Last September I attended a water association meeting in Penasco, New Mexico. The acequia photographed above is one of several thousand water ditches and collateral offshoots in New Mexico. This ditch alongside the road to Dixon, New Mexico, is not a part of the water association at Penasco although the two towns are close together and divert off of the Embudo Watershed.
Tag Archives: Conservation
Norman Clyde taught, read, guided mountain climbs and rescues. “Norman Clyde still guided parties into the Sierra into the 1960s, when he was in his seventies. In the 1950s and 1960s, he lived by himself at the old Baker ranch-house on Baker Creek near Big Pine. Because he was trained in the classics, Norman Clyde loved to read books in Latin and Greek. At the Baker ranch-house, Clyde had thousands of rare classical books. At age 80, he was still sleeping outside the ranch-house on a mattress and sleeping bag, as long as it was fair weather.”
The above photograph on the cover of the magazine, Climbing, I have kept since a friend of mine, Mark Garlin, gave me the magazine in 1972. Norman Clyde died later that year, December, 1972, at the age of 87. I have kept the magazine at my ready shelf since that time because of my love of climbing mountains and the presence of strength and fortitude in Clyde’s face and posture. Despite age, he has tools of his love and trade beside him: rope, ice axe, and rucksack.
When I have climbed mountains by way of trail and path, not rope nor ice axe, I have met young and old, educated and not, rich and poor, and men and women who love the outdoors and the challenge of a good climb. Without fail, those that are on the trail take an interest in the columbine and rushing waters and all the conifers in high country. Oh, the trees: ponderosa pine, spruce, juniper, pinion. There is learning in the austere mountain trail that is both external and internal. In the external, one sees and usually identifies geological formations, the topography, the magpies and jays, and the trees. Internally, the lessons run deep and are formative, even in old age.
Norman Clyde in the photograph above was in his eighties. The perseverance in his climbing is found off the slopes in building strawbale compounds (as my good friend, Jimmy Henley, was doing at the time of his death in his seventies), performing the arts, climbing trees as a trimmer, and pursuing goals in getting a degree. If ever you think you are too old, think of Norman Clyde on the front cover, the mountains behind and the tools of his adventure about him. Clyde will climb until his body fails.
As I wrote, I keep Clyde’s photograph on my ready shelf. If he can climb at his age, I can hike and build fence and mountaineer at my age. As I climb in the high country, three questions arise: What am I doing here? What should I do? And, how do I know? The answers are simple and complex. I am hiking. I am hiking. I know I am hiking in this moment at my pace, walking among the trees, hearing birds, seeing and hearing rushing waters, touching ground, seeing the sky as I meet others on the trail. Those are my three answers. In a sense, those are everyone’s answers. Until our bodies fail. Norman Clyde, front cover, Norma Clyde, front cover….
Photograph of Norman Clyde by David Hiser.
Quote in first paragraph from Wikipedia, “Norman Clyde,” accessed Aug. 23, 2016.
The three questions in the last paragraph are derivative from my course in philosophy at University of Texas at Austin, 1961. On the Philosophy Department’s website page (at least a couple of years ago) those questions were posed in a slightly different way.
I climbed with Mark Garlin, my friend who gave me the magazine. He lectured at the Air Force Academy in the 1970s on climbing and survival in the mountains.
A mid-morning rain fell on the place. The air is cool, almost cold, and the sky has not cleared and probably will not this day. This photograph shows a break in the clouds towards the south, the town of Stephenville, lying about nineteen miles away. My mother came to Stephenville–I tagged along–and bought plants at Wolfe Nursery. The nursery had a large sign of a wolf that signaled the entry to the nursery that encompassed acres and acres of tended trees and several hothouses.
The rain caused an eruption of this blossom upon the sage near the house.
Fall has come to the place, the farm, the ranchito, the people of Sims Valley, and all the wildlife abounding.
But an equally alarming source of the decline, both Mr. Taylor and Mr. Vidal said, is the explosive increase in American farmland planted in soybean and corn genetically modified to tolerate herbicides.
The American Midwest’s corn belt is a critical feeding ground for monarchs, which once found a ready source of milkweed growing between the rows of millions of acres of soybean and corn. But the ubiquitous use of herbicide-tolerant crops has enabled farmers to wipe out the milkweed, and with it much of the butterflies’ food supply.
“That habitat is virtually gone. We’ve lost well over 120 million acres, and probably closer to 150 million acres,” Mr. Taylor said.
A rapid expansion of farmland — more than 25 million new acres in the United States since 2007 — has eaten away grasslands and conservation reserves that supplied the monarchs with milkweed, he said.
The monarchs’ migration is seen as a natural marvel and, for Mexico, a huge tourist attraction. But naturalists regard the butterflies as a forward indicator of the health of the food chain. Fewer butterflies probably means there are fewer other insects that are food for birds, and fewer birds for larger predators.
Here on my ranchito I have seen no monarchs this year. It is a little early for their migration through central Texas (at least here in north Erath County, Texas), and I will hold off making any conclusive statements about their pattern for several more weeks.
I have only a few sprouts of milkweed on my 53 acres. I know precisely where the milkweed is and seek to keep it flourishing for the butterflies.