory, for both of us.
On Monday’s post we will continue to share stories from our visit to Costa Rica in March. The focus will be on our trip over to Fortuna at the base of Mt. Arenal, a now quiet volcano, and one of the main tourist attractions in the area. The Lava Lounge, on the right, however, is a good reminder that building your town on the edge of an active volcano is something akin to keeping a live rattlesnake for a pet.
Idaho Falls on the Snake River is known for its beautiful falls. There are several. Thus the city’s name. The easiest way to get across the Snake River is on this bridge.Daredevil Evel Knievel opted to jump across it in a modified motor/rocket cycle built by rocket scientist Robert Truax.A Sports Illustrated cover that featured Knievel in the Snake River canyon.
Summer 1961: In my last post, I got up the nerve to ask a rocket scientist’s daughter for a Saturday night date to the California State Fair, spent a long week waiting, worked in a pear orchard for 9 hours on Friday, joined friends for a night of chugging beer that evening, and then left the party at midnight to fight a raging forest fire— all before the date. I am continuing the story today as I tell the tale of the longest weekend in my life...
One hour later I was in a mustering hall in Placerville filled with men being divided up into fire-fighting teams. By 2 a.m. I was clinging to the side of a steep canyon with one hand desperately holding onto a manzanita bush while my free hand wielded the short, heavy mattock. Our team had been assigned the responsibility of clearing a firebreak along the canyon rim. The whole sky was lit up in front of us by an inferno that was relentlessly marching toward our location. It encouraged fast chopping. Full speed ahead and damn the blisters.
It was not our night to play toast, however. The wind switched direction and we completed our firebreak. Somewhere around five a.m., a very welcome soul had shown up with water to refill our empty canteens. At seven we were told to take a break for breakfast. We returned to the staging area where men and machines competed for space, and the earlier night’s chaos had been whipped into a semblance of order. More importantly, a highly efficient cooking crew was turning out mountains of mouth-watering food. Starvation would not be a problem.
After breakfast, our next assignment was dealing with small spot fires left behind by the main conflagration that was now trying to burn itself out. We marched through the mini-Armageddon with back pumps spraying anything that smoked. A change in wind direction might fan these dying embers into flames and a new outbreak. It was hot, dirty work, but lacked the intensity of the night before.
A late lunch came and went. Afterwards our crew chief made us an offer I couldn’t refuse. The worst danger appeared to be over. Only mop-up work remained to be done. While our services were still needed, we could be relieved if we had other pressing responsibilities. I decided that Kathy was a ‘pressing responsibility.’ It was 2 p.m. and I had been fighting fire for 12 hours. There was just time to get home, beautify, and make it to Kathy’s home in Cameron Park by 5.
I won’t say the date was anticlimactic, because it wasn’t. Kathy was as charming as I expected and going to fairs has always been one of my favorite activities. Among the things that attract me are pigs and goats. I’m fascinated by pig behavior, especially at feeding time. I love to watch them squeal, snort, shove, and snap their way to the food pan. I particularly enjoy the ones that place both front feet solidly in the middle of the common food dish and glare defiantly around at fellow pigs. It’s so human. As for goats, I like their friendly curiosity and the way they come over to be scratched and nibble at your shirt.
Goats have always been one of my top reasons for visiting fairs. This fellow was very curious about my camera. Shortly afterwards, he tried to nibble on my shirt.
I took Kathy to the animal barn. It’s a must-do on fair dates. Wiser heads might counsel this is not the way to impress a new woman friend, but I’ve always figured if my friend didn’t have a sense of humor about the animals, it was unlikely she would have a sense of humor about me.
A highlight of the evening was winning Kathy a car-filling stuffed dog. As a ten-year old kid, I once spent a couple weeks before the El Dorado County Fair practicing the game of toss a dime in a dish and win a prize. Each night I would religiously get out my plates and two dollars’ worth of dimes and toss away. I learned a little back flip trick that actually allowed the dime to stay in the dish. When the Fair came, I was loaded for bear, or at least stuffed bear. I picked out the booth that featured the animals I liked and bought a dollar’s worth of dimes. My very first dime managed to stick.
“Even little kids win here,” the carnie shouted as he tossed me a bear. He wasn’t nearly as excited when I won the second bear. On the third, he banned me from the booth. It was one of my prouder moments. I sold the bears to the older brother of one of my friends for $10. He wanted to give one to his girlfriend but couldn’t win one. I had all the makings of becoming a great capitalist.
Unfortunately, I had lost the knack of dime toss by the time of my date with Kathy and the dishes had shrunk considerably. A tiny plate in the middle, slightly larger than a dime, was reserved for the bigger animals you were required to win to impress a girl.
I decided I would have better luck at a ball toss where all the prizes were large. This is the game where you have to fit large softballs into small, numbered squares. You win if the numbers add up to more or less than specified high and low numbers. Naturally, it is almost impossible to do on skill given the size of the squares and the bounciness of the balls. It is also close to impossible to win on luck. So I did the next best thing, I cheated. I helped the ball behave by leaning over the barrier when the carnie was otherwise occupied. The crowd, seeing what I was up to, participated by distracting him.
“We have a winner,” the carnie shouted as he paraded around his booth with the large stuffed animal. “Everyone’s a winner at my booth.” Sure. I’d bet a hundred bucks no one else had won one that day. We walked away laughing.
Eventually the evening came to an end. I loaded Kathy and her large stuffed dog into my 56 Chevy and headed back up Highway 50. I delivered her home ten minutes early. We chatted away happily until midnight. Then the lights started blinking.
“What?” I asked Kathy.
“Oh, it’s just Mother,” Kathy explained somewhat embarrassed. “She always starts blinking the lights after I return from a date.” That was a first for me. I reluctantly said goodnight to Kathy as she and her large stuffed dog went inside, and I started my drive back to Diamond.
It was a successful conclusion to a day that had started 42 hours earlier and included 9 hours of working in the orchard, 5 hours of partying, 12 hours of firefighting, 7 hours of mundane activities, and the 7 hour date with Kathy. I was one tired puppy and just managed to make it home without passing out.
We had one more date that summer, a day trip into the foothills above Diamond. It was my territory, so to speak, the boonies, far away from the world of rockets. Or so I thought. It turned out that her grandmother lived up near Pleasant Valley, on the edge of the same canyon where Caldor had once run its logging trains. Her father occasionally used the property for his hobby, shooting off rockets he had built. His dream was to create inexpensive rockets that would make space more affordable and could be retrieved for use again. And it was this dream that would eventually team him up with Evel Knievel, a man whose name was synonymous with daredevil.
During his life, Knievel made some 275 motorcycle jumps over cars, busses, and trucks. Fifteen of the jumps involved spectacular accidents. He suffered numerous concussions and shattered his pelvis three times. Overall, he broke 35 bones. Maybe he should have pursued a much tamer sport, such as playing NFL football.
But regardless of the injuries, he was always on the lookout for new ways to upgrade his act, obtain more publicity, and increase his income. Mainly this involved adding more vehicles to leap (for a number of years, he held the world record of 19 cars), but he also had a dream of jumping the Grand Canyon. The National Park Service wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea, however, which eventually led him to Idaho’s Snake River in 1974— and to Robert Truax. Knievel’s Harley wasn’t up for 1700-foot jump across the river. Truax offered to build him a rocket-cycle he could sit on that would. The jump failed after the parachute deployed prematurely, but Knievel survived with minor injuries.
That, however, was far into the future. Kathy and I enjoyed the date, returned home, and began to prepare for heading off to college.
The blast off of Evel’s attempted jump across the Snake River. It may be the only rocket ship ever that came with wheels.
Friday’s Post: The revenge of the EX.
In this aging photo from my 1962 Sierra College Annual, Student Body President Ray Hjertager and his date, Mary Carol Nelson, hold the coveted Pick-ax, symbol of Sierra’s football victory over crosstown rival, American River College. Ray has to keep a tight hold on it. There is a long-standing tradition that whoever loses the Pick-ax at the year’s Big Game will try to steal it back. Keeping it was my responsibility the following year when I was Student Body President. A fiendish plot by my ex-girlfriend from high school was hatched to steal it from me…
Lakeview Gardens, the VRBO we stayed at for our first two weeks in Nuevo Arenal, provided this view of Lake Arenal. The photo also provides a look at the jungle-like growth surrounding our villa.
The first place we stayed on our monthlong trip to Costa Rica was in the small town of Nuevo Arenal on the shore of Lake Arenal. It’s called Nuevo (new) because old Arenal, the town of Tronadora, and a huge cattle ranch are now buried deep under water.
In 1979, Costa Rica decided to create a major hydroelectricity project by damming the lake as part of its modernization efforts. Arrangements were made to move the inhabitants of Arenal and Tronadora to new communities. They had new homes, but their farms, ranches, and jobs were left behind. Hacienda la Rosita, the cattle ranch that covered much of the land now occupied by Lake Arenal, was expropriated by the Costa Rican Government, i.e. taken without compensation. I assume that the owner of the property, P. Eckrich & Sons, a subsidiary of the U.S. based Beatrice Foods, at least got a lot of steaks. Or maybe the cattle learned how to swim.
The new dam tripled the size of the lake to 33 square miles (85 square kilometers), making it the largest lake in Costa Rica. Its depth ranges between 98 feet in the dry season to 198 feet in the rainy season (30 and 60 meters). Initially, it was responsible for creating 50%-70% of the country’s electricity. Now it’s closer to 12%-17%, but still significant. 95-98 % of Costa Rica’s electricity comes from renewable sources, making it one of the top countries in the world for clean power. The US is around 24%.
Today, recreational activities ranging from fishing to windsurfing to kayaking and paddle boarding draw tourists from around the world, providing an important source of revenue for the local economy and country. The pages and pages of VRBOs, Air B&Bs, and tour companies listed on Google is an indication of this!
Lake Arenal is known for its windsurfing. A strong wind has this person flying across the lake!
The area is part of the Central America Volcanic Arc created by plate tectonics as portions of the ocean plate dive under Central America. There are several active volcanos in Costa Rica. Mt. Arenal, located a few miles away from the lake, erupted on July 29, 1968 with a major explosion that destroyed the town of Tabacón and killed 87 people. It can seen from Lake Arenal and is still smoking. Hot springs, geothermal power, and a tourist attraction are positive aspects of the volcanic action. Earthquakes and the possibility of Mt. Arenal erupting, again, are on the negative side of the ledger. I wondered how the dam would behave in a major earthquake. The mountain has been quiet since 2010.
A map of active volcanos in Northern Costa Rica from costarica.org. Arenal is the middle volcano. Lake Arenal is just to the north. This is a great example of the lava created when an oceanic plate scrapes off against a continental plate. The result is the volcanoes seen here.A view of Mt. Arenal. It was cloudy the day we drove to the town of Fortuna at its base, so we couldn’t see the smoke coming out of the top.
Next… photos of Lake Arenal that Peggy and I took.
It was cloudy on the day we went for a hike along the lake’s shore at a park on the edge of Nuevo Arenal. We thought the clouds added to the beauty of the lake.A peninsula jutted out into the lake.The sun breaking through provided an interesting contrast to the dark skies. The trail led us out onto the peninsula. An inlet leading back toward our VRBO was on the opposite side of the peninsula.Another perspective. The attractive inlet with its calm water had us wishing we had our kayaks along. The white caps and the wind out on the open lake: Not so much.Shooting toward the sun gave trees a shadowy look.Another peninsula and several small islands were visible looking down the lake. Tinajas Restaurant is located just over the hill on the right and provides a great view of the lake.This is the view out from the Tinajas Restaurant. We went there with our next door VRBO neighbors, Paul and Gabe, who were from Canada. Paul had managed a steel mill before his retirement. Gabe still ran an online school teaching Spanish speakers English. They were a delight. See the speck on the upper left. It wasn’t a bird. It was a spider building a web.Paul ordered a hamburger. It was humongous. I wondered if it had been donated by one of the ancestors of the cattle that once roamed through the valley below. Even more, I wondered how Paul could possible get it in his mouth. He demonstrated! And looked quite happy doing so. That’s it for today. Join us on Wednesday as I continue with my blog-a-book tales and…Win a large stuffed dog to impress a date at the California State Fair. By cheating. 😳 (Thanks AI for the photo.)
Living in the forests of the Western United States is subject to a constant threat of forest fires in the summer. This is a photo from our deck when we lived in Oregon. Fires raged throughout the area a number of times while we were there, and once we had to evacuate when the one came within a mile of our home. The forest fire I fought as an 18-year old near Georgetown, California would have looked much like this.
I was a senior before “love” hit me: That starry eyed, loop de loop feeling which has little to do with rational thought and one hell of a lot to do with hormones and ancient instincts that go all the way back to the beginning of life. It had all of the subtlety of a sledge hammer. Nature has a myriad of ways to assure we pass on our genes. A mere sniff works for some. For humans it’s more complicated. We are expected to hang out and help raise kids, a process that takes 18 years, or longer— at a minimum. That takes a lot of incentive.
Falling ‘head over heels in love,’ is just the beginning.
I met D in speech class. She was blond, bright, sexy and interested in me— an irresistible combination. Somehow, she ended up sitting in my lap as a joke when the teacher was a few minutes late. And bam! I was in love. We started dating and decided to ‘go steady.’ I even gave her my class ring. We became an item in the lingo of the day, a couple to be invited out together, a future with a question mark. We even had matching shirts, the ultimate in commitment.
But my question mark was bigger than D’s, or at least it came to fruition sooner. I was graduating from high school while she had another year. There was a big world waiting out there and I wasn’t ready to limit its horizons. So, with a degree of sadness, I ended the relationship. D was not happy. She had our future planned, even down to naming the babies.
That summer, being a ‘free man,’ several young women attracted my attention, one was Kathy Truax. She had large brown eyes that consumed and a sharp mind that challenged. She seemed sophisticated, almost exotic to me, and came from a very different world.
Her father, Robert Truax, was one of America’s premier, pioneer rocket engineers. He had kicked off his career prior to World War II when a childhood interest in Robert Goddard led him to build rockets at his home in Alameda, California. He had then gone on to work with the Navy on rocket development during World War II, and later helped build both the Thor and Polaris missiles. By 1959 he had left the military and was heading up Aerojet-General’s advanced rocket development division in Sacramento, California.
Kathy had transferred to El Dorado County High School as a senior when her dad had gone to work at Aerojet. She was on her way to Occidental College in Los Angeles in the fall and I was on my way to the local community college. They were a long way apart, and miles weren’t the only measure. Still, I thought a date would be fun.
The only drawback was I had to pick up the phone and call. There was a very real chance that Kathy would say no, and I am lousy at rejection. So I practiced something I am good at, procrastination. When I finally worked up the nerve to call, she picked up the phone on the first ring. “Oh, hi Curt,” she answered cheerfully. No, she wasn’t totally tied up in getting ready for Occidental and, yes, it would be fun to go out. So much for all of the time I’d spent anguishing. Our date would be a visit the California State Fair in Sacramento the following Saturday evening. I hung up with a loud ‘YES’ to myself. The rest should be easy.
Except it wasn’t. When is it ever. Time slowed down to thwart me. Weeks later, Friday finally arrived. Fortunately, pear season was at its height, and I had a busy nine hours swamping out 50-pound boxes of pears from the orchard and bench pressing them onto a fruit truck. That night, my friend Hunt Warner was hosting a beer party that killed several more hours not to mention brain cells. Midnight and Saturday were thirty minutes away when the phone rang.
“Hey Curt, it’s your mom,” Hunt announced over the din.
I had a sinking feeling that there was a family emergency. And yes, it was, just not family. The forest around Georgetown, a small community in the Sierra foothills, was burning down. The United States Forest Service had called seeking a few good men but was willing to accept anything that walked on two legs and could swing a mattock (a heavy tool with a pick on one side and a hoe on the other).
I had signed up to fight fires at the beginning of summer and had gone through a one-day training, which apparently qualified me to go out and risk my life. It was one of those things you do on a lark and later wonder why. I was definitely at the wondering stage when my mother gave me the phone number I was supposed to call. Normally, my better judgment would have kicked in. The date was looming, and a good party was roaring. But I was eighteen and had three (or more?) beers down my gullet. Fighting a fire seemed exciting. It was an adventure not to be missed, an Ut-Oh moment for sure… Stay tuned: Part II of today’s post will be next Wednesday.
The Main Street of Placerville looks pretty much the same today as it did in 1961. The Chief of Police pulled our car over on the right hand side of the street here. The incident took place near the red hotel building, a block or so down the road.
If I was going to base my future on my organizational skills, I had to practice, right? So, I organized a protest my senior year. As a 60’s issue, it wasn’t a biggie. The Administration had axed our Senior Ditch Day and we wanted it back.
I drew up a petition and Patti Foley, who had great calligraphy, made it fancy. Almost all of the seniors signed. (I still have it.) A student strike was organized. I’m sure it was the first time El Dorado Union High School students had even considered such an action, Mabe even the last. Some of our rowdier students even lit trash cans on fire.
It wasn’t the issue that got me threatened with jail, however. The school administration called me in and asked if we couldn’t work out some type of compromise on Senior Ditch Day, which I readily agreed to. The strike was called off, the rowdies stopped lighting trash cans on fire, and we switched our Ditch Day to one more agreeable to the Administration. Everyone won. My civics teacher was impressed.
My problem with the law took place on Graduation Day when I inadvertently (or is that idiotically) crossed paths with Mike De Natly, the Placerville Chief of Police. Few of my UT-OH! moments can hold a candle to this one. As one might expect, our last day of high school was a goof off day. All the tests were over, yearbooks signed, and caps and gowns fitted. There really wasn’t much to do except revel in the fact that we were through and to say goodbye to friends. Lunchtime meant a final cruise of Placerville’s Main Street to check out girls, to see and be seen.
What happened was out of character for me. I normally keep my comments on other peoples’ driving habits to myself and car-mates. The horn is for really bad infractions, and, on very rare occasions, a single digit comment is appropriate. I would never stick my head out the window and yell at someone. That can get you shot.
But we were hot stuff on graduation day. When a blue car decided to stop in the middle of Placerville’s crowded, narrow downtown street right in front of us and forced us to hit our brakes, it irritated me. And then, the driver nonchalantly got out to have a conversation with the driver of the car in front of him. It pushed me over the edge. Out went my head as we edged around the two cars and I had an attack of uncontrollable Y chromosome aggression.
“You SOB,” I yelled, “get your F-ing car out of the way!”
So what if I didn’t recognize the Chief of Police out of uniform in an unmarked car. So what if he had stopped to offer help to a guy who had managed to stall his car on Placerville’s busy Main Street. So what if I had suggested he had canine parentage in a voice that half of Placerville heard. It was an innocent mistake.
“That was Mike De Natly you just cussed out,” our driver managed to stutter with mixed parts of fear and awe.
As a teenager, I had pulled some fairly dumb stunts. Teenagers have a responsibility to push the envelope. It’s the rather awkward method evolution has provided for growing up and developing unique personalities. Mistakes are bound to happen and that’s okay. But I was carrying my responsibility too far; I had gone beyond dumb and plunged into really stupid.
“Keep driving,” I uttered with all the hope of the irrevocably damned, “maybe he is too busy and will ignore us.”
Sure, like maybe the sun won’t rise tomorrow. The poor stalled guy could still be sitting in the middle of Placerville for all of the attention the police chief paid to him after my little admonition. De Natly jumped in his car, slapped his flashing light on his roof, hit his siren and sped after us. Not that he needed to speed fast or far. We were creeping up Main Street in sheer terror about one block away. I am sure my car-mates were wishing fervently that Curt Mekemson hadn’t gotten out of bed that morning, had never made their acquaintance, and was, at that very moment, facing a group of starving cannibals in some far-off jungle.
We pulled over with De Natly literally parked on our rear bumper and resigned ourselves to the firing squad. Luckily, for my friends, the Chief had no interest in them. He appeared at my window red-faced and shouting about five inches away. Under the best of circumstances, he was known for having a temper and these were not the best of circumstances.
“Get out of the car,” he yelled. “Get out right now!”
I moved fast. This was not the time for bravery and stubbornness. It was a time to be humble— it was groveling time. And I groveled with the best. I blathered out apologies and managed to work “sir” into every sentence, several times. I trotted out my friendship with his stepson, I threw in the City Treasurer who was a mentor, and I even brought in Father Baskin, the Episcopal minister, as a character reference.
“Get in my car,” he ordered. My groveling seemed to be having minimal impact. At least he hadn’t handcuffed me.
We drove up to City Hall, and I had visions of being booked and thrown into a cell with some big hulking giant who either didn’t like young men or liked them too much. I thought of having to call my parents and explain how their son had become a common criminal. But De Natly had an even more diabolical plan in mind. We slowly made a turn through the jail parking lot to give me a sense of my future fate and then, to my surprise, hopped on Highway 50 to Canal Street and drove up to the high school.
I was going to have to explain my actions to the principal. My chances of graduating that night slipped down a notch. I doubted that he would have much of a sense of humor about one of his students cussing out the Chief of Police. But explaining my inexplicable actions to him would have been mercy in comparison to what happened.
It was a beautiful late spring day, this last day of school, and it seemed like half of the student body and a significant portion of teachers were enjoying their lunches on the expansive lawn in front of the school. De Natly pulled up to the sidewalk beside the lawn and ordered me out. The Chief of Police arriving with me in tow was enough to capture the attention of several students sitting close by. Then he made sure that everyone was aware of our presence.
“Do you want to spend the night in jail or graduate, Curtis?” he asked in a voice that was easily equivalent in volume to the one that I had used in suggesting he move his car. Conversation on the lawn came to a dead halt. Every ear in the place homed in on us with the intensity that a cat reserves for a potential mouse dinner. And I was the mouse. This was a Kodak moment, not to be missed.
My answer was easy: Of course, I wanted to graduate, SIR. And so it went, De Natly barking questions with the voice of an army sergeant and me responding as the lowest of recruits. Finally, after a few minutes that felt like eternity, the Chief got in his car and drove away.
I was left to deal with the not so gentle humor of the students and faculty plus a principal who wasn’t quite sure whether he should take over where De Natly left off or laugh at my predicament. At least he had the grace to wait until I left his office before he chose the latter. I could hear his laughter echoing down the empty hallways. And yes, I was allowed to graduate that night.
It’s the look. The odds are high that you recognize it. Parents give it to children, teachers to students, bosses to employees, wives to husbands. Etc. It’s behave or else, with a multitude of possibilities if you don’t. Peggy, as a retired elementary school principal, has a potent one. I don’t get it often, but when I do… The look is particularly imposing on the Montezuma Oropendola (Psarocolius montezuma). The slightly protruding eyes, set off by the white patches and pink wattles, are backed up by an imposing beak. The pink circle at top emphasizes length. The orange tip means business. If one giving you the look is worrisome, think of two. I wouldn’t want to tangle with the feet, either. Courting among the large males (they have twice the mass of the females) is one big brawl. The winner gets the girl, usually several of them!This Montezuma Oropendola was feasting on pineapple found in the bird feeding table that was located in front of our Villa in Nuevo Arenal. I imagine that his namesake, Montezuma, the last of the Aztec rulers, would have been pleased to have this large, distinctive bird given his name. The Oropendola fits as well, given how much gold the Aztecs had gathered and how Cortez lusted after it. Oro means gold in Spanish. Pendola means feather. It refers to the gold tail feathers found on the bird.The Masked Tityra (Tityra semifasciata) also had a unique, but not so threatening look. This bird is easily identified by a pinkish ‘mask’ around its eyes. I found it hanging out on the eaves of our house in Monteverde.The Tityra appeared as interested in me as I was it in. Actually, he was looking for a female that he had been trying to impress. When I spotted him, he was running back and forth on the eave with his wings drooping and sounding like a constipated frog. Apparently it was his mating dance.On the other side of our house in Monteverde, we found this woodpecker carved hole that would make an excellent home for a bird.A Streak-headed Woodcreeper (Lepidocolaptes souleyetii) seemed to agree. Its usual choice for a nest is a hole in a tree pecked out by a woodpecker, or natural. There seemed to be a problem. It would climb up the tree, peak in the hole and immediately fly back down the trunk to repeat the process. It wasn’t creeping; it was scrambling. I watched it check out the hole several times in the same way. I was beginning to wonder if the pecker was present.Suddenly, this little head peeked out to see what was going on.It was a Golden-olive Woodpecker (Colaptes rubiginosus). And yes, it probably had pecked the hole out of the dead tree. The creeper could go find a vacant hole for its home. Next time he/she showed up (male and female Streak-headed Woodcreepers have the same plumage), more than the hole might be pecked.Here’s another creeper, the Red-legged Honeycreeper. It isn’t, however, related to the Streak-headed Woodcreeper that makes its living off of crawling up trunks and eating insects. It’s related to tanagers instead. The Honeycreeper gets the honey part of his name because its passion is for sipping nectar out of flowers. Creeper comes from creeping through treetops and vines foraging for the flowers. This is a female. The male is an electric light and dark blue.Here’s another bird known for its love of nectar, a hummingbird. In this case a Green-crowned Brilliant (Heliodoxa jacula). We took its photo at a hummingbird feeding station in Monteverde with several feeders. Hummers were buzzing everywhere. The only thing more numerous than the birds were the people oohing and aahing over them. It was hard for Peggy and me to capture photos of hummers without tourists (Turista numeroso) in them. I’m not sure what the photo-bombing bug was.A fun shot of the Green-crowned Brilliant looking up. Note the yellow at the tip of its beak. That’s its tongue sticking out, a rather specialized appendage that can extend up to twice the length of its beak for obtaining nectar. It doesn’t sip the nectar like we would with a straw, however. It’s more like capturing the nectar. Researchers at the University of Connecticut have discovered that the tongue is a “dynamic, shape-shifting, and active pump. As it shoots out, the tongue reaches nectar and splits at the tip. The two grooves/tips open, and tiny, hair-like structures (lamellae) unfurl, trapping the nectar. Upon returning to the mouth, the flaps close, sealing in the liquid.” It can repeat this process up to 20 times a second, thousands of times a day, whether it is getting its nectar from a flower, or your hummingbird feeder. It’s also used for drinking water. I’ll conclude today with a handsome Great Kiskadee (Pitangus sulphuratus), a member of the tyrant flycatcher family.Peggy swore it was posing for her. We had a lamp post in front of our villa in Nuevo Arenal that it liked to hang out on. It would fly off its perch, return, and assume a different pose! It was zipping out to catch flying insects out of the air, an important part of its diet. The Great Kiskadee is omnivorous, however. It won’t pass up small snakes, frogs, lizards, or chicks and has even been known to fish for tadpoles. On bird feeders it’s been seen eating bread, peanut butter, bananas, and dog food. Woof! It’s known for being monogamous, hanging out with the same partner year around. I was beginning to think that it had a thing for Peggy. UT-OH! And that brings me to my next chapter in the book I am blogging.Founded during the Gold Rush, Placerville was once known as Hangtown for its harsh treatment of outlaws. On the day I was supposed to graduate from high school, I made the innocent* mistake of cussing out the city’s chief of police. He couldn’t hang me, fortunately, but he did give me a choice: I could spend my evening in jail cell or graduate. The former was an UT-OH! of gigantic proportions. *I didn’t recognize him.
UT-OH! Thanks AI. Unfortunately, mammoths disappeared before I could photograph them.
I’ve never required much help in eliminating options from my life. Chemistry was like that. Lab work and I don’t get along as a general rule. I quickly learned in high school that I am not particularly fond of cutting up long dead frogs pickled in formaldehyde or mixing chemicals that smell worse than an old dog’s fart. But there is more to it than that: I am convinced that good lab technicians enjoy putting things together, taking them apart, tinkering, and fixing things. As a general rule, I don’t.
For example, I knew kids in high school who loved working on automobiles. Ask them anything about carburetors, water pumps, generators, horsepower or timing and they had a ready answer. They couldn’t wait to get their hands covered in grease. I admired them for it, but my interest in carburetors was zilch. My primary interest in automobiles was that they get me from point A to point B without breaking down. Still is
My hobbies as a kid reflected this. Building model ships, airplanes, cars, trains, etc. had no interest for me. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the results, some were mind-blowing in their detail and realistic look, but my concept of a great hobby was rock collecting. I would pick up interesting rocks on my excursions into the surrounding country until all four pockets were bulging and my pants about to fall off. I would then go home and smash them apart with a hammer to figure out what I had found. Geology became a life-long interest.
I do understand the arguments for being able to fix things: saving money, being self-sufficient, and obtaining satisfaction from a job well done, not to mention being manly. These same arguments, however, apply to going out in the pasture, shooting Elsie the Cow, skinning and gutting her, bringing home the meat, grinding it up, and throwing it on the grill. Just think of the satisfaction involved and dollars saved! Or you can go to the local fast-food joint and help employ a kid who might otherwise turn to a life of crime.
Now, back to chemistry and lab work. One day we had to shove little glass tubes through rubber stoppers. Apparently, this is an important skill for budding chemists. It’s not a difficult task if you ignore the fact that the holes in the stoppers are significantly smaller than the diameter of the glass tubes and, more importantly, have a gallon of Vaseline. I was half way through my first masterpiece when the damn tube broke and ended up jabbed into my hand. Bleeding like a speared mammoth, I was carted off to the emergency room of the local hospital and sewn up.
My attitude toward chemistry was already iffy. With the accident, it dropped faster than it took me to hit the ground in my fall from the pear tree. Higher math created another challenge.
There’s an old adage that we are supposed to work hard at those things we find difficult, that it gives us character. My belief is that I already have plenty of character. If I had any more, little men in white coats would be chasing me with nets. I prefer to spend my energy on things I enjoy, like reading a good book or hiking in the wilderness. Or writing. I have little tolerance for doing things that I don’t do well or fail to interest me. In other words, the Protestant Ethic and I have serious compatibility problems.
But I can be stubborn. Math is a good example. In the fourth grade I discovered that long division was nasty. I got beyond that, but word problems gave me a complex. Two trains are hurtling at each other on the same track with Train A going 90 miles per hour and Train B going 70. They are 252.5296 miles apart. How long will it be before the Train A engineer says, “Ooooh shit!”
“At the same time as the Train B engineer does,” was my answer.
But not nearly as soon as I did. My own expletive arrived on my lips .0000001 seconds after seeing the problem on the blackboard. I concentrated on sending the teacher vibes. “Curt is not here today. You do not see Curt. You will not call on Curt.” But I continued plugging away at math and did fine in grade school. I even managed to ace Algebra I and Geometry. Algebra II was different. That’s when I ran head on into Miss Kaste. It was not a pleasant experience.
Miss Kaste, according to those who were seriously into math, was very good at what she did. Students leaving her class were reputed to have a solid foundation in the basics and be well prepared to move on to the ethereal worlds of calculus and trigonometry.
Basics, I quickly learned, meant that there was one way of coming up with answers and that way was chiseled in stone. One did not diverge from accepted formulas or leave out steps. Right answers obtained the wrong way were wrong answers. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
This created a problem. I had a true talent for coming up with right answers in my own way and this brought me unwanted attention. I could have lived with that except for another problem, Miss Kaste’s teaching technique. She oozed sarcasm. She made people cry. My response was to freeze up or act like a clown. I couldn’t tolerate it— or her. Math was eliminated from my future.
Once again, it speaks to the power of teachers to turn students on, or off, to various subjects. I wasn’t a total dunce at math. Ironically, I scored in the 95th percentile on the Iowa Test in math the same year. Theoretically, that placed me in the top five percent of math students. I wasn’t a genius, but I could have/should have done better.
There was plenty of time while sitting in ER bleeding to contemplate my future as a scientist. My conclusion: there wasn’t one. Even though I enjoyed botany and geology, I decided that the best way to avoid long-dead animals, smelly chemicals, labs and math would be to choose a career that depended on subjects I enjoyed, and made use of my verbal ability and organizational skills.
Looking back, (hindsight, mind you), I am not too surprised about the paths I chose to follow in my life. They were right for me. No regrets. But given I’ve always found science enjoyable from a lay perspective as an adult, I sometimes regret I didn’t obtain a better background in high school and college. My bad.
Next Post: Join us on Monday as we return to visiting with the Montezuma Oropendola and other birds of Costa Rica.
Today I am reposting a blog that I originally posted on the 50th Anniversary of Earth Day. I’ve made modifications to reflect what is happening now. (All photos displayed in this post were taken by either my wife, Peggy, or me.)
The world is full of incredible beauty that is worthy of our love and protection. This is a view of the Grand Canyon National Park on a beautifully clear day.
I was on the Davis Campus of the University of California on April 22, 1970, 56 years ago. For those of you not familiar with the date, it was Earth Day I, and UC Davis was hosting an event to celebrate. At the time, I was running the Peace Corps’ Public Affairs office for Northern California and Nevada out of Sacramento. Curiosity pulled me away from my recruiting duties to check out the event.
UC Davis puts on great fairs. It probably has to do with an event it calls Picnic Day, a rite of spring with roots as deep as humankind. The birds are singing, flowers are blooming, and the snow is melting in the mountains; let’s have a party! All of the departments become involved, put on shows, put up displays, and do silly things.
The flowers were blooming. Poppies grow extensively throughout California’s Central Valley in the spring.
Earth Day at Davis was similar, but it incorporated a vitally important message.
Somehow we had forgotten where we had come from in our rush toward progress and the good life. And in our desire to maximize profits. As a result, we were chopping down our forests, polluting our streams, poisoning our air, destroying our last remaining wilderness areas, and saying goodbye forever to innumerable species whose major evolutionary mistake had been to get in our way.
We had forgotten that birds can make music as beautifully as any symphony, that peace and balance can be found in the wilderness, and that somehow, in some yet unfathomable way, our fate might be tied to that of endangered species. It seemed okay that the last brown pelican was about to fly off into the sunset forever so we could squeeze one more bushel of wheat from our crops, and that it was appropriate for the great redwoods, silent sentinels who had maintained their vigilance for over 2000 years, to die for our patio with a lifespan of 20-30 years.
Brown pelicans, once near extinction because of DDT used on crops, have made a dramatic comeback since the use of DDT was banned. We took this photo south of Santa Barbara, California.
Rachel Carson, in her landmark book Silent Spring, had sounded a clarion call to a Holy Crusade: saving the earth. Others, too, were raising the alarm. Earth Day I was an expression of growing concern. Its message struck a deep chord with me. The years I had spent wandering in the woods while growing up, my exploration of the rainforest around Gbarnga, Liberia during my Peace Corps assignment, and my hiking in the wilderness as a backpacker, all came together in a desire to join the environmental movement and help protect the wilderness I had come to love.
Some of my happiest moments as a Peace Corps Volunteer in West Africa were spent hiking in the rain forests surrounding where I lived. Here I am crossing a native bridge on one of the many paths I explored.
I wandered between booths on campus, talking to the representatives of various organizations and picking up materials. There was information about the redwoods, water and air pollution, recycling, land-use planning, mass transit and the protection of valuable farm lands. I learned about all the species that had become extinct because of our activities— and that many more were threatened.
How could one not feel awe when confronted by giant redwoods in their cathedral like setting. It seemed terribly wrong to me that the life of a 2000 plus year old giant should be ended with a chainsaw to meet our short-termed demand for wood products.
I went home that night inspired, concerned, and more than a little frightened about what we were doing to our planet— the only home we have. Three weeks later, I had left the Peace Corps and become Executive Director of Sacramento’s first Ecology Education/Environmental Action Center, working 50-60 hours a week to help establish a massive city-wide, volunteer driven recycling effort. I would continue to devote a significant amount of my time to supporting environmental causes for the next 20 years of my life, working beside some of the most dedicated, selfless and talented individuals I have ever known.
Our efforts, and those of hundreds, even thousands of others, made a difference. The majority of people in the US as well as in numerous other countries around the world became convinced that protecting the environment was a worthwhile endeavor. Air pollution was reduced, waterways were cleaned up, wilderness areas were saved, and a number of endangered species were brought back from near extinction. Once again, eagles soared, buffalos roamed and wolves howled.
The progress has never been easy, however. Powerful economic interests and their political allies have often fought against environmental change that they felt would reduce their bottom-line profits. Our individual life styles have also played a significant role in hindering positive environmental gain.
By Earth Day 1, we were becoming alarmed about the impact of air pollution on heath and were beginning to develop an awareness of the impact of greenhouse gasses on global warming. Efforts were made to slow down and even reverse the impact. But we moved inches when feet, and even yards, were required. All too often, our three steps forward involved the proverbial one step back.
For example, acting under the pretense of removing Federal shackles at the behest of the automotive and oil industries, the Reagan Administration halted efforts in the 80s that had been established in place in 1975 requiring manufacturers to produce vehicles that got higher gas mileage— a law that would have significantly reduced the amount of gas being consumed and pollution put into the air, not to mention potentially saving consumers billions/trillions of dollars in fuel costs.
The results of actions like this and numerous others by politicians, corporations, and individuals, have resulted in modern humanity facing one of the most difficult challenges it ever has: Global Warming. This was dramatically brought home to me when I backpacked 750 miles down the Pacific Crest Trail in 2018 to celebrate my 75th birthday, dodging huge fires in Oregon and California. A drought created by climate change had killed millions of trees and those trees were burning.
The massive Carr Fire near Redding,California sent fire tornadoes shooting into the air, reduced visibility dramatically, and filled the air with health-damaging smoke for hundreds of square miles. (New research released this week suggests that wildfire smoke may emerge as a key driver of lung and other cancers.) This was the view I faced on my hike down the PCT near Chester, California.
Earth day 2026 is an excellent time to take stock of where we are in our efforts to protect the environment. The news is not good. Instead of the three steps forward and one step back of our past history, it feels more like we have taken four steps back to a pre-1970 status.
Under President Trump’s insistence, our national government has withdrawn from international efforts to combat global warming, and worked to eliminate many of the environmental protection laws that we fought so hard to enact over the last 56 years. It has backed away from supporting science designed to measure the impact of pollution and global warming, and discouraged federal agencies from monitoring and reporting on such impacts. It has also systematically worked to dismantle the EPA, weaken efforts to protect endangered species, and opened public lands set aside for our use and the use of future generations for mining, drilling, and logging operations. While the President has done everything he can to support oil, gas, and coal interests, he has simultaneously withdrawn support from more environmental friendly solar and wind energy development. The list goes on and on.
Continuing down this path will once again lead to air filled with pollution, waterways poisoned, wilderness areas eliminated, and species exterminated. It may well lead to millions of human lives lost as well as global warming continues unchecked. This isn’t an exaggeration; it is reality.
But it doesn’t have to be. The time to renew our commitment to the Earth is today.
Each of us can act on the personal level to reduce our own negative impact on the environment, support positive efforts on the local, state, national and world level, encourage businesses to think beyond the maximizing of profits to acting responsibly in terms of the social and environmental costs of their efforts, and demand that our political leaders take a strong stand favoring a healthy Earth and a healthy future for humanity and all of life, regardless of which political party they represent.
There may yet be a beautiful world for our children and grandchildren, and future generations to enjoy.
We heard its screech before we saw it. “Jay,” I announced to Peggy. Its call is unmistakeable unless it is modified because of its situation. Or mood. At our property in Oregon, I even heard them make the sound of a hawk— to amuse themselves, I’m sure. It scares the heck out of other birds and small mammals. Their personality, intelligence, and possible warped sense of humor, makes them one of my all time favorite birds. These handsome birds with their Groucho Marx eyebrows are known as a Brown Jays (Psilorhinus morio). Their range reaches from the Rio Grande Valley in southern Texas to northwestern Panama. The white under-belly on this one marks it is a member of the southern subspecies. As for their diet, they are omnivorous: Insects, lizards, fruit: It’s all good. They were regular visitors to the bird feeding table in front of our villa in Nuevo Arenal and happily downed the fruit of the day, whatever it was. But do they eat chicken? We had to travel to Monteverde, Costa Rica to answer this question.We were in Monteverde when I spotted a Brown Jay carrying nest building materials. I grabbed my camera and went hunting. This one was actually wearing an identification band. The birds work together to build a nest. The female then sits on the eggs until they are ready to hatch. The male feeds her during the process. Offspring from a previous season will sometimes help in the feeding of the chicks, but they transfer the food to mom and dad for the actual process. I couldn’t find the nest, but I noted something else about this Jay beyond its band.It had found the bone of a discarded chicken leg and was pecking the marrow out of it. As I noted, they’re omnivorous. The one-eyed look was fun.A Clay-Colored Thrush, (Turdus grayi) or Yigüirro, as they are known in Costa Rica, is the national bird of the country. The bird originally gained its popularity in the country’s folklore by singing a beautiful song just before the beginning of rainy season. The natives thought that the yigüirro brought the welcome and necessary rain. Actually, the male who sang the song, wasn’t trying to bring the rainy season. He was busily courting a female before the rainy season started. It’s when they mate, build nests and raise families. But it makes a great story and the male still has a beautiful song.
It appears that this Thrush has caught a worm that wasn’t interested in being swallowed. As we watched it hop around on the lawn searching for such delicacies, we were reminded of its cousin, the Robin. Thrushes share a lot in common. I doubt you would find a Robin following a foraging mass of army ants to feast on the insects that are fleeing to escape, however, which is what the Clay-Colored Thrushes do. I immediately thought of the army ants that invaded my house when I was living in West Africa. We discovered their attack when numerous small bugs came hopping, running, and crawling under our screen door in an effort to escape. The Thrush would have been quite happy to scarf them up. I’m sure the Robin would have as well. But it might not have had the Thrush’s sense to fly off before the ants arrive. We saw a mouse make that mistake. It was his last. Not wanting to end up like the mouse, we went to war. I’ll tell the story in UT-OH!.Here a Clay Colored Thrush and a Palm Tanager check each other out. It’s likely that they are having a discussion over who gets the fruit. Alternatively, I like to think that the thrush is saying, “Wow! You are really beautiful.”“Can I offer you a piece of Pineapple?”A fluffed up view of the palm tanager. They often nest and hang out in palm trees, which is how they get their names.Another dining table discussion? Here, a Buff-Throated Saltator is checking out an appropriately named Scarlet-Rumped Tanager. These, along with several other of the smaller birds I am featuring here, often flock together for feeding purposes. (Safety in numbers?) The Tanager is chowing down on a bite of pineapple. It’s hard to find a more easily identified bird than this Scarlet-Rumped Tanager (Ramphocelus passerinii), unless you are looking for the female of the species.I was surprised when my bird ID app, Merlin, told me that these were Scarlet Rumped Tanagers. I double and then triple checked it! The name for when the male and female birds of the same species look so dramatically different, btw, is sexual dimorphism.I like this head-on photo of the female Scarlet Rumped Tanager. Landing gears down!A Buff-throated Saltator (Saltator maximus) gives me the look. Originally classified with cardinals and grosbeaks (given its beak), recent DNA research has shown that they are instead related to Tanagers. I like the soft look of the feathers.This frontal view gives the reason for the Buff-throated Saltator’s name.The long view! The head of the Saltator looked metallic in this photo.It was nest building time for the Blue and White Swallow (Pygochelidon cyanoleuca) of Monteverde. I’d watched this one pick up and reject several small straws until it arrived at this large piece that it flew away with. I’m always impressed with their streamlined look. It serves them well when they are practicing their insect-catching aerobatics in the air. Peggy and I enjoyed watching them whiz about from our porch in the evening. They would often land, and possibly had a nest on the roof beam above the porch. The bright evening sky gave their blue a black look. We weren’t sure whether it was chirping at us or its fellow flyers.I’ll conclude my collection today with the Muscuvy duck (Cairina moschata) that has both feral and domesticated versions. The duck was first domesticated in the tropical Americas during preColumbian times. You’ve may have seen the domesticated version, like this one, swimming around in park ponds. If so, you probably haven’t forgotten it.It has a very unique look!Head shot! That’s it for today. On Wednesday I’ll be featuring Earth Day. It’s worth saving. Our survival— as well as that of numerous other plants and animals— depends up on it.One would think that the Giant Saguaro cacti of the Sonoran Desert would welcome Global Warming with open arms, but the truth is, it is one of numerous species that are threatened today. The increased drought and extreme heat of global warming prevent seedling survival, cause structural collapse of adult plants, and encourage wildfires capable of wiping out wide swaths of these majestic plants. Another species threatened by Global Warming is the Eastern Box Turtle. The increasing heat disrupts their reproductive cycles and sex ratios. Once found often, they are now rarely seen. Peggy found this one crawling down our driveway yesterday, heading toward the traffic clogged highway that runs in front of our apartment. She saved it, at least temporarily, by taking it down to the creek that flows through the property and turning it loose, far from the road. She set it down and away it zoomed (with zoom defined in turtle speed).
Wandering through Time and Place 