Modern environmental writing

An editorial from the late January 2014 North Woods Call

     In his introduction to the book, “American Earth: Environmental Writing Since Thoreau,” editor Bill McKibben cautions that the world is in a race between physics and metaphysics.
     Environmentalism, he says, can no longer confine itself to the narrow sphere it has long inhabited.  “If it isn’t as much about economics, sociology and pop culture as it about trees, mountains and animals,” McKibben says, “it won’t in the end matter.”
     Today’s environmental writing, he says, is concerned with the collision between people and the rest of the world, and asks questions about that collision.  Is it necessary?  What are its effects?  Might there be a better way?
     Unlike traditional nature writing, McKibben says, environmental writing seeks answers, as well as consolation—embracing controversy and sometimes sounding an alarm.
     Such discussions can sometimes make people—even dedicated conservationists—uncomfortable, especially if they don’t like the voices they hear, or don’t subscribe to the particular ideas being shared.  We sometimes see this even in the pages of The North Woods Call, which, as many of you know, has a rich variety of passionate and opinionated readers.
     That is a good thing.
     Even former U.S. Vice President Al Gore—who himself has at various times been vocally intolerant of divergent viewpoints—acknowledges our national tradition of free speech and the important need to debate the rights and responsibilities of each individual and of society as a whole.
     “Just as [19th Century author Henry David Thoreau at Walden Pond]  could not shut out his neighbors, Americans cannot shut out one another—or the rest of the world—if we are to restore the balance between the natural and the man-made,” Gore said in the foreword he penned for “American Earth.”
     Let’s hope he means it.
    Such debates are regularly held in coffee shops, classrooms, gas stations, offices and on street corners—anywhere that passions surface and ideas collide .  And, yes, they are also found on talk radio, television networks, cable channels, and in the pages of books, magazines and newspapers.
     Those who would try to silence these discussions are doing a great disservice to the very idea of self-government.  Many great movements that made positive changes to our world began as an individual idea, or as a single essay or editorial in a book or newspaper.  And many real and would-be tyrants—not to mention ill-conceived laws—have been brought down by information shared freely in the light of public discourse.
      That’s why we need to embrace diversity of thought in all matters and see what we might learn from it.
    In the words of 18th century French writer, historian and philosopher Voltaire, “Think for yourself and let others enjoy the privilege of doing so, too.”

Scotch pines and newspapers

By Mike VanBuren
From the late January 2014 edition of The North Woods Call

     The scotch pines on the hillsides surrounding my home have been dying, rotting and toppling to earth for several years now.
     I guess that’s part of their life cycle.  They reach a certain age, then surrender to time, weather, insects and woodpeckers.
     Eventually, they fall—mostly into the woods, but sometimes across the yard and driveway.  That’s when I am called to practice some not-so-delicate surgery with my chain saw.
     We lost a few more of them during a wet and windy day last November.  One tree blocked the drive and was quickly removed—with large, heavy sections of the trunk dragged to the side—while three or four others now lean precariously against their neighbors  alongside our endangered barn.
     I’ve been threatening for years to cut them all out before one or more crashes into the vulnerable structure, but I always seem to find reasons not to do it.  Next spring it will have to become a priority job.
  I’m beginning to wonder if newspapers have a similar life cycle, thriving for a set number of years before dying and returning to the dust from which they came.
     The North Woods Call, for example, has a rich and vibrant history, and is now in its 61st year of publication.  With the right combination of resources and marketing, it would seem that the newspaper could remain a solid niche publication for many more years.
   Yet, for decades The Call has been slowly hemorrhaging subscribers and advertisers to the point where the business is nearly as unstable as the old scotch pines leaning over our barn.
     I’m not really sure how healthy  the ledgers were during Marguerite Gahagan’s 16-year tenure as publisher, though I suspect she had her economic challenges.
     I do know, however, that during the storied Glen Sheppard years, the subscriber base had declined by at least 77 percent from its one-time high to where it was when I first started talking to Shep back in the 1990s about taking over the publication.  And by the time of his death in early 2011, there had been an additional 27 percent drop in those figures.
     Makes you wonder why anyone would want to try to resurrect the publication after Shep was gone, doesn’t it?
     Call it a labor of love, or just plain craziness, but that’s exactly what we did—only to discover that less than 20 percent of Shep’s remaining subscribers cared to stay with the publication under new ownership and a much-needed price increase.
     We know some of them were already disgruntled before we even decided to reopen the newspaper,  because they had not been refunded their unused subscription money when Shep died.  Mary Lou Sheppard, of course, closed the operation and said she  didn’t have the cash reserves to give back all the money.  (Don’t worry, that won’t happen again on our watch).
   Thankfully, enough of The Call’s most loyal subscribers signed up—for either print or electronic editions—to pay the bills and allow us to continue publishing for the past 17 months.
     We’re still at it, of course, but examining the numbers gives us pause.  Although many of our own subscribers have renewed their commitments in the past few months—with a good number opting to turn their one-year subscriptions into two years—a significant number are apparently exercising their freedom of choice by dropping out of The Call community altogether.
     There are probably as many reasons for this as there are former subscribers.  Some, unfortunately, have passed away.  Others have aged to the point where their faltering eyesight no longer allows them to read.  Some may have decided that they couldn’t afford a subscription this year, while others may simply feel that The Call is not meeting their needs.
     We can’t know all the possible motivations—except in those handful of cases where folks have written to tell us such things—but this trend seems to follow the long-term trajectory of The Call and of newspapers in general.
     Many once-profitable newspapers and magazines have gone belly up in recent years, while others have been forced to cut back on business expenses, reduce their publication schedules, or convert to exclusively electronic editions.
     We don’t know yet what all this means for The Call.  We still think the publication meets a vital need and—with the right combination of resources and marketing expertise—could attract a new generation of readers and advertisers.
     But time will tell.
     Like the scotch pines hanging precariously over the VanBuren barn, we’d like to somehow prevent these financial doldrums from crashing down on us and wiping out the business structure.
     If we can just get our marketing chain saw running, maybe we can buzz these troubles away.

A gentle spirit flies away

By Mike VanBuren
From the Late December 2013 edition of The North Woods Call
     Back in August of 1999, I was part of a small writer’s group studying creative nonfiction during a conference at Goucher College in Baltimore.
     It was the second time I had been to the gathering and that year my study group was led by acclaimed nature writer and conservationist Terry Tempest Williams.  Eight years earlier, Williams had published a fine nonfiction work called Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place.
     The book interweaves memoir and natural history, explores Williams’ complicated relationship to Mormonism and recounts her mother’s diagnosis with ovarian cancer—along with the concurrent flooding of the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge, a place special to the author since childhood.
     A profoundly moving piece of work, the book’s widely anthologized epilogue, “The Clan of One-Breasted Women,” explores whether a high incidence of cancer in her family might be due to living downwind during the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission’s above-ground nuclear testing in the 1950s and 1960s.
   As a record of loss, healing grace and the search for a human place in nature’s design, Refuge has become somewhat of a classic essay on mortality and grieving.
   Sadly, I am grieving myself today, having come to know the heart-wrenching pain of losing my mother 14 days before Christmas.  She’s now on a migratory path of her own, thanks to complications of age, dementia and biological infection that took her down sooner than we expected, and stole her ability to walk, talk, eat and—ultimately—live.
     About a week before she drew her last breath at the Rose Arbor Hospice Care Residence in Kalamazoo, she was an in-patient at a local hospital and only slightly better able to communicate than she was at the end.  A woman of lifelong quiet faith, she said through nods and facial expressions that she was ready to transition into the presence of God and claim the promises of eternal life.
      I believe she was.
   It seems she knew she was dying long before I and other family members caught on.  We thought she was merely ill and that prayers, encouragement and modern medicine could somehow resurrect her in a form similar to the person we previously knew and loved.  But God had other plans for her.
     Looking back, the telltale signs of impending death were there even before she left home for the final time more than three weeks earlier.  She had lost interest in food and would soon reject water and other fluids.  She slept almost continually and efforts to communicate with us became fewer and farther between.
     She saw things that we couldn’t see and had no way to adequately describe them—images and celestial beings of various sizes in the high corners of the rooms; mysterious threads on the table, floors and walls; and sometimes people from her distant past beckoning her to come forth.  At times she attempted to rise and follow those calls—only to be stopped in her tracks by a concerned care giver asking where she was going, or by malfunctioning legs that would routinely collapse and fall.
    Like any good mother, she never stopped listening to me, even when she couldn’t verbally respond to questions or statements.  Instead, she briefly opened her eyes, raised her eyebrows, made a face, or simply smiled.
     The day before she died, I saw a hawk perched on a pole outside her room.  I wondered whether it was some kind of a sign.  Early the next afternoon, a similar raptor—perhaps the same one—flew repeatedly into the window and tarried for a while in the bushes outside.
     A mere hour-and-a-half later—as a layer of newly fallen lake-effect snow cloaked the ground in pure white—my mother awoke, opened her eyes and tried in vain to say something to those of us gathered at her bedside.
    I think it was simply, “I love you.”
    Then it was over.   Like someone had flipped a power switch.  No struggle or after effects.  Just complete stillness.
    Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, I was searching for my own refuge—a haven from the disrupting loss of her gentle spirit, from the frustration that we couldn’t save her and from the haunting fear that somehow we hadn’t been effective medical advocates when she needed us most.
     The family did the best it could, but to no avail.  Now all we can do, I suppose, is cling to her memory and to each other, and trust in the promise that we will one day be reunited.
     Looking back nearly 15 years to Goucher College, I remember the simple and poetic inscription Terry Tempest Williams wrote in my personal copy of Refuge:

     “For you, Mike.
       In the name of shared days in search of stories.
       Refuge.
       In the land.
       In each other.
       Blessings.”

    My mother’s life was a constant blessing to me and many others.  Her love never failed and her faith in God never wavered.
     In the days following her death, I have come across many things that I wanted to tell her.  But we’re no longer connected in that way.
     Yet I think she sees me from her exalted position on high and continues to bless me with her prayers.
       I cherish that thought and will think of her each time I see freshly fallen snow, or a soaring hawk against a bright blue sky.

Isle Royale wolves and moose

Editorial from the early December 2013 North Woods Call

    There’s a classic struggle for survival on Isle Royale.
    As previously reported in The North Woods Call, the wolves and moose living on the remote Lake Superior wilderness island are dependent on each other and both are threatened by a variety of factors.
     The wolf population has been in decline and may eventually die-out—due largely to reproductive challenges, disease, and a lack of genetic diversity caused by decades of inbreeding. Moose, meanwhile, may be faced with a similar fate—not only on Isle Royale, but across North America.  There have been preferential food shortages and a warmer climate in recent years has produced more parasites—especially ticks, which consume the flesh of animals and make them more susceptible to anemia and infections.  Ticks also bite off the hair of moose, exposing them to hypothermia in cold weather.
     On Isle Royale, wolves and moose have a unique predator-prey relationship.  Wolves are the only predator of the moose and the moose are almost exclusively the only prey for wolves.  It is essential to keep their respective populations in balance for a healthy ecosystem.
    Consequently, a debate currently rages over whether humans should intervene in this natural cycle and, if so, what the results might be.
   As one of our readers recently pointed out, the conundrum is this:  If you artificially boost the wolf population and their main diet—moose—are dying out, the wolves will starve to death.  If, however, the wolves die out, moose will—for a short time, at least—grow in numbers.  Then they will overeat the fauna, devastate the island ecosystem and either die out by starvation, or succumb to the tick infestation.
    What’s the National Park Service to do?  Though we prefer to let nature govern itself, the agency will probably have to err on the side of intervention.
   Population biologist John Vucetich and wildlife ecologist Rolf Peterson, who have studied Isle Royale’s wolves and moose, say a healthy ecosystem depends on the presence of top predators like wolves when large herbivores such as moose are present.
   Without this balance, prey tend to become overabundant and decimate plants and trees that many species of birds, mammals and insects depend upon. Top predators also maintain the diversity of rare plants and insects that depend on those plants.
    In addition, the loss of top predators may disturb the nutrient cycling of entire ecosystems, according to Vucetich and Peterson.  And wolves are a boon to foxes, eagles, ravens and other species that scavenge from carcasses that wolves provide, they said.
    Although wilderness is typically viewed as a place where nature should be allowed to take its course free from human interference, we lean toward the experts who say the ecology of Isle Royale would best be served if the National Park Service initiates a genetic rescue by introducing new wolves to the island.
    After all, Vucetich and Peterson said in a New York Times op-ed piece, “there’s no place on the planet that is untouched by humans.  We have already altered nature’s course everywhere.  Our future relationship with nature will be more complicated.  Stepping in will sometimes be wise, but not always. ... Navigating that complexity without hubris will be a great challenge.”

Healthy truth in advertising

Editorial from the early December 2013 North Woods Call

    Now we all know.
    The nation’s controversial “Affordable Health Care Act” is apparently not so affordable.
    Not only are individual and family insurance policies going to be much more expensive to purchase, but millions of Americans are already losing the coverage that they wanted to keep.
    This, despite assurances by proponents of the legislation that coverage would be less expensive and “if you like your current plan, you can keep it.”
    Turns out these assurances were bald-faced lies, told repeatedly to deceive the voting public.
    That’s the problem with unchecked bureaucratic socialism and power-hungry demagogues who insist on having their way despite the heavy costs to society and freedom.
     At least two things now need to happen.
     We should insist that this poorly conceived law be repealed and demand that those who perpetrated this wanton fraud on the American people be held accountable.
     Only then can we hope to find workable solutions to society’s problems—whether in health care or natural resources conservation—and foster the truth in advertising that we deserve from those in public office.
      If this kind of thing happened in the private sector, criminal charges would already have been filed.

Belle Isle 1947: Days of youth and romance

By Mike VanBuren
From the early December 2013 edition of The North Woods Call

    I’ve been thinking lately about Detroit’s historic Belle Isle Park—and not for the reason many others are.
    Management of the 982-acre island in the Detroit River between the United States and Canada was officially transferred to the State of Michigan on November 12, after nearly 120 years as the largest city-owned island park in the United States.
    At 1,534 square miles, Belle Isle is bigger than New York City’s Central Park, and includes a nature center, inland lakes, lagoons, canal system, wooded areas and a half-mile of swimming beach.  With the management transfer, it becomes Michigan’s 102nd state park.
     Yet that’s not really why it has my attention today.
     In May of 1947—six years before I was born—my parents visited Belle Isle on their honeymoon and captured the occasion in several black-and-white photographs that have been displayed in family photo albums ever since.
      I have looked at those pictures my entire life and marveled at the youthfulness of this young couple that I have always known simply as “Mom and Dad.”
    Those were happy days for them—filled with promises and dreams—a time of life that in the minds of young people will surely last forever.
   But it never does.
   Sixty-six years after those photographs were taken, following many decades of robust health and independence, my mother has been stricken with a debilitating illness that—for now, at least—has stolen her ability to walk, bathe, feed herself and participate in all but the simplest of conversations.
    Along with her personal suffering, the lives of her husband and family members have been thrown into raging turmoil—each immersed in his or her our own not-so-private nightmare—as we struggle to cope with the ravages of memory loss and physical incapacitation.
   Those who have been through such difficulties and found themselves in the unexpected role of sudden care givers know that none of this is easy to handle.  It’s as if some sort of awful latter-day penalty awaits those who live too long and too well.
    When I was a boy of about five-years-old, my parents revisited Belle Isle with some relatives, and took my sister and me along.  On the way to the park, we stopped at a local service station where a big, ugly gorilla—or some guy dressed like one—greeted us as part of some attention-grabbing business promotion.
     The adults in our party laughed and posed for pictures with the hairy beast, but to a youngster unschooled in the ways of the marketing world, the creature looked mean and life threatening.  So I did what any self-respecting kid would do.  I freaked out and ran for Mama.
     I was quickly sheltered from the clear and present danger and, as I recall, the entire family escaped without injury that day.  But I still remember the encounter whenever I see a real or costumed gorilla.  Where’s legendary zoologist Dian Fossey when you need her, anyway?
     Nowadays—as my parents face gorillas in the mist of advanced age, with me following closely behind—there doesn’t seem to be anyone to whom we can run and hide.  Nor can the family and I effectively shelter them—or ourselves—from the horrors of declining health.
     Frankly, that’s something about nature that I hate and can’t fully understand.
    Be that as it may, there are many decisions that will need to be made in the coming days and many responsibilities that will need to be carried out in the face of daunting challenges.  And, no matter how much we  know about the frailty of the human condition, we’re never quite prepared for what it all means.
     Tough questions abound.  Why did this happen?  What can we do?  How much will it cost?  How much time will it take?  And—not insignificantly—what impact will all this have on a mom-and-pop operation like The North Woods Call when the sole proprietor is regularly called away to meet other pressing obligations?
     I don’t yet know the answers to those questions,  but I’ll have to find them soon, whether I like it or not.
    Still, I’d much rather retreat to a sunny spring day in 1947 when colorful flowers were in bloom, and a freshly minted couple was walking hand-in-hand around the Belle Isle Conservatory and creating Kodak memories at the nearby James Scott Memorial Fountain.
     If that were only possible.
    For now. I can only hope and pray that better days lie ahead—in this world and beyond—when youthful loves and memories can be rekindled in a land that knows no sickness and sorrow.

Old friends, stormy nights & "robber barons"

By Mike VanBuren
From the late November 2013 edition of The North Woods Call

    We should have known that the rain wouldn’t stop.
    All the weather reports said it wouldn’t. And the deep gray clouds that hung over most of Michigan that October day had already been spitting water for the better part of 24 hours.
    But on we drove—a former college roommate and I—from the sand-covered eastern shore of Lake Michigan to the northern forests of Roscommon County.
    We thought we could escape the precipitation if we traveled far enough—past the blanket of drizzle and into the bright sunshine of a cool autumn day.  But the daylight came and went, and we were left without a dry place to pitch our tents and build a campfire.
   There was a time when it wouldn’t have mattered.  We would have taken to the woods, anyway, and toughed it out on a soggy campsite with the hope of a better day tomorrow. But we’re older now—less inclined toward voluntary suffering—and much prefer to hear raindrops falling on the roof of a dry shelter than dripping into our tents and pooling like unwelcome ponds beneath our sleeping bags.
    So we rented a tiny tourist cabin on the western shore of Houghton Lake and dialed up the gas furnace.  The quaint log structure—built in the 1950s—featured a small kitchenette, bathroom, dining table, sitting area and two cozy bedrooms.
    It was more than we needed, but at least we were out of the nasty weather.
    My friend and I have been making these annual pilgrimages for at least 38 years now and many times have attempted to solve the world’s intransigent problems over late night fires.   Our animated conversations have typically lasted well into the early morning hours—sometimes past daybreak.
    This time was no exception, except we lacked the calming influence of dancing flames and smoldering wood coals.  That may be where we went wrong.
     In days gone by, we seemed to agree on potential solutions much more than we disagreed.  But not so much anymore.
     My friend took a sharp left turn somewhere along the way and ended up in places I don’t fully appreciate.  He would probably say the same about me, albeit our philosophical destinations vary.
    A cold, rainy night in northern Michigan only seemed to exacerbate the differences in our viewpoints.
     Still, I have great respect for this political opponent—a smart and articulate observer who can speak intelligently about many subjects.  He is good-hearted and courteous to other people.  And he has been a major encourager and supporter over the years.
   Friends like that are hard to come by and something to be treasured.    So it’s particularly troubling when we butt heads like a couple of stubborn bighorn rams on a steep mountainside.
    Our disagreement over domestic affairs has seldom been as contentious as it was during this  outing.  I blame a malfunctioning and extra-constitutional government for many of our nation’s problems—along with deceitful, propaganda-spewing demagogues of all stripes.  He says I’m much too harsh in my criticism and should have more respect for public office holders.
   Perhaps, but they must earn that respect.
     My friend seems blissfully satisfied that our elected and appointed public servants are honorable individuals with good intentions and sufficient integrity.  He points to corporate and banking interests as the real culprits.
     But that’s not what this tale is really about.  The point to be made, as we have often said, is that opposing viewpoints offer new perspectives and opportunities to learn.
  Such debates certainly have made my intellectual gears turn on occasion and now I’m told that “a little socialism” is better than “unbridled capitalism.”
     Hmmm.  Liberty seems to be an increasingly tough sell in the land of the free.  But the underlying point is well-taken.  Not all business leaders have been models of ethical behavior.  Then again, neither have government officials.
    Regardless—from what I’ve seen—government doesn’t create wealth.  It only consumes and “redistributes” it.  Like it or not, free enterprise (within reasonable boundaries that protect the rights of individuals) is what pays the bills, creates jobs and generates tax revenue.
   And, despite a handful of so-called “robber barons” that may have operated from time-to-time throughout our history, most businesses and industries have made overwhelmingly positive contributions to society.
   Among other things, they have provided employment,  helped build personal security, funded schools and hospitals, and supported numerous other institutions and programs that benefit each of us.  And they’re responsible for many of the recreation programs and public park lands that we now enjoy.
     In Michigan alone, much of the state’s philanthropic history is tied to the land.  Many of our state parks—including Hartwick Pines, Brimley, P.H. Hoeft and Warren Dunes—exist because of gifts from private philanthropists.  The same is true for national parks and historic sites, such as Acadia in Maine, Grand Teton in Wyoming and the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.
  Other private donations have contributed significantly to park planning, development, management and interpretation.
     But there’s no need to debate these points here—nearly a month after our Houghton Lake confab ended and tempers cooled.
     By the following morning, the rain had mostly stopped, so we  traveled back across the state to the Nordhouse Dunes Wilderness Area in the Manistee National Forest.  There we finally pitched our tents, had a blazing campfire and engaged in a far more amiable conversation.
    We’ll probably always argue the fine points of self-government, but hopefully we’ll each learn something from these exchanges and embrace the truth where we find it.
    While a little rain may fall on us from time-to-time, we can’t let the storms of life wash our common sense—or friendships—away.