A couple of years ago on a fateful trip down the Green River with Tim we found ourselves on a sand bar on our bellies looking closely at the Sacred Datura plant. Our close inspection put us face to face with a large green caterpillar with large white spots that looked like eyes down its sectional body. Keep in mind we’d been in the depths of Canyonlands National Park of southeast Utah for five days when I tell you that looking at this perfectly plump juicy looking specimen that I had an overwhelming urge to pluck it from its protective roost and eat it. Such is the power of the desert that it can make a jack vegetarian want to be an insectivore.

How is it that in a lunar landscape, shaped by wind and water, the massive sandstone layers that make up the Grand Staircase of the Colorado Plateau have not all but washed away? This desert filled with plateaus, canyons, slots, cliffs and such wondrous shapes as hoodoos, goblins and sandpipes, hints of ages long since past with dinosaur, plants and ocean fossils, entire petrified forests with old trunks emitting a rainbow of minerals. Thunderstorms fill the summer air and flash floods stir up rivers of red, winter brings snow at higher elevations and yet only 6-8 inches of water on average.

To understand how with all this weathering it manages to still be fecund, at least for those who have adapted to this desert turbulence, you have to watch where you step and maybe even get on your belly. Look closely at the ground. What you’ll eventually see is a community cyanobacteria, lichens, mosses, green-algae, micro-fungi and bacteria called Biological Soil Crust or Crypto-Biotic Soils. These crusts take years to form. Shaped but pale in color that crust may be 10 years old, dark thick crusts could be well over 100 years. National Parks like to remind us that one boot print can wipe out the whole thing. In other words “Don’t Bust the Crust”! Crypto-Biotic soil is credited with producing oxygen and pushing nitrogen into the soils. Also know as “nitrogen fixing” which is necessary for plants that need nitrogen to grow but cannot absorb the nitrogen from air. Without the Biological Soil Crust there would be nothing more than the blowing sands and towering stones.

In complimentary contrast the green of the junipers, pinyon pines, cottonwoods and willows only highlight the beauty of the red, pink and tan sandstone walls, stream-beds and soils. With the juniper/pinyon forests dominating the landscape you’re never far from the shade of the twisted, gnarled papery trunks of the Utah Juniper (Juniperus osteoperma). Due to the harsh growing conditions a 50 year old tree might not even top your head and a tree several hundred years older might only be double that height. The blue “berries” of a juniper are actually tiny cones covered in waxy protection. These berries are an important food source for birds, rabbits and coyotes alike. Traditionally the juniper was used as a medicine, fibers for shoes, beds and even toilet paper. The rot resistant wood has also been used for both fence posts and roofing. This strong scented tree manages to withstand the high winds and lack of water. Juniper trees can cut off water to one or several branches in order to keep other branches nourished and still producing seeds in times of drought. So well adapted as it is there are some who might call the juniper invasive, this is really an allowance of normal ecological succession with lack of fire disturbance to hold back the tree’s spread.

Watching the orange glow of the fading sunlight on the steep walls of red I know the best part of this place is coming soon. After the smores are made and the coyotes have begun their call of carnage the night sky begins its show. Far from the city, suburban and industrial lights the milky-way illuminates the sky. Even on a moonless night there is enough light, if you let your eyes adjust, to take a little stroll. Late one night by the embers of our fire we both caught a shooting star followed by a dramatic fire ball.

After we’ve moved on I dump out sand from my boots. Red flakes dot the sidewalk, reminding me that I may come and go from southern Utah but that red sand and orange glow are forever with me.

I wait several long minutes before I’m willing to admit to Tim that I’ve just inadvertently spent $5.52 on two apples. We’re in Alaska and most things, especially food, come a long way to get here and I’m clearly a spoiled Bay Area grocery shopper. Earlier in the month when we’d only been here a few days we met a man named Jim who listed off all the eateries we could enjoy while in McCarthy, Alaska. They were all good places to eat he confirmed but as for Jim well, he’s not much for spending his money on “OPF” (other people’s food). It wasn’t until I contemplated a $2.76 apple for me to understand that all food in Alaska is OPF unless you hunt, fish, trap, grow or harvest it yourself. And they do! Of course there are hunters, fishers and harvesters in the lower 48 but up here subsistence is your other job.

It’s not that I wasn’t already familiar with the understanding that the place shapes the people, I take great pride in being a born and raised Californian, it’s just that I didn’t have the forethought to know just how much this trip would outline that so clearly for me. I’ve made a point to write about the ecology of the places we’ve had the chance to visit but I just can’t write about Alaska without acknowledging the people and how the land and sea of Alaska so clearly shapes their lives. Within an hour of being in Alaska the word subsistence came up. Whether you are a descendant of over 10,000 years of finely tuned experience, of old Russian communities, a descendant of a homesteader, a pioneer, a gold rush miner or came into the country to heal after war, get away from it all, “live off the land”, find freedom, make a living from oil, flying, fishing, tourism or whatever else brought one up here you will be either directly or indirectly be affected by “subsistence”. Never have I been anywhere where this was such an obvious need.

From a personal perspective it puts me in a awkward place. I don’t hunt and don’t think I could do it. However, I have great respect for those that do so in order to feed their families. I don’t have a lot of respect for those that just want to hang a big head over their fire place and pat themselves on the back. When driving down the Denali Highway we pull over at a roadside camp site that has a moose leg sticking up out of the fire ring. I took pictures and even pet the leg though the experience leaves me with a weird feeling. An hour or so later while picking blueberries some Native Alaskan men trot by with packs on in order to cut up and carry a moose that one had shot earlier. This will feed a couple of families over winter. This seems good. Further down the road we see a moose in the distance eating. I try not to think of him being dinner.

In Denali National Park we watch a movie at the visitor center. An older Native woman filmed with her grandchildren picking blueberries and she says that you must not waste the berries because the animals eat the berries too and it will upset them if you waste their food. I make note to eat all of our two pints of blueberries. We’re in Alaska for two more weeks at this point and the last thing I need is an upset grizzly bear.

Alaska is a really big place. Most of what we have seen is accessible by car. So my take away of the people is limited to our limited experiences over the last month. But it didn’t matter if we were talking to a man from Tok working the road construction while waiting for the pilot car or if we were talking to Chris at the O’Reilly auto parts in Homer, the young woman in the Native Cultural Center in Copper Center, the man at the Native Heritage Museum or the rangers at the Slana ranger station hunting, fishing or harvesting came up. It’s on the forefront of their minds. It’s how they spend their weekends or even their evenings staying up late in order to get all the salmon canned. It’s the waiting period before their hunting season opens and the moose they’ve had their eye on, the spot where they noticed the plump berries. It is that which is “written on the people’s tongues”.

“We want to save that which is written on the people’s tongues” – Peter Kalifornsky, Dena’ina Elder

Have you ever looked closely at Caribou antlers? These things are the Portuguese of the antler world, they’ve got all the accents. From the side they make an uneven W with the longest branch running towards their backs and then up like elk antlers. A middle branch reaches out to the side like deer and the shortest branch runs along their foreheads towards the front of their face. On the branch forward one side looks much like the back with a small fan and a few tongs, the other side tends to be just one sharp tong pointed forward. They have the sword and the shield all built into one elaborate head piece.

We’d just put up the tent in a site with some serious trade-offs. It’s windy and very cold so in spite of the lumpy, slippery, lopsided ground we’ve pitched our tent up against the only protection this open tundra has to offer; a glacial erratic boulder that appears to also be toilet facilities for the local hoary marmot population. As we quickly set up before the rain down valley hit us we saw a set of antlers up on the ridge just across the lake from us. I’m peering through the binoculars while Tim is training his camera on the ridge. As we look more and more antlers and hooves are making their way casually over the ridge. A group of caribou are nibbling at the ground and appear to be headed our way when the rain picks up and we duck inside for cover. The rain comes and goes in big and light spurts so the next break we get we try to see if the caribou are still there. Not only are they still there but they’ve come to the side of the lake. Occasionally they look over our way in an acknowledgement of our presence but in true national park status they don’t seem too put off as to be scared away. This is Alaska though and somewhere in this park these animals are up for subsistence hunting. The rain picks up again and we reluctantly zip back up. We imagine that our next tent will have a window and imagine the caribou strolling right by, under our noses, and we’ll miss the whole thing. We imagine the sounds of their giant hooves clicking on the rocks nearby. We imagine hearing their grunts because that’s how close they’ll pass by when we’re zipped up with the sound of the rain on our tent concealing their movements. Another break in the sky, I unzip and they’re gone! Tim unzips his side and there they are just across the lake again, having gone right by us just like we imagined!

There are approximately 700,000 caribou in Alaska broken up into herds of various sizes. Herds that have long migrations to well chosen calving grounds have the big numbers. Herds that are much smaller in size tend to migrate in elevation with the seasons. Caribou have a special enzyme, lichenase, in the stomach that allows them to break down and ingest all the protein available in lichen. Lichens are a favorite food for the caribou and an important winter food when little else is available. After a fire caribou will steer clear of the burn area for up to 60 years, the amount of time it takes for a lichen to grow back in large enough quantities.

Walking on tundra if you are lucky feels like walking on pillows. If you’re unlucky and especially if it’s been raining all day it’s feels like walking on wet pillows. Caribou have considerably large hooves perfect for carrying their bulky bodies over not only the squishy tundra but the deep snow that accumulates for half the year in this north country. Even though they are roughly half the size of a moose their hooves are almost as big. The morning after we saw the caribou we walked across some mud flats where the hoof impressions rival those of my boots. Many days later while driving the Denali Highway westward we spied a caribou rack sticking out the back of an ATV. It’s the beginning of hunting season and all are stocking up for the long winter months. In mid August the still long days only serve as a reminder that there was a summer. The bushes are beginning to yellow as autumn shows it’s face.

Autumn is also time for the caribou rut. The males who have spent the summer growing their ornate antlers will put on a good show for the ladies before dropping them for the winter. Female caribou grow antlers as well but do so over winter. The females drop their antlers at their calving grounds in spring. Earlier this year I learned how antlers are an important source of protein and calcium for small mammals and thus why the world is not covered in shed antlers. Recently while listening to a podcast called Encounters with Richard Nelson* on the topic of caribou he mentions that the small mammals then defecate the extra nutrients from the antlers which goes into the soil for the plants to absorb. At the calving grounds caribou eat the plants which contains the calcium from last years antlers just where they need it to be for rich mother’s milk and thus the cycle is complete.

Traveling like this is an embroidery of information. Not one environment or one visitor center has it all. The more I’ve learned the more amazed I am, the more I see the embroidery for its stitches. Richard Nelson said it in reference to the cycles of the north but I’ve enjoyed this to be true where ever I’ve made a point to learn about the natural world, we really are “in the midst of miracles”.

*I can’t recommend this podcast enough. Richard Nelson has an infectious enthusiasm for life and for Alaska. Many of his podcasts are so engaging and filled with useful information that we’ve listened to them multiple times.

I learned on our recent yet very brief visit that Glacier National Park is named not for the famous Grinnell glacier but because of the distinct glacier carved valleys that make the place so dramatically beautiful. A few days before our intended visit to Glacier a fire broke out on the east side of the park shutting down the eastern portion of the famous Going-to-the-Sun road that runs the width of the park. This joins the news of the fire in Jasper National Park in Canada that we would also be heading to as well as fires in California, Washington and Alaska to name a few. There was also news of major flooding in Arizona and much of southern California was under flood watch for some days.

When I think of water I think life and rejuvenation. Water makes up most of our bodies and seeing it whether in ocean, lake or flowing form people find peace in it’s movement as well at it’s stillness. I can watch waves or a waterfall for hours. When I hear about flooding and see the pictures or videos I feel scared and sad for those who may suffer loss. However, when I put on my ecologist hat I remember that flooding is also life and rejuvenation. Flooding washes down dead or weak plants and trees, it moves nutrients and seeds. The seeds wash up on new openings where there was none and new fresh life starts there. Sometimes there is nothing more grand in this world than a big old tree but old trees die and trees work very hard to replenish their species, as much as any other living creature. Some plants only grow in newly disturbed land whether opened by flood or fire these plants have a job, and do it well, to grow quickly and stabilize this new land. Moving through the massive glacier carved valleys of the Canadian Rockies, as well as admiring a few stream carved gorges, it’s visible that water is constantly scraping away at what the land has built up.

Fire is warmth, it is cooked food and I can also watch a fire for hours. After some time by the campfire when it’s almost time for bed and it’s just the hots coals left I like to watch the red glow swell and subside as it slowly cools. When I hear of fires in places I love I tremble in fear. I’ve lived through days of orange light and snowing of ash, or staying in doors and watching the world turn to gray dust out the window. I’ve given a friend newly developed pictures and they were then his first because the only possessions left are whatever he had in his car. He was at work while his home burned to its foundation. Fire is scary and yet fire too is life.

Being a California native I learned early that fire is and was a natural part of the California ecology. Traveling this year through out the states I’ve learned that fire is a part of all ecology everywhere. Even the Everglades in Florida are fire adapted. Fire has a way of clearing out our human errors as well. Traveling through the Rockies one cannot help but to see the utter destruction that is “beetle kill”. We had heard of it, of course, but seeing it across the landscape and entire hillsides is jaw dropping. Past clear cutting, letting the forests grow back and then making sure it didn’t burn for several decades meant trees all about the same age. Beetles most enjoy trees approximately 75 years old. These dead stands are itching to be burned clean. Traveling in Yellowstone and north into Montana where the fires of 1988 helped to create more natural mosaic and ecologically desirable forests we hardly saw beetle kill. Instead we saw lots of new life nudging and shoving for it’s share of sunlight. We saw snowshoe hares, dusky grouse and deer enjoying the fresh greens.

In the town of Jasper, AB I picked up a local rag. The cover is of a fire fighter smiling big in a burned out forest. They managed to save some beloved structures and in the meantime let the fire do what it is supposed to do. There is a healthy attitude and understanding of the fire, they’re happy about it. After just a few days and a little bit of rain fresh, bright green grass is popping up through the ashes. It begins again.

As most things do it started with coyote. He came into the village and stole a sack of grain. When the villagers chased him he ran into the sky spilling the grain all over the night and created the stars. Sitting in Yellowstone National Park looking at the magnificent milky way I reflect on coyote. Earlier in the day we saw some bighorn sheep walking along a steep hillside looking very content on their precipice of protection. All the animals are wild here. The bison cross the street and gives cars looks of annoyance or daring. Calling in their belch like manor out to each other their calves still yanking at their moms teats the moment they catch back up with her. The males posturing with grunts and striking their hooves on the dirt. Other bachelors are removed from the fray by choice or by loss and sit for long minutes in their wallows. Foxes sneak by and under the watchful sight of tourists who are trained on the grizzly bear in the field busy munching. For us lucky enough to see them they might look back with their sly smiles before dipping out of view and down the hillside. The elk graze casually with one eye on where they left their baby and one looking for wolves who made their way back into the park some twenty years ago. Tourists sit vigil by their spotting scopes for a lucky sighting of the wolves while ranchers outside the park pray they stay here or else they’ll get their rifles. The pronghorn pay no nevermind to any of it, the wildest of them all.

Small birds flit and fly and scrap for seeds while large birds dive for fish. Small mammals scurrying in the brush, across the road, they bark at you from trees telling you to git from their food stores. Wild thunderstorms produce wild flowers growing in fields and at the base of new trees. New trees growing in the shadows of their elders still standing grey and weathered from long ago but not forgotten wild fires. Fires that burned hot and scorched the earth, vacuuming up the too thick under brush making room for new fresh life.

The ground under our feet constantly shifting, sliding, pushing and bubbling bubbling bubbling up sometimes shooting into the sky in a dramatic release of pressure. Steam constantly rising into the sky. The caldera pushing up, the rushing rivers cutting down, carving, breaking apart millions of years of deposition. In Yellowstone this too is coyote’s fault for many years ago there was no river. Coyote knocked over the old woman’s large basket full of water and fish. This created the rivers. Coyote trying to make amends tried to make rock dams but the water knocked them over and this created the large waterfalls found in Yellowstone’s Grand Canyon. Coyote is wild. The rivers are wild. The crowds rushing and pushing and climbing over each other for a waterfall selfie or a glimpse of what ever made people pull their cars over are wild. All in an effort to somehow absorb some of this place. Absorbing the steam into their skin, the smell of the rain on the sagebrush into their nostrils, the sound of the bison or the howl of a wolf for the kind of souvenir that only the soul can cherish.