An occasional essay on issues pertaining to the Western landscape
Currents in the Air
Frederick H. Swanson
PART I
Frederick H. Swanson
PART I
Mist is playing with the mountains this morning as I go on my daily walk. Masses of cloud rise out of the canyon off to the south, unfurling thin tendrils which expand until they obscure the higher ridges. They retreat, revealing fragments of skyline. The condensed vapor gives substance to the intervening atmosphere, making air currents visible, drawing my eye to what normally cannot be seen. On this day following a rare winter rain, a blanket of high stratus covers the sky, while at ground level the heat of the earth propels an infinity of droplets upward and off to the east. This aeolian river flows over me and on up to the higher hills, where it merges with the cloud deck. A raven surfs the air current, planing off to the right and disappearing into the grayness. I feel its buoyancy and wish to follow, to experience its mastery of the higher realm.
My younger years were spent in the Pacific Northwest, so I know wet and grayness, but out here at the eastern edge of the Great Basin, moisture is a gift. Yesterday’s rain and wind drove out the pollution which lingered too long over the nearby city; once the sky clears again, the mountain range to the west will appear in sharp outline for a day or two, as mountains should. I do not begrudge the obscuring effects of fog and low cloud, for in this semiarid environment they speak of life and green things. Today every tree presented a dark outline against the thin blanket of snow which lay on the nearby hills, their leafless branches drinking in the damp air, soaking their bark and dormant cambium.
Throughout Western literature mist and fog have served metaphorical purposes, shrouding the sailor at sea and the lonely wanderer on the moor. Impenetrable vapors cloud our thinking and hide our destinations. In Homer’s tales Athena deploys mists to various purposes, shielding Odysseus from the gaze of the Phaeacians, while in the Iliad she sends a cloud to prevent Diomedes from perceiving the gods. Back in my mountaineering days, being enveloped in sudden cloud brought danger and disorientation; we carried willow wands to stick in the snow to guide our return to camp.
On this winter day, I take the enveloping clouds as an invitation to see clearly, to avoid analogy and simile altogether. What I wish to do is simple enough: to understand where it is I stand in this little neighborhood of mine, up against the mountains at the rim of the urban complex. As I walk past the well-kept homes of this upscale subdivision, I ask myself what would it take to live in a manner that supposes we will be here a hundred or five hundred years hence? To imagine a life more harmonious with its physical surroundings, more in keeping with limits than with expansion and excess.
I am technically trespassing here, as indicated by the signs the Homeowners Committee has posted at every entrance. But for the past twenty years, ever since we broke ground on a new home in an adjacent subdivision, I have been passing through these streets in order to reach the surrounding open space. Once I step off the blacktop, I follow old trails and disused roads leading through copses of oak and maple, upward onto minor ridges which afford expansive views of the high rims on either side of the canyon
Enveloped in misty thoughts, I take note of the privilege of the lone walker: to look all around, stop to pick up a leaf or a stone, converse with jays and chickadees, gaze off at the distant horizons, and commune with clouds. I am no great world traveler, have sailed no seas and fought no battles with ship and sword. Instead I go for walks, wondering what is to become of this world which has given me such beauty.
For most of my life I have lived at the edge of cities small and large, which has afforded me the luxury of taking strolls and short hikes into the surrounding undeveloped landscapes. I have been fortunate to have nature (a term which to me still has meaning) close at hand, in the form of native trees and grasses, birdsong, a small measure of quiet and a few stars at night. I consider these not as amenities, or as a pleasant diversion from the real business of living, but as essential to life.
There are few firm boundaries between the wild and the human-made. Pigeons and sparrows abound in urban streets and parking lots; coyotes prowl the outskirts of the city; and even the densest downtown block exists underneath sky, sun and rain. From almost any western U.S. city, one can cast a glance toward some kind of mountain and know that urbanity is to some extent circumscribed by geography.
From my suburban perspective, clouds and storm represent nature at its wildest. Days that are filled with atmospheric phenomena seem more interesting than clear, sunny ones. I experience this as a sense of connection: those cloud-currents came from somewhere far beyond my horizon. The rivers of air pile up against the higher mountains, condense and discharge, then move on. Soon they will be over the far ranges to the east, over distant cities where I have friends and relations. We are thus connected, and if I wish I can let them know to expect snow or rain.
I try to imagine the day’s weather from the ravens’ viewpoint. They seem to revel in the winds that sweep over the ridges, soaring up, sideways and back again, turning suddenly to be carried downwind. A pair of rough-legged hawks that have moved into the canyon this winter do likewise, but they are even better at “kiting” (as my field guide puts it) and are able to remain stationary in a stiff wind, the better to spot a vole or rabbit.
Sometimes when I’m standing atop a ridge in a good wind, I spread my arms and feel the push of air against them, though without any sensation of lift. It puts me in mind of the dreams I used to have wherein I would confidently leap from a high precipice and glide, arms outstretched, out over some immense green valley. I would spiral down and watch the forest draw closer, but the dream always ended before I landed. Skydiving must be like this. Once I rode in an unpowered glider for an all-too-brief sojourn in the atmosphere before we, unlike the raven, had to return to ground.
These dreams always took place in a wild environment of my imagining, informed perhaps by television documentaries of the Amazon or perhaps the Venezuelan highlands. They had nothing in common with my mountaineering days, which took me into austere and barren places, where exposure to storm was always uncomfortable and in some situations could be fatal. The Earth of my dreams was beneficent, welcoming, and green beyond belief. There was something deeply ancestral about this home coming. I suppose that part of me has been trying to find that spot all along.
Perhaps some day, like Odysseus, I will wake from these mists and see my home place once again, to treasure all that it gives me, and no longer dream of distant mountains and far-off shores.
My younger years were spent in the Pacific Northwest, so I know wet and grayness, but out here at the eastern edge of the Great Basin, moisture is a gift. Yesterday’s rain and wind drove out the pollution which lingered too long over the nearby city; once the sky clears again, the mountain range to the west will appear in sharp outline for a day or two, as mountains should. I do not begrudge the obscuring effects of fog and low cloud, for in this semiarid environment they speak of life and green things. Today every tree presented a dark outline against the thin blanket of snow which lay on the nearby hills, their leafless branches drinking in the damp air, soaking their bark and dormant cambium.
Throughout Western literature mist and fog have served metaphorical purposes, shrouding the sailor at sea and the lonely wanderer on the moor. Impenetrable vapors cloud our thinking and hide our destinations. In Homer’s tales Athena deploys mists to various purposes, shielding Odysseus from the gaze of the Phaeacians, while in the Iliad she sends a cloud to prevent Diomedes from perceiving the gods. Back in my mountaineering days, being enveloped in sudden cloud brought danger and disorientation; we carried willow wands to stick in the snow to guide our return to camp.
On this winter day, I take the enveloping clouds as an invitation to see clearly, to avoid analogy and simile altogether. What I wish to do is simple enough: to understand where it is I stand in this little neighborhood of mine, up against the mountains at the rim of the urban complex. As I walk past the well-kept homes of this upscale subdivision, I ask myself what would it take to live in a manner that supposes we will be here a hundred or five hundred years hence? To imagine a life more harmonious with its physical surroundings, more in keeping with limits than with expansion and excess.
I am technically trespassing here, as indicated by the signs the Homeowners Committee has posted at every entrance. But for the past twenty years, ever since we broke ground on a new home in an adjacent subdivision, I have been passing through these streets in order to reach the surrounding open space. Once I step off the blacktop, I follow old trails and disused roads leading through copses of oak and maple, upward onto minor ridges which afford expansive views of the high rims on either side of the canyon
Enveloped in misty thoughts, I take note of the privilege of the lone walker: to look all around, stop to pick up a leaf or a stone, converse with jays and chickadees, gaze off at the distant horizons, and commune with clouds. I am no great world traveler, have sailed no seas and fought no battles with ship and sword. Instead I go for walks, wondering what is to become of this world which has given me such beauty.
For most of my life I have lived at the edge of cities small and large, which has afforded me the luxury of taking strolls and short hikes into the surrounding undeveloped landscapes. I have been fortunate to have nature (a term which to me still has meaning) close at hand, in the form of native trees and grasses, birdsong, a small measure of quiet and a few stars at night. I consider these not as amenities, or as a pleasant diversion from the real business of living, but as essential to life.
There are few firm boundaries between the wild and the human-made. Pigeons and sparrows abound in urban streets and parking lots; coyotes prowl the outskirts of the city; and even the densest downtown block exists underneath sky, sun and rain. From almost any western U.S. city, one can cast a glance toward some kind of mountain and know that urbanity is to some extent circumscribed by geography.
From my suburban perspective, clouds and storm represent nature at its wildest. Days that are filled with atmospheric phenomena seem more interesting than clear, sunny ones. I experience this as a sense of connection: those cloud-currents came from somewhere far beyond my horizon. The rivers of air pile up against the higher mountains, condense and discharge, then move on. Soon they will be over the far ranges to the east, over distant cities where I have friends and relations. We are thus connected, and if I wish I can let them know to expect snow or rain.
I try to imagine the day’s weather from the ravens’ viewpoint. They seem to revel in the winds that sweep over the ridges, soaring up, sideways and back again, turning suddenly to be carried downwind. A pair of rough-legged hawks that have moved into the canyon this winter do likewise, but they are even better at “kiting” (as my field guide puts it) and are able to remain stationary in a stiff wind, the better to spot a vole or rabbit.
Sometimes when I’m standing atop a ridge in a good wind, I spread my arms and feel the push of air against them, though without any sensation of lift. It puts me in mind of the dreams I used to have wherein I would confidently leap from a high precipice and glide, arms outstretched, out over some immense green valley. I would spiral down and watch the forest draw closer, but the dream always ended before I landed. Skydiving must be like this. Once I rode in an unpowered glider for an all-too-brief sojourn in the atmosphere before we, unlike the raven, had to return to ground.
These dreams always took place in a wild environment of my imagining, informed perhaps by television documentaries of the Amazon or perhaps the Venezuelan highlands. They had nothing in common with my mountaineering days, which took me into austere and barren places, where exposure to storm was always uncomfortable and in some situations could be fatal. The Earth of my dreams was beneficent, welcoming, and green beyond belief. There was something deeply ancestral about this home coming. I suppose that part of me has been trying to find that spot all along.
Perhaps some day, like Odysseus, I will wake from these mists and see my home place once again, to treasure all that it gives me, and no longer dream of distant mountains and far-off shores.