My Environmental Manifesto

I’m sitting in a grove of thorny, low growing bushes called prickly ash.  The name belies their origin because they truly are nowhere near any rendition of an ash, other than the compound leaf that most likely gave it its name.  Besides, the ash we know has been wiped out now for nearly two decades, although I walked through a marshy cathedral of their remnant trunks on my way into this grove.  They are the aftermath of an invasive species gone unchecked.  And while I do know of a micropopulation of decent aged green ash that are growing at the base of a ridge just beyond the banks of a clear flowing trout stream in Northern Michigan–hemmed in by a cedar and tamarack swamp–not many ash trees still exist.  With each species loss in a specific ecosystem, the diversity of our environment takes a substantial hit.  My prayer is that like the chestnut of yesteryear, the green ash too may find a way to rise from charred ashes as the storied phoenix bird–to grow again in our forests.  It’s a mythical story lined with hope for something different.  It’s hope that can provide fuel, especially at a time when diversity is served at a minimum and draws hisses from the forked tongues of those who claim to preach grace, mercy, and acceptance.  Diversity is the building block of our earth.  Just look around!  Do they wish to live in a world of box elders without oaks, pines, hickory, and firs?  It appears their aim against diversity is a bullseye for those who may believe differently from what they’ve deemed suitable.

Did they miss school on the day their 5th grade science teacher taught the basic fundamental principles of ecology–fondly referred to as life science?  They must have zoned out when symbiotic relationships were discussed in combination to how all things are connected.  You need carnivores and herbivores alongside the omnivores, scavengers, decomposers, parasites, and hosts; plant, predator, and prey.  And while I love a good grove of scrubby scotch pine, as they have their purpose as a pioneer plant, my eyes light up when a white pine takes hold.  In short order its soft needled branches will help bring shade and coolness to the sun scorched sands its roots hold onto–leading the land towards the next stage in the succession of life and a climax community.

The idea of a sentinel white pine staking claim in the midst of fast growing, short lived, pioneer plants reminds me of new houses lining a beautiful blue lake with every centurion tree reduced to irrigated blue grass.  What of the one lake house holding on and not competing with the Jones’; hidden amongst the remnant oaks and hickories that once lined the shoreline and forests beyond?  Neighbors look on with spite at the leaves, acorns, and nuts that are seasonally dropped, while the owners revel at the cool breezes, wildlife, and natural shade–looking out past the docks at the dimpled water. One side seems sterile while the other does its best to blend.

And so I sit amongst the prickly ash.  I’d love to have a small plot of them in my own yard.  The roots send up new sprouts into available light, and their sharp thorned branches intertwine.  I am also at the base of massive oaks–of the diversified red, white, swamp, and burr.  These oaks anchor a point surrounded by the inside bend of a river, intermixed with trees such as hackberry, cherry, cottonwood, black walnut, shagbark hickory, and silver maple–in addition to low growing shrubs of gray and red osier dogwood, gooseberry, and button bush.  Each is a necessary and valuable detail of a bigger picture.  Each is a piece of our ecosystem’s puzzle.  Each is included in a melting pot for what we label as the forest.

For indeed, without the inclusion of a vast array of species, we are left with a plantation born of a monoculture.  Have you seen the aerial shots of forests planted with one species after a devastating disease or invasive insect sweeps through?  You end up with geometric shaped dead zones within property boundaries; brown year-round until they rot back into Mother Earth.  Or how about black and white pictures of quaint towns and cities shaded under massive, iron strength American Elms?  Once upon a time now passed, it was like driving through a wooded tunnel.  Orioles, in their hanging soft-weaved bassinets, raised their babies high above the streets.  That was before the disease killed off our American Elms in the 1960’s and 1970’s.  I still see lone elms growing occasionally in out-of-the-way places, for their shape is unique and distinct, but their age seems limited with an expiration date.

With the elms gone, city planners planted the green ash.  When those disappeared, they looked around in wide-eyed wonder.  Cities were left treeless due to their lack of diversification.  But since a generation of leadership had come and gone, we forgot to learn from those who lived and saw what happened before us.  Perhaps humans are more cyclical than we give them credit–but not always in a good way–making the same type of decisions while expecting different results.  They say that’s the definition of insanity.

Equity.  Each species needs the chance to grow and live unencumbered.  Nature finds a way, and can somehow heal, but it takes time; so much time–espcially after human interference.  It’s the kind of time that simply won’t make a whole lot of difference in some areas–developed to death and destruction without the opportunity to live in conjunction with humans; irrevocable as opposed to in harmony.  And in the places where various species of trees are allowed to come back–back to a point where we can look at them in awe, and wonder at their history as a hub tree–a Grandmother Tree–our time will have expired and we’ll have missed their resurrection.

Will it be enough to have set aside areas for future generations?  Imagine areas that are small like natural backyard gardens and neighborhood parks of native prairies, forests, rock, or desert flora next to playground equipment and athletic fields.  Imagine areas for future generations that are beyond our comprehension–lined with countless lakes, sprawling swamps, and extending mountain ranges.  We find ourselves now on a precipice of decision making; decisions made by those deemed responsible by a majority vote and quest for power and resources.  Somewhere in the mix of pick-up-sticks, that is chaos and despair, I hope.

Westward expansion, even then at a great expense, no longer exists.  The millions of First Nation people past and present could tell you stories.  It wasn’t a blank slate without a cost.  We now know the ends of the Earth.  So what is left that greedy eyes hope to conquer and consume?  The legacy of our values and decisions becomes the heritage our bloodline will receive.

While I wonder at the diversity of species, equity of lands preserved, and the inclusion of environments allowed to work together, I have to also wonder about the Earth itself.  Will resources always take precedence so nothing is sacred?  Will nothing be set aside and left untouched?  If I look at how land and water have been treated, both here at home and abroad, I gasp.  Natural resources the world over have been treated as a commodity.  And when it's gone and destroyed beyond recognition, it’s deemed “not my problem” and shelved as a historical archive.  It makes you wonder if people truly believe that “might makes right”.  It’s not how I was raised.  It’s not how I was taught to treat people or the earth.  It’s not how I spent 35 years teaching students.  It’s not how my wife and I raised our own kids.

Shouldn’t the core of how we interact be the attributes of respect and responsibility regardless of our differences?  It’s been my badge and personal mantra–both for our Earth’s creation, as well as for our fellow global neighbor.

Today in the forest surrounding me I’ve been serenaded by chickadees, nuthatches, blue jays, canadian geese, sandhill cranes heading north but confused by winter’s fake spring, barred owls on the tail-end of their mating season, pileated, flicker, and downy woodpeckers, mallards, and ironically the cries of the bald eagle; our nation’s symbol.  Those are the diversified feathered species I am familiar with and can identify.  There are so many I don’t yet recognize.  I could stay ignorant and call these surrounding members of nature the generalized label of trees and birds one is apt to do–by someone who lacks a deeper understanding–but I choose understanding, while knowing it’s an ongoing process.  I choose the fairness of opportunity to include all the pieces of the environmental puzzle–to live and let live.

That’s not to say I don’t fish, hunt, or gather; but only within personal boundaries.  If I take, I give back.  I believe the buzz word for that is reciprocity.  I like the relationship it takes to build such a thing.  With my students and my own children I used to say, “If you kill it, you need to eat it.  If you don’t want to eat it, then don’t kill it.”  That goes for northern pike, gray squirrels, or a spider you find in the corner of your living room.  Would you say that’s a philosophy that highlights respect?  Would you say that’s a philosophy that recognizes that everything has a purpose?  I feel that it’s an important aspect to bring up, because the sheer number of people and their monies that are invested in hunting, for instance, can help purchase and maintain public lands and their restoration–if those funds and their directive are used for good and not evil by the entrusted governing body and the ensuing policies under that governing body’s leadership.

“Nobility is not a birthright” was a line used in the 1991 film, Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves.  It was spoken by the protagonist Robin of Locksley.  It reminds me that leadership should never be followed simply because of a person’s flex of power.  If I am to personally listen to or be guided under one’s leadership–respect will have to be earned.  How does their integrity stand up to time and pressure?  How do they act?  What do they say when they speak?  How do they treat others?  Do others follow out of desire, or out of fear?  Does the leadership at hand work to be a voice of the people they represent or fall under the agencies at play around them–those who have the most money and sway?  What happens to those who deviate ever so slightly from the leadership's beliefs–including those who helped them get into that position?  Will the leadership forge ahead and do their own thing regardless of wise counsel?

Who else will speak for the trees?  Who else will reserve the land and treat it with respect if the community at large doesn’t step up to the plate?  I also used to teach my students that whatever we do to the land we do to the water, and whatever we do to the water we do to the land.  They are inseparable.  They work as one.  Nature as our teacher.

Although both are non-living entities, soil and water–in conjunction with sunlight, air, and rock–are the very ingredients that allow for the living here on Earth.  To say non-living aspects aren’t important or necessary is similar to yanking the table cloth out from under a set of your Grandma’s finest china; something in the realm of the living is going to come crashing down.  You can’t have the living without the non-living.  You can’t influence the land without affecting the water and visa-versa.  Thankfully, with an environmental mindset, the hope is that the land and water can also help heal each other–if just given half a chance.  As Rick Bass stated in With Every Great Breath, “Nothing exists long without the support of another thing.” (277)

What are the logistics behind the hope for a healed Earth; a better Earth?  What is the next step?  Do we wait until the water at our kitchen tap is making us sick?  Do we wait until the air in our community’s AQI rating is over 300?  Can we save the wood plot a few roads over?  Can we prevent an entire field from being covered in solar panels and direct the powers that be to instead use the large rooftops of existing corporate buildings?

I love the idea of preventing urban sprawl by carving wilderness from previously developed spaces; now in disarray and in need of a healing hand willing to lend tender love and care.  Tearing down, fixing up, or repurposing spares the wild while bringing community pride and a fresh hope to areas otherwise forgotten.  If I was that space, it’s how I’d want to be treated.  Just give me a chance–I’d say–and I’ll show you what I can do!

I also love the wild; plain and simple.  Some are afraid of it and do all they can in their power to tame it and to subdue it; squelch it.  Yet there are so many facets and spider webbed aspects of the wild.  The wild out there is the wild within.  Do we not realize that by destroying the diversity of the wild and its inclusion of living and non-living components destroys us?  The wild’s inclusion of all things–the living, once living, and non-living components–is what brings equity to all within an ecosystem’s limits.  And I’m not sure there really are any distinct limits–margins maybe–but the areas between ecosystems mesh like a zipper even in those zones.  Granted, there are ebbs and flows–flucuations in the populations–but that’s the way a system works.  It’s why each entity belongs.

Certain members of society would say the demise of the world is a sign of the end times and clap together in apocalyptic glee while celebrating that something better is offered beyond this life; following Armageddon.  And while I wouldn’t argue against any sense of restorative hope, I also call bullshit.  "What about now?”  What about the present?  I believe the quote people use for such a circumstance is, “Are you going to fiddle while Rome burns?”–with a no-care attitude.  I learned at a young age to take care of my toys.  Personally I feel as if we should show respect while taking care of this creation we’ve been given–that we’re a part of–that we are guests of while here.

To take a step forward we need hope.  It’s what moves us forward; mentally, physically, spiritually–individually, nationally, globally.  Each of us has a unique talent based on our gifts, our available resources, and our locale.  What is your niche?  What is your super power to help?  Do you have talents as a civic planner, teacher, grant writer, engineer, construction worker, real estate agent, leader, public advocate, surveyor, advertiser, organizer, fund raiser, or even a rah-rah person?  You always need someone to cheer from your corner!  I like Brene’ Brown’s spunk when she states in Braving The Wilderness, “Imagine an organization where a critical mass of people are leading and innovating from a wild heart, rather than following suit, bunkering up, and being safe.  We need a wild heart revolution more than ever.” (162)  Amen sister!  We can’t do it all. And we often are already stretched thin.  So sometimes we start small to learn the facts and recognize what’s going on around us.  Sometimes we must start small–have to start small–to avoid burnout and despair.

In her book Braiding Sweetgrass, Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer states:

“Despair is paralysis.  It robs us of agency.  It blinds us to our own power of the earth.  Environmental despair is a poison… But how can we submit to despair while the land is saying “Help”?  Restoration is a powerful antidote to despair.  Restoration offers concrete means by which humans can once again enter into positive, creative relationship with the more-than-human world, meeting responsibilities that are simultaneously material and spiritual.  It’s not enough to grieve.  It’s not enough to just stop doing bad things.

We have enjoyed the feast generously laid out for us by Mother Earth, but now the plates are empty and the dining room is a mess.  It’s time we started doing the dishes in Mother Earth’s kitchen.  Doing dishes has gotten a bad rap, but everyone who migrates to the kitchen after a meal knows that that’s where the laughter happens, the good conversations, the friendships.  Doing dishes, like doing restoration, forms relationships.” (328)

These things I’ve pondered today.  While sitting in a grove-like thicket of prickly ash, at the base of a white oak, and a stone’s throw from a flowing river, I’ve wrestled, debated, and thought about the ideas swirling around our world.  I’ve also cooked a meal, sat still, and observed–but I’ve also pondered.  In some ways these ideas are nothing new, but with the limitations of space and growth of selfishness, our environment and world yearns for healing while exercising the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion of the species and systems that have been churning along on Mother Earth for quite some time.

See you along The Way…

The Summons Of The Black Hill - Oldonyo Orok

It looms—the Black Hill.  Not in a foreboding way, but as an unseen force; both something to be reckoned with as well as an interaction.  Stable.  Solid.  Constant.  Always in the background.  Always present.  The surrounding bush, bomas, and villages fall under its shadow; physically and figuratively.

The Black Hill lies as an anomaly.  Rising just North of Africa’s Tanzania-Kenya border in addition to what would amount to a day’s drive from the base of Mount Kilimanjaro.  Although protruding to vastly different heights, they both are surrounded by rolling bush country.  There really is no other way to describe the perimeter land.  Towering trees exist within that rolling land such as the classic and uniquely shaped acacia as well as the sycamore fig—typically found growing along seasonal river banks.  The sycamore fig itself is called mukuyu in the Swahili tongue, or olng’aboli to the local Maasai.  Various species of monkey and baboon love their safe lofty branches.  The rest of the vegetation is comprised of bushes; some as large as small trees, and others of medium height and sprawl—but all are covered in long protective thorns.  It seems a trait that's shared no matter the species.

And amongst the trees and beautifully canopied oiti, green needled orng’osua, and yellow bulbed osilalei bushes are the people themselves.  Good people, that live within supportive familes—known as olmarrei—often with herds of goats, cows, and donkeys.  Under the Black Hill’s shadow these families have lived for countless generations; traveling the region to where their herds can graze.  The olmarrei-families were gracious of their time and resources during our visit; kind and hospitable.

On several occasions during our stay we were invited to households for a lovingly prepared meal.  It was food, but more so it was a gift.  The meal was a gift from the heart—cooked over open flames from the heart.  I suppose in no small way we returned that gift, for when my wife and I traveled back to the other side of the world, our son, daughter in law, and grandson remained rooted in the community.  The rate of exchange was that we were served scrumptiously tasty food.  Our first lunch came at the home of John and Josephine.  It was a meal of goat stew with rice, cabbage, and the delicious Kenyan flatbread known as chapati.  It was at that time that John presented me with a special walking stick from the oiti bush—a staff known as a fimbo that I’d be able to use for stability when on adventurous excursions back home in the United States.  A few days later we too were guests at the home of Pastor Paul and his wife Agnes; enjoying conversation and a beautifully prepared meal with their family.  In such circumstances one can only be thankful—should only be thankful.  Nothing else would adequately describe the experience.

Cindy & Me With Todd, Emeris & Baby Henri
At The Home Of John & Josephine.

After Attending Church At The Base Of The Black Hill,
We Ate At The Home Of Pastor Paul & Agnus
With Their Son Richard-Holding Henri.

These are just some of the examples of meals cooked outside of Kijani Farm.  For upon the Farm’s property, the Kijani kitchen crew makes chai tea—every weekday—from sweetened milk that’s served ceremoniously at 10:00 sharp for the various Kijani employees.  In addition, a lunch is prepared that nourishes the entire staff for the afternoon’s work.  And that staff involves a very large group of workers!  Faith’s secret recipe for ndengu was one of my favorites!  Throughout that bush country and community, as one peering over your shoulder, the Black Hill watches from the Namanga Range; while rubbing its belly and licking its chops!

Some Of The Kijani Kitchen Staff
Faith, Jennifer, & Joy

Like all land forms reaching towards heaven, heights and distances are skewed—seemingly closer and more readily attainable than they actually are.  It’s that very draw that makes the Black Hill alluring; drawing you to wonder and come forward with a longing to explore.  It implores your spirit to engage with its presence!  It’s a voice I’d wanted to answer since the first time I set eyes on it back in 2017.  It was then when I first heard it speak.  And now over 8 years later, the call had not diminished.  Time had only amplified the summons of the Hill.

Arrangements were made for a time when I could formally meet the Black Hill on one of our remaining days together.  I was looking forward to making its acquaintance.  Together with my son Todd and friend Richard, we drove to the Hill’s eastern flank and the village of Maili Tisa.  There on the outskirts of the small town we parked and met our guide named Malei.

While our troop of four ascended the foothills, local children laughed and followed behind us.  As in a game of follow the leader, when I zigged and zagged, they mimicked my actions.  If I took extra big steps they leapt from print to print.  It was fun. It was play.  But in time they turned and followed a different path within the thick brush.  We waved good-bye to their smiles and continuous, fast paced, talking.

Baboon Prints In The Sand

We soon came upon prints in the sand of another kind, from another troop; those of baboons who made their homes in the trees and rocks further up on the hillside.  It is called a hill.  The Black Hill.  But for all intents and purposes, it’s a mountain plain and simple.  Perhaps classified as a smaller mountain, it still rises nearly 4000 feet (1,200 meters) above the bush country where Kijani Farm is located and sits at nearly 8,200 feet above sea level (2,500 meters).

Richard, Todd, And Me Following Malei
Up The Black Hill

I was thankful for being in good shape.  As the “old man” in the group, I had been averaging around 20-25 miles of trail running per week with long runs in the 10 mile range.  Todd and Richard, while much younger of course, were in just as good of physical health.  This allowed us to keep strides with our guide Malei.  For him it was just short of a walk in the park.  Although comforting, it was somewhat humorous to watch him periodically turn around to check on where we were—only to find us hoofing along and right on his heels.  As I said, I was thankful to have a level of fitness that allowed me to participate in such an undertaking.  I was honored to be a guest of the Black Hill.

At one point we stopped and Richard showed us a rock that had been worn smooth to a saddle shaped curve on one of its edges.  It was a landmark of sorts—where many others over eons of time had routinely stopped to sharpen the olalem short swords that typically hang from sheathes at their belt.  It was a tool used much like a machete.  We also passed a multitude of specialized plants that were uniquely designed to thrive in such a rocky environment.

Each of us walked and climbed with a fimbo in hand; mine from my new friend John.  I appreciated having the staff to help stay balanced as we climbed.  In addition, Malei also carried a spear.  Eventually we came to a rocky outcrop high in the Eastern Rift Valley.  It was here that we took some pictures, ate a quick lunch, and talked. It was also here, as we stood on the precipice of rock overlooking the valley, that we heard the screams of the baboons in the canopied tree tops far below.  Although I would have loved to have seen them up close, I was also glad that we were each in our own locale.

Far off in the distance to the northeast, we could see a giant cloud of dust rising from the bush country next to what is now the newly built Olashaiki School.  Later we would discover that the local governor had landed in a helicopter—fueled with promises; hence the disturbance in the force.

We were only an hour or so into the hike and were feeling as though we were just getting warmed up; so with a quick glance and nod of his head, Malei spoke something to Richard in Maa, and we proceeded down the other side of the rock.  In turn, Richard smiled; relating to us in English that we would descend into the ensuing valley before climbing to the next ridge and peak.  Awesome!  Our journey was to continue onward and upward.  I felt as though we had earned something similar to a rite of passage for Malei to decide that we could extend our adventure.

At times our path was like traveling through a thatched tunnel—through thick bushes—although we would occasionally walk into open vistas as well.  As we walked, we saw cloven hoof prints.  It was explained that these were not from cattle; for the Maasai herders did not bring their cows this high upon the Black Hill.  These were apparently the prints of the buffalo.  I figured that these were a different mountain species than what we had seen in large quantities while on safari a couple of weeks prior; when we first arrived in Kenya.

Within eyesight of the peak—mere minutes from standing at the summit of the second high ridge we had climbed—Malei said we had to stop.  Through Richard’s translation, we had apparently been pushing a herd of buffalo ahead of us and had them centralized a stone’s throw from where we stood.  We would rest there and enjoy the view before descending back down to the valley far, far below.

I realized then that the buffalo we were talking about was indeed the same animal we saw on safari.  And while these were definitely different from our North American Buffalo—technically called a bison (Latin name: Bison bison)—the buffalo hidden in the scrub brush just above us was none other than the African, Cape Buffalo (Latin name: Syncerus caffer).  It’s why scientific Latin names are so important; there are so many local, regional, or distorted labels for living things.  However, there is only one Latin name for each species.  And while the three of us following Malei had no idea what we were up against, he did and therefore stopped us cold!

A Herd Of North American Bison
Photographed In Illinois' Nachusa Grasslands

A Herd Of African Cape Buffalo
Photographed In Amboseli National Park

The herd of Cape Buffalo we had been driving ahead of our troop was also a member of “Africa’s Big 5”—which is a term used to describe the continent’s most dangerous and awe-inspiring animals.  The five included the lion, leopard, elephant, rhinoceros, and Cape buffalo.  Not that there aren’t plenty of other potentially life-threatening animals, but those five top the list.  As if it needs any further explanation, the nickname for the Cape buffalo is “Black Death”—used to describe the 2,000 pound (1 ton) bovine that is often known for its short temper.  As much as I wanted to see them and hike to the tippy-top of the nearby ridge, I’m not sure that was a good idea up close and cornered.  Good call Malei!  I’m glad we stopped!

As we sat and soaked up the view, I spotted a candelabra tree far off on the distant ridge (Latin name: Euphorbia ingens).  Its distinct shape was fashioned like a multi-armed candle holder.  I also took a picture of the four of us looking out over the southern range of the Black Hill—known locally in Maasai as Oldonyo Orok (Oldonyo=mountain or hill & Orok=black).  The picture wasn’t forced.  It was natural.  Far off stares reflected our collective spirit in the moment.  Awed.  Thankful.  Grateful.

As we made our descent, my only regret of our iconic trip was that we hadn’t been able to see any actual animals.  I’m sure they saw us; for in addition to the animals I’ve mentioned, the Hill was also home to hyenas, leopards, and a host of those with hooves.  It was at that time of contemplation within the thicket, that a bird flew down in front of me.  It landed not to the side or just beyond my vision, but right smack dab in front of me; where my next step would have been.  I tried to enjoy the moment, while fumbling to retrieve my phone from my pant’s pocket.  The brilliantly colored bird, later identified as a white-browed robin-chat, was so close I was able to take a high quality picture with my phone’s camera.  I talked softly to it and thanked it for showing itself to me before it hopped further into the bushes.  Down in the valley I also saw scat left from the buffalo and baboons, but it was the robin in its simplicity that summed up my whole experience.

Buffalo Scat

Baboon Scat

The Black Hill.  So simple and yet so complex.  The people, the region, the exposed rock, the forest, and the animals; together in harmony.  The entire environment.  The experience.  For many years its vision had haunted me.  I did not fear its formidable size and strength, although it was something to be reckoned with and behold, but rather I feared whether I would ever have the opportunity to get to know it on a more personal and spiritual level.  The fact that I was able to experience all that the mountain represented and had to offer—with friends down on the level of the bush country as well as upon its slopes and ramparts with my son Todd, friend Richard, and guide Malei—soothed my soul.  Until next time Oldonyo Orok, may God’s spirit rest upon your broad shoulders; protecting you and the community that lies under your shadow.  To you, the Black Hill, I say thank you for sharing yourself with me and teaching me.

See you along The Way…

The Black Hill
Oldonyo Orok