Читать книгу Wild Rides and Wildflowers - Scott Abbott - Страница 10
Оглавление26 February, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos
On the foothills of Mount Timpanogos, in late February, it’s rare to find a dry and rideable trail. This winter, however, has been sudden, short, and moody. The jeep road at the mouth of Provo Canyon, climbing through dormant cliff rose and sage, skirting cliffs of muscular blue limestone, is passable today. Unfortunately, after three months of freezing and thawing the switchbacking trail is as soft as our bellies. Tough going for the first ride of the year.
Where the trail levels off, Sam drops his black carbon-fiber Trek to the ground and leans over to hide the fact that he’s sucking air. Even in extremis, he can’t take his eyes off the view. Utah Lake’s slate-grey waters slice the valley from north to south. The Oquirrh and Lake Mountains form the western horizon. Santaquin Peak and Mount Nebo dominate the southern end of the valley. Cascade Mountain is a massive snowy presence to the southeast. Provo Canyon cuts through the folded limestone to the east. The snow-covered escarpments of Mount Timpanogos, 11,749-feet high at the peak, rise abruptly above us.
I lay down my red Specialized Stumpjumper M2, a bike much heavier than Sam’s (as I often point out), and take in the view myself.
“Damn!” Sam exclaims.
“Damn!” I wheeze.
A flock of mountain bluebirds (Sialia currucoides), their color an exact match of the sky, bursts out of the sage. The birds call to one another as they sweep across the gibbous moon hanging heavy over the canyon.
“Gibbous,” Sam says. “I love that word. It means swollen or humped.”
“Etymology from a botanist!” I exclaim.
Sam replies with wounded dignity: “You have forgotten, Scott, that I am a professional botanist. I studied Latin for a full year. ‘Gibbous’ is from the late Latin through Middle English and is often used in plant and animal formal species definitions.”
Overlooking the final hills above the city of Orem’s last orchard, we hear and then see a motorcycle and a four-wheeler screaming across the rocky terrain. Dozens of mule deer (Odocoileus hemionus) break in waves before the maniacs, retreating, splitting into smaller groups, rejoining, bouncing up hills, breaking through oak brush.
“You bastards!” Sam yells, and speeds down the hill. I join the breakneck descent, ready to protect Sam or the maniacs, whoever needs it most. The infernal combustionists see us coming and disappear around a switchback. On the flat, the two man-boys (Homo erectus, obviously not yet Homo sapiens) are waiting for us.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout.
“It’s a misdemeanor to harass wildlife,” Sam bellows. “We’ll have you sons of bitches hauled into court.”
“We weren’t hurting them,” the four-wheeled maniac says flatly.
“The hell you weren’t,” Sam blusters. “It’s the end of the winter and they’re in compromised condition. The stress you’re causing will kill them. You understand the word compromised, dipshit?”
The steely eyes of the motorcycle rider reveal only disdain. His bike spits dirt as he leaves us standing. His buddy follows, blatting a foul exhaust.
We head home through an apple orchard, then cross 8th North into the Orem neighborhood where we both live.
“Those boys will find it hard to discount our well-reasoned arguments,” Sam deadpans.
“As do our children,” I add.
2 March, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos
Sam has a rough ride up the steep track near the mouth of the canyon. In the early going, he falls twice, both times into oak brush (Quercus gambelii) that embraces him with a brittle crackling. At the top, mounting his bike after standing for a while on winter-matted grass to admire the view, he falls again. “That ties our record,” I tell him. “Three falls in a single ride. But neither of us has done it in a hundred yards before.”
“You know,” Sam says from the ground, “I think I fell that last time out of pure wonder. Who gets to witness this glorious landscape again and again and again?”
I point to green tips of new grass, drawn out of the earth by lengthening days, warming temperatures, and new angles of sunlight. “Harbingers of spring,” I observe.
“Harbingers my ass,” Sam replies. “You’ve spent too much of your life in eighteenth-century Germany. This new-looking cheatgrass has been here since mid-fall, waiting under the snow for an early start, aiming to bear seed before the heat and dryness of summer and before its later-emerging competitors.”
“I study the German Enlightenment,” I respond proudly. “You’ve lived your life hunched over a microscope counting diatoms, whatever the hell those are!”
“Add this to your so-called enlightenment,” Sam says. “A diatom is a single-celled alga, common in any wet or moist habitat in the world. Nearly all are photosynthetic, and it is estimated that diatoms produce up to half of all the oxygen on Earth. Diatoms are beautiful, ranging from round to elongate in face view, with thousands of shapes and sizes. They produce glass cell walls and can last in sediments for millennia. Furthermore, diatoms grow preferentially in habitats with different chemical or physical extremes. You can identify changes through time—climate change, for example—by studying density of diatoms in sediments and cores.”
Dumbfounded, I respond with a non sequitur: “Where did the word ‘dumbfounded’ come from?”
“Same family as ‘thunderstruck,’” Sam answers, climbing back onto his bike.
6 March, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos
We ride along the Provo River into the canyon, turn up a dirt road that leads to a snaky green aqueduct, and then follow the pipe to where a single-track trail bisects the road. Erosion this winter has left the trail narrower than ever, but this section of the Great Western, an ambitious trail projected to reach from Canada to Mexico, widens some as it makes a double dogleg up over a bed of what we call shale but that is really quartzite. If you’re still on your bike when you reach these loose rocks on the steep part of the trail you have lost much of your momentum and your legs and lungs are burning but since you have made it this far you try to power your way up onto the rocks, feeling in your legs for that tricky point beyond which your efforts will make your back wheel spin out and finally, the bike gods willing, you make the sudden climb up from the quartzite onto the gentler trail that skirts the hill until it swings away from the precipitous edge (fortunately, there are tall herbs and a fringe of oak brush to shield your vision of the drop-off to the river five hundred yards below) into a beautiful forty-acre bowl of native grasses bordered by scrub oak.
“Johnson’s Hole,” Sam says at the top of the treacherous trail. “Empty now, but homesteaded more than a century ago by early pioneers.”
It’s easier for me to nod than to use my lungs for speech. Notch one up for Sam.
“I’ve always been interested in places folks homesteaded and then abandoned,” Sam says as we ride on up the ridge. “Did they survive? Did they leave for a better place? Years ago, I was collecting algae from ultra-saline habitats at the north end of the Great Salt Lake. Along a lonesome dirt road was a brown-grey, disintegrating wooden slab home leaning east into four huge, half-dead cottonwood trees. An old-fashioned rose bush, still producing a few blossoms, slumped to each side of the front doorway. And in the middle of what used to be the front yard was a three-wheeled wagon, rusted, battered, apparently not worth taking with the family when they pulled stakes. Why? Did they lack room? Was the wagon too ‘used up’? I sat by the wagon to eat my lunch, a buzzard overhead. I found myself spinning the one wheel that was still mobile. Ever since, I have wondered about who and where the little girl is who had to leave her wagon, and, by god, I have longed to take her a new Radio Flyer ‘fat-tire’ and ask about her life.”
On our way down, I remind Sam that after his discourse on diatoms I was dumbfounded. “So I looked up the word ‘dumbfounded,’ I say.
“Where does the word come from?” Sam asks.
“It’s a marriage of the adjective ‘dumb’—unable to speak—and the verb ‘confound,’ which originally meant to throw into disorder. Learning new things makes me rethink old ideas and, for a blessed moment, I’m silent. Dumbfounded.”
8 March, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos
Yesterday’s rain and snow are long gone by the time we reach the trail on this Monday afternoon. A new storm is blowing in from the south. Streaks of rain shroud Mt. Nebo. Utah Lake is troubled, a rumpled grey slate to the west. Far to the south, the sun breaks through and spotlights the valley floor. Sam gestures at the gully-slotted hillside: “Greys, browns, and yellows. Colors that match my mood over the last month—maybe my whole life. Did you see the Zigadenus paniculatus?”
“Huh?”
“Death camus, the spiky-leafed plant emerging in the middle of the trail.”
I had missed it—but, alerted to the possibility, I spy a second one thrusting its sharp leaves through the loose dirt of the trail.
“Zigadenus,” Sam says, “is in the family Liliaceae, the lilies. Most of the members of this family are non toxic and several are edible—onions and garlic, for example.”
“Why ‘death camus’?” I ask.
“The generic name,” Sam explains, “refers to the active agent, an alkaloid called zygadenine that makes this perhaps the second most poisonous plant in the west, after hemlock. It causes a quickening and irregularity of the heartbeat, slows respiration, and brings on convulsions, just like riding this damned trail does. Because it is one of the first plants to appear in the spring, livestock sometimes eat it. Lois Arnow, author of Flora of the Central Wasatch Front, says sheep are the only animals she knows of that are routinely poisoned by Zigadenus. That makes death camus a fine selective sheepicide. Every year I gather seeds and scatter them across our territory. What a lovely task.”
“On another note,” I say, “thank you again for helping me with my appeal of the decision not to promote me to the rank of professor. I’ll send you a summary when I get home. If some patriarch complains about your lack of citizenship, you can show him what you did for me and for the university. Our reasonable arguments, our silver-tongued eloquence, and our ‘civility that becomes believers’—to quote the university’s citizenship policy—ought to get me promoted, don’t you think?”
“All things being equal,” Sam answers, “the BYU administration should promote you and give you a big raise. But when they accused you of ‘kicking against the pricks’ I figured it was over. Anyone who could categorize your arguments against them as ‘kicking against the pricks’ has no sense for language, no sense for irony, and no sense of humor. I’m afraid you may have kicked against your last BYU prick.”
8 March, Orem (by email)
Sam—Here is my summary of the appeal. There are probably psychological reasons why I put it in third person. Whatever the case, thanks again. It was nice not to have to stand alone. And best of all, we had a hell of a good time saying what we think in a place where that is anathema.
To ground their allegations of “contentious criticism,” university officials cited the following statements from Scott’s publications:
“There is a virulent strain of anti-intellectualism in the Mormon Church…and its purveyors are, among others, members of BYU’s Board of Trustees…The Department of Religious Education has hired teachers who fit the unctuous seminary teacher mold rather than teacher-scholars…BYU is a sanctimonious edifice, a formalistic, hyper-pious community.”
The Dean of Humanities wrote that through “Scott’s actions as co-president of the BYU Chapter of the American Association of University Professors [which had investigated allegations of infringements on academic freedom at BYU], the university and the Church have been held up to national ridicule.”
“A more circumspect Scott,” he asserted, “would think twice, then thrice about taking his grievances to a national organization that regards academic freedom as the only true God.”
Holy shit! Scott thought. There was not—and he knew this for a fact—a “more circumspect Scott.” The “University Representative” for the subsequent appeal wrote that Scott’s work had been “disruptive, manipulative, and contentious,” whereas BYU faculty “assume an obligation of dealing with sensitive issues sensitively and with a civility that becomes believers.”
HOLY SHIT! Scott thought. I need help. And who better to help him than his partner in godless academic-freedom crime: Sam Rushforth. Sam was, after all, co-president of the BYU Chapter of the AAUP. And he was not unctuous.
Sam was not sympathetic, either (he alleged that sympathy could be found between shit and syphilis in the dictionary). He agreed, however, to be Scott’s “faculty advocate.” As the two men prepared the appeal, they found it difficult to summon the “civility that becomes believers.” Some things are simply beyond belief.
Scott and Sam collaborated on the arguments they presented to the members of the appeal committee. Sam told the committee that, when he and Nancy were advocating stricter clean-air standards for Utah, “someone thought we were being contentious and threw a brick through our window. The people who have denied Scott’s application for promotion have, in effect, thrown a brick through his academic career.”
Scott concluded the appeal: “You have argued that I am a bad citizen because I used the word ‘unctuous’ in reference to hires of non-scholars and because I called BYU ‘sanctimonious’ The Dean has argued that I am a bad citizen because I held the university up to ridicule. You haven’t, however, addressed the question of whether an ‘unctuous’ and ‘sanctimonious’ university is ridiculous.”
12 March, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos
Bright sun this afternoon, glorious but still chilly for the light cotton shorts we both wear. A shiny black deposit on a rock proves to be relatively fresh fox (Vulpes fulva) scat. “A touch of diarrhea,” I observe.
“Here’s a set of paw prints.” On his knees, Sam points to small, rounded depressions in yesterday’s mud. Around the corner, we pass the scat of a more regular fox, a tight twist of black “tobacco,” also deposited conspicuously on a rock. Two years ago, we surprised a pair of red foxes dancing circles here, rising on two legs to paw at and dance with one another. A few weeks later, we looked down on a golden-brown fox backlit by a brilliant sunset, lighter hair marking a cross down the length of its back and across its shoulders. And that fall, we stood and watched the same cross-phase fox trot slowly away, watching us warily as it traversed a draw and bounded up a hill. At the top, it sat back on its haunches and watched us pass.
Since then, over the course of several hundred rides, we have seen many signs of foxes—but no actual foxes. Scat and tracks have served as the presence of an absence. We have come to relish this indirect, mediated relationship, to respect the intimate distance. Whenever we top a rise from which we have seen foxes in the past, our eyes scan the landscape. When no fox appears, we breathe a sigh of relief.
Relief?
It’s complicated, but maybe we’re relieved because we recognize ourselves as forerunners (foreriders) of the human wave encroaching on Utah’s wild places. If the foxes can slip our sight, they will be better off.
Grass is beginning to fill openings between the oak brush. Spears of death camus dot the meadow, a few of them cropped by browsing deer, we surmise, although that perplexes us. I try to dig up a bulb.
“Careful,” Sam warns.
It’s a double warning. There is the poison, of course. But Sam is sensitive to intrusion, to human hubris in the face of nature. I’ve heard him argue that we would have a better world if we accorded legal standing to trees. Last summer, when I plucked a blooming stalk of hound’s tongue to take home to draw, Sam couldn’t suppress an “awwww!”
The pointed leaves of the death camus rise a couple of inches from the ground. I dig for more than four inches and still don’t reach the bulb. When I pull on the plant, it breaks off.
“The bulbs will be deep,” Sam explains. “Maybe a foot down.”
I wipe my fingers carefully on my sweatshirt.
Sam points to another plant. “Look at this little umbel. The yellow buds in the center are already open.”
The inconspicuous plant hugs the ground, the yellow mass of tiny flowers surrounded by almost fern-like green leaves, streaks of purple along the triply forked stems. “Maybe a carrot,” Sam surmises. “Or a parsnip. At least some sort of umbel. The first spring flowers on the foothills of Mt. Timpanogos this year!”
“By the way,” I tell Sam on the ride down, “there was a quick response to our appeal. The letter from the Chair of the panel came yesterday. ‘We regret the disappointment,’ he wrote, ‘and we hope for a day in which you will be able to understand and appreciate the perspectives of all your colleagues here.’”
“He’s got a point, Abbott,” Sam says. “What we have here is a failure to communicate how much you understand and appreciate the self-righteousness of the so-called leaders who are destroying what had the potential to be a decent university.”
18 March, Great Western Trail, Mt. Timpanogos
A dark velvet, blue-spotted mourning cloak butterfly flits across our path. I chased these as a child at my grandparents’ farm in Windsor, Colorado. Childhood memories are powerful. When I decided to move from Tennessee to Utah, the Dean of Vanderbilt’s School of Arts and Sciences asked if Brigham Young University was offering me more money. “No,” I said. “I miss the scent of sage.” Visceral childhood memory trumped academic prestige. And, of course, there’s the matter of public lands. Tennessee, though exquisitely beautiful, is almost entirely privately owned. The federal government controls sixty-four percent of Utah, and ten-percent of the landscape is state controlled. That means it belongs to us and not to someone with money to build a big fence.
Another insect flashes past, a brilliant scarlet-orange patch under its wings. “Boxelder bug,” Sam says. “‘Boisea trivittata.’ Named by Thomas Say, an American entomologist who was part of an expedition to the Rocky Mountains in 1819 and 1820. He was the first to classify and name the coyote and the lazuli bunting as well. The bright red of this bug, like the red of many species, warns predators that there’s a foul smell and/or taste waiting for them if they attack.”
Up the trail, a tank-like ladybug (Hippodamia convergens) splits its red-orange shell (more foul odor!) to reveal black wings. Small spiders dodge our tires. When I think I have found the first tender green leaf on the still barren oak brush, it turns out to be a lime-green stinkbug (Acrosternum hilare). Another stinker.
At the top of the hill, Sam points to a tiny plant with red leaves. “Some plants use this red coloring to protect themselves from the bright sunlight that bleaches their chlorophyll. The pigment is in a class known as anthocyanins, the same pigments that, along with tannin, may make red wine good for the heart and cause the red coloring in fall leaves.”
“Thanks for the lecture,” I tell Sam. “But help me with something else. Last night I looked up death camus in both of my field guides to wildflowers. The one lists only meadow death camus, Zigadenus venenosus, and doesn’t mention any other variants. The other book describes mountain death camus, Zigadenus elegans, and notes the existence and characteristics of Zigadenus gramineus, Zigadenus venenosus, and Zigadenus paniculatus. What’s the deal?”
“You’ve stumbled onto something controversial and interesting here,” Sam says. “It’s a classic disagreement between the lumpers (me included) and the splitters. Your second guide was written by splitters and your first by lumpers. Lumpers see splitters as scientists who proliferate species endlessly on the basis of insubstantial differences. Splitters see lumpers as scientists who are too lazy or conservative to pay attention to the importance of detail. Actually, the trick is in understanding what details matter in separating taxa. Dandelions, for example, are a great source of tension between splitters and lumpers. They grow from Alaska to Patagonia and most lumpers call all or most of them Taraxacum officinale. Because dandelions are self-fertilizing, mutations tend to “stick,” and splitters distinguish hundreds of species. Check your guides and see what you find.”
At home, I open Carl Schreier’s A Field Guide to Wildflowers of the Rocky Mountains. The common dandelion, Taraxacum officinale, is listed as a single species. Craighead, Craighead, and Davis’s Rocky Mountain Wildflowers, however, lists three dandelions that occur in the Rockies, and states that “close to 1000 species of Taraxacum have been described, but conservative botanists now recognize around 50.” Schreier is a lumper, Craighead and friends splitters. It’s that simple—once Sam points it out. I bought these guides expecting scientific facts. Instead, I get judgments, assessments, interpretations built on biases. “Truth,” Nietzsche wrote, “is a mobile army of metaphors.” I’m fifty years old and have known this for decades. Now I know it again.
I try to explain this epistemological rediscovery to Sam and he has a sage reply: “Truth is relative for folks comfortable with dissent and argument, but solid as concrete among ideologues.”
