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{ PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION }

There is no way to hold back the future. But we can shape the course of events by engaging—fully, deeply, and passionately— with the present. . . This approach is sometimes referred to as a strategy of “no regrets,” because the work is worth doing now, no matter what happens next.

EVEN NOW, SEVEN years after the fact, I can vividly recall the moment when I wrote those words, read them back to myself, and realized that I was done. My book on grassland ecology and conservation, the impossible project that had occupied me night and day for so many years, was finally finished. At the time, my main emotion was not so much elation—the satisfaction of a job well done—as giddy relief that I had managed to get the thing completed, somehow. It hadn’t been easy. Just as I sat down to write the concluding chapter, my partner, Keith, was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer. (Don’t worry: he’s alive and well.) A couple of weeks later, my father suffered a stroke and died in hospital.

No matter what happens next. Being alive is a risky business, and the inevitable conclusion of our life stories is not what, given our druthers, most of us would choose. We’re born; we die. And between the time when the lights switch on and the lights switch off, what are we to do? Let’s assume that you and I number among the fortunate minority of humanity who enjoy reasonable access to the basic necessities: food, clothing, shelter, and community. With our survival needs met, how do we “improve each shining hour” so that our brief lives are not a flash in the pan but a flash of brilliance? How do we craft lives of purpose and significance?

. . . because the work is worth doing . . . These questions lurk, like ephemeral companions, at the edge of our field of vision. For me, the answers have often turned out to be comically understated: growing carrots in my garden, playing fiddle tunes on my accordion, or stringing words one after another to form sentences. But none of these activities can compare with the simple, animal pleasure of scuffing across a dusty stretch of half-wild prairie somewhere in the back of beyond, with hot licks of meadowlark song filling the air. Enveloped in the sounds and scents of the grasslands, I am a child again, holding my mother’s hand, as memories of her own sage-scented prairie childhood rise up to meet her. The Great Plains grasslands are old, older than memory. For visitants like us, this ancient land offers a grounding in continuance.

Something kindles inside me when I sit on a lichen-covered boulder and realize that it has sat there for ten thousand years, ever since the retreat of the glaciers. Or when I lie on my back in the grass, soaking up the sun, and feel the Earth pressing against me as if it were holding me up. Whatever it was that lit the spark of life in the beginning of time is still present here, in the grass, wind, sunshine, and rain, in the birds and animals. Working to preserve and restore grassland ecosystems is an act of reverence for the crazy caper of life, which gave birth to us and all our flying, walking, swimming, and slithering relations. It is an expression of gratitude for the mundane gift of being here.

There is no point in pretending that everything is hunky-dory for the wildlife and wild places of the Great Plains. In my home region of the Canadian prairies alone, more than two dozen species have been added to the at-risk list since this book was first released seven years ago, and another dozen have been “uplisted” to a more critical status. Only two listed species appear to have made significant gains during the same span of years: a tiny fish called the bigmouth shiner, which has been found in new locations and is no longer thought to be at risk, and the swift fox, a cat-sized canid that went from Extirpated to merely Endangered, thanks to a long-term reintroduction effort. Meanwhile, the status of prairie birds as a group continues to worsen year by year, as formerly abundant species, like the Common (now uncommon) Nighthawk, become the focus of concern.

The fundamental problem for most prairie species is loss of habitat. To this day, we continue to lose wetlands to drainage, river-flow to dams, and both native and tame grasslands to cultivation. In the Great Plains states, for example, millions of acres of marginal cropland that were seeded to hay in the 1980s and 1990s under the Conservation Reserve Program—and that have provided living space for wildlife ever since—are currently being ploughed up for the production of biofuels. As for the surviving wild prairie, it is in declining health due to the incursions of invasive plants and the relentless, dendritic expansion of oil-and-gas exploration and other human demands. If you are looking for a place where the conservation needs are urgent and your help is required now, look no further.

. . . a strategy of “no regrets,”. . . I can’t promise you that a united force of grass-huggers will succeed in striking a happy balance between prairie people and the more-than-human world. It’s pretty clear, however, what will happen if we do not make the attempt. From my own small experience of engagement (as board member for the Nature Conservancy of Canada and a partner in a restoration project, among other things), I can tell you that, even though the context is often disheartening, the work of conservation can be exciting, inspiring, and fun. The prairie ecosystem is battered, but it is also adaptable and tough. Repeat after me: Things can change for the better.

There is no way to hold back the future. But we can shape the course of events by engaging— fully, deeply, and passionately—with the present. And so we begin again.

Eastend, Saskatchewan

April 2010