Guess.What.Day.It.Is? (Back by popular demand)


Cows, here and across much of Africa, have been the most important animal for eons — the foundation of economies, diets, traditions. But now grazable land is shrinking. Water sources are drying up. A three-year drought in the Horn of Africa that ended last year killed 80 percent of the cows in this part of Kenya and shattered the livelihoods of so many people…

The global camel population has doubled over the last 20 years, something the U.N. agency for agriculture and investment attributes partly to the animal’s suitability amid climate change. In times of hardship, camels produce more milk than cows. Many cite an adage: The cow is the first animal to die in a drought; the camel is the last…

But among mammals, the camel is almost singularly equipped to handle extremes. Camels can go two weeks without water, as opposed to a day or two for a cow. They can lose 30 percent of their body weight and survive, one of the highest thresholds for any large animal. Their body temperatures fluctuate in sync with daily climate patterns. When they pee, their urine trickles down their legs, keeping them cool. When they lie down, their leathery knees fold into pedestals that work to prop much of their undersides just above the ground, allowing cooling air to pass through.

One recently published paper, perhaps straying from science to reverence, called them a “miracle species.”

— Chico Harlan, from “How Climate Change is Turning Camels into the New Cows” (Washington Post, April 17, 2024)

Read more here.


Notes:

  • Post Title: Background on Caleb/Wednesday/Hump Day Posts and Geico’s original commercial: Let’s Hit it Again.

Walking. With Huge Decision…Pressure lifted.

January 23rd. 1,358 consecutive (almost) days on my morning walk at Cove Island Park. Like in a row. 

It’s 7:00 am, Sunrise is scheduled for 7:13 am. Of course it’s 7:13 am DK, how would you know it’s 7:13 am with such precision? Well, I asked Siri 3x, and Google 1x, in case the timing of the sunrise changed in the last 30 minutes. Obsessive? Not at all.

I’m 13 minutes away from lift off, and I’m pacing, and pacing. Ted Kooser: “I have used up more than 20,000 days waiting to see what the next would bring.

12 minutes from lift off. I set the camera and backpack down on the bench. And wait. And pace.

11 minutes from lift off. Clear skies, chance for clear shots of the morning sun.

11 minutes, a freakin’ eternity.

I circle around the rock bluff, Again. And then once more.

Continue reading “Walking. With Huge Decision…Pressure lifted.”

The drip drip drip…

From ‘‘Washy clouds and a weepy sky floating upside down’: Simon Armitage’s Arctic expedition.” (The Guardian, October 7 , 2023)

…Poetry has taken me to all points of the compass, from South Korea, to Tasmania, to the interior of the Amazon rainforest, and this year to the Arctic Circle. As someone whose inner lodestone is innately tuned to the gravitational pull of the north, this felt like a date with destiny. […]

This part of the Arctic is devastatingly beautiful. Sky-scraping mountains sweep down to the coast, and without buildings to act as reference points the scale is dizzying and disarming – you don’t know if you’re a David or a Goliath among the stony valleys, sharp aretes and pointed peaks. The sense of alienation and disorientation was intensified by the 24-hour July sunlight, but the most bewildering aspect of the whole expedition, for me, was the heat. The temperature hovered around 11C for five days, and for much of the time I wandered about in shirtsleeves, jeans and a pair of trainers. The thermal long johns never came out of the suitcase. Only the mountaintops were snow-covered…

Several glaciers calve into the water at the head of the adjacent fjord, and at frequent intervals the noiseless tranquillity was broken by the sound of collapsing or rupturing ice. One evening we cruised among the floating debris, ice that fizzed and crackled as it melted, the floating ruins of what felt like some catastrophic event…

The drip drip drip of climate change is the tick tick tick of a countdown to calamity. Across the entire polar territory the permafrost ain’t so permanent or frosty any more, and structures – both natural and human-made – are starting to tilt and sink as the once frozen ground exhales its captive carbon into the air…

“Atlantification” seems to be the scientific buzzword for the way our temperate climate is extending into the polar region, drawing non-native flora and fauna towards higher latitudes, unbalancing complex and delicate ecosystems. It also feels like the right word to describe the relentless flow of plastics and other pollutants from south to north, and to explain why the stomachs of skuas and fulmars are full of cigarette lighters, condoms, fishing lines, bottle tops and the like. In 1880 the 20-year-old Arthur Conan Doyle sailed to the Arctic on the SS Hope. Ostensibly employed as the ship’s surgeon, his diary from that journey is an unapologetic record of butchery, documenting the greedy slaughter of whales and seals and the shooting of polar bears as target practice. Words were my only trophies; I returned with a handful of poems. But as a member of a species inflicting such degradation and humiliation on the natural world, my shame and embarrassment were far greater.

Continue reading “The drip drip drip…”

We are all living the same moment.

Air is the gaseous substance of life. Sky is what we see of it. How it is framed. The mind’s eye’s way of giving it structure. Blue tent, sky-space, cobalt between heaving mountains.

Air is all over us, inside us, expelled by us, renewed by the operations of photosynthesis and the evaporation of ever-warmer seas.
Sky is ubiquity. It drives into us. We gulp weather. Yet we conceive of it as “out there,” “up there,” and apart from us. Sky is “scape,” a fictive reference point to which we cling, yet it also stands for the open space we come to know as an ever-expanding, cosmic whole…

It is spring as I write, and the world is locked down in a raging pandemic. We hold still while airborne germs wrapped in fat float and flap all around us, threatening our lives…

Sky is a living body, a lung that spews life. In China it is chi, a life force, or tianqi, “heaven’s breath.” In Greenland, it is sila, nature and consciousness. For the Navajo Nation, sky is Nitth’i, a benevolent spirit. The Crow, who live on the grasslands of Montana and Wyoming, call sky huche, meaning “wind that blows steadily at the foot of the mountain.” In Egypt, the dying summoned the god of air and said, “I have gone up to Shu; I have climbed the sunbeams.” …

Sky is nothing and everything: a blank that holds solar systems, locust swarms, heaven’s gates, kingfishers, and cosmos. It’s where the Big Bang flapped everything into being. Recently, 19 new interstellar asteroids were found orbiting the sun, and astronomers have uncovered the beauty of the asymmetrical universe, where the battle between matter and antimatter was waged. Matter and cosmic imperfection won out; otherwise, we wouldn’t exist. “Imperfection is our paradise,” a Buddhist teacher said…

Perhaps that’s the best way to think about the sky and the ways it binds and releases us. Looking up, we can all see the same things: the pink moon, sunrise’s glory, starlight, and the lovely, lonely curve of air. Our peripheral vision shapes what we think we are seeing. From my lookout on a moving dogsled, I’ve seen how the horizon’s silver stripe divides ice from air, mist from ocean, space from Earth, and dark from light as the blue tent floats down and softly covers us all.

~ Gretel Ehrlich, “We Are All Living the Same Moment” in The Atlantic (May 2, 2020)


Photo: DK, Cove Island Park, May 3, 6:43 am.

Undermining the Ground Beneath Our Feet


Notes: