Balloons Blow, Don't Let Them Go!

Harry disapproves of balloon litter on Assateague Island

If you know me well, you know I despise balloon litter. Is balloon litter the greatest environmental threat to our planet? Clearly, there are many pollution issues more dire, but I think this one vexes me because the source of this particular type of trash are often the community endorsed (and even celebrated) mass littering events know as balloon releases.

People love balloons. There is something moving about watching that colorful sphere float up into the clouds and disappear. I have felt that exhilaration---I get it. But that was before I understood that those balloons do not in fact disappear. No matter what the lobbying balloon industry wants you to believe, these balloons do not quickly degrade (and the often attached plastic curling ribbon may never degrade), and do not explode and shatter upon reaching the upper atmosphere. Would you feel equally comfortable taking a box of 1000 un-inflated latex balloons and dumping it on your favorite beach?

I was already aggravated when I found #1. By the time I reached
50 I was ready to cry.

Of the millions of balloons intentionally released annually, many will end up on the ground as ugly litter, entangled with power lines (in the case of Mylar balloons causing power outages), or strangling wildlife such as sea turtles, sea lions, sea birds, desert tortoises, bighorn sheep, or anything else that may have the misfortune of encountering them. 

Not so amazing Spiderman

I don't even know what this balloon was suppose to represent....
National Brassiere Day?

In addition to litter and wildlife endangerment issues, balloons also deplete non-renewable Helium which has many other, less frivolous uses.

In one beach walk on Assateague Island I picked up over 50 latex balloons, all with the noxious curling ribbon tangling into impenetrable knots of beach wrack. 

Somewhere---who knows where---some folks merrily released their hoard of balloons into the air and watched them float away. I'm sure they felt joy when they did so and gave little thought to where they might end up. I did not find joy at finding them on this beautiful beach. Who knows how many are still in the water waiting to entangle or choke something more sentient than sargassum weed. Balloons releases are completely selfish endeavors disguised and memorials or tributes to causes or lost loved ones. But people do it because they like the idea and, even when faced with the truth about the consequences, don't want to be bothered to reconsider their plans. You are not honoring anything by littering and killing wildlife. Come on.

For more information, please visit the excellent site, Balloons Blow or like them on Facebook. This organization, started by two determined young women from Florida, provides all the information you need to be an anti-balloon release activist. And please, when I die, plant a tree for me instead. Or better yet, pick up some litter.

Pagoo advertises for Balloons Blow. When in Albuquerque,
I was asked if I opposed the hot air balloon festival.

And one more from the Nevada high desert. Happy Birthday.

Ocean, it's you: Assateague Island, Maryland

Harry meets the Atlantic Ocean

September 24-26

I have passed through many attractive places on my way east. Being that my current state of employment is what I like to call “job free” and that my state of mind is open to possibility, I have often asked myself “Could I live here?”  It forces me to evaluate what the criteria are that are integral to my contentment. I think 2014 will be one of my benchmark years for such pondering. Friends, knowing that my status is in flux, often say, “But you want to be near the ocean, right?” My answer, until I arrived at Assateague Island after 27 days away from seawater, was usually, “I’m not sure. I’m not ruling anything out.” Maybe that’s still true---circumstances will tell---but when I set foot on that stormy Atlantic beach, 2000 miles from my mother Pacific, I knew I was home. Yes, the sagebrush and rivers of Yellowstone are sublime, the hush, hush whisper of the prairie blue-stem grass intoxicating, the deep mossy woods of New Jersey embracing, but there is sea water in my blood and it will always be my wolf call beckoning.

Harry bows to the mighty Atlantic

Assateague Island, the Maryland end, on a stormy afternnon

There is another reason Assateague and its neighbor island Chincoteague are familiar. Published in 1947, Marguerite Henry’s Misty of the Chincoteague, based on the true story of one of the island’s feral horses, is a book that endures, particularly (and I don’t think I’m being sexist here---any male Misty fans, let me know) with young girls. My mom read the story of Misty to me, snugged in her lap before bed. I read all of Henry’s books well into my early teens. I didn’t play with Barbie dolls---I had the Breyer Misty and all of the other Henry tie-ins---Misty was my Barbie. So maybe half of you have started to glaze over---it’s okay for just the Misty fans to gather close for a while.

The original cover art for Misty of the Chincoteague
brings a wash of nostalgia

The story is alluring in that it immerses you in a place---a dreamy place. Upon visiting Assateague, I felt I already knew the shell strewn sandy beaches and low pine barrens.

Some history: there are a number of hypotheses regarding the origin of the horse population of Assateague. Most involve a shipwreck of some kind and the existence of the horses on the island for some 300 years. The Assateague horses are small---usually referred to as ponies---and they typically have a noticeably “rotund” appearance due to their ingestion of high amounts of salt in their salt marsh graze.

Young Assateague horse

There are 2 populations, one owned and managed by the federal government at the northern, National Seashore end of the island, and the second owned by the volunteer fire department of Chincoteague that manages the annual Pony Penning Day channel swim and round-up made famous by Henry’s book. The federal government uses chemical birth control to manage herd numbers, and the Chincoteague FD uses the round-up and auction to keep herd size manageable. I’m not sure how I feel about the round-up now that I'm a grown-up---I think the horses are treated with care, I don’t really have all the facts. I do know, that if I live on the Atlantic coast, I’d be first in line as a bidder at the auction.

Assateague horses graze on salt grass near the wetlands.
They show no fear of cars or people

So, this was one of the primo destinations on my route. I chose the dog friendly northern (Maryland) end of the island over the Refuge at the southern (Virginia) end where dogs aren’t even allowed out of cars. As I entered the visitor’s center at the campgrounds of the National Seashore, the wind slammed the screen door hard behind me. We arrived late in the day after an unhurried departure from Rebecca’s house in the woods. The clouds were building dark and threatening, and the winds churned the grains of sand into stinging projectiles. “I’d like to camp…” I said cheerfully. “Are you kidding?” was the clerk’s reply. And so began my two days at glorious Assateague---it rained for about one and a half of those. Despite the storms, the discovery of Pagoo’s rain threshold for leaking (Pagoo leaks), the wind rocked nights and the mosquito aftermath, it will remain a favorite of mine.

Harry waits out the storm from Pagoo's loft

The sea air and the salt water at my feet had a lot to do with that, but also the seashell adorned beach (from an iNaturalist user I found many of these to be fossils, ~ 10,000 years old), the horseshoe crabs (that make you say WTF even when you know exactly what it is), the sunrises over the ocean, the rustling transience of the dunes and the horses of Assateague boldly munching dune grass in my camp. “Do you have the blood of Misty?” I ask that long-lashed gaze aloud.

They are feral, I know. As biologists we are supposed to show no mercy to ecological invaders. But where does the line get drawn? How many hundreds of years of occupancy grant you a valid place on a narrow strip of sand against the Atlantic? I don’t know the answer to that. I only know that they seem to belong, much as I seem to belong, next to the wildest of oceans, whichever side of the continent that may be.

At every break in the rain, Harry and I head to the beach. There are many treasures but they are interspersed with disturbingly abundant plastic debris. The storm has taken a sample of the ocean's contents and placed it on the beach to remind us what a mess we are making. More on trash in a blog to come.

Horseshoe crab, sargassum weed and plastic cup

We are both locked into the head down beachcombing position as we sweep along the foamy drift line.

The sand has eyes

The ghost crabs are well named. They skitter across the sand
like wind blown flotsam, into their burrows.

Sanderling in the foam

We return to blue skies and bold horses in our camp. The warm sun dries our rain soaked chairs, towels, rugs, and my bolster pillow (which was pushed up against the most egregious window seam leak). A gentle breeze keeps the mosquitoes at bay. I found two barriers to total bliss on the Atlantic shore: the ravenous mosquitoes and the sand spurs. The latter are formidable, flip-flop puncturing stickers in the genus Cenchrus that are abundant on any surface not covered by sand or asphalt. Harry learned to stop and lift whichever paw (or paws) had been infiltrated for sticker extraction.

They hurt going in and hurt coming out.

Stormy look-alike in my camp.

Beachcombing booty: quahog clams, horseshoe crab, blue crab
carapace and mermaid purses (skate egg cases).

The warm sun brings out the butterflies--grey hairstreak on Senecio

Under benevolent clear skies, we head south on our way to North Carolina and the Outer Banks, but not before a stop in the town of Chincoteague for a bit of Misty worship and seafood indulgence.

Misty Memorial, donated to the town of Chincoteague in 2007
on the 60th anniversary of the book's publication.

Oyster po'boy at Captain Zack's. Delicious but dry---made better
with addition of  Princeton Whole Earth fish taco sauce (thanks, Rebecca!)

It's hard to leave this mythic place, but I am comforted that new, unexplored beaches lie ahead.

Ocean, in case you didn't know....it's you.

A break in the storm, Assateague Island

A Walk in the Woods: Central New Jersey

Harry enjoys one of Hopewell's many trailside creeks
at St Michaels Farm Preserve

Sept 11-14

When telling people that I am visiting my sister in New Jersey, I always feel the need to add the qualifier, "The nice part of New Jersey." In my experience of the state, there is more of the nice part than the much publicized and vilified urban part.

My sister Rebecca and her son Sky live deep in the deciduous woods of central New Jersey, in Hopewell Township, a town made famous by being the location of the Lindbergh home at the time of the infamous kidnapping case.

Lindbergh house in Hopewell during kidnapping investigation, 1932 (Photo nyt.com)

I had visited the former Lindbergh residence on a prior visit with my history buff brother, Richard, but on this visit my primary experience of Lindbergh was one of navigation trauma as Google maps insisted that the twisty, narrow, roller coaster of a foot path known as Lindbergh Road was the most direct route to my sister's house. At the end of a particularly grueling drive from the Allegheny Forest, this route finale was sprung upon me by Google as I approached the limits of my ability to remain calmly on the road. The phrase, "What the f***?!" was delivered more than once in a tone that sent Harry cringing to the safety of the back seat. And so it was that Rebecca was the first of my sisters to see an utterly exasperated driver coming down their driveway to safety and refuge as the sun set on a road trip milestone day.

Harry and I quickly settled in to life at Haven Hopewell. After awakening to the musky, comforting smell of oil pastels and turpentine in Rebecca's studio where Harry and I slept, we would often bundle off to the Brick Farm Market, a sublime purveyor of locally grown and produced food just 5 minutes from the house. In what became an extension of the pantry, Sky and I could satisfy our coffee craving effortlessly. Sky's "usual" is a cup of the house blend with a shot of espresso, black, sufficient to fuel his acrobatic training for the day. My coffee must be light and sweet, a choice, I've been told, for folks who don't actually like coffee. I choose to think it's the favorite of people who love coffee ice cream.

Even Rebecca, a non coffee drinker, can't pass up this confection
at Brick Farm Market

The place has great, friendly, personalized service, beautiful prepared food (I discover a white fish salad that becomes an instant addiction on my morning bagel), and a mindful selection of groceries. Between Brick Farm, the locally made bagels, and Sky and Rebecca's innovative and wholesome cooking, my stay in Hopewell was a continuous culinary indulgence.

Hopewell Haven kitchen frenzy during speed visit by niece Anna

But New Jersey holds an unexpected treasure for those who think only of Newark and the Jersey shore: it is a wonderland of verdant trails.There are dozens of walking trails around Hopewell, most of them welcoming to dogs. Most days, Rebecca, her 15 year old deaf and nearly blind corgi, Cubby, Harry and I take a walk along the banks of a quiet creek, through a goldenrod meadow, or down an avenue of towering tulip trees.

Harry and the tulip trees

Cubby takes his time navigating the blurry obstacles, drinking deeply of the trailside scents, and keeping an eye on Rebecca who waves a white banner on her walking stick to maintain her position as guiding light. Harry and I often speed ahead on our own and circle back around to meet them. I am the seeker of wildflowers, butterflies and other small creatures and Rebecca has the artist's eye for the sculpture, poetry and composition of stone, water, wood and moss. It's a fine recipe for a discovery filled walk.

Cubby's poor navigating skills track him through a corgi sized
puddle just before getting into the car.

Meadow jumping mouse pauses in the trail.

While walks of this caliber offer the sweetest of spiritual messages to me absent the man made constructs of church and religion, when in Hopewell I sometimes accompany my sister to Sunday Meeting at the Stony Brook Quaker Meeting House. I have lately identified as atheist (perhaps the provocative nature of the word appeals to me) but am probably more of an agnostic in that I insist that neither I, nor any other human knows with certainty what comes after death. That being said, an hour spent in silent reflection, in a meeting house built in 1760 that has survived two wars, sitting on a wooden bench polished by a hundred reverent bottoms before me, is a spiritually soothing experience. It's fascinating to follow where your mind leads in this setting---similar to meditation but walking within the woods of  the simultaneously wandering minds of the others in the meeting house. It feels a nurturing, safe place.

Eager for a bit more than a meditative stroll,  Harry and I made an expedition, complete with packed lunch and trail recommendations from Hopewell hikers extraordinaire, Michael and Bob, to the Delaware Water Gap, a favorite destination for New Jersey and Pennsylvania hikers. The Sunfish Pond trail overlaps a section of the mighty Appalachian trail and has an elevation gain that had inspired some ominous reviews on AllTrails. One reviewer wrote, "Great for one time. Never again without a helicopter."  Uh oh.

But the first hints of fall colors and a soundtrack of water on rock quickly erased all concerns of exertion as we slowly ascended through a prism of red maple, white oak, hickory and eastern hemlock.

Many parts of the trail are very stoney. It makes
the trail feel more like trailblazing.

Dogwood just starting to turn

Looking up along the Appalachian Trail

Before reaching Sunfish Pond, I encounter Walt and his giant akita/golden retriever mix who are "hiking though" meaning they are walking the Appalachian Trail in its 2,180 mile entirety. He had begun his sojourn at the northernmost trailhead in Katahdin, Maine in June and was half way through to the southern trailhead in Georgia. The two of us discussed the ways in which our adventures were different and were just getting to the similarities when a rowdy group of seniors trounced noisily down the trail, walking poles swinging wildly, and broke our bonding spell. The cheerful chatter of the seniors faded behind me as I continued my ascent, "You're almost there!" they called after me. Walt trudged off after them, 1000 miles of trail ahead of him.

Sunfish Pond was a lovely spot for a picnic lunch and a soak of hot feet in cool water. Harry chased dragonflies and squirrels while I ate my hummus wrap. There was quiet and solitude at the pond with no one but a silent circling glider to share the view.

Community messaging near Sunfish Pond

The rocky, narrow stairstep of the Dunnfield Creek connecting trail took us homeward, the shrub lined passageways expanding out into a mossy creek bed straight out of Middle Earth as we reached bottom.

Harry in Dunnfield Creek

Green frog eyes me from the muddy shallows

Barberry

Stone, wood, water, moss

I'm not quite sure what all the bellyaching about the difficulty of this trail was about. Here's my theory: California (west coast?) hikers are more accustomed to most trails, that are anywhere other than a coastal bluff, being steep and rocky. Perhaps New Jerseyans expect only gentle meadows. The next time your hear of New Jersey, think of land trusts and nature reserves, creek side paths and trails through goldenrod as tall as a man. Think of walks through historic woods that hold secrets of battles long ago. Think of endless opportunities to explore the countryside with your dog. Think of a walk in the woods.

In Hopewell, gentleness is the rule. I had two glorious weeks to rejuvenate there (perhaps should have taken longer). In another craigslist miracle (there would be many related to this trip), I find Randy, who came to the house with a cheerful attitude and an abundance of dog stories with to fix Pagoo's leaking water pump and shore up some seals. Rebecca and Sky are refuge, but the voice of the Atlantic Ocean is a siren's call, and I am compelled to her shores, Harry to the longest stretch of beach and Pagoo to follow a hermit crab's path to the sea.

Randy's mobile RV repair

Mixing it up in Madison, Wisconsin

Madison, Wisconsin town square and farmer's market

Sept 4-7

There are many reasons to like Wisconsin. The majority of the state is lush, green and with a decidedly lower ratio of mono-crops to woods compared to its neighbor, Minnesota. The landscape is dotted with picturesque farmhouses and barns that look as if they've been plucked from a Grandma Moses painting. Its capital, Madison, is a town that loves football---I have never seen such citywide celebration for a minor weekend college match up. Madison has a beautiful, vibrant downtown and one of the best farmer's markets I've ever seen (especially if you're fond of cheese, which I am).

Cheese shop in Madison complete with samples.
Yes, I stole some for Harry.

While Wisconsin struggles with its political identity, it most often votes blue, with considerable help, I suspect, from the academic environment of its capital city. There are lakes and ponds and meadows and many pathways meandering between them on which you need never emerge from beneath the trees. But the thing I like the most about Madison, Wisconsin is that it’s home to Bridget.

Bridget has been my friend since she first arrived in Cambria to help us track sea otters back in the days of the first central coast research project in 2002. I was crew leader back then, living in a giant, 3-story house and desperately in need of a housemate. Bridget, having spent a little too much time in rugged field houses while tracking condors in Big Sur, was looking for an alternative to the project’s Piedras Blancas Lighthouse field station. And this was the inception of a perfect housemate match up that was to last through five years, two towns, three different houses and dozens (hundreds?) of tagged sea otters.

Bridget and Gena at Adak in 2005 (photo by Christine Alfano)

It was Bridget's aspiration to become a veterinarian that brought her from California to Madison and the veterinary school at the University of Wisconsin. After surviving the academic boot camp that is vet school and achieving her DVM, she has settled comfortably in Madison with her wife, Tracie, and their daughter, Evie, in a neighborhood tucked deferentially amidst the high oaks, elms, ashes and chestnuts. I guided Pagoo through the forested narrow streets to the doorstep of our home for the next three days, where I was able to hug my dear friend for the first time in six years.

Gena, Bridget and Harry at the Madison farmer's market

Over the course of three days, I was shown the best of Madison: breakfast of cheese curds (yes, they really do squeak when they're fresh!) and fresh baked spicy-cheesy bread at the farmer's market, walks through neighborhoods and parks on the many bicycle paths and, best of all, a visit to the International Crane Foundation in nearby Baraboo. I have been wanting to visit ICF since my days at Wildlife Safari where I worked with a number of crane species. They have all of the world's 15 crane species at the center and have done extensive work with captive propagation and reintroduction of our rarest of North American crane species, the magnificent whooping crane.

Male whooping crane a the International Crane Foundation
in Baraboo, WI

Graceful fence post detail at the ICF center

Demoiselle crane pair displaying

Demoiselle crane male portrait

The largest of the world's crane species is the saurus crane (Grus antigone) of India, which happens to be a favorite of mine as they were part of the collections of several of the zoos at which I was a keeper. The center has a pair of saurus cranes whose union has been arranged via the Species Survival Plan or SSP, a zoo program aimed at maintaining healthy, genetically diverse breeding populations in zoo collections. In accordance with the SSP studbook (yes, studbook), a May/December romance was arranged for this crane pair in which the male, Manju, is 51 years old (my age, coincidentally) and the female, Chandini, in only 12. ICF has been trying to get a successful breeding from this pair since 2005, but apparently Manju, considered old with perhaps a touch of dementia, kept breaking their eggs. Recently, ICF tried artificially inseminating Chandini and keeping poor, senile Manju away from the nest. This strategy resulted in this:

Chandini with her chick, hatched August 18.

Poor Manju paced anxiously on the other side of the fence, relegated in old age to a sperm production machine. We saw 14 of the 15 species of cranes that day (the Eurasian crane was shy), as well as plants and animals of the mid-west prairies as ICF works to restore their acquired acreage from corn and soybean fields to native grasslands.

Monarch caterpillar peekaboo behind milkweed leaf lunch.

There was a fun interactive display showcasing the African crowned crane habitat. It allowed me to recreate my single greatest lingering nightmare from my days as an ungulate keeper at Wildlife Safari. In case you don't know, hippos are f***ing terrifying.

Death by hippo (and this is a mini hippo)

The following day, Harry got to test out Dr.Bridget's skills and bedside manner first hand with a quick exam to and treatment for his allergies. We were both impressed with the quality of care!

"Please don't use the rectal thermometer!"

Back at their Madison home, Bridget, Tracie and I discuss what it's like to uphold an ethic of environmental consciousness in the mid-west, where it may not be as evolved or as deeply ingrained as we find it in California. This is not to say that awareness of environmental issues vanishes as one travels away from a coastline, but it certainly seems to, if not diminish, become less seamlessly integrated into daily life and less supported by the community infrastructure. As parents of a young girl, Bridget and Tracie are faced with continually defending and reinforcing their strongly held ethics regarding material consumption, nutrition and awareness of how each of our everyday choices has an impact at a level beyond our own doorstep. They are accused by other parents of being overly strict when trying to discourage their daughter from accumulating the massive quantities of plastic junk offered children at schools and parties, labeled inflexible when limiting consumption of junk food, or called crazy for opposing a local, school-sponsored balloon release. "Are we crazy?" Bridget asks for reassurance. They consider moving somewhere where the task of raising an environmentally responsible child is met with less opposition. But I wonder if this is a battle from which any of us can (or should) escape. Look, I know I have been reared in a liberal "bubble". I grew up in Laguna Beach (when it was still a hippie town an art colony in which artists actually lived) and have spent most of my life in a comforting bubble bath of my shared worldview in places like Portland,  Hawaii, San Francisco and Santa Cruz. My forays outside of this comfort zone have been illuminating, scary, challenging and ultimately inspiring. The world is a complex place, and every person in it has a valid reason for believing in their own stories, their unique version of how things are, however much we may disagree. As I've driven from state to state, there is a physically palpable shift in the monster of a force called Political Climate, but I've felt that shift less so in individuals. On occasion, I've felt uncomfortable in my status as a California liberal as I am so clearly labeled by my vehicle, dress, accent (more on that in a future blog) and bumper stickers. I recognize that some people might resent me for what I represent without even knowing who I am or where I've been. I might do the same. But maybe the road to change in our divided nation is paved with one new moment of empathy at a time. As much as I want my dear friend back in California, I hope Bridget, Tracie and Evie stick it out in Madison for a while, fighting for what they believe in and continuing to share the reasons for their ethic with others. We all need to spend a little more time sharing and listening and less time judging, whichever side of the judgement coin you may find yourself on. It can't hurt to have absorbed even the smallest taste of another person's perspective.

Carl Sagan's blue dot