Silver City

The air smells like campfire.
But it’s not trivial like that.
A truck speeds by and picks the scent up from where it settled, or brings the smoke along from where it came.

I met some smoke jumpers in the coffee shop at 7 am.
I also met a man from Kansas in Silver City:
he is apprenticed to a local plant medicine man of great repute for several weeks, learning about herbalism and plant ritual.

“I love wolves” he told me. “They remind us to be connected to wilderness and the earth.”

can’t they  be of NO service to us whatsoever?

There’s a Saturday farmers market, and I bought some very fresh, clean goat milk panela, russian kale, radishes, garlic scapes, young broccoli, Aracana hen eggs.
Farmers like everywhere. Many beautiful Gaia types.

Everybody here is really friendly. Not shit-grin friendly, but genuinely happy to stop and talk. Lots of benches around town, and people swapping stories outside the plenitude of cafes. There’s a breeze but it’s freaking hot, so best  move slow. No getting whirled.

At the Silver City Museum, the super friendly volunteer at the desk asked me where I am from. When I said Brooklyn, he told me he lived in Staten Island in the 1970s. “What did you do there?” “I was in a cult. Children of God. Criminals.” I know a bit too much about them from one of my students.

Bought some supplies at the co-op, another friendly place, with reasonable prices (versus my $5.65 latte this morning) on bulk, elixirs, organics,  probiotics, and limes… I’m gonna eat nothing but elixirs and raw vegetables.

Western New Mexico University Museum has a very large collection of Mimbres pottery. It’s in a beautiful cavernous old wooden building on campus, but I was not allowed to take any pictures.The displays are old-school archeology with big run-on sentences in all-caps vinyl letters that explained everything so well. I wonder why the pots selected for display omit the birth scenes, and the luridly huge-phallused pieces and copulations, or any predators (like bear).

There was heat and altitude to collapse from…
nothing like a siesta…

I drove to buy some beer and also up Pinos Altos, in the direction of the Gila Cliff Dwellings (which are closed because of the fires). I went about 20 miles north, to the start of the Trail of the mountain Spirits or some such.
I crossed the continental divide,

and saw the old Pinos Altos mining town,  and then stopped for a micro hike. Turned out to be the Continental Divide trail… I got about 50 yards  when I flushed a group of vultures who wheeled low and fast around me, seemingly annoyed. The wind and crickets were symphonic.

 

Thanks Walmart. There’s shade and a party in this hat.

 

Today’s bag was full of:

Gila Fire

Record NM blaze will test forest management
By SUSAN MONTOYA BRYAN, Associated Press

A wildfire in the Gila National Forest in New Mexico has burned more than 216,000 acres.

 

From the air, the smoke stretches as far as the eye can see. On the ground, firefighters talk about the steep canyons that keep them from directly attacking what has become the largest wildfire in New Mexico’s recorded history and the largest currently burning in the country.

Sure, things might look bad. But to land managers and scientists, the record-setting blaze represents a true test of decades of work aimed at returning fire to its natural role on the landscape — a test that comes as many Western states grapple with overgrown forests, worsening drought and a growing prospect for more megafires…

Starting in the early 1970s, the Gila has been leading the way when it comes to implementing such an active fire management strategy. Instead of immediately dousing flames in the wilderness, forest managers have let them burn as long as conditions are favorable.

The question that the Whitewater-Baldy fire is expected to answer is whether that strategy will pay off with more natural, less intense fires.

“There’s a great opportunity here to study a fire like this,” said Matthew Rollins, the wildland fire science coordinator with the U.S. Geological Survey’s National Center in Virginia.

“The opportunity exists to look at how this fire has behaved differently in terms of vegetation mortality, effects on wildlife and fish habitat and water quality,” Rollins said. “We can study how it burned in the wilderness relative to areas with other types of fire management strategies and other types of ignition patterns…”

The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service is also monitoring two packs of endangered Mexican gray wolves that are situated to the north and east of the fire. Last year, wolves in Arizona were able to escape the massive Wallow fire with their pups, but it’s unclear how mobile the packs in New Mexico are since their pups are much younger.

The fire is about 15 percent contained, which much of that being on the fire’s northern and northwestern flanks.

 

Not in Kansas (or NY) any more

I flew from LGA to Denver.
I found the tornado shelter sign
in the women’s bathroom disarming.

Then flew from Denver to Albuquerque,
and then drove 5 hours south and west.
First scorched earth – 98 degrees
soft hills and naked rock rising like a dead sea,
140 miles to Truth or Consequences

(the town was founded by Bob Barker)
where I bought a small saw and a straw hat at Walmart
(which wasn’t there 19 years ago
when I spent my birthday in
a tatty wooden tub containing
a hot spring the Rio Grande).

Then I turned the fancy little Subaru Outback
towards the west, and drove up and up and up
through the JEWELS of alpine desert mountains
(an inland island ecology,
the largest of which are in the Gila,
collectively known as the Sky Island Region)
on curvacious roads at 15 MPH

and at a brief apex,
the temperature dropped to 80 degrees
but then I wound back down and down,
until I was in a high valley of grasses and chollo in bloom

past an enormous open pit copper mine, the Santa Rita

to Silver City, N.M.
“Gateway to the Gila,”
well over 5,000 feet up, in the Chihuahuan desert

2006 NY Times Travel Section: "36 hours in Silver City"

Fires sparked by lightning 2 weeks ago in the Gila have left the air in this high valley smokey, evenly hazy and taupe. Over 300 square miles had burned as of this morning. This is healthy, not a tragedy, right? But it’s  stressful for all the animals, esp the human ones. 1,200 fire fighters are in there trying to contain or squelch bits of the rampage. A lot of the park roads are closed, as is the Gila Cliff Dwellings Monument. Bummer. In tourist season, this is a blow, especially with the geographically impaired (myself included), for whom it’s easy to surmise that the state is on fire or at least at risk of smoke inhalation. And people have been evacuated from towns. What is happening with the cattle who graze nearby?

I’ll be here for a 2 week residency researching the Mexican gray wolf reintroduction program,  supported by ISEA and the New Mexico Wilderness Alliance. Instigated by a gracious talented and expert host: Michael Berman.

I don’t really know how to give some simple context for this project. I reach points where I can, then slip back into the murk of positions, territories, symbolism, and overlapping realities. And I am totally new to this: to facing issues surrounding public land rights, private land rights, shifting land rights, ideas and ideals about wilderness, and the politics and on-the-ground situation of this (or any) wolf reintroduction program.

The players: “enviros,” conservationists (some make a distinction, the former being extremist the latter being ecosystem people), cattle ranchers, government agents, non-profits, and politicians.

 

 

Drama Queens

It is not only out of arrogance that Westerners think they are radically different from others, it is also out of despair, and by way of self-punishment. They like to frighten themselves with their own destiny. Their voices quaver when they contrast Barbarians to Greeks, or the Center to the Periphery, or when they celebrate the Death of God, or the Death of Man, the European Krisis, imperialism, anomie, or the end of the civilizations that we know are mortal. Why do we get so much pleasure out of being so different not only from others but from our own past? What psychologist will be subtle enough to explain our morose delight in being in perpetual crisis? Why do we like to transform small differences in scale among collectives into huge dramas?
Bruno Latour – We Have Never Been Modern
In this light, our fancy for The Apocalypse looks, well, embarrassing.
The Guardian ran a good piece on our long love affair with apocalyptic expression:
“”The apocalypse,” wrote the German poet and essayist Hans Magnus Enzensbergerin 1978, “is aphrodisiac, nightmare, a commodity like any other … warning finger and scientific forecast … rallying cry … superstition … a joke … an incessant production of our fantasy … one of the oldest ideas of the human species. Its periodic ebb and flow … has accompanied utopian thought like a shadow.”It is haunting us again. A sense of doom dominates recent films such as Melancholia, in which a vast unknown planet suddenly appears from behind the sun and converges inexorably on Earth; and Take Shelter, about a taciturn American Everyman, living quietly with his family somewhere on the suburban plains, who starts dreaming extravagantly about devastating coming storms and social breakdown. There is doom television, such as the BBC1 series Survivors, a post-apocalyptic soap opera that ran from 2008 to 2010, about the struggles of ordinary Britons after a deadly flu pandemic. There is doom literature, from the exhaustingly erudite – Living in The End Times, by the Slovenian superstar philosopher Slavoj Žižek – to the more digestible – The Coffee Table Book of Doom, by Steven Appleby and Art Lester, published in time for this Christmas, and complete with cute cartoons and would-be wry discussions of the likelihood of an asteroid strike or global food shortage or “supersize hurricane”. There is doominess in pop music, not just in the usual genres such as metal, but on the fashionable fringes of dubstep and techno, where the much blogged-about young record label Blackest Ever Black issues echoing, funereal instrumentals with titles such as We Must Hunt Under The Wreckage Of Many Systems.

There is an ever louder babble of apocalypse-predicting subcultures, amplified and partly sustained by the internet: peak-oil doomers, who believe the world’s energy supplies will collapse and mass famine will follow; Christians who anticipate an imminent day of rapture when believers will ascend to heaven and non-believers will perish; interpreters of the ancient Maya calendar who, contrary to mainstream scholarship, are convinced that the world will end on 21 December 2012; and traditional survivalists, stockpiling tinned goods and constructing rural “survival retreats” to sit out armageddon, who in recent years have been more active than for decades, according to one of their gurus, James Wesley Rawles, American author of the 2009 bestseller Patriots: A Novel of Survival in the Coming Collapse. This autumn, as the estimated world population passed seven billion, an earlier prophet of doom, Paul Ehrlich, co-author of the 60s and 70s bestseller The Population Bomb and professor of population studies at Stanford University in California, resurfaced in the British press to warn that demand for the planet’s resources would soon decisively exceed supply. “Civilisations,” he reminded this newspaper, “have collapsed before.”

Prince of Networks: reality as resistance.

I was struck by this perfect example.

“For Latour, two atoms in collision are immanent even if no human ever sees them, since both expend themselves fully in the labour of creating networks with other actants. ‘Since whatever resists is real, there can be no “symbolic” to add to the “real” […]. I am prepared to accept that fish may be gods, stars, or food, that fish may make me ill and play different roles in origin myths […]. Those who wish to separate the “symbolic” fish from its “real” counterpart should themselves be separated and confined’ (The Pasteurization of France, p. 188). What is shared in common by marine biologists, the fishing industry, and tribal elders telling myths about icthyian deities is this: none of them really knows what a fish is. All must negotiate with the fish’s reality, remaining alert to its hideouts, migrational patterns, and sacral or nutritional properties.”

– Graham Harman, Prince of Networks p26

Not an Artichoke, Nor From Jerusalem

"Haud Nomine Tantum" (Not in Name Alone). A new seal for NYC Edibles. Marina Zurkow (2012)

 

What is local? As a challenge to currently marketed notions of ‘sustainable,” “green” and “locavore,” Michael Connor, Alex Freedman and I conceived of and created  a formal “explorer’s club” style dinner for 25 at the Artist’s Institute in New York on Jan 16th 2012. “Not an Artichoke, Nor from Jerusalem” was a dinner that rendered the local exotic, and the exotic all too local.

Click here for documentation, menu, and project description:
http://www.o-matic.com/play/food/AI/