Lava Beds National Monument | Camino Bay Books

Improving on Silence

Dr. Brestrup — Thu, 30 Sep 2021 13:00:00 +0000

There’s an expression I’ve always liked: “Don’t speak unless you can improve on the silence.” Wise words but rarely honored. Even I, quiet by nature, have a hard time abiding by them in situations where talking seems called for and where I could not often claim to be improving on the silence by talking. I have been to silent retreats where silence is expected and people go for days with hardly a word spoken and I found it an immense relief; wordless, I felt more peaceful and at home with myself; in the smiles exchanged I was accepted and accepting and felt closer to the others than I would have in a wordier world. A big part of the problem, I think, is that speech is very often less a communicative act than a performative one. Speaking announces a person’s presence, declares their mood and personality and something of what they know, establishes status; it creates a simulacrum of relation, which with real, improving speech can become genuine relation but does not often get that far. The simulacrum replaces or fills in and gives the impression of connecting with the listener; it kills time. Often it has a purpose, selling something for instance, and may succeed at that but insofar as it remains instrumental it does not achieve true relation. I wonder what the result would be if every social gathering required attendees to spend their first half hour in silence, even late arrivals who find others whose half hour has expired talking? More silence would offer far more reality to the human world than more words.

I bring this up because Twig and I have just returned, sweat covered and panting from the heat, after a hike around what’s become our preferred route, the three mile or so Cave Loop, which tends to be less trafficked than other roadways. How grateful I will be that the trails will be open for our next visit. We leave tomorrow and head south to Butte Lake in the far northeast corner of Lassen Volcanic N.P., a relatively undeveloped area at the end of a six-mile dirt washboard road. Walking Cave Loop we stop periodically and sit and look at what’s around us. The first thing I notice is the silence; there are few human sounds, only an occasional car or airplane. The sounds I hear, gentle, soft, fitting, are from those who live out here: always it seems there’s a solitary bird (was he already there or did he fly in and land for the company?), singing for the pleasure of it is my guess or as greeting; flies buzz, insects click, that’s it. The speaking of these creatures actually does improve upon, or at least does not detract from, the silence. I can’t picture them forced by anything to speak; they don’t do it because of discomfort or convention; they have nothing to sell. They speak out of their nature and the authenticity of their being. I enjoy the silence out here and its little punctuations; it fosters connection and appreciation for the goodness of it all. It facilitates a unitive feeling to the extent I am receptive. I also enjoy the perspective given by elevation change; to the north it slopes downward toward hills on the horizon, and it seems I see many miles before they close the view, and to the south it rises and I see a shorter distance. Not to strain for imagery but there’s a sort of ethereal quality to the vast northern scene—it encompasses so much that’s so varied and suggestive of early volcanic times—while the southern scene is more straightforward and practical. Both, however, reveal how astonishingly prolific the grasses have been in recarpeting the landscape; with eyes only to the ground it’s verdant but raise them and skeletal snags remind of what happened. I can’t well identify why this particular land affects me as it does, but I’m inspired by it and return as often as possible.

A Grand Mystery

Dr. Brestrup — Thu, 23 Sep 2021 13:00:45 +0000

I don’t fear falling into anthropomorphism when I think as I did yesterday. The label is used erroneously far more often than not, it seems to me. I will cheerfully call it anthropomorphism when I read on my almond milk container these words: “Shake me up. After opening, I belong in the fridge. And don’t keep me waiting.” But if you go far beyond that, I raise questions. Animal affection and joy, grief, and sadness, thought and care—I see nothing in existence that suggests these qualities are owned and expressed only by humans. The more compelling question to me is why so many people are so concerned to avoid any appearance of granting animals more than rudimentary feelings, if that, and instrumental behaviors and relationships, concerned only to survive and reproduce, especially their genes. Why the apparent anxiety at acknowledging commonality? Why not rejoice at sharing the goodness of being with other creatures whom both evolution and a receptive and sensitive awareness suggest are fellow travelers through a grand mystery? Love and inclusion fit better than exclusion.

Presence

Dr. Brestrup — Tue, 21 Sep 2021 13:00:05 +0000

We walked again this morning but less ambitiously than yesterday: a mile or so out, a long sit on a well-placed lava chunk, and then back. Twig seems as much drawn to tranquil being-there as I; she shows no signs of impatience however long we sit. The longer we stayed the more immersed I felt in the surroundings. Quiet, still, a solitary bird singing to himself. It’s easy to think of plants as Nature’s mystics, so complacent, present-centered (here, now), nowhere to go, untroubled. Satisfied with what they have even when not every need is met, no complaints. If the elements declare it’s time for them to die, I don’t picture them happy about it but accepting. The mind of a plant has to be very different from that of an animal; while its roots are busily scratching around out of sight meeting fungi and other plants’ doing the same, its aboveground self is immobile except to the breezes and the inevitable changes that all life are subject to: growth, decline, illness, predation, the seasons and the weather. While most animals have territories, that of a plant is comparatively minute extending farther underground than above. Immobility means that many animal concerns mean nothing to them; no going in search of food or shelter or hiding from predators. Except for Saguaros, I don’t know of any plant that people with guns find irresistible to shoot. I speak of a plant’s mind intentionally for why wouldn’t they have one like we animals’ only different? People I call anthropocentrists are loathe to allow any creature but humans a mind; maybe a few primates and cetaceans, perhaps elephants and parrots; the list is short. So even though they tend to identify mind with brain there are clearly many creatures with neurological equipment and brains that won’t make their cut. But if mind is a locus for perceptions, responses, relations, feelings and thoughts or their analogues, memory, learning, forms of consciousness and selfhood…then surely many kinds of life, even without brains, have minds since they have bodies. My approach to this question is like my approach to other matters having to do with the living world and humans’ place within it. I seek commonality, areas of identity and sharing, linkages and community. How are we like other life? Do we not share with it membership in the unity of being and therefore compose a commune, a mutuality of existence? I don’t expect a plant to use their mind cogitating thoughts like these; in my imagination they do two primary activities. They tend to their needs and the needs of many of the surrounding plants, including propagation and self-preservation. And then they stand patiently absorbing the beauty of being. Not mere decoration, resource, or placeholder, they are pleased for their time to be… As was I, sitting among them. And then it was time to arise from my lava perch, watch where I stepped as I returned to the road, and walk back to camp.

After the Fire – Continued

Dr. Brestrup — Thu, 16 Sep 2021 13:00:03 +0000

It was cool days and cold nights when we arrived two days ago, but that has been replaced with hot days and cool nights. So, Twig and I used the morning to take an ambling walk around what is called Cave Loop, probably three miles or so. Most of the trails will be closed for another couple of weeks so we walk along roadways that aren’t heavily driven. I was perplexed at the continued closures, but a Ranger made sense of it—vegetative cover is slowly returning and since no one sticks slavishly to a trail they keep them closed to protect young grasses, forbs, and shrubs slowly making their return (against the odds, I imagine, since it’s so dry); wandering hikers do more damage than we realize in normal conditions, and this is a delicate time for the plants whose home this is. So, we stuck to the road except in unburned areas. Fires, like tornados back in the Texas Panhandle where I grew up fearing them, are famous for doing great damage in one spot while ignoring one beside it. Tornados have been known to destroy a house but leave a meal on the table. Fire will burn an area but leave a tree here and an island there or a hillside unscathed. It dances to the winds and whither they goest, it will follow. There is much of mystery to see. In some areas, those with heavy groundcover, it’s easy to picture how the fire moved across the land burning everything as it went. In others where the grass and sage and such were thinner, it’s not so easy. Strong winds, presumably, flinging embers forward. How does one half of a thirty-foot tree burn and the other appear unbothered? The more closely I look the more I see that the desolation of nine months ago has been healed at ground level, but skeletons of incinerated juniper, sage, pine, and bushes stand around as reminders and can easily dominate one’s perspective; they are not pretty sights. Surfaces also appear grimmer owing to removal of vegetation leaving dark lava more exposed. I wonder if sage and its cohorts will have a hard time recovering; while grasses, forbs, and wildflowers are doing well, I don’t see signs of the others’ return. I was inspired when I was here shortly after the fire to see green sprigs arising from blackened roots, but they don’t seem to have come to anything. Maybe too early or too dry or just a last gasp; also, as regrowth signs were so sparse, they would have been irresistible to mice and deer. Whenever I pay attention, I see new signs of my ignorance everywhere. Fire science, botany, geology, wildlife biology…so much more is unknown than known to me. Reading to remedy that is one good way to spend the better part of a life, and there was a time when it was more important than now. I honor that way and at times like this miss it, but not with sufficient motivation to change. Thoreau was still identifying and classifying, writing, and organizing his copious notes until practically the moment he died, but he was only in his mid-forties. Muir lived much longer but over the last decades of his life his approach to Nature was less strenuous that when younger. My involvement feels deeper than ever but different in that it too has become less demanding while turning more to the beauty and spirit of the places I go. The balanced has shifted.

Hardy little wildflowers have appeared, and one could imagine them oblivious to what happened while they lay dormant, but I’d bet not. Indian Paintbrush, ubiquitous at all elevations and diverse habitats throughout the West it has seemed to me as I hiked them, have shown up here but not in abundance. Except for the red Paintbrush, yellow and purple are the exclusive colors, except for the lovely white interior of one plant’s dime-sized purple blossoms and a pink flower I saw later. I counted three species of purple and about the same of yellow. It must be late in the season for all these guys. The burn has motivated me toward a more observant trek than usual, which I’m pleased about. Would that I could always be so attentive. I noticed how diverse the forms taken by lava as it spread itself around all those years ago. There are largish heaps occasionally and then narrow strands winding across the land and then small piles and, most of all, solitary chunks scattered about, not to mention collapsed caves of remnant sluices where the viscous currents wound beneath the surface back during the volcanic periods, rising from well below, and then in time the ground above falling into the emptied space. The Monument is characterized by dozens of these things that did not collapse and where bats find homes and visitors wander and wonder. Although I’ve entered several of these caves, I’m not really drawn to them, much preferring illumination to darkness. (If I continue this metaphor I’ll have to deal with the evident analogue: do I prefer surfaces to depth? Better remain literal.) All things considered, a comeback from the fire is well underway, and I’m sure it would greatly appreciate a few heavy rains to boost it along. No one can resist the pull of spring under any circumstances, but when it comes as rebirth after affliction everything counts, everything is a benediction. Speaking of which, I didn’t mention that whatever shape the lava piles take, all are being colonized by growth: grasses, shrubs, sometimes trees. Brave seeds that decided to accept a challenge.

Photo from Lava Beds National Monument Park Service

After the Fire – Lava Beds National Monument

Dr. Brestrup — Tue, 14 Sep 2021 13:00:10 +0000

And these very conditions mean that some forests will not come back, and more landscapes will turn to arid and semiarid grassland. Each year more of what’s left will burn. A few days ago, I studied a U.S. drought map and the entire West was in some degree of drought and much of that not merely a recent phenomenon; at my home on the North Coast we are ending our second rain season at approximately half of normal and some say we’re actually in a multi-decades drought that is only interrupted from time to time with rainy years. As for here and now, though, nine months have made a significant difference; grasses and a few forbs are returning and in a first brief walk I’ve counted three species of wildflowers. I had speculated that maybe some of the juniper would regenerate since their burning seemed superficial, but that was wrong-headed optimism, at least at first glance; I’ve seen nothing to justify it and in retrospect it sounds naïve. Still, what was consistent darkness, but for a few areas and trees that due to the vagaries of wind had survived the surrounding conflagration, today has a soft green glow decorated with occasional glitter of purple and yellow flowers. The distant view across the relatively flat land north of here is still mostly of those dark sentinels, but closer by signs of better days coming are clear. If we weren’t still in drought, I’m sure it would be even better. But no complaints; the sight before me is like a smile returned to the face of a depressed friend whose grief has yielded to time. Tomorrow I will walk farther and see more.

Photo from Lava Beds National Monument Park Service