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: Nature
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.
SEVERAL springs ago some friends and I arose before dawn in Moab, Utah, to witness the sunrise mating dance of the Gunnison sage grouse: a surreal display of nine ornately plumed, chicken-size birds tottering about amid the sagebrush like windup toys, fanning their spiky tails and uttering a magical sound — “pop … pop-pop!” — as they thrust yellow air sacs out of their snow-white chests.
Read the rest of the article and support adding the Gunnison sage grouse, the drumming lover, to the endangered species act.
On the matter of we people expanding into the wild, the veld, we decide whether to deep clean and cultivate assiduously the earth or whether to leave unturned and uncultivated the earth upon which we trod. In between this binary choice–turning or not turning the soil–there is no middle ground. This choice is one of those locked-down moments of either-or, either alive or dead, nothing in between, either turning the soil for cultivation or leave it alone.
Therefore, to keep alive and robust the biota of this good earth–the Gunnison sage grouse, for example, –we must as a people, as temporary tenants of this space, here and now, leave sufficient areas of territory for species to live, to roam, to rest, to raise families. Yes, we need to cultivate land as well, but large tracts of it? At the expense of destroying major habitats? In response to all living things, therefore, let us ratchet down, pin down less tightly, our clearing land and cutting trees and brush, so that we as a people can rise early in the morning and attend the dance of life in those spaces we have tenderly set aside.
(To be continued, The post-industrial order.)