JACK BURNS LIVES!

The plan from here is to head back south to the Rancherias Canyon Trail. There’s a water source, and it’s where I’m scheduled to meet an outfitter from Lajitas to take the horses, at which point, I’ll hike back in by foot. I left a letter at the Post Office in Marathon and told the lady to hold it for four days before sending. Inside the letter to my wife there’s an explanation and instructions for the authorities on where to find my body, including instructions to pay for the cost of recovery.

Grim business.

We won’t make it to Racherias today, however. It’s late, the horses are tired, and we have enough water to last until mid-day tomorrow. We select a campsite, and I begin setting up our camp for the evening. I decide to make a pizza tonight using flour tortillas, prepackaged tomato sauce, cheese, pepperoni, basil and mushrooms. It’s amazing to me how well cheese keeps in the backcountry. The pepperoni is loaded with salt, so there’s no problem there. I figure it’s a good night to open that bottle of wine, although I start off with some Makers Mark. Cocktail, dinner and wine. Who’s roughing it?

The horses get theirs first, however. It was always my daily practice at home to feed the critters before anything. The routine was the same everyday. Start the coffee, let the cat lead me to his feeding area, feed him, walk outside and feed the dogs their morning meal. Walk around to the front of the house and pick up the paper (so I could read about all the horrible shit going on in the world) and return indoors with my hot coffee ready to go. I loved animals from my earliest time as a child, and most of my life I found them to be superior companions to humans. They were always glad to see you. They worshipped you. Cried when you left, barked for joy when you returned.

Truth be told, I miss them terribly and the thought of not being there for them is almost more than I can I bear.

Just about the time I’m about to add the tortillas to the pan, I hear the unmistakable sound of horses coming up the trail. I stand up, turn to face the trail and check to make sure my sidearm is there. It is. Two riders approach and much to my surprise, it’s two women. One is older, about my age, and the other is probably in her mid-twenties.

“Evening.”

“Evening.”

“My name’s Jack. I have to say, I am more than a little surprised to see anyone up here.”

The older lady responded, “Well, we’re surprised we’re here, too. We’re supposed to be further north, but had a little trouble with a shoe a few miles back and are late to our destination.”

“You’re welcome to camp here tonight.”

“Mighty, kind of you, but we don’t want to be an imposition.”

“Not at all. I actually just got the stove started and was going to open a bottle of wine.”

She doesn’t seem too concerned about who I am or what I’m doing. I also notice they’re both carrying. The younger woman has a Glock .40 like mine and had a kind but capable disposition. I felt certain they were competent in the operation of their firearms.

“You wouldn’t by chance be the fella meeting Esteban from Lajitas?”

Now I’m really surprised. How on earth would she know that?

“Well, I actually do plan to meet someone from Lajitas tomorrow, but I have no idea who they’re sending. Just someone from the stables. How’d you know that?”

“Small community, Jack. By the way, I’m Nancy and this is my daughter Ginger.”

“So, you mind telling me who told you?”

“We help the stables out from time to time on their guided trail rides. There was talk in the shop about a guy wanting to sell his horses and be met at the Rancherias Trail. Just figured it had to be you, since we don’t see many unguided people out here. Don’t see many people, period. How you plan on getting back?”

“I have a plan.”

The women look at one another as if they have confirmation of something. They’re smart, sharp as blades. Nothing gets by these two. Smart enough to put two and two together. They pitch in with the cooking and contribute a nice steak, some fresh veggies and peach cobbler. Damn good eatin’. It’s nice to have some company, truth be told. Especially a couple of beautiful, smart women. Nancy’s hair is long and blond, and her sparkling blue eyes are framed with crows feet from years in the backcountry sun. I can tell she has money, because her hat’s custom made. The Indian bead work on her hatband alone probably cost $300.00. Her boots and spurs are nice as well. A softly finished bison leather and the spurs were also custom made. Their horses far outclass mine. These are ranch owners, not just a couple of cowgirls. But in their chaps and western wear, boy, are they a picture.

Her daughter’s an unworldly beautiful girl. Auburn hair, soft brown eyes and infectious smile that reveals two adorable dimples. Looking at her, I think about when I was young and in love. That first time I saw Allison and her beautiful face. My heart racing. Not being able to stop thinking about her. Those magnificent days of early love when everything’s aglow, like the burnished redrock walls of Lajitas Mesa at sunset. But love changes, of course, over time. It doesn’t diminish; it just changes into something deeper and more profound, like our minds change as we age. We move from having just knowledge to possessing wisdom and depth of thought. A great love is like a fine wine.

As one of my favorite fictional characters, Augustus McCrae would say, “The older the violin, the sweeter the music.”

Their presence sends me spiraling into an irreversible pattern of homesickness. Wanting to be with Allison, wanting everything to be ok. Back home in my soft bed, not in this rocky, remote, harsh, crushingly beautiful place. Nothing like a good woman to bring a thick-headed man back around to thinking clearly.

We talk over glasses of wine, sharing stories, bits and pieces of information about ourselves and our families.

Nancy asks, “What do you for living, Jack?”

“Well, I was a technology executive for most of my career. Things went well until about six months ago.”

“What happened?”

“We sold the division I was running. The new owners eliminated my job. It caused a huge problem, especially for my wife. She’s really sick and her medicine runs thousands of dollars every month. She’s got coverage for about another thirty days.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence until Nancy speaks again.

“Trouble finding work?”

“Yeah, it’s bad right now. Really, really bad. No one wants to hire a fifty year old guy and take on a big salary with benefits. I looked for anything with insurance and have just come up empty handed.”

“What’s next?”

“I have a plan.”

More uncomfortable silence.

Ginger hasn’t said much the whole night, but as we finish off the wine, she becomes more emboldened.

“You know, Jack. It’s not really any of my business what’s going on with you, but I can tell when someone’s really troubled. This will pass. I’m not sure why you’re here, but I’m glad we met you. Once you’re done on your trip, you get on back home, and I bet something good will happen. I can feel it.”

“I hope you’re right, sweetheart. I could use a break.”

The next morning we break camp and prepare to head our separate ways.

Nancy walks over and offers her hand and says, “Good luck to you, Jack.” Ginger walks over too, gives me a big hug, tells me to be careful and then walks toward her horse. Just as she gets there, she turns and says, “Hey, Jack. When you get back you write to us and let us know you’re ok. Double W Ranch, Marathon, Texas. Address it to Nancy and Ginger Walker.”

“You got it.”

Before we saddle up and part ways, Nancy offers one more bit of advice.

“Jack, about two miles south of here there’s a pretty dangerous spot over the next canyon. Big rock wall on your left with a narrow trail. You’ll see a massive agave just before you get to it. Be super careful. It’s a long, long way down, ok?”

“Thanks.”

On the trail again, I feel exhilarated. I want to live again. I’ll beat this thing. I even have some fresh ideas. I’m going to meet this Esteban fella, pay him for his time, follow him out to the road, load the horses and head home. Enough with this crazy business. I wonder if Nancy and Ginger were even real. I wonder if maybe they were angels. Maybe my mother was right, after all. I’d not been a religious man, but I was beginning to wonder now. They gave me hope.

The trail climbs sharply, and I can tell I’m approaching the area Nancy warned me about. By the time I get to the top, I figure the drop is over 600 feet. I am scared of heights and try to not look downward. I’m riding Woodrow, which is a mistake, because he’s the more skittish of the two. He can sense my trepidation through the reins. I’ve lost control. The trail is littered with loose rock, and while I try to slow him and keep him steady, I’m doing just the opposite. I’m making him more nervous. In my own nervousness, I spur him, and he moves too quickly and starts to slip on the scree and off to the side.

As we slip toward the abyss, my life flashes before my eyes. This really happens? People’s entire lives flash before them before they die? Holy shit.  My boyhood home, elementary school, marriage, the births of our children, coaching baseball, graduations, work, now…..

“God, help me.” 

For some reason, a calmness comes over me. I regain focus. I steady Woodrow, and we stop. Whisky’s behind us acting like nothing’s wrong. Again, the female is the only steady one in the bunch. I shake my head, laugh a little and realize the danger’s passed.  Reaching into my back pocket, I take out a bandana and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

“Let’s go home boy. Steady.”

We move slowly along Saltgrass Draw, just north of Black Mesa and west of Big Bend Ranch State Park. Due to the terrain, we’re headed slightly southwest, closer to the Rio Grande. The closest town now is is probably Lajitas, 15 miles as the crow flies, but probably a two day ride due to the terrain. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going there. I’ll continue southeast into the park, and then swing back northwest.

The park allows horses, provided you pay your $2 per day equestrian fee and your park fee. I thought long and hard about it and was tempted to say “screw it” and not pay anything. A man should be able to ride his horse wherever. The Park Service doesn’t see that way, of course, and wants its fee, since the business of the parks too often is just that, business. But in the interest of keeping good relations and being left alone, I paid my horse fee in advance via mail. My Texas State Parks pass eliminated the need to pay the $6 park, and fee and gives me the unencumbered right to go as I please throughout the park’s 300,000 or so acres.

The state park is frankly more impressive to me than its National Park Neighbor. It’s breathtakingly beautiful and probably the most rugged, remote and unpopulated section of the Lower 48. Moving east to west, I notice the rocks begin to change from a yellowish tint to a deep red as we move more deeply into the State park and closer to the Mexican border. I suspect this is due to two extinct volcanoes in the area that erupted some twenty to thirty million years ago, but I’m not a geologist and can’t be certain. Far from it. In fact, I was always an average student when it came to science and math. I could do the work, but much preferred the often melancholy business of poetry, English and History. I wanted desperately to be a writer or a historian, perhaps, but as a young desperate father, I was too easily sucked into the more lucrative corporate vortex and never escaped. I think that’s part of the reason I’m here. My inability to escape it.

One of my favorite poets was a fella named Lew Welch. Hell of a writer, although not appreciated in his time. He finally gave up too, leaving a suicide note at his friend Gary Snyder’s (another favorite) house, wandering off into the wilderness never to be seen again.

Now, here I am. Following Lew’s lead. Why the hell did I pick him for a role model? Jesus H. Christ.

Strong doubts, however, are interfering with my plans. I enjoy so many aspects of life. My garden, a small circle of good friends, non-humans (except for brown recluse spiders), history, contemporary art. A good steak grilled just right with a Lonestar Beer. The Japanese guys at my favorite sushi place get a kick out of my cowboy hat. I get a kick out of them treating me like a celebrity. I love the company of my children, although now grown and out on their own, I don’t see them as much. Wish I did, but they’re trying to make like everyone else. I love this place and find that I feel alive here. I feel more alive today than I have in years.

This isn’t going as planned.

The current difficulty is primarily financial. This seems to me an oft repeated story, a tragically stupid one. Man gets into financial trouble, has no way out, decides to pull the trigger. And then you hear all the comments about how if he’d only waited thirty minutes. If he’d just called us. Given it more time. Seen a shrink. But sometimes there really is no way out, particularly when you have really, really sick people that depend on you for their medicine, you’re fifty years old and can’t find work, and all you have is a massive life insurance policy. Enough to pay for everything and keep your wife and children secure for many years. Problem is you’re still alive and can’t get to the money.

Sorry, Baby Blue.

We continue carefully picking our way around the cacti and rocks, including the infamous Horse crippler or “Devil’s Pincushion.” Thanks to the rain, they’re flowering. Their pink to red orange flowers add a lovely touch to the trail. Lovely to look at, but troublesome for livestock, I’m told. The area is also well known for its Peyote. I’ve never tried it, but considering my closeness to American Indian lifeways and history, I’m on the lookout for it. Maybe I’ll have my “spirit quest” and find a way out of this mess. The notion of taking Peyote, a strong narcotic, makes me wonder why the wealthiest nation in the history of civilization doesn’t have a safety net for the sick. Why we just let them die. I decide that before my wife dies, I’ll die saving her. Screw the damn government. Screw Pfizer, Roche and the whole lot of ‘em. Screw Monsanto and its frankenstein food and its chemicals. They’re probably the ones behind all these weird cancers and other diseases, soaking our soil and our food with chemicals. Grandpa was right. Grow your own damn food and kill your own game. Go out and the back yard and get your own eggs straight from the coop.

Out here, though, I feel like I’m away from all of it. No newspapers, no phones, no e-mail. It’s glorious. Traveling along the base of a mesa, Whisky and Woodrow make their way through some scree and boulders, sticking close to the wall. Looking upward, I begin to feel as if I’m in the land that time forgot. There’s an immensity of space that’s hard to describe. The quiet is deafening. Deafening because all you hear is nothing. My mind drifts backward to another time, before white men showed up and made “improvements.” Life was brutish and short. Every day a struggle for survival. A fast forward to the present where life appears slightly less brutish-depending on where you live, I suppose-and slightly longer. But it also seems nearly completely devoid of spontaneity, adventure and danger. It’s too predictable. Secondary school, college, job, family, brief vacations to places packed with thousands of others trying to escape the same shit you’re trying to escape, sickness and death.

What would it have been like to be a cowboy? To travel the open range? Tough, I reckon. Low wages, long days and a lot of uncertainty. And it didn’t last long enough to spit at, and we had to damn near kill off a whole race of people to make it possible. The whole thing, like everything else, became corporatized. Cowboys had to go on strike. Form unions so they could survive. What about sleeping under the stars? Singing songs by the chuckwagon? Going into town with shiny new wages, buying a game of “billiards” and drinking your ass off?

Shit. I can’t even enjoy my favorite fantasy.

Jesus, Jack. Snap out of it. Why are you always so damn gloomy? If you didn’t hobble those horses at night, they’d surely leave you so they could maintain their own sanity.

I press westward toward El Solitario. Appropriately named, I think. Nearly ten miles across, it’s a collapsed and eroded structural dome, supposedly easily noticeable from space. From the air, it looks like a crater caused by a massive impact from space, huge and lonely. One could surely get lost and never be found, just like in the Maze in Canyonlands. Interestingly, just to the south, there’s another landmark, although this one was created by man. It’s the Contrabando movie set. At first glance, it looks like an abandoned Mexican village, another place time forgot. Several of my favorite westerns were shot there, and I’m tempted to swing south on the Contrabando trail and check it out, but I’m afraid I’ll start thinking about the films, get sentimental, find myself sucked back into civilization and my continued indentured servitude.

I decide to press onward, into the deepest section of the park and to my final destination, Hells Half Acre.

….to be continued

“The trail ends when you stop moving forward.”

I wake at sunrise, like I always do. This morning, to the sound of a canyon wren calling, exploring in and around the mesquite, searching for its first meal of the day. In a close distance, I hear something else stirring. Probably a javelina, I think.

The wren, the javelina, and I have several things in common. We’ve picked a spot that’s suitable for us. It’s quiet, safe and provides the things necessary for our survival. Perhaps the wren and javelina, however, are here because there’s a potential mate nearby.

Myself, I’m alone and by choice. And despite the fact I’ve worked years to get here, to be free of the chains of the city, meaningless jobs and the crushing boredom of everyday life, I suddenly feel an intense loneliness. I try to not to think about the fact I’m fifty miles in the backcountry. No phone, no warm welcoming cafe to step into. I ponder the beauty of human closeness and wonder if having someone tailgate me on the morning commute wasn’t so bad after all.

The thought soon passes.

I stoke last night’s fire and then walk down to the creek bed for water. It’s been a wet spring, something the people of the Trans Pecos have a deep appreciation for. After nearly 11,000 years of wandering and settlement throughout this vast region, they know there can be fifty year droughts and don’t take a drop of rain for granted. When there’s rain, the Northern Chihuahuan desert is alive with color and life. Most people think of the desert as devoid of life, but I find just the opposite. It’s teeming with life and color. Fiery ocotillo with bright red blooms stretch their spindly arms, reaching for the Texas sun. New Mexico agave explode with massive yellow flowers. There’s aster, basketflower, wooly loco, Indian blanket and Devil’s cactus.

Pronghorn antelope are plentiful and provide an important food source for mountain lions and coyote. There are even Desert Bighorn Sheep in the Sierra Diablo range, and of course hundreds of reptilian species, including the infamous Western Diamondback, although you’re more lucky to happen upon the Prairie rattler or Trans-Pecos copperhead. I accept them for what they are. Certainly dangerous to humans, but also helpful in that they are an important rodent control mechanism.

Walking to the creek, I’m mindful of such things, particularly in the translucent light of early morning. But as I walk, I realize I’m far from alone. I’m rich with company on this fine morning. No question it’s far superior to rush hour traffic, the blare of sirens or the constant, nerve racking pestilence of cellphones or my former neighbors and their obnoxious lawn tools. My chances of meeting death at the hands of a rattler are far less than my chances of being killed on an interstate highway by someone high on pills while driving an 8000 pound SUV. I find the presence of Mourning dove and coyote much more to my liking.

Once I’ve collected water and head back to camp, one of my horses, Whisky, offers a nicker, a gentle reminder that she’s hungry, too, and shouldn’t be forgotten.

“I hear you, girl. Let me get the coffee going, then you’re next.”

The food is hung between two cottonwood trees near the bank of the stream. An important detail when you’re in the backcountry, unless you’re ok with mice taking their share during the night. I loosen the rope from the tree it downward over the limb, collecting what’s needed for my breakfast and some horse feed.

I opt for a light breakfast so we can hit the trail early. I’m looking to cover 15 to 20 miles, if we can. It will depend on the heat and the horses. Whisky can usually do it, but Woodrow is carrying most of the supplies today and might top out at the lower number. That’s fine. There’s no real hurry except I know we’re close to an area where some drug smugglers have been known to travel. They’re usually also running people across the border and those people, the desperate ones just trying to get to the other side, are pawns in their game.

To find the path and have an escort, they’ve agreed to carry a dangerous cargo. There are usually “spotters” about a mile in front and a mile behind, looking for anyone that might see them. Recently, a rancher in Arizona was killed by one, most likely only because he happened upon them. Even killed his dog. A tragic story in and of itself, but also because the man was known to help people that were in real trouble from exposure. He was one of the good ones, and he lost his life at the hands of a person, a piece of trash, who’s life was dedicated to taking life.

The spotters usually carry high powered rifles. I’m constantly mindful of them, keeping my .30-30 and my Glock pistol close at all times. It strikes me as ironic that I’ve wandered into the middle of nowhere, trying desperately to get away from humans, and yet, here they are. A most despicable lot. Drug runners taking advantage of a woeful people and preying on the young. I suppose a child molester is worse, but I think the drug runners are essentially molesting, murdering our children. Taking their whole lives from them.

My policy on such matters is zero tolerance. But if confronted, what will I do? I ponder this point as I’m packing up, wondering if I would shoot the leader. I suppose technically it would be considered murder. I could say he fired first, but that would be a lie. Don’t care for liars, either. Perhaps I could let myself be known and draw him into shooting first, but that would be counting on a miss from a rifle most assuredly more powerful than my own. I’m confident in my ability. Supremely confident, but this could be a dicey game. In this case, the law is clear. I can protect myself if there’s no escape, and if I’m threatened by potentially deadly force.

But didn’t I come here to die? Didn’t I decide this would be my final journey?

I decide to let the thought pass, before it turns into paranoia and ruins my morning, perhaps the whole day. Soon, Woodrow and Whisky are watered and fed and we’re on the trail.

…..to be continued

I spend many afternoons and mornings sitting in a chair in my garden, staring at the plants, the bees and other living things. I sometimes project myself into their world and at their level. What would it be like to be a frog? A bird? Or perhaps just a plant reaching for the sun. During these moments, I realize life is both beautiful and deadly, always completely fascinating. I also realize humans wouldn’t fare well if suddenly found ourselves only inches tall, naked and back to the beginning, to our earliest roots. No guns, no grocery. Just you and nature. A harrowing thought for modern man, who may once again find himself clothed in hides, spear in hand.

I sit in my chair

staring at my plants,
these fruits of my toil

projecting myself forward 
first shrinking, then cascading downward 

to the moist soil

within the labyrinth 
like a serpent I slither

through the green vines 
creeping and twisting 

along moss laden stones
slippery and still

within sinewy arms stretching upward 
yearning, reaching 

to the molten sun

my mind wanders 
sailing through

the sublime assemblage
serene peace and silence 

broken only by the hawk 
who, with ivory talons stretched downward

strikes the wren
the beautiful lethal embrace

then together, soaring upward
they travel 

to twilight
blood and feathers glistening

as they slowly disappear
nature softly whispers 

make haste, human
to the safety of thy chair

Views of Three Fords Rapid on the Green River in Desolation Canyon, Utah. The river, which is flowing right to left, is relatively wide and split into two channels in a photo taken in 1909 (top image). At some time in the intervening 89 years before the bottom image was taken, a debris flow from Three Fords Canyon East (behind the photographer to the right) deposited sediment into the Green River, greatly reducing the width of Three Fords Rapid. (Top photo courtesy of Northern Arizona University Cline Library.)
USGS, Desert Laboratory Repeat Photography Collection (Documenting Desert Change)

the soil is dry
sterile, devoid of life

the water is warm
salmon, no longer spawn

the birds
have flown, gone

cheery calls
fade away

replaced

by our death song

-james rochelle

The Grand Silence-In Praise of the Desert (Tipping My Cap to Cactus Ed )

we all have a
place

mine is
here

beneath
ancient monoliths bronzed
standing firm

on
waves of sultry sand
softly shifting

beside
fiery ocotillo
stretching sunward

faint sounds
like gentle notes in a song
punctuate

the grand silence
the immensity of space

the turkey vulture says
and I agree

heaven is here
nirvana is now

-beau peyton

Arches National Park, Utah. Geologist using a plane table beneath North Window Arch. View is south. Photo by M.O. McKnight, July 1927.

Arches

“What are we waiting for? The time is late.”-Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Edward Abbey was born this day in 1927. He’d be 85 and while almost certainly in a state of utter outrage over our current affairs, I think it’s safe to say he wouldn’t have been surprised. Abbey’s work is amongst the most prescient in American literature. Even a cursory evaluation of our current affairs confirms Ed’s grave predictions for American society, environmentally, socially and culturally. With phenomenal clarity, he confronted us with some of the most simple but profound truths of our time.

One, unrestrained growth is the philosophy of the cancer cell. Unchecked, it will ultimately destroy its host. And two, when humans are too far removed from nature, from their natural homes, they become mad.

“Men and women are trapped in the drudgery and tedium of meaningless jobs and the despoliation of a continent, the gray skies, the ruined rivers, the ravaged hills, the clearcut forests, the industrialized farms, all to keep that Gross National Product growing ever grosser. Madness and folly Untouched by human hands. Unguided by human minds.”

As a people, we’ve unfortunately ignored Ed’s wise instruction. We’ve marched onward, bulldozing, cutting, drilling and fracking, making more and more of our magnificent planet literally uninhabitable. Fucking up the entire planet isn’t enough, however. A few lunatics on the right, along with their mad scientist friends, now want to fuck up the entire solar system.

Abbey predicted what happens to humans when they don’t have enough space. Enough room to roam, room to escape the suffocating grip of of the cities. We go mad, and I honestly don’t have enough time or perhaps even room on this server to list all the examples of our madness.

Although there is one recent example that sticks out.

You’ve probably heard the phrase “afraid of a mouse.” Turns out we probably should be afraid of them, because today, the electronic version has become the trigger of a powerful weapon. So-called freedom fighters in the employ of the United States government can end your time on the planet with a single click. They sit in comfy chairs, hidden in secret bunkers, staring into computer screens, effortlessly dealing death with their menacing toys. Like the Christian god, the reach of the United States military is now almost infinite and its gaze omnipresent. It’s apparently also omnipotent, as it reserves the right to determine policy for the entire planet. Global judge, jury and executioner. A rogue state.

What sort of sick mind comes up with these ideas? What’s happened to real science? Ed, as usual, was right. Science has become “the whore of industry.”

“Science with a human face-is such a thing possible anymore? We live in a time when technology and technologists seem determined to make the earth unfit to live upon…the mad scientist, once only a comic figure in a specialize branch of fiction, has now come luridly to life in a hundred thousand forms. Together with his co-workers in big government, big industry, and the military, he dominates our lives. Ultimately, they will tyrannize the planet.”-Edward Abbey, “Science With a Human Face”

Ed missed the gradual erosion of human rights in America. In his time, we made some progress with racial and gender inequality, but since then, we’ve taken ten steps backward. In 2012, an American citizen can not only be indefinitely detained without representation, he or she can be executed by agents of the United States government and at the behest of a single person. In the twenty three years since Ed’s passing, we’ve fully militarized our police forces and seen private prisons become one of our largest growth industries. Stalin, Hitler and Pol Pot executed anyone that got in their way, but mass executions don’t go over so well in the U.S., at least not on our soil. Americans are driven by profit, and tossing more people into prisons, people who are often victims of economic inequality and economic oppression, is the solution du jour. Why kill ‘em when you make money off ‘em?

Corporations can now buy elections, as corporate powers are now free to spend whatever they want on whomever they want.

Abbey’s predictions about the effects of industrialization are nearly fully realized. Don’t believe me? Check the numbers.

Millions have lost their homes to foreclosure schemes. Thousands die without health insurance, and the gap between the wealthy and the poor is as great as its ever been.

And yet, here we sit wondering “what to do?” Most of us are so busy just trying to keep a job, pay expenses, take care of our families and have some peace. To most of us, the problems of American society, much less those of the planet, seem completely overwhelming. Ed himself said we should be reluctant enthusiasts, part time crusaders, half-hearted fanatics, that we should save some time for ourselves and for adventure.

But now things are more grave. We face a critical moment in time when inaction is unthinkable and half-hearted commitment seems unavoidably insufficient. A few brave individuals, like Tim De Christopher, have put their asses on the line for all of us, human and non-human. Bill McKibben has become an important voice. But it’s not the responsibility of any one person to fill the void or lead the fight. It’s the responsibility of every person that loves this planet, and all of its inhabitants, to take a stand.

Be bold and unafraid. Stand for what you stand on.

Oh, and happy Birthday, Ed. We’ll do better.

“This is what you shall do: Be loyal to what you love, Be true to the Earth, and Fight your enemies with passion and laughter.”-Edward Abbey