Hill Haven

The poet’s father on his tractor, by Bill Clark

By Carol Barrett:

After a poem by Craig van Rooyen

They aren’t moles. I’m told nights are too cold for moles in the high desert. Then what -- gophers? Ground hogs? Prairie dogs? In the damp soil west of the Cascades, moles were plentiful as robins. My father got his supply of traps at yard sales for two bits, some farmer having given up the harvest ghost. Whenever hills popped up, he’d dig down a few inches and lay them in, warn us to stay clear. He didn’t want an ankle enmeshed in the gears, a toddler’s curious hand clamped to the earth. When he got one, he’d announce it supper-time, bury the sleek body in the apple orchard, or along the edge of the woods, where alder leaves made for soft mulch.

I never looked one in the eye. But I spotted plenty of mounds, out digging potatoes or tearing corn from the stalk, peeling broad squash leaves back for a golden bonanza. One year a new ordinance forbid trapping them, on account of cruelty to animals. My father kept up his solution despite the risk. He figured, more humane than shooting them, and no law against that. He was especially perturbed when they dug up the lawn, clipped short for picnics of a summer evening, cedar table re-varnished every five or six years to restore what wind and rain had roughed up. The trap wasn’t an instant success. You had to wait for the critter to come up for air. It could take days, even weeks.

Here my hidden low-lifes stay quiet all winter, perhaps hibernating. But come spring, their handiwork pops up all over the yard. I scoop lush mounds into flowerpots for the pine seedlings that spring from ample cones. The soil is just right – combed and softened, free of roots, fine as biscuit dough. When I first started repurposing their primordial heaps, I feared I might slice one with the shovel, but it’s never happened. They dig their tunneled dugouts well below the planted surface. And they won’t cave in. When I tamp the excavated soil down, the lawn is flat as before the latest hill happened. In time the grass will spread across the brown moon, fill in with the help of whirling sprinkler.

We manage to co-exist. These creatures save their building frenzy for late at night when I’m already tuckered. When I open the door to a new day, I may find another hill to salvage for my tree farm, small but growing on the back deck. Sometimes I’m blessed with two or three, yards apart, a quick jaunt with the garden cart, sun on my neck. Life goes on as usual underground, my father’s ashes on a tunneled slope. He is getting acquainted with new friends, inviting them to watch reruns of Perry Mason, where it all turns out okay in the end, his pipe smoke mingling with the damp and porous earth.

***
Carol Barrett coordinates the Creative Writing Certificate Program at Union Institute & University. She has published two volumes of poetry and one of creative nonfiction. A former NEA Fellow in Poetry, Carol has lived in nine states and in England. She currently resides in the high desert of central Oregon. Her poems have appeared widely in literary magazines, and in over fifty anthologies.

Spring Grove

By Eugene Navakas: 

Winter:

Three mute swans live in this cemetery. We hear one before we see it. It flings itself forward against a stiff, stubborn sheet of surface ice, so fiercely, so indefatigably, that we wonder whether we should help. This is common winter behavior, our phones tell us, not to worry, but the force is so brutal and compulsive, the breast so soft and undefended, that we struggle to believe them. The swan’s face is unreadable. It makes no vocal sound. We’ve seen it in strange postures before⎯once, standing on the steps of a grand mausoleum, gazing into the tomb through a bronze veil of Arts-and-Crafts grape leaves, as if contemplating the past and future and all the world’s lost things⎯but it is, after all, an animal. There is a limit to our ability, however much we may refine it, to understand what it wants.

What we can do is walk. Every Saturday, for twelve months, with our boots we trace trails across 450 acres of hilly parkland devoted to the peculiar mix of feral nature and steady human memorialization. We aren’t the only ones. There are long, snaking funeral corteges for which we respectfully step aside and sometimes halt, arrested by a driving, rhythmic rumble leaking through the windows of a hatchback at the rear. There are joggers, whooshing past in suspended clouds of breath, cheeks flush with wind and cold and the heightened fluency of pounding, reliable hearts. There are even guided tours, groups of five or ten around a single, heavily bundled figure. Sharp mitten-dartings punctuate her recitation, before a familiarly grand mausoleum, about the Canteloupe King within. He grew rich, she says, by using refrigerated rail cars to ship Colorado melons nationwide.

Spring:

In March we turn and gasp at a great blue heron, portent of the coming profusion. It freezes at the lip of a pond, amid sunning turtles, and so do we. The turtles are red-eared sliders, the most popular pet turtles in the United States. They are also among the most damaging invasive species, outcompeting native turtles at great expense to ecosystem biodiversity and even human health, in the form of salmonella infection. The heron is a juvenile, more gently shaded than its maturer counterparts. Instead of blacks and whites, here suffuse more smoky blues and grays, fading as they extend from wing and impossibly sinuous neck to a long spearpoint of orange-bellied beak. The bird stares back at us, sidelong, from the black pit at the center of its banana-bright eye, then flaps up and out over green water⎯gliding, mouth open wide with seeming glee, until resettling, safer, on the far shore. The Eastern Redbuds show early signs of flower, but they’re barely intimations of the riotous, purple future.

Our asphalt path leads straight to May, beneath skies deep as ocean and the soaring, white-hulled wings of turkey vultures. Each branch, now, is fragrant color, sweet with bees. The Higan Cherries weep tears so cream they’re pink, so pink they’re cream, moody and intense as dreams. Around one bend, the stones themselves sprout flowers. Arcing, vibrant, lush cascades of custom, deeply felt bouquets⎯GRAMMY; a can of energy drink; a three-foot baseball; the wreathed photo-print of an ultrasound⎯dazzle gray- and red-granite monuments like stars. Thistles carved in sharp relief peek out behind the floral burst, below all-capped Scottish surnames. Each year, come Memorial Day, Scottish Travelers return to these stones, this parkland cemetery, to mourn and cherish their dead. If you search the digital record, you’ll find a contemptible archive of fear and bigotry, exoticized misunderstanding. An online business magazine tries to link the changing scope and luxury of the annual display to its own broad economic forecast. But if, for a moment, you breathe in the display yourself; if you pause, at respectful distance, on the trip back toward the sliders and the Weeping Cherries; you may feel a sharper, more familiar pang⎯something living, something lost.

Summer:

Summer is a season for the ears. What better place than a graveyard for hungry, roused life to fly shrieking from the ground? Here, specifically, over half a billion Brood X cicadas⎯roughly 1.5 million per acre⎯burrowed into the soil as fresh-hatched nymphs in 2004. For seventeen years, they fed on roots and tree sap less than a foot below the surface, until last week they tunneled up and out. The males broke through first, shedding skins and rapidly contracting tymbals, the clicking reverberators that, in chorus, sync into a jangly, hissing call loud as a motorcycle engine. The females heard that call, and now they’re everywhere. Pavement, grass, bushes, trees. Your car, your hair. Even the chocolate shop uptown, if you’re game for a crunch and can brave a mid-pandemic crowd. Their eyes are ladybugs, glossy red buttons with faint black spots for holes. Or at least that’s what we think their eyes are, until, much later, magnified, we spot the other three. Onscreen, inset like jewels on an igneous plain between submerged red moons, hides a tiny triangular trio. They’re called “ocelli,” simple eyes, and as far as we can see, they distinguish light from dark.

It’s funny how the greenest days, air thick with water, hot with sound, can also feel so full of death. In two short months, the cicadas will have come and gone, their seventeen-year regeneration restarted, today’s lively bodies in stacks like rotting blankets, warming future generations beneath the dirt. One of the most spectacular structures in these half-shorn, half-wild hills is a private Gothic Revival funerary monument built in 1870 in the style of Paris’s medieval Sainte-Chapelle. Its first interment was the English whiskey magnate whose fortune paid for its construction, as well as the transfer of his remains to marble catacombs eight years after initial burial in parts no longer known. On the second floor, above the crypts, sleeps a tall and narrow chapel twelve feet wide but thirty deep and thirty-four high⎯an austere, long-suffering space we’ll likely never see. While even on sweltering, swarming summer afternoons, the exterior remains a popular stage for professional photography, the heavy doors stay locked, the wrought-iron gates chained. Brides and grooms and Instagram influencers grin wide before the retreating flying buttresses of a family in disrepair. Just three Brood-X life-cycles after the building’s birth, the magnate’s granddaughter tried, and failed, to have it razed.

Fall:

It’s not hidden, but it takes a little looking to find the graves of Levi and Catherine Coffin, unmarked until 1902, when a memorial was erected in personal tribute by the city of Cincinnati’s Black population. During the forty-one years from their marriage to the end of the Civil War, the Coffins aided 3,000 enslaved people as they risked their lives in search of freedom. The Coffins’ home in Fountain City, Indiana became known as the Grand Central Station of the Underground Railroad. Levi himself was often called its President. The landmark we use to return to this quiet, shattering spot⎯just seven miles north of the Ohio River and the Mason-Dixon, the old, antebellum border⎯beckons only a few paces away. A fat, trunk-like branch radiates out like a sine wave from the base of a squat tree. It skims briefly above the trimmed, leaf-pocked grass, then dives, submerged, before again swooping back up. So much of Autumn feels between. Leaves turning, half-glorious, half-gone.

Our air comes quick, our tendons groan, as we lean ahead into the circuit’s final stretch. The trees buoy us⎯great oaks and beeches; sycamores; maples; a prodigious, solitary September elm, a national champion⎯as if a god would compete. Pixelated crests of red and orange, green and yellow, each shade just slightly tilted off of true, draw up our eyes to the spotlit, golden-hour sunbursts of hunting hawks. Closer to our feet, a labored scurry. A groundhog galumphs through underbrush and disappears. A frog’s twin bulbs peep up like periscopes above a dollhouse sea, then quickly dive and vanish. Around a corner, flustered scrabbling from a bewildered flock of spindle-legged turkeys, surprised from their leisure beneath the awning of a portable funeral tent. A mermaid rises from a harp atop a bed of kelp and conch and a guardian ring of dolphins. Louisa Lawson fished her out from marble in 1887. Now she decorates the tomb of the world’s once-largest manufacturer of architectural sheet metal. In the end, however, we return to the swans⎯which today, though on opposite sides, all share the same turbid, algal pool. There’s a kind of paradox to writing through the seasons. A temptation to squeeze shape from a cycle that never stops. We turn away and keep walking.

***

Eugene Navakas is a lit. Ph.D. turned TV writer who splits time between Oxford, Ohio and Los Angeles, California. His 2020 crime drama pilot script GALAPAGOS, TEXAS was recognized on Kyle's List here, and his dramedy pilot script EXPECTATIONS won the 2016 UCLA Extension TV Pilot Writing Competition. He also updated and co-performed a 19th-c. folk song about coral, which was featured on a podcast hosted by the Newberry Library in conjunction with his wife's academic environmental research here.

Traces of Wildlife

By Karen Parra:

As we set out on the well-worn trail, I linger behind allowing them space and time. The cadence of their deep voices rises and falls over the crunch of leaves under my feet. Seeing the similarity of silhouettes between my husband and son, I adjust the strap of my camera, feeling content. This holiday has taken on a more festive note with our son’s visit, and reflecting on our gathering promises to be an exciting entry for my gratitude journal. The recent warm spell, a welcome reprieve from the bitter Midwest winter, has given the three of us a chance to walk off the second helping of stuffing and slice of pumpkin pie, highlights of our Thanksgiving feast. I've brought the boys to one of my favorite trails, and from the empty parking lot, it looks like we have the place all to ourselves.   

At this point in the season, and in the quiet of the late afternoon, I expect minimal activity, mere traces of the wildlife which inhabit the woods. The melted snow has uncovered leaves, withered berries, acorn shells, fallen branches, and dark soil to release a rustic, woodsy aroma. Hearing commotion in the midst of a pile of fallen leaves, I turn to see a squirrel searching for part of her cache she buried earlier this fall. Scanning the canopy of trees and finding the tallest one, I wonder how many years ago some squirrel forgot to collect that buried acorn. Or maybe it was an intentional act of the squirrel to bury this one small gift, knowing over time it would become a grand oak offering nourishment and a safe, warm home for future generations. Puddles are scattered along the path, and in the soft mud I can make out paw prints, likely raccoon tracks. Searching the network of intertwined branches above, I count a variety of nests visible now only for the lack of foliage. Off the path I notice several piles of fresh deer scat and wonder where this herd has bed down for the afternoon. As I move on, I realize our trio has been spotted.  From deeper in the woods, I hear the bold screech of a blue jay. Following us, she swoops to a new tree continuing her alarm call.  

It is typical for me to search for signs of nature, noticing individual elements. But, on this particular walk, I consider the evidence of life as a collection of essential living things. With every step I reflect on the significant role of each species, and yet, in a new way I see these as a part of something much larger. Like a cast of characters, each species within an ecosystem contributes to an encore performance. 

I hear the rap-rap-rap of a woodpecker off in the distance and wonder if it is gorging on insects, marking territory, or stashing a seed. In the spring, holes left behind by one species of woodpeckers will be oozing sap which renders a much-needed sugar boost for hungry migratory hummingbirds. Arriving too early to the Great Lakes region, hummingbirds and other pollinators such as butterflies will be unable to forage on nectar from the array of native flowers. Tree sap can be a vital food and energy source to sustain them until the spring blooming. I notice the ceiling of the forest begin to open to the blue sky. I feel a shift in the breeze, a signal we must be getting close. It is as if I’m entering the grand foyer of a mansion, an entryway leading to something unknown, but breathtaking. There is a sense of excitement of what is to come.

Though today the water of the low-lying marsh is dried up, the spine of a narrow wooden bridge stands ready for the wet season ahead. On previous walks, this overpass has served as an observation deck for me while taking photos of passing turtles, soaking frogs, and if lucky, a wading great blue heron or egret. I would focus my Canon on sunbathing dragonflies perched high on the peaks of cattails as they bow and aim their wings toward the warmth of the summer sun. At the perimeter of the wetland, the multitude of pink petals on the swamp milkweed would offer a pop of color to my images. Much to my delight, this plant would also try hard to grace the marshy stench of decay with a lighter more appealing scent. But now, with the quiet of the winter season and in absence of these features, I appreciate the rhythm of the seasons and this time of preparing for spring. 

Stepping off the bridge, my feet sink gently into the lag gravel. I notice trees that dwarf in contrast to those in the woods behind me. Now with full sun, a variety of grasses and shrubs line the sloping trail of sand. As I wander and adjust to the changing terrain, it feels as if I have been transported to a new land. Gazing across this area, one might mistake it for a barren wasteland unfit for wildlife. Exposed to strong winds, extreme temperatures and other harsh elements, what life forms could persist?  However, like the forest and marsh, this too has an assemblage of unique living things which thrive together in the dune habitat of the Great Lakes. 

The native plant Pitcher’s thistle, similar to our resilient frontier pioneers, is one of the first to establish and colonize a novel ecosystem for the good of others to come. This native plant with its heavy seeds and deep taproots can withstand the extreme conditions of an open sandy coastline. The presence of this valuable plant, some might mistake for a weed, is essential for the next wave of immigrating species, both flora and fauna, by supplying shelter, shade, and food. Now, with a more stable habitat, other vegetation such as Houghton's goldenrod can flourish and produce nectar to sustain pollinators such as the rusty patched bumble bee. Monarch butterflies, an iconic pollinator, will pass through during their migration north and east, and the bounty of these native plants will serve as a needed layover in their long journey. In addition, hundreds of migratory birds use this Mississippi flyway as an area to forage and rest before the next leg of their flight. Other birds, like the charismatic piping plover shorebird, make this their final stop to mate and raise their brood. The magnificent snowy owl represents other species who are year-round residents of this robust dune habitat. Each species with distinctive ecosystem functions, fulfilling a niche, and in concert with other wildlife, also lends balance and persistence to the dunes.     

At the top of the sandy ridge, I widen my gaze and scan the horizon. Similar to the illusion of an infinity edge pool, the lake appears never-ending, and the vast, vibrant blue water makes the sky pale in comparison. This immense body of water shifts my perspective, and I suddenly feel small. I try to imagine the size and magnitude of the series of glaciers that, in succession, scoured the land for thousands of years.  As they advanced and receded, the glaciers formed the five Great Lakes, leaving them abundant with fresh water and setting the stage for thousands of miles of dune and coastal habitat supporting an array of species. What they have left behind is stunning and unique.

Lost in thought, the squawk of a seagull pulls me back to the here and now. I notice my husband and son walking ahead and realize the gap between us is closing. Without the protection of the trees, the wind is brisk. I turn up the collar on my jacket, as the three of us come together where the trail fades and the shoreline begins. Taking turns with the binoculars we skirt the water’s edge, and after a time, the sun dips lower in the sky casting our long shadows on the sand, our signal to turn back. 

Once again, I look toward my family ahead of me on the trail. I follow their lead thinking of the future, and in my mind’s eye I see a little one with pigtails, no taller than their knees, stretching out her chubby little arms to hold their hands. Walking together in this place for us, they gently swing her between them.  As I envision this scene, I also notice a walking stick my husband is using to steady his balance, an indication that life moves on.

I stay with this thought, of leaping forward in time, and wonder what changes this natural space will endure and whether the wildlife will be able to adapt. While I retrace my steps on the path, I note the ecosystem as well as the essential parts. To protect the dune ecosystem will ensure a place for endemic species in addition to the wildlife only passing through. Further, I consider how the loss of one species might affect the system’s ability to persist. Would the dune landscape persevere in the absence of Pitcher’s thistle? Could pollinators and migratory birds thrive without the resources provided by this and other native plants? More questions continue to surface as I pass through the marsh and forest ecosystems. However, as I take the last few steps of this walk and rejoin my family, I realize it is the health and preservation of natural spaces like these which are necessary to support the indispensable species of plants and animals.  

***

Karen Parra is a graduate student of Project Dragonfly, an Advanced Inquiry Program offered through Miami University in Oxford, Ohio.  Her work is a blend of her curiosity of nature, academics in biology, passion for environmental conservation, as well as the joy of photography. She lives with her husband in Illinois, near Lake Michigan.

Here, Under the Eaves

By Rebecca Smith:

Our house martins are back. They are rebuilding their nest, having already scraped last years’ mud and feathers away. Repairing and strengthening seems like good practise. I watch them as they swoop and tumble with complete control in the strip of sky between the houses. I live on a young street, only five years old. I count at least twenty houses, here from my front window. There is more brick than branch. More road than grass. But, I remind myself, the street is still in its infancy. We have a lot of growing to do.

I have planted a rowan tree and a red acer on the front lawn, a birch, an apple and a pear tree in the back garden. Every day, I study their progress, note the extra space they take up, expanding their green leaves. For so long nothing seemed to happen, but of course it did. Winter can feel like an age. 

There is no chorus in the morning here yet - the trees are too small, their branches too flimsy for the birds to settle on. I remember, last year, hearing the chirps of the newly hatched house martins in their nest under the eaves and how they chimed with the cooing of my own baby girl. The birds are back, the baby ones now fully grown, and my daughter is saying whole words. 

One day the trees will be big and if I stand here and look out of the window, I’ll see green. Not the rust coloured brick of the mirror image house opposite, or my neighbour silhouetted in the window as he walks from room to room. I look at the rowan tree and wonder what is happening beneath. What is it like down there this time of year? Is there a fuss, a rush, a ‘let’s get on with this’ kind of attitude? I hope we have not made it too hard for things to flourish up here. I plant more lavender and sow bean seeds.

The woods that line the edge of the estate are full of creatures. Woodpeckers skip round trunks of trees (my daughter shows her Dad at home, nod nod nodding her head). We find tadpoles that are high and dry, small clumps of them with only the smallest wiggle left in their tails. A robin, who I swear I knew in a previous life, follows our step through the trees. I want them to follow me home, like Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. A trail of birds, insects, mammals hoping and jumping up the curb.

Among the houses, nature knows there are different rules. Maybe the house martins are the pioneers. They are showing the rest that it is possible to make a home here. The trees are growing, I promise. I’ll plant more lavender for the bees and make beds for the snap dragons. I’ll leave a gap in the foot of the fence for the hedgehogs. It’s the least I can do.

***

Rebecca Smith is a writer, podcast maker and teacher based in central Scotland. Find out more on her website.

Irreplaceable – an interview with Julian Hoffman

We are extremely pleased to hear that Julian Hoffman – longstanding friend and contributor to Elsewhere: A Journal of Place – has been shortlisted for the 2020 Wainwright Prize for Writing on Global Conservation. Julian has been shortlisted for his book Irreplaceable, in which he visits habitats around the world that are under threat and which is described on the Wainwright Prize website as being ‘not only a love letter to the haunting beauty of these landscapes and the wild species that call them home, including nightingales, lynxes, hornbills, redwoods and elephant seals, it is also a timely reminder of the vital connections between humans and nature, and all that we stand to lose in terms of wonder and wellbeing.’

To mark the shortlisting of Irreplaceable for the Wainwright Prize for Writing on Global Conservation, we spoke to Julian about his book, the places he visited and the people he met, and the work that is being done and needs to be done to prevent the further loss of such special and important places.

Interview by Paul Scraton:

Elsewhere: One thing that strikes the reader even before you sit down to get stuck in to Irreplaceable is the diversity of places you visited in the course of your research? Was there one particular place that can be seen as a spark for the project, and how did you come to selecting the places to visit for the book?

Julian Hoffman: The spark for the entire book was the Hoo Peninsula in Kent. Slotted between the Thames and Medway rivers, this extraordinary span of glorious marshland, tidal creeks and ancient villages was threatened to be turned into Europe’s largest airport by a proposal championed by London’s then mayor, and now British prime minister, Boris Johnson. The development would have devastated the peninsula, eradicating a massive expanse of protected bird habitat, as well as levelling three entire villages and their 13th century churches. It would have stolen so much of what makes the place so special. But what inspired me to write specifically about the plight of that threatened place was the resilience, bravery, passion and persistence of three people who were doing everything they possibly could to save this home ground of theirs for the benefit of both human and wild communities. So that was the beginning, the Hoo Peninsula; and that day in the company of these three residents was the day when I suddenly understood what loss in the natural world meant. Because so often we measure loss numerically, through so many acres of destroyed woodland or meadow, or by how many millions of breeding birds have vanished from the skies of Europe. But through the stories of these people, and the complex, interwoven beauty of the place and its wildlife that they introduced me to, those numbers became real, visceral and relatable. They were suddenly transformed into the vibrant reality of lands, waters and lives that would be ravaged by the project.

After that, I realised that to approach the issue of loss in the natural world, and more importantly the potential for resistance to that loss, required a global perspective if I was to do it justice in any way. Because these issues affect human societies and nature across the planet. I also wanted to document as many varying habitats as possible, because biodiversity and the flourishing of communities are utterly dependent on a spectrum of functioning ecosystems. So I followed up stories of threatened islands, coral reefs, mangrove forests, tropical jungle and tallgrass prairie, while also consciously investigating what urban nature and green places mean too. And finally, the other important criteria for selecting the threatened places was my desire to trace their stories in real time, exploring them alongside the brave individuals and communities seeking to protect them. Which meant only writing about those places still actively threatened, where no final decision had been made regarding their future. Sadly, this also meant that some places I’d originally intended to include in the book had to be left out because they were destroyed before I could even get to them. These are places that exist solely in memory now for the human and wild communities that once knew them.

Elsewhere: Some of these places are very small… perhaps even unknown to people who live within a couple of miles of them. Can you give our readers a sense of why such places are so important and, as in the title of your book, why they are Irreplaceable?

JH: It didn’t take long to realise that the size of a place bears little relationship to its depth, or to the quality of connection fostered there by people. Our attachments to place can be founded on the small and intimate as easily as the expansive and remote. And for a world in which more than half its human population is urbanised, it’s critical that we pay more attention to small green spaces in cities and local suburban sites. In some respects, it’s taken us a pandemic to recognise just how essential these unsung places are. A recent survey by the Campaign to Preserve Rural England revealed that over half of respondents said that during lockdown they had a greater appreciation for how important local green spaces are for a community’s health and wellbeing. And yet these are precisely the kind of places that are at greatest risk of being destroyed, regularly threatened with being turned into car parks, luxury housing and commercial interests. And with the British government’s new slogan of ‘Build, build, build’, the situation will only get worse, when green spaces of enormous importance to local people will be regarded as expendable and sold off for development instead of being preserved for the benefit of the wider community. Between 2007 and 2014 alone, only four of 198 applications to close allotment sites were rejected by the Secretary of State. So even though allotments are absolutely protected in UK law, the other 194 were destroyed. And with their loss, as with any loss of green space in a city, nature suffers another shrinkage of real estate in which to dwell alongside us, and that world of potential connection close to home, where we often first come into contact with nature, is further eroded. And critically, for those people who lack access to green spaces further afield for socio-economic reasons, these small, unsung, nearby places are often vital for their wellbeing.

Elsewhere: One of the words we’ve heard a lot in recent years has been the idea of “wilding” or “re-wilding.” What role, if any, do such projects have in the struggle to save endangered places?

JH: I think rewilding is critical to the return of natural abundance. By leaving space for vital, elemental processes to regain their fluidity and wild expression, we enable a greater flourishing. And just as importantly, between rewilding and what in North America ecologists call ecological restoration is the opportunity to right some of the wrongs and heal some of the wounds we’ve inflicted on the world’s lands and waters. To rethink the direction that our neo-liberal economic and political systems have taken us, recalibrating our value of what matters in the process, so that the healthy functioning of ecosystems and the prospering of wild communities is part of our everyday deliberations when considering human wellbeing. 

It’s a complex and emotive issue, and there are purists and non-purists to further complicate matters of rewilding, but what is fundamentally exciting about the prospect is how it offers the chance for imaginative leaps to be made, reconnecting us to species, landscapes and places that have been thinned of so much of their meaning because of our intensive industrial, agricultural and extractive practices. Actions that have led us to a world of separation and estrangement. But enormous possibilities for restitution exist, like the Kent Wildlife Trust’s plan to bring bison to within walking distance of Canterbury to aid in the creation of woodland habitats and their multitude of ecological niches. Or like the fantastic community rewilding projects that are taking shape in Scotland and elsewhere, bringing together landowners and individuals with varied backgrounds and interests in the pursuit of a more inclusive and wilder landscape. It’s not the answer to all the issues, of course, and many of our richest seams of biodiversity, such as wildflower meadows, which have declined by a devastating 97% in the UK since the 1930s, are critically dependent on human influence, but rewilding should be seen as one of the many major tools we have to reanimate the planet’s green and blue spaces. And just as importantly, it’s imperative that we simultaneously rewild the heart in a way that makes kinship with other forms of life a natural part of being human.

Elsewhere: What struck me when reading Irreplaceable was how the stories of these places and their futures were deeply interlinked with the people committed to defending them. Can you share something of what it was like to meet such people and also whether what you saw and heard from them changed your own feelings about endangered places?

JH: From the very beginning of the book I wanted people to be at its heart. I think the separation between people and nature can sometimes be replicated in nature writing and film-making that either actively seeks to exclude humans from the scope of the work or creates an artificial island of fecundity, reinforcing not only a distance between species but also a false narrative about how well the natural world is doing. But with Irreplaceable I wanted to make the interconnection between people, wildlife and place a fundamental aspect of the story. Because in order to repair this world of wounds, in Aldo Leopold’s stark phrase, we need to deepen that weave. And what I discovered in my journeys to threatened places, where I sought out ordinary residents as much as ecologists and conservationists, was the profound capacity we have for attachment with the natural world. The people I met there – taxi-drivers, soldiers, teachers and nurses – were actively enlarging the idea of home while trying to defend a place of importance, so that it included the more-than-human in its embrace. It was a deeply moving experience for me, but also wonderfully joyous, welcoming and inspiring being in their company. They showed me that positive, transformative change is possible.

Elsewhere: And have you heard back from any of them as to how they feel about the book?

JH: Yes, I have. And each time it was a really emotional experience after all the anxiety of wondering whether they felt I got the stories they’d entrusted me with right, which often included their own personal worries and vulnerabilities too. But the response has been overwhelmingly positive. Last November I was involved in an event for the Sheffield and Rotherham Wildlife Trust on the theme of trees and irreplaceable ancient woodland and they’d invited the group of people I’d spent time with who were doggedly seeking to protect the ancient woodland of Smithy Wood, with 850 years of continuous wooded history, from being turned into a motorway services off the M1. I hadn’t seen any of these people since 2015 when they shared their stories of this woodland with me, and although we were now in a concrete venue in the middle of the city you could still sense that intricate world of trees and leaves and roots around them. And by sheer coincidence, that was the same day that we learned that Smithy Wood was most likely to be spared. And it reminded me that although four years had passed between our meetings, while I had been writing about other threatened places in the world, their fight to save that irreplaceable ancient woodland had carried on throughout that entire time. So it’s been an incredible honour getting to know such resolute people.

Elsewhere: So often it feels like positive environmental stories come down to the commitment and hard work of individuals or small groups. What do you think governments and other institutional bodies need be doing if we are to stop the loss of the places you write about?

JH: Firstly, and most importantly, to listen. I was amazed by just how many people in my journeys felt a connection to the natural world and green spaces in one way or another. And yet their concerns are largely ignored. The almost complete lack of attention given to environmental issues in its broadest sense during election campaigns and debates is a sign of how low down the list of priorities it is for most politicians. For many of them, particularly on the right, though by no means exclusively, the philosophy of perpetual economic growth is hardwired into their souls. They can’t see around it; neither what it costs in terms of other measures of wellbeing or how it’s a trap, a hamster wheel you can never escape from. All you can do is keep building, extracting, devouring. None of which is a destination in itself, just a way to keep the wheel spinning sufficiently that you can convince yourself you’re actually going somewhere. But listening to others’ concerns, especially when they don’t conform to your vision of the world, and absorbing exactly what scientists are saying about the devastation that climate change and biodiversity loss will cause, is absolutely imperative. And if they won’t listen, then it’s up to us as citizens to be far more pro-active when it comes to voting for parties and politicians who will.

Elsewhere: In a book like yours, where the situation can so often seem desperate, it can be hard to find hope. But I found Irreplaceable extremely hopeful even if not every struggle will be successful. Did you feel hopeful after writing this book and how do you feel now?

JH: I remember right back at the beginning, just after experiencing the Hoo Peninsula in 2013, wondering where the trajectory of the book would take me. Would it be a deep dive into grief, or an angry rant about the destructive power of capitalism? Would it be an elegy, or a tome of hopelessness? I really had no idea back then how the journey would unfold, but it didn’t take long to witness and recognise the enormous potential and capacity for positive action when people stand up for what’s right. When people work in cohesion on behalf of something bigger than themselves, uniting around an idea, a place, a wild species. This is what I came to call radical hopefulness. When the word hope is understood not in a passive context, which is what we all commonly do, but as an active verb. A verb that makes change possible solely by acting on it. So, yes, I remain hopeful, in the sense that I experienced what is not only possible on my journeys but actively happening in communities throughout the world right now. During the dark days, these are the stories I hang on to.

Elsewhere: As great fans of your work, from your writings for various outlets (including Elsewhere!), and your books The Small Heart of Things and Irreplaceable, the last thing we need to know is… what’s next?

JH: Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say! Like countless people around the globe, my plans were upturned by the pandemic. Which meant the book I was intending to write had to be shelved, at least for the foreseeable future, as the journeys, stories and interviews I’d pinned it on could obviously no longer happen. But in the wake of that disappointment, as I had a spring and summer at home instead of one on the road, a new vision for a book took shape. It’s called Shelter, and while not specifically about the pandemic it of course has everything to do with it. The idea emerged out of that need to stay in place, but also from an urgent sense of solidarity with other forms of life seeking to dwell in safety and security. For the past two winters, up to 14 wrens have roosted on especially cold nights in a long-abandoned swallow’s nest above our front door. To have them that near to us as we slept, and to watch them drop out of that shelter at dawn each day, often into a world of swirling snow, and then return at dusk from separate directions, has been one of the most extraordinary and enlarging experiences of my life. Just as they were departing their shelter for good in early spring we were entering our own due to the pandemic, so the book is really about living in a shared world – our mutual, fragile and astonishing shelter we call Earth – a personal exploration of wild lives nearby and how we might go about creating the psychological and emotional space for co-existence. 

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Irreplaceable: The fight to save our wild places is published in paperback by Penguin. 

The Quarantined Photographer

By Stuart J. DuBreuil:

Nature is impersonal, awe-inspiring, elegant, eternal. It's geometrically perfect. It's tiny and gigantic. You can travel far to be in a beautiful natural setting, or you can observe it in your backyard...
– Gretchen Rubin

My time in Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks was inspirational. The abundance of wildlife, in their own unique habitat, far exceeded this photographer’s expectations. Now, like most of us, for the last several weeks I’ve been in self quarantine with my wife at our townhouse in the west end of Richmond, Virginia.

So, what’s an amateur wildlife photographer to do? I found that while I couldn’t venture out to find the animals, they kindly came to me. Or rather, I discovered that they had always been around, but that I just hadn’t seen them. Isolation has taught me to slow down and observe my surroundings. As it turns out, the backyards, front lawns, and surrounding grounds and airspace in the neighborhood is teeming with wildlife. 

We have a bird feeder on a pole in our backyard, just beyond our deck. We fill it with black oil sunflower seeds, approved by the National Audubon Society – you know, the good stuff, that the birds love. It attracts cardinals, robins, finches, sparrows and other birds I haven’t identified yet. It also attracts squirrels and chipmunks, who can’t get to the feeder directly because we have a conical guard on the pole that prevents them from climbing up.  But the birds are generous. While they are feasting at the feeder they also flick out seeds onto the grass and deck so other creatures can share in the banquet. 

I witness this activity daily from inside the house, behind the sliding glass doors that lead to our deck. I will peer through the vertical blinds so I won’t frighten off the wildlife, and then take my photos through the glass door. Recently, I’ve found that I can walk out onto the deck, and if I walk slowly with no sudden motion, I can photograph the creatures without scaring them off. 

My next door neighbor, Scott, is also a keen observer of wildlife. He is working from home, but seems to have plenty of time to look out the window and spot interesting things going on. He will text my phone to let me know when he sees something that I may want to photograph. He told me about the  robin’s nest under his roof gutter, nestled on top of the curved section of the down spout. I was able to get some shots of the mother robin feeding worms to her baby chick. 

He also texted me about two other baby birds that were on his back lawn. One managed to fly up onto the brick wall that divides our yards. I carefully followed this tiny creature’s journey as he plopped down onto our deck and walked across towards the other side of our yard. I was outside, taking lots of photos, until he disappeared into heavy foliage. I spotted him squeeze through a small hole in the wooden fence leading to my other neighbor’s yard. Looking over the fence, I could see him meet up with a larger bird, who I assumed was his mother. I’m not sure what type of birds they were, but it was rewarding to see the reunion.

This is only a sampling of the drama that plays out daily in our yards. Sometimes it is life or death. I once saw one of the neighborhood cats on top of the brick dividing wall staring intensely at something on the other side of my deck. There was a chipmunk backed up into the corner against my house and the other neighbor’s brick dividing wall. Suddenly the cat pounced, and in the blink of an eye he had that chipmunk trapped in his jaws. He hesitated for a second and then bounded straight up the brick wall, prey in mouth, and was gone. 

By far the most amazing spot by my neighbor, Scott, was outside his front door steps. He texted me to look outside at his front steps railing. There, perched on the black wrought iron railing, I saw a magnificent hawk. It must have been 15 to 18 inches long including the long gray and black striped tail. I had never seen one like it before. I later identified it as an adult Cooper’s Hawk, with it’s reddish-orange barred chest and legs and gray back feathers. The head was capped black, and the eyes were bright red. I grabbed my camera and starting snapping away, hoping he wouldn’t fly off too soon.

Turns out he was not skittish at all, like the backyard feeder birds. In fact, it looked like he was poising for me. With his extremely flexible neck, he moved his head to see in any and all directions, while keeping his body perfectly still. He looked left, right, up, down, and behind and down so the head disappeared completely!  When he got bored with that, he flew off the railing onto my front lawn, startling me, so I stepped backwards. From there he pranced across the grass like a runway model, as I snapped away, hardly believing my good fortune. Then in an instant, he flew off.

My neighbor and I would also scan the skies for large birds flying by, like the Turkey Vulture or Blue Heron. Capturing birds in flight with the camera can be challenging, but I’m getting better at it with practice. Scott noticed that a Blue Heron flies over our houses twice a day, in the morning and in late afternoon, going and coming from somewhere close. I’ve been able to get a few good photos of the bird passing overhead. 

The life and death struggles of wildlife can remind me of what’s going on outside our little oasis. My wife and I are among the lucky ones. We’re healthy, retired senior citizens and we’ve so far been able to escape the harsh reality of getting sick, like so many others all around us. Just a few blocks down the road is an elder rehab center that has lost over 50 people due to the COVID-19 virus. We try not to forget them, nor the brave medical professionals who care for patients every day while putting themselves at great risk. Quarantine time has given me the chance to slow down, observe, and reflect on what’s important in life; and for that I am grateful.

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Website for Stuart DuBreuil and Yoko Gushi