Headwaters Magazine - Fall 2021

Headwaters

The University of Vermont’s Environmental Publication

Fall 2021

Table of Contents

Masthead

Hey stranger, bless this shiny little ant: Camponotus novaeboacensis

By Hayley Kolding | page 3

Editor in Chief Noah Beckage

When Lead Covered the Earth

By Bridget Mackie | page 4

Managing Editor Deniz Dutton

Making Mud Soup: Lessons from an Outdoor Preschool

By Erin Acosta | page 7 Today I Dragged Myself Into TheWoods

By Kira Corasanti | page 10 Wildlife Conservation Through a Photographers Lens

By Madeline Waterman | page 11 Genisis: on colonial mindsets, the exploration of land, & missionary hubris

By Satya Emerick | page 14 Silence, Solitude, Sanctuary On the fundamental importance of being alone in nature

By Jake Hogan | page 15 The Conversations of the Wood Wide Web

By Sadie Doyle | page 18 Jawai

By Soham Mehta | page 21 Op-Ed: Growing Beyond Gold: Why Indigenous Sovereignty is Integral to Climate Work

By Clara Feldman | page 25 Shark Conservation in the Anthropocene: Can Sharks Survive Us?

By Tessa Weir | page 28 The California Fire Season

By Valentin M. Kostelnik | page 31 UVM to Stop Composting ‘Compostable’ Products January, 2022

By Jolie Scott | page 34 Leis out to the World A collection of poetry by Matthew Foster | page 37 1 Headwaters Magazine

Managing Designer Ella Weatherington Treasurer Jake Hogan Contributing Editors Alexandra De Luise Claire Golder Deniz Dutton Eleanor Duva Fosca Bechthold Jake Hogan Noah Beckage Teresa Helms Contributing Artists Abby Kaiser Ella Weatherington Ellie Yatco Juliette Fredericks Madeline Waterman Maggie Alberghini Maya Kagan Sadie Holmes Samantha Clancy Soham Mehta Find us @uvmheadwaters on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter and online at uvmheadwaters.org Copywright © 2021 Headwaters Magazine This magazine was printed on the traditional land of the Abenaki People

Dear Reader, Welcome to the 11th edition of Headwaters Magazine. This fall marks the fifth anniversary since our first publication—a milestone that speaks to the continuous passion for environmentalism that the students of this university cherish. Though five years may not seem like a very long time in the grand scheme, to the writers, illustrators, editors, and designers that make this magazine possible, five years ago may as well have been another lifetime.

The world looks vastly different today than it did back then. In 2016, the possibility of a global pandemic seemed distant, an abstract threat more likely to be realized in a science fiction novel than in our world. Five years ago, our infamous former president had just been elected, signifying the culmination of a dysfunction in American politics that continues to plague our democracy today. Five years ago, Greta Thurnberg was just a 13-year-old child, as removed from the world stage as any other young teen. The world has truly changed in innumerable ways in such a brief span of time, yet as evidenced by the stories written in this edition, our commitment to reputable journalism and creative expression remains unshaken.

In these pages you will find stories of sovereignty, coexistence, isolation, and remembrance. You may enjoy reading a reflection on the experience of solitude in nature, or be entranced by stunning photographs that illustrate the coexistence between man and beast in rural India. You may learn about the ecological importance of sharks in marine ecosystems, or be moved by poems about the nature of time and our relationship to land. In all of these written pieces, we hope you’ll find that the underlying current of curiosity and awe of the natural world runs deep beneath their words.

Yet this current couldn’t flow in the form of this magazine were it not for the generous support we receive on behalf of our friends. We’d like to thank the Rubenstein School of Environment and Natural Resources, UVM’s Student Government Association, and our advisor, Josh Brown, for all they do in making our magazine possible.

We’d also like to give special thanks to Ella, our amazingly talented head of design for helping put all of these pages together so creatively, and to our Leadership Team, who helped us sail this ship when we needed a crew the most.

Additionally, we’d like to extend a warm thank you to Kevin and Shirley Foster, for sharing our friend’s beautiful poetry with us.

Lastly we’d like to thank you, dear reader, for your continued readership and interest in our magazine over the years. Here’s to many more years to come.

Sincerely,

Noah Beckage University of Vermont ‘23 Editor-in-Chief

Deniz Dutton University of Vermont ‘23 Managing Editor

Art by Juliette Fredricks Headwaters Magazine 2

Hey stranger, bless this shiny little ant: Camponotus novaeboracensis

By Hayley Kolding I. Camponotus novaeboracensis, the New York carpenter ant, belongs to a diverse genus of large ants that build nests by chewing galleries out of wood—although this species has been known to nest not only in trees and stumps, but also under rocks or cow dung.

Morphologically, it can be distinguished from others in its genus by its shiny gaster, bicoloration (mesosoma and legs red), unnotched clypeus, and cheeks lacking erect hairs. Workers tend treehoppers and aphids, including the smoky-winged poplar aphid, Chaitophorus populicola, which feeds and forms colonies near the apical meristems of poplar and aspen trees. The ants feed on the aphids’ sugary honeydew excretions while protecting them from predators. Curiously, this mutualistic relationship is somewhat uneven; while C. novaeboracensis can succeed in the absence of honeydew by consuming tree trunk exudates and dead insects, C. populicola has never been recorded without ant attendants.

II. III. Hey stranger, bless this shiny little ant As a masters candidate in UVM’s Field Naturalist prowhirring up and down an aspen leaf. gram, I am always up against the reality of an environment Bless her six feet, her jaw, the stiff gold hairs in crisis. Readings, projects, field trips, and conversations on her rear that narrows to a point that center natural history and conservation strategy are inlike a hornet’s sting. Bless the convex hump extricably linked to the matters of habitat loss, pollution, of her red back. I mean, just check her out. climate change, and extinction. But as Rachel Carson, one As she circles the edge of the toothed blade. of the role models of our program, proposed in “The Sense Traverses the stalk. Pauses. Nudges rump of Wonder”, “Those who contemplate the beauty of the of fellow ant. Look how she surmounts earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life the sticky clustered buds. Cruises right to twig. lasts.” She was right: the more wonders that my peers and I And then, on silver bark, butts heads with her discover in the natural world, the easier it is to convert our near twin (and they cross feelers as if knitting). ecological grief into drive. That is why, as conservation proDo a dance for the whole branch steaming fessionals, we still take time to climb into caves and search with collisions. This ant plows past her pal, for beaver signs, and look up close at plants and insects of zips onto a strap-flat stalk where it leaves unfathomable beauty. Our life’s work is a response to a world the plant. She stamps like a Glyptemus turtle in distress, but our daily experience is ruled by joy. grunting for worms. And the petiole shakes The idea for this piece was simple: to take the sense of with aphids. Bless the aphids, raising their wonder, joy, and play that motivates me as a Field Naturalback ends or stuck full down. Their silhouettes ist, and share it. I had been having fun watching a colony of like scrawny-legged urns. Sticky sap they drip. carpenter ants down by the lake, and it dawned on me that Sugar dots. Ridges. The ant’s antennae insects were overdue for some lighthearted coverage. Honeysweep over the aphids. A come-here bee die-offs and reports of a coming insect apocalypse have gesture. Gathering, urgent. Bless that maestro, stirred up unprecedented public interest in insect biodiversibless that eater sweeping sweetness to her ty—a great win for conservationists—but the fatalistic tone big plate. That long-armed god in the field of these reports, and serious flaws in the research undergirdwaving home her flock. Bless her! Her ant cheeks ing them, have also generated skepticism, offense, and even hairless, full of honeydew! Her ant legs, dismayed paralysis in non-scientists. I wanted to remind from coxa to tarsal claw! No bug dares hunt those who are feeling overwhelmed by the reports that data the aphids this ant tends to, baby. and observations can do more than weigh us down—they Bless their safe little butts. And Camponotus, can delight, inspire, and empower us. With a more nuanced what a worker, never stilling. Bless and joy-based experience of insect diversity, we can all bethe antennae preening nectar off her step. come better stewards of the natural world. H Art by Ella Weatherington 3 Headwaters Magazine

When Lead Covered the Earth

By Bridget Mackie Like many children born in the early 2000s, I grew up in a world with relatively little lead. My toys were lead-free, and the paint that chipped off of my walls was no more harmful than dust on the floor. Most importantly, I lived in a world without leaded gasoline. The same cannot be said for my parents’ generation, who grew up in a perpetual snowfall of lead. It plumed from the exhaust of cars, accumulated in the atmosphere, and fell, dusting the ground.

There, it settled and remained for decades of children to play in.

Leaded gasoline has its origin in the early 1900s. As cars grew in popularity, desire for more powerful and efficient cars grew as well. However, as cars got more powerful, a strange phenomenon emerged; the engines began to make a loud knocking sound. The cause of “engine knock” eluded scientists for years. That is until Thomas Midgley hit the scene. Midgley, an American mechanical and chemical engineer, seemed to have had a mind for inventing from a young age. It is this mind, and its products, that came to define his life and legacy.

By 1916, Midgley was an engineer working at General Motors when he stumbled upon the problem of engine knocking. Contemporaries blamed the problem on the battery ignition, but Midgley hypothesized something different. Engine knocking, he discovered, was a result of the compressed fuel and air within the engine exploding.

If Midgley could solve this problem, engines could run smoother and more efficiently than ever before. By 1920, researchers were developing fuel additives to reduce engine knock. There were especially promising formulas us-

ing combinations of ethanol and petroleum, and Midgley himself filed a patent application for one such formula. Ultimately, these developments would be overshadowed by a different fuel additive.

Midgley began his search for this new additive by taking out his periodic table and testing all sorts of elements.

Eventually, he had a list of several elements that were found to raise a fuel’s octane rating, a measure of a fuel’s resistance to engine knock. However, all these elements were expensive or scarce and wouldn’t be economically practical. On a whim, Midgley tried tetraethyl lead (TEL), a form of lead that dissolved easily in gasoline. It turned out that TEL was effective, cheap, and abundant, so it became the winning solution. Thus, inspired by Midgley’s findings, the Ethyl Gasoline Corporation was born, whose name conveniently dropped all mentions of lead. At the time lead had been a known toxin for centuries. In fact, ancient Romans had observed the ill effects on laborers working with the element.

It is not surprising, then, that the public was concerned when reports surfaced of workers suffering psychosis —and in some cases dying—in factories producing leaded gasoline.

These factories became known as “houses of butterflies’’ because of a common hallucination suffered by workers.

One factory in New Jersey was reportedly full of butterflies.

They would land on the workers’ jackets tenderly, almost as if they weren’t there at all. Then they would brush them off and watch as they disintegrated into the air. These hallucinations of butterflies often preceded a bleaker fate. In the early 1920s, at least fifteen workers at this New Jersey plant died of acute lead poisoning, while dozens of others suffered permanent brain damage. Reports of these occurrences left the Ethyl Gasoline Corporation with a PR problem.

In an effort to combat the bad press, the Ethyl Corporation—along with several other companies, including Gen-

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eral Motors—launched a campaign to convince the public that their toxic gasoline was safe. The ‘scientific’ basis of the campaign relied on studies by scientists commissioned by the lead industry. Uncoincidentally, these studies’ results were marred by poor technique. Many falsely concluded that lead exists naturally in the human body and is therefore safe under certain levels.

While these ‘scientific’ studies satisfied government officials, Midgley himself went on a tour of the United States in order to prove the supposed safety of leaded gas to the public. His demonstrations included washing his hands with leaded gasoline and breathing in the fumes from a car running on leaded gasoline. Not long after this campaign, Midgley took a leave of absence to the sunshine of Florida because he had been diagnosed with acute lead poisoning. Unfortunately, the workers in TEL factories couldn’t take a vacation to clear their lungs.

This campaign concluded in a public health conference conducted in August 1925 by the Surgeon General of the United States. The conference included many scientists from the lead industry who discussed their flawed studies. Ultimately, the main argument of the Ethyl Gasoline Corporation became an economic one.

What were a few worker deaths in the face of the vast economic and industrial gains that will result from this gasoline? This argument was perhaps the most convincing to the public and government.

Soon, leaded gasoline became the standard in automobiles.

The problem was that leaded gasoline did not just affect a few factory workers. As public health advocate Dr. Alice Hamilton pointed out at that same conference, “lead is a slow and cumulative poison, […] it does not usually produce striking symptoms that are easily recognized.” Hamilton, along with several other public health advocates, was among the first people to raise the question of leaded gasoline’s effects on public health.

Despite Hamilton’s initial concerns about leaded gasoline, investigation of low level lead exposures did not begin until much later. It began with an unexpected discovery by a young geochemist named Clair Patterson in the late 1940s. Patterson originally was working with lead in a very

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different context than Midgley. Early in his research using the amount of lead in meteors to estimate the age of the Earth, he encountered a strange, unexpected problem. The meteors had a disproportionate amount of lead in them that indicated impossible ages for the rocks. He reasoned that there had to be another source of lead that was contaminating his samples. In his search for the source, he realized that lead was everywhere—all over the walls of his laboratory, on his lab coat, even on his hair and skin. It took seven years for Patterson to create an uncontaminated lab and finish his work dating the age of the earth, but he remained vexed at the original source of the persistent lead contamination.

This question led Patterson to a lifetime of research on the prevalence of lead in the atmosphere. Patterson’s early research took him to the bottom of the ocean where he measured the amount of lead in layers of sediment. He found that newer sediment layers had significantly higher lead levels than older layers. In 1963, these findings were the first to be published about lead in the environment. Throughout the 1960s, Patterson continued to study lead contamination in the atmosphere, using Antarctic ice cores and ancient Peruvian human remains to compare atmospheric lead concentration throughout history.

Time and again Patterson proved that atmospheric lead levels were not naturally high but rather were directly related to human industrialization. In one of his articles, Patterson argued that, “the average resident of the United States is being subjected to severe chronic lead insult.” This conclusion was not well received by many in the scientific community, and he was especially attacked by the lead industry. He was branded as a “crackpot” by the Ethyl Corporation, who sought to undermine his scientific credibility. Eventually, though, Patterson’s research was corroborated by other scientists concerned about the effects of lead at low levels of exposure.

The most notable of these scientists was Dr. Herbert Needleman. Needleman’s interest in lead primarily grew out of a concern for the health of children. In the mid1960s, Needleman was working as a pediatric psychiatry resident at the St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children in Philadelphia. He was disappointed in the training he was receiving and began to question if environmental factors,

like lead, were causing learning disabilities in children. Pursuing this question, Needleman conducted dozens of studies analyzing the behavioral effects of lead on children, particularly related to attention, intelligence, and aggression.

In 1979, he published a study that found that higher levels of lead were linked to lower intelligence quotients (IQs)— about 4 points lower on average. The study was met with significant pushback from the lead industry, who sought to discredit Needleman’s work. This culminated in a scientific misconduct investigation which dragged on for years, but eventually ruled in Needleman’s favor. Despite this challenge, the study overcame the pushback and changed the way the public and the scientific community viewed lead poisoning. Even if lead exposure didn’t cause severe illness in a child, it could still affect their quality of life. Yet, by the time Needleman published these results, leaded gasoline was already beginning to be phased out of cars.

While this was partly because of growing concern about lead’s effects on public health, it was predominantly because of new government regulations related to other forms of air pollution. The passage of the Clean Air Act of 1963 and later amendments required the automobile industry to find ways to reduce pollutants. The catalytic converter was invented to reduce air pollutants from car exhaust, but leaded gasoline destroyed these converters. Although the automotive industry resisted the catalytic converter initially, the EPA mandated that all new cars from 1975 onward needed to have a catalytic converter. This meant that unleaded gasoline would need to be more widely available, thus beginning the decline of leaded gasoline.

Though the 1970s saw significant reduction in leaded gasoline, the 1980s brought the Reagan administration and its efforts to ease up on big business. In 1985, EPA economist Joel Schwartz investigated the social and economic costs of leaded gasoline regulation. It would cost 100 million dollars to regulate leaded gasoline, but the social cost as a result of lower paying jobs and increased health costs weighed in at about 1 billion dollars. Without an economic leg to stand on, the leaded gasoline industry began to crumble. Finally, in January of 1996, leaded gasoline in automobiles was officially phased out in the US. The effects of this phase-out were dramatic. In the late 1970s, the federal government set up a National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey (NHANES) which measured the blood lead levels of around 20,000 people, including children. The survey found that nearly 99.8 percent of children had blood lead levels that would be considered elevated by today’s standards. With the subsequent phaseout of leaded gasoline, average blood lead levels dropped by 95 percent between 1977 and 1994. The most recent NHANES study, conducted from 2007 to 2010, found that less than 3 per-

cent of children had elevated blood lead levels.

Thomas Midgley died in 1944, long before Patterson and Needleman began conducting their research. He contracted polio, which limited his mobility. In response to his condition, he invented a contraption to help him get out of bed. One day, though, something went horribly wrong, and he was strangled in the elaborate mess of pulleys and cables. In a way, we have all been caught up in the mess of Midgley’s creation. However, to blame only Midgley would be to ignore the dozens of government officials, scientists, and physicians, who conducted poor research and ignored the voices of those who stood up for public health. Leaded gasoline poisoned generations of children, and its legacy continues today. Atmospheric lead levels remain higher than natural background levels despite the decrease since the phase out of leaded gasoline in cars. Leaded gasoline continues to be used widely in aviation gas and is the largest source of atmospheric lead pollution, comprising about 50% of lead emissions. Current evidence suggests that children who live in areas near major airports tend to have higher blood lead levels than the national average.

It is impossible to know how our inventions will define us. Midgley could not have known that part of his legacy would be defined by the devastating effect of lead on children’s brains. The story of leaded gasoline shows us that public health is vulnerable to economic interests. Midgley was not the only player in this story. Scientists like Patterson or Needleman show us that science is not completely corrupted by economic interests. The pendulum ultimately swung in the direction of public health, but as pendulums are never static, it is possible for it to swing the other way. Back and forth this pendulum swings. Someday, we might reach an objective truth that favors the health of the people, but that will only be achieved by valuing people’s well-being over economic gain. H

Art by Samantha Clancy Headwaters Magazine 6

Making Mud Soup: Lessons from an Outdoor Preschool

By Erin Acosta Seated on a fallen tree in the woods, the little boy and I hold a mushroom guidebook between us. It is mid-morning in early April and the sun is casting shadows across our class’s ‘adventure spot.’

The shadows stretch out long over fallen branches, across the stumps and rotting logs where, when they are very lucky, my students find salamanders sleeping just beneath the bark. Most of the other preschoolers are busy building a fort, balancing branches against each other as my co-teacher watches. The student next to me is captivated by something else entirely.

Dragging his finger across the brightly colored graphics, I listen as he categorizes the fungi by size, naming each one after a member of his family.

“This is Papa,” he says pointing to the largest mushroom on the page, then to the next, “this is Mama.”

When he gets to the smallest mushroom, he calls it his own name. Pulling the book into his lap, he tells a story about the mama, papa, and baby mushrooms all playing together.

Though a traditional preschool might highlight this moment of storytelling as a demonstration of the boy’s cognitive ability, I am amazed by an entirely different skill.

Within the past seven months of school, my student has internalized the most valuable understanding my co-teacher and I could ever hope to impart—that nature, like family, is something that can be loved and protected. He has learned to feel kinship with and empathy for the natural world.

We spend the rest of the day looking for mushrooms, and many of his classmates join the hunt. As we walk through the woods they remind each other not to touch or uproot anything, telling their peers that, “What is attached stays attached.” Eventually, a child spots a cluster of turkey tail mushrooms on a branch, which leads us to

7 Headwaters Magazine

gather around and greet the wrinkled fungi. After each of the children have gotten a chance to observe them closely, we leave the mushrooms exactly how we found them.

I never planned on being an outdoor preschool teacher immediately after graduating high school. Yet, like many students in the class of 2020, I decided to take a gap year and look for work. I secured a job at Boston Outdoor Preschool Network (BOPN) as a preschool teacher, which coincidentally turned out to be an experience I valued deeply. Located at the Massachusetts Horticultural Society gardens and its surrounding woods, my co-teacher and I would take our class to a different ‘adventure spot’ each day. The children would spend time exploring the chosen locations and create their own games with minimal outside supplies.

As a play-based and child-led school, BOPN emphasizes the importance of letting children experience nature through unstructured play. Typical activities included making mud soup, looking for animals, and engaging in imaginative games, all of which strengthened their relationships to their natural surroundings. As a play-based and child-led program we did not have a set curriculum but instead covered topics as they arose through our students’ interactions with the natural world. If, for example, our students discovered a frog, my co-teacher and I would bring in books about frogs the next day and plan mini-lessons and activities related to frogs for that week. Over the course of the school year we covered many of the same themes as traditional indoor programs but all of our lessons were molded to support the knowledge our students were already gaining from being immersed in nature.

The first time my boss and I met, she told me that, “A large part of the job is raising future environmentalists.”

We were walking through the garden where the outdoor preschool would commence in the fall. It was late August and the flower beds were in full bloom—packed tightly with swaths of zinnias and echinaceas. It was hard to imagine a more picturesque setting for an outdoor school. Every few feet my boss paused to point out a different species of interest. Later that day, as she led a tour for prospective parents, she pointed out those same plants and talked about the importance of building empathy for the natural world, the parents nodding along as she spoke.

I did not fully grasp how strong the connection between environmentalism and outdoor preschools is until I began working at BOPN. Over the course of the year, I watched my students gain confidence in themselves and their environment. My students went from fearing the natural world around them, shying away from insects and bad weather, to dancing freely in rainstorms and flipping over logs to observe the writhing life below. I spoke with one of the founders of the school I worked for, Sara Murray, about the connection between environmentalism and outdoor preschools. In her response Murray paraphrased what Ken Finch, the founder and president of Green Hearts Institute for Nature in Childhood had said in his keynote speech at the Eastern Region Association of Forest and Nature Schools (ERAFANS) “Wonder Summit”: “ Early childhood educators want the very best thing for young children. Environmentalists want what’s best for the environment. Nature preschools offer the very best way for young children to spend their time (exploring, learning, and connecting with nature) while falling in love with the

natural world they will be tasked with caring for as adults.”

The heart of all preschool learning, both nature based and traditional, is the development of social-emotional skills. Developing empathy and the ability to solve social disagreements makes up the bulk of preschool education.

Traditional preschools have students develop these skills through interacting with their classmates and teachers.

Outdoor preschools have the added dynamic of allowing for children to develop empathy through activities where they can interact with the natural world. My students learned to share and provide each other comfort while simultaneously learning to hold insects with gentle hands and leave flowers unpicked. The concept we operated under was that if we teach children to develop social-emotional skills for both humans and nature at once, there will no longer be a separation between empathizing for and loving friends and empathizing for and loving one’s environment.

Through continued immersion, nature preschools encourage children to care deeply about the natural world which helps to bridge the growing divide between children and nature. As Murray explained, “People protect what is important to them and what they care about. If you don’t have a connection to nature, you don’t necessarily care if it’s still there or not.”

Part of our disconnection with nature is due to a significant lack of access. A common misconception of today is that parents default to supplying children with tablets and internet resources out of convenience and a general devaluation of nature. In reality, many families are simply unable to fit time in nature into their lives. As Sara Murray explained, while discussing the current trend of raising preschool aged children online instead of outside, “a lot of that is practical. Not all families have a caregiver who is willing and able and available to go outside on a regular basis and not everyone has easy access to natural spaces on a regular basis. Many parents and people raising children need to work full time. Not all neighborhoods have natural elements. Not everyone has access to proper outerwear to be outside in the rain and cold weather. It’s easier to be inside and online and often more practical and possible for complicated modern living.”

There are definite barriers to being outdoors and to enrolling children in outdoor preschools. From a financial standpoint, outdoor preschools are simply impossible for many families to afford. Even when outdoor schools offer scholarships, they still require safe green spaces and are usually located in more affluent areas, leading to transportation barriers. Additionally, Murray mentioned that the appropriate gear is expensive and the school day schedules are sometimes impractical for families with parents who work full time. Luckily, there is a push within the outdoor

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education community to create more accessible outdoor programs. For example, the Oregon Health & Wellness Initiative, a branch of the non-profit Willamette Partnership, has an online document titled “Outdoor Preschool Equity Toolkit” which they put together after conducting interviews with 15 outdoor preschools in 2019 and 2020.

The toolkit covers solutions for creating financial, logistical, and cultural equity. BOPN is working on implementing many of the initiatives outlined in the toolbox such as offering scholarships, full day programs, and opening locations in areas where families have little access to outdoor spaces.

That said, there is still much work to be done when it comes to making early-childhood outdoor education accessible. Access to nature needs to become more of a priority in the environmental movement. During my time at BOPN I was able to observe how beneficial quality time spent in nature is for young children. My students worked on their gross motor skills and built self confidence by balancing on logs and climbing trees. As for social skills, they developed empathy by interacting with frogs and worms and each other. They learned about the seasons, not passively by looking at colorful paper handouts, but from observing the daily change in temperature, and the seasonal migrations of different animals. As teachers we never pretended that it was easy to be outside in all weather; instead we taught our students strategies like keeping their bodies moving to stay warm. Developing resiliency took time but by deep winter they were all doing jumping jacks in pairs and trios, snow falling on their knit caps, laughing despite their pink faces.

A week before school let out, my class came across a particularly brutal depiction of nature, their reaction to which served as lasting verification that they learned to appreciate nature for what it is—brutal and beautiful and worthy of our attention and protection.

We were at our favorite tree, an enormous American beech whose branching canopy spread out so magnificently that it was always our go to on hot days. For the past two weeks, we had been visiting a toad that lived in the beech tree’s exposed roots, and that day we expected to find it there again. When we arrived, however, we found our toad in the midst of being eaten by a garter snake. My co-teacher and I were initially unsure of how our students would respond to the bloody and conspicuous scene.

We roped off the area but allowed the children to observe from afar if they wanted to. Many children stayed to watch the toad be eaten. They asked questions like, “Is he okay?” and, “Can we feed it something else?” They were generally distraught that our toad was meeting such a sudden end, but more than anything they were intrigued and

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accepting. They understood that in nature, snakes eat toads sometimes. When the snake finished its meal, it slithered away through a fence and the children waved to it. We talked about how snakes do not have grocery stores like people do and that the snake was probably very happy to have a full belly even though it was very sad that we would not see our toad anymore. Sitting in a large circle on the ground, we all painted watercolor pictures for the toad and the snake. In that moment, I knew that all of my students had grown immeasurably in their understanding and love for the environment. To be able to watch something they named and bonded with be eaten, and still have love for the animal that ate, is a skill that few adults have. It is exactly this deep and persistent compassion for nature that demonstrates outdoor preschools are valuable contributors to the underpinnings of environmentalism. H

Art by Sadie Holmes

Today Myself

I Into

by Kira Corasanti And stopped underneath an oak, listening for the last crow call, garbled and loud like a kettle that has sat on the stove for too long.

The silence that blanketed the ground muted thoughts I mistook for wind.

A hazelnut found its way beneath my foot, cracking beneath the gait I acquired watching other hairless creatures stomp about the earth.

I trudged on, the snow blending brown mimicking the rabbits who change their skin.

A wry epitaph to winter; I only saw brown rabbits.

Where was Jack Frost hiding?

Buried in the hot confines of wrinkled sheets, “Just a few more minutes” and cracked, cold toes wiggling, turning the sun on high. Defrosting Jack, who pulls covers up to his cold, blue nose,

Dragged The Woods Photography by Juliette Fredericks with lids that do not lift to watch the day steal his icicles and the buds that slip into flowers before his alarm.

Yesterday, I met a man walking near the road, he raised his hand, beckoning, and I, hesitant, approached.

He was selling a pair of skates, ice skates.

I took them from wrinkled hands, tossing him an extra dime.

Marveling at the ancient blades, I tucked them beneath my bare arm, and continued along against the wind.

I brought them with me today, to the lake at Ram’s Head.

It is February.

My bones are hot.

I peeled off my clothes and plunged headfirst instead. H

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Wildlife Conservation Through a Photographer’s Lens

By Madeline Waterman

Browned reeds whip about in the late-March breeze as I crouch among them, concealed from hundreds of watchful eyes congregating on the half-thawed pond surface directly ahead. Honks, quacks, and the strange clicking noises emitted by Sandhill Cranes fill the air, forming a bird symphony. Out of the vast network of canals and other bodies of water in the area, the birds seem to flock almost entirely to this particular pond for reasons unknown to me.

This tendency, however, is more than welcomed by ranch guests—mostly fishermen—as it means that only one of their fishing areas is overflowing with the waste that comes along with such concentrated groups of feathered creatures.

After spending nearly a week on this Sheridan, Montana ranch with no company other than the wildlife, I’ve quickly discovered that the extremely skittish waterfowl—except for the bold Canada Geese—are not easy to sneak up on. I’ve not yet been able to catch the ever-vigilant hoard off guard; they inevitably take to the air in a great cacophony of panicked alarm calls and erratically flapping wings. Today’s venture has left me army-crawling through the damp grasses surrounding the pond in an effort to approach without being seen. So far, I’ve managed to avoid detection—though I’m convinced they will spot me at any moment.

There are five feet left… four… three… just when I think I’ve made it to the perfect location without being seen, a trumpeter swan swims directly in front of me.

Seemingly in slow motion, we make eye contact. Shock registers in the two beady orbs staring back at me before quickly turning to panic—panic which mirrors my own as I picture the giant, notoriously aggressive bird charging me instead of flying off. Thankfully, the swan beats its impressive wings while letting loose a shrill honk of alarm and lifting off. Immediately, every last bird takes to the air, foiling any chance I’d had to capture photos of napping waterfowl.

However, a wildlife photographer always has a Plan B; I leap to my feet, simultaneously bringing up my camera and focusing on the fleeing subjects. I snap photo after photo, praying to the nature spirits that at least one will turn out.

Once all the birds have gone, I review what I’ve captured with held breath… and let it out in a rush of air as I find images like those out of a dream. I may have missed the shot I was going for, but I captured something far better.

Nearly a month before, I’d set out from my home in Hyde Park, Vermont—a tiny town nestled in the idyllic

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Green Mountains. I’d spent most of the past year quarantined there with my parents after classes were moved online. As great as my family is, I felt that I was missing out on my own life. I’d been set to go to Mongolia for a few

months in the summer of 2020 to participate in wildlife field research—an opportunity that would provide valuable background experience for any wildlife job I applied for in the future—but it had been canceled even before the pandemic hit the U.S. After repeated career-building cancellations, I was beyond sick of waiting around for opportunities to come to me. I knew something needed to change, but wasn’t sure exactly what that was until a near-constant flood of social media posts from travelers began popping up on my instagram feed. Many of these posts came from a group of wildlife photographers from Jackson, Wyoming—they were constantly posting incredible shots of the wildlife they saw on a daily basis. Immediately infatuated with their lives, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

Before I knew it, my Subaru crosstrek was all packed up with winter essentials and a camping pad in preparation for all the nights I would spend beneath the stars. The next 12,000 miles would mostly be just me, my camera, and the open road. Over the course of three months, I would experience countless incredible adventures: I’d stay at the Sheridan ranch, meet other wildlife photographers, stay on a sailboat for nearly two weeks in Washington, and discover a nearly-deserted hiking trail in the northern Redwoods of California, to name just a few.

While traveling from destination to destination, I spent

most nights camping in my car. One such night brought me to the 12-Mile Hot Springs in northeastern Nevada, which was a river of hot springs running through dusty, shrubby, cattle-filled land. The road to get there was one of the worst I’d ever seen: mountain-sized bumps positioned beside potholes emulating great sinkholes, crevasses of ruts from previous tire tracks filled with mud, and shallow rivers running across the dirt drive at regular intervals. Upon reaching the hot springs, it became clear that the arduous drive had been well-worth the trouble; one of my favorite photos from the trip shows a perfect painter’s sunset backlit against the canyon walls.

Though the high desert ecosystem may have originally seemed relatively absent of animals, they seemed to come out of the woodwork—or rather, stonework—as I sat quietly in the springs. A red-tailed hawk circled overhead before landing in a dead tree to keep a watchful eye on me.

A few northern shrikes and western meadowlarks emerged briefly from the shrub brush before flitting away, busily preparing for the night. A mule deer quietly stepped out from a rock crevice as she made her way down the road I’d walked up not ten minutes before. Later, I would spook her from the tightly-packed sagebrush along the edge of the trail I’d camp on.

As the stars emerged from their daytime hiding places, the moon crept over the hillside and shone through my car window seemingly as bright as the midday sun.

I rolled over, welcoming the darkness of sleep.

That night, I dreamt of mountain lions prowling through the canyon on silent paws, but I was not afraid.

I cannot say how many birds I saw alongside the highway during my time on the road, but the number must be in the high hundreds, at

the very least. Red-tailed Hawks were seemingly everywhere, but I never grew tired of seeing them. When I first crossed the border between Idaho and Washington going through farm country, one nearly flew into my windshield, almost scaring me enough to trigger a premature heart attack.

Although birds were by far the most numerous type of animal I saw in every location I traveled, many are still in trouble. The world is currently entering its sixth mass extinction, with hundreds of species of birds either having already gone extinct or headed that way in rapid succession. In North America alone, we’ve already lost around 3 billion birds in just the past 50 years—a number that is increasing exponentially.

While touring the Sheridan ranch with its manager, Mike, we came upon a swan carcass about 500 feet from the road. Although at first confused as to what had happened to it, he informed me that this was the third swan in recent months which had flown into the power lines and been electrocuted. Mike told me that he’d asked the wildlife department to put markers on the power lines, but they’d been slow on the uptake. Since he’d first asked, another swan had already met its fate on the powerlines.

One morning at the ranch, I happened to glance out the window—only to do a double-take upon spotting the brilliant colors and faux-baldpate of a male Ring-necked Pheasant. He was sitting below some bushes separating the field from the guest house’s yard, seemingly without a care in the world. Having never seen one of these breathtaking birds so close, I immediately ran to grab my camera. To my delight, the proud bird stoically sat for his portrait.

Although pheasants were originally introduced to the U.S. from Asia, they’ve naturalized and are now considered an important game species. They receive much assistance

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by Fish and Wildlife departments via stocking; thousands of farm-raised birds are released yearly across the U.S. in populations which cannot be self-sustaining. This ensures that the species is stable enough for hunting to continue while also preserving the viability of vulnerable populations who may otherwise struggle to survive.

Despite the steep decline being observed in many bird species, it’s encouraging to see that many species have made a recovery after being placed on the endangered species list (ESL), such as the California Condor and the Whooping Crane. The benefit of being on the ESL is that these species are more likely to make a recovery than those who are not; while most animals on the list are actively managed and expected to recover, the birds who are not officially recognized as endangered are dying off in great numbers due to the lack on conservation efforts focused on them. However, for a species to be listed in the first place is a devastating blow which we must work hard to reverse. Global warming coupled with human pollutants (such as pesticides) pose a massive threat to bird biodiversity, and we must do anything we can to slow this mass-extinction before it is too late.

Of course, there are a great number of species outside the realm of birds who are struggling and need our help if they are to survive in the generations to come. One such animal is the moose, a species which many of my friends on the east coast have never seen before. Several even swear that the strange creatures are simply a myth made up by crazy woodsmen which has been carried on by others playing a trick on the rest of society. I am quite certain, however, that they would quickly take that statement back if they ever visited Jackson, Wyoming.

While in town for a few days participating in an avalanche safety and rescue course, I saw more moose than I’d previously seen in my 21 years of life. Every day as I drove into Grand Teton National Park I would see at least five moose in the same mile-long stretch of road. Both tourists (sporting cheap selfie sticks) and wildlife photographers (grasping high-grade cameras with lenses nearly as long as my arm) would be lined up alongside the road, snapping away. I must admit that I also joined the gaggle of people clogging up the roadside, gawking at the nearness of so many of the giant ungulates.

Despite the Jackson area’s reputation for being a moose-sighting hotspot, the population has steadily decreased over the years. One good sign for the Jackson herd is that there have been many cows spotted with calves—I myself saw a near-adult calf with its mother—hopefully predicting a near-future uptick in the population. However, Wyoming’s moose still experience many obstacles in their path to survival, such as habitat loss and winter tick

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increases.

Back on the East Coast, the only state with a high concentration of moose is Maine. There, moose are nearly always spotted covered in swaths of winter ticks; they’re often found dead in the snow after succumbing to blood loss from tens of thousands of the parasitic insects. Each year, as many as half of the calves die while others grow sick, unable to push on while an infestation of ticks leeches away all their energy. This has resulted in severe reductions in reproductive success, which is a frightening prospect for the future of the moose population. All of this is further pushed along because of global warming: longer winters in the past meant that the ticks would drop off into snow instead of leaves, their required breeding habitat, thus decreasing their chances of survival. With earlier springs brought on by climate change, a boom in the tick population has been seen due to the increased likelihood of them dropping off into viable breeding habitat.

After three months on the road, I saw more animals than I do in a typical year back at home. Herds of bison, pronghorn, elk, every species of deer found in the U.S. roamed along roadsides, a pod of gray whales breached off the Washington coast, and even the occasional marmot or muskrat emerged from their hiding places. Each of these species were unique and special in their own ways—and I have plenty of photos to prove it. I connected with wildlife professionals, like-minded outdoor adventurers, and even learned about some views that may have been different from my own.

As a society, we must start working together wherever we can. If we don’t make some broadscale changes, the environment so treasured as part of our lives will become unrecognizable. Many of the species who inspire so much awe— such as the moose— will disappear forever.

I can only hope that my photos and writing will increase awareness of and appreciation for wildlife; if enough people come together, we just may be able to make a positive impact on the future— for everyone. H

Photography by Madeline Waterman

Genesis:

On colonial mindsets, the exploitation of Land, & missionary hubris

By Satya Emerick

God created the Heavens and the Earth.

And God created Me: Symmetrical, coherent, And predictable as time.

God created My Earth; God created My prize.

Splayed limp in its tracks, Timid beneath armoured thistle barracks, Yet cocky in its clumsy brawn.

To conquer, to tame, to domesticate.

Burrowing its savage, rugged, and calloused breath in My charitable open arms.

Stomping out ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Until I can see My own reflection in the skinned and polished bones of its hills: Mortal and simple. H

Photography by Juliette Fredericks Headwaters Magazine 14

Silence, Solitude, Sanctuary

On the fundamental importance of being alone in nature

By Jake Hogan A professor of mine once gave my class a straightforward prompt: write about a place that looms large in your memory. My thoughts quickly settled on the memory of a summer day in Bolonia, but it was not the stone columns left by Romans nor the rugged hills of Morocco across the strait that called my mind back. It was not the great dune of sand we walked up that “loomed large.” Rather, the part of that day that has remained vivid in my mind is the moment that I descended from the dune into a patch of juniper trees. Sitting under a low ceiling of swaying branches over a bed of sand and fallen needles, I was greeted with silence.

I recall family camping trips where an uncle of mine would take walks at night. Rather than take a flashlight to guide him through Groton State Forest, he would look directly up as he walked, using gaps in the dark canopy to avoid walking into trees. He could have done the same thing in the daytime. His evening walks, though, offered him a degree of solitude as he connected to the landscape by letting it guide him.

Reflecting on these personal stories, it appears to me that there is something that draws people to spend time by themselves in the natural world. This trend extends far beyond my own observations, though. The 2021 film “Land”, in which a woman seeks to overcome tragedy by isolating herself in a remote cabin, is only a recent example of this idea in a long history of similar stories. From classic novels like “Into the Wild” by Jon Krakaurer, to the writing of transcendentalists like Henry David Thoreau, to the sublime landscapes of romantic painters like Caspar David Freidrich, a similar theme is revealed: to be alone in nature is a profoundly transformative experience. Dwelling on this realization led me to wonder: where does this phenomenon come from? What is it about human nature that begs us to seek solitude in nature?

In order to answer these questions, I have felt that I must consider how human relationships with the environment have evolved over time. Throughout the course of human history, our perceived place within the greater context of the natural world has radically changed. As soon as humans began forming permanent settlements, a disparity between

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what is natural and what is human was created. Technological advancements and the development of ideologies emphasizing the uniqueness of humans, among other things, exacerbated this gap and created the concept of “wilderness”. In many ancient accounts, perhaps most noticeably in biblical stories, wilderness refers to dangerous, barren lands that lay beyond sedentary human settlements.

In his article “The Trouble with Wilderness”, however, historian William Cronon details a radical change in this relationship. Attitudes toward nature, specifically in the United States, were transformed by romanticism and frontier-ideologies. By the 19th century, attitudes toward the wilderness focused on the beauty and God-evoking landscapes to be seen beyond human settlements, and a collective idealization of nature fueled the early conservationist movement. It is easy to understand how these sentiments would promote solo nature experiences as a way to experience something sublime.

Because of this, I was quick to suspect that the trope of a person going out into nature alone was fueled by a desire to discover truths about themselves or the larger world.

Surely, I assumed, it is a symptom of the modern continuation of this nation’s sense of place. If this were true, it would be reasonable to expect that there are cultures very different from our own in which this phenomenon cannot be observed. Across cultural and historical context, though, there are examples of people having transformative experiences in nature.

From the same biblical societies which Cronon notes thought of the wilderness as a dangerous, godless place, there are stories in which solitude and nature are central.

The Bible teaches that Jesus overcame temptation while alone in the Judaean desert and that before him, God spoke to Moses various times when he was alone on mountains.

Beyond this, many of the religions that are foundational to billions of people’s lives and ideologies include similar stories. To name a few, it is said that the prophet Muhammad recieved his first revelations while meditating alone in a cave, and that the Buddha reached enlightenment sitting under a pipal tree.

Spending time independently in the wilderness is also

considered a rite of passage in various cultures outside of religious tradition. For example, young men in some Aboriginal Australian cultures participate in a historical tradition of temporary mobility, a period in which they leave their communities in order to enter adulthood and become spiritually mature. That this idea is present in cultures and societies with largely disparate relationships to nature suggests that whatever draws people to be alone in nature goes beyond socially constructed values or trends.

As it turns out, there is a great deal of psychological evidence to support why humans may be drawn to this type of experience. In a review consolidating decades of research, Lia Naor and Ofra Mayseless, two researchers focused on the connection between nature and psychology, identify this concept, which they deem the “Wilderness Solo Experience”. Their research concludes that two key factors contribute to the psychological benefits of this phenom-

enon: silence and solitude. Why, then, is a natural setting foundational to this experience? How is sitting alone in the quiet of a library any less valuable than doing the same in a forest? The answer is that silence is more than the absence of noise, and solitude is more than the absence of other people.

In the example of the library, silence is achieved not only by not speaking, but also by turning one’s attention away from all of the surrounding distractions, shutting out intrusive thoughts, and focusing the mind. In natural spaces, however, one does not need to narrow their focus away from an abundance of technological and otherwise anthropogenic stimuli. Rather, many report feeling an expansion of their awareness, and an increased ability to think and reflect clearly. Similarly, being alone in everyday life involves separation, while having an independent experience in nature often involves connection to the environ-

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ment and deep feelings of belonging. When these two aspects combine, they facilitate self-reflection and contemplation of one’s own place in the wider world.

Beyond this, there is a vast sea of established benefits to spending time outdoors, and perhaps many more that have yet to be discovered. Many of these are consolidated in Florence William’s book “The Nature Fix”, where she presents time in nature as a remedy for stress and the many mental health ills plaguing society. Thirty-three years before William’s book, biologist Edward O. Wilson published “Biophillia”, in which he proposed that the love of nature is a fundamental human characteristic and having positive environmental experiences is a key aspect of the human experience.

Considering this research, the ability to experience nature in this way is an incredibly valuable resource. Beyond the psychological benefits provided by silence and solitude, however, the American Public Health Association (APHA) recognizes that access to natural spaces is linked to increased physical health and greater social capital. That said, while this access offers certain advantages to those privy to it, it is not available to everyone, creating, as many environmental problems do, an issue of justice.

The ability to easily and safely access natural spaces is not experienced equally. In his essay, “Environmentalism’s Racist History”, legal scholar Jedediah Purdy notes that, in the United States specifically, the modern environmentalist movement was most influenced by elite, white men.

Though the environmental movement has often brought about positive change, its legacy manifests in a lack of diversity in modern environmental leadership. This is only one of many complex factors contributing to the reality that many of the environmental crises we face today disproportionately affect poor and minority communities.

On top of bearing the brunt of pollution and damage by extreme weather events, these groups are deprived of positive environmental experiences.

One might expect that in Vermont, where nature and outdoor recreation are core aspects of the state’s identity, residents would be ahead of the curve in terms of access to these spaces. When examining the available data, however, this assumption quickly dissolves. The U.S. Department of Agriculture finds that in Vermont, BIPOC citizens own only a small fraction of the private woodlands, forests, and agricultural land in the state. Of course, Vermont still has a great wealth of public natural spaces, but according to the Center for American Progress, 76% of BIPOC Vermonters live in “nature deprived” areas compared to just 20% of white Vermonters.

“Vermont exceptionalism has finally been challenged by data that shows us that many Vermonters do not enjoy a

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quality environmental experience,” said State Senator Kesha Ram Hinsdale, one of the legislators fighting to address this issue, having recently introduced a bill that would establish environmental justice policies in Vermont.

The proposed bill S.148 tackles many issues of public health stemming from environmental factors, including disproportionate ability to access to green spaces. Reflecting on her own experience, Sen. Ram Hinsdale said, “I moved to Shelburne last year. I can walk out of my house and be in green space in 30 seconds.” She feels that many are excluded from enjoying the wellness benefits associated with wilderness experiences “based on income, race, or language access.” This inadequate access also has an impact on culture and religion, as “we still don’t necessarily have the best infrastructure for groups to have a cultural ceremony or religious festival in nature.”

Implementing legislation to combat this is overdue in the state. “It’s been 15 years that we’ve been trying to draft this legislation. In that time, the EPA has asked Vermont repeatedly to get its environmental justice policy in place.

We’re one of the last states that doesn’t have one.”

Outside of the United States, other countries have taken steps that address the issue of access to nature. A number of European nations, for example, have the “right to roam,” also called the right of public access to the wilderness. This provides their citizens with a fundamental right to access nature, and, in theory, to have the quintessential “wilderness solo experience” and the improved well-being associated with it. To be guaranteed this access is something that a growing number of activists are claiming should be a human right.

It should be noted that as we increase access to nature, we must simultaneously ensure that we increase our efforts to protect it. Greater human traffic to natural spaces has the potential to degrade them and interfere with their ecological dynamics, and perhaps it is necessary to not only guarantee green space access, but guarantee access to a healthy environment. However, research suggests that there is a link between meaningful experiences in nature and environmentally-friendly behavior. In other words, the more time a person spends in nature, the more they tend to care about protecting the environment. If this is true, a feedback loop of sorts could be created in which giving people access to natural spaces encourages a greater degree of environmental stewardship. The practice of being alone in nature is deeply embedded in the human experience, and maybe this universal tradition has the power to promote healing for both people and the planet. H

Art by Maggoe Alberghini

The Conversations of the Wood Wide Web

By Sadie Doyle In my hometown of Newburyport, Massachusetts lies and the soil beneath your feet are thrumming with energy Maudslay State Park, a formerly private property turned and engaging in constant dialogue in a language that we are public park. It is 483 acres of field and forest, well-known only just beginning to investigate. for its towering white pines, and one that I have been exForestry has long been a science of harsh competition. ploring all my life. Located within a large estate historicalThe assumption was that the strongest trees live to grow ly owned by a wealthy family, there are naturally rumours up, and the weakest trees never make it to maturity, so that Maudslay is haunted. To scare each other, teenagers foresters concluded that each tree stood alone in its quest tell stories of deceased family members and staff wandering for survival. This idea was carried out in forestry practices the grounds. The stories are fun, but there really is a spirit that prevented forests from forming strong communities to of sorts, and more to Maudslay—indeed more to any forprotect one another. If trees are all fending for themselves est—than meets the eye. anyways, then foresters felt confident it made things easier The kingdom of fungi is an overlooked guiding hand in for remaining trees if you cut down a large slew of trees the foundations and functions of life. Popular image conat once, or harvested trees at the heart of an old-growth jures small fruiting bodies, often umbrella shaped, popping forest. It is not just forestry. Scientists have to balance two out of the ground, but mushrooms are only the aspect of truths: that organisms are interconnected and dependent the organism that are easiest to see, and most species do not on one another to maintain balance, and that organisms even have them. Fungi are mainly recognized as decomposhave to compete with each other for limited resources. In ers, but the depths of their roles are uniquely widespread forests, these two ideas fit together differently than tradiand entwined with organisms. They are found nearly everytional notions would dictate. where on earth, from marine sediment to human bodies, In 1984, English botanist David Read proved that it was and ecosystems would collapse, or never exist at all, withpossible for carbon, an essential element for plants to carry out them. They play parts in a great deal of different relaout photosynthesis, to pass between plants through fungal tionships, but I am specifically fascinated with fungi that connections, something that had been hypothesized since grow in a relationship with plants, called mycorrhizae. the 1960’s but never demonstrated. He used donor and A common way for fungi to spread is through expandreceiver plants, with or without mycorrhizal fungi present, ing their mycelium, a process by which they form branchand fed the donors radioactive carbon dioxide. For plants ing, exploratory networks of tiny threads called hyphae. that did not have a fungal network, he detected radioactiviWhen they spread and connect with other mycelium unty only in the donor plant, but with a fungal network, both derground, they form what are called common mycorrhizal plants showed radioactivity. These findings were significant networks and they connect nearly every tree in a forest by progress, but the experiment had been conducted in a labothreading themselves into root hairs. Some mycologists reratory, so his conclusion did not suggest that carbon transfer to mycorrhizal fungi as keystone organisms; others call fer between plants could happen naturally. them ecosystem engineers. These unseen architects work to Canadian forest ecologist Suzanne Simard built off of maintain the intricate dynamics of a forest.

Read’s findings when she designed a manipulative experiIf you have ever gone walking in the woods and felt ment on a tree plantation in British Columbia, and what that your environment is awake, it is. The feeling that you she found changed the study of ecology forever. In an NPR are not among many different individuals, but inside of article “How do Trees Collaborate?” Simard discusses her something vast, is an accurate one. The trees around you work. She took pairs of trees and exposed one tree in each

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pair to carbon-14, a radioactive carbon isotope. She found that when the birch had taken up the carbon, its neighbor, the fir, had also absorbed it. One tree was given the isotope, but both trees had it. “I ran from plot to plot. And I checked all 80 replicates,” Simard says, “The evidence was clear. Paper birch and Douglas fir were in a lively two-way conversation.” Simard was the first to publish a study claiming that carbon can naturally move between trees through the fungal network connecting their roots. She also found that shaded fir seedlings, deprived of the sun that they need to carry out photosynthesis, received more carbon from birches than unshaded seedlings. The seedlings that were better endowed with sunlight were transferring their excess carbon sugars. Not only did they share, but they shared equitably. To a community of scientists that had been operating under the idea that trees thrived by diminishing other

more it seems that collaboration is far more important to the success of the forest. These limited resources are often shared, not hoarded. In other words, a forest is not simply a mass of individual organisms because its success depends on the aid distributed to the weakest trees. In a healthy forest, older trees share their wealth of nutrients with younger, vulnerable trees. A tree growing in a disadvantageous environment will be compensated, like the shaded fir seedlings in Simard’s experiment that received more carbon from their fellow seedlings that had greater access to sunlight.

We know now that in order to properly observe a tree and the scope of its needs, we have to look at the ties it forms with these fungal highways and other trees.

Professor D’Amato explained, “we’ve just grown to recognize over the past several decades that ecosystem ecology and ecosystem management has become a big part of how

trees, this was a radical finding.

Trees are not as competitive as we used to think, this is not to say that any ecosystem is a sentimental utopia of kindness. Professor Tony D’Amato, director of the UVM forestry program and research forests, weighed in on connections between trees in regards to forest management.

He states, “there are scenarios where one tree is going to compete with another one. It’s not always going to be a harmonious kind of interaction.” Forests do have competition, since they contend with limited resources. However, the more we learn about how they function as a whole, the

we manage forests, that forests are complex, and so when we’re managing them we want to be maintaining these complex dynamics that are out there, through managing for dead wood, managing for species that aren’t going to make a good saw log, but make a really great habitat, or really good for sustaining mycorrhizal symbioses.”

Merlin Sheldrake is a biologist who studied fungal networks in Panama’s tropical forests. He wrote the book Entangled Life, the first book I ever read about fungi and their far-reaching influences. The book focuses on relationships and how they blur the borders between ostensibly separate

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organisms. While discussing the connections between mycorrhizal networks and the agriculture and forestry industries, Sheldrake muses that “where the person’s self begins and ends is not as straightforward a question as it might seem at first glance. Mycorrhizal relationships challenge us with a similar question.” They demand a broadened view of life. They transfer water, carbon, phosphorus, nitrogen, and information in the form of electrical signals. They fortify plants against drought, disease, salinity, and attacks from insects. They increase the amount of water that the ground can take in, prevent nutrients from washing out of the soil, and will even physically hold soil together. This eases a burden on our climate, as most of the carbon in northern temperate forests is stored in soil and transferred to the fungi. In fact, these fungi are responsible for four percent of atmospheric carbon sequestered annually. Fungi

to Darwin, the weaker members of species die, while the strong survive to pass on their genes, and thus the fundamental law of nature is competition between individuals.

Where does a tree end? Where does a person? Although we consider ourselves advanced, humans rely on the patterns we observe in nature to make sense of ourselves.

In the United States, we have mirrored Darwin’s rule and turned it into an economic and social regime. We think of ourselves as competing for limited resources, and the only way to win is to push one another out of the way to take as much as we can, but the “natural phenomenon” that inspired this thinking was never as pervasive as we believed it was. We do not have to abide by outdated ideals of self-interest because we are starting to realize how difficult it is to define the ‘self ’ in an interwoven world.

The “survival of the fittest” approach needlessly leaves

are important coordinators of life within a forest; it is impossible to comprehend the full picture by considering a tree in isolation from its community. The way that trees use these relationships to share and receive from other members of their environment, based on their needs and ability, is a mutually beneficial system and a reason why forests survive to develop into healthy ecosystems.

Individual trees in a forest cannot survive without one another or the networks that facilitate their connections.

This statement challenges the ideals that we use to categorize things in nature, and in our own society. According

people behind, and it deprives everyone of the community that would fortify them. Cooperation is a far more effective tool for survival than cut throat rivalry. I am not myself without the scientists that I look up to like Read, Simard, and Sheldrake. They are not successful without using each other’s contributions to aid in new discoveries. A tree is not just a tree, and when you go walking in the woods, you are stepping into a collaborative community. In our society of limited resources, I wonder what we would become if we formed our own networks of mutual compassion. H

Art by Maya Kagan Headwaters Magazine 20

JAWAI The story of India’s Leopard Hills. A place where one can explore the relationship a culture maintains with its bioregion, creating an atmosphere of coexistence and harmony.

By Soham Mehta Photography by Soham Mahta

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THE LEOPARD

the epitome of grace & stealth

India—my home country—is a land where vast biological and cultural diversity intersect across regions. This diversity, now in closer proximity than ever, means that humans and wildlife are now competing for resources. Big cats have been straying into villages and cities more often, and living alongside communities in tense situations. This forced proximity often elicits conflicts between humans and wild species, some of which are critically endangered.

With one of the largest human populations globally, how has India been able to control its behavior towards wild carnivoreslike leopards? One of the principal reasons is that India is a nation of faith, religion, and spirituality, in all of which the environment plays a significant role. I call many of the species which fall under this discourse the ‘Holy Beasts of India’ with a paradox in mind; these animals are revered and respected, but feared as well by the Indian community, leading to conflicts.

From the rainforests of Southern India, to the urban landscapes of Mumbai City, to the alpine forests of the Himalayan foothills, the Indian leopards (Panthera pardus) innate ability to adapt to avariety of different habitats makes it the most successful largecarnivore in India. Sly and quick, they draw little attention from humans in India, but when they are so close, conflict is inevitable. According to a 2018 report, the leopard population has increased by 60% in four years—an impressive number, considering the fast-growing human population and This summer, I came across a story of a place where the ‘Holy Beasts’ are revered and respected more than they are rapid habitat encroachment. feared, thereby invigorating a relationship that embodies this coexistence. This is the story of the shared land of the Rabari Shepherds and the leopards.

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Sharing the Land THE RABARI & THE LEOPARDS OF JAWAI

The above picture was taken 5 minutes after the live birth of a sheep assisted by the Rabari Shepherds. Meanwhile, a leopard was spotted just a kilometer behind the rock in the picture!

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Jawai is a place that makes possible a wildlife enthusiast’s thrilling dream to see one of the most elusive big cats in the world – the leopard – in the wild. With its unique terrain and stories of coexistence with humans, the leopard population is thriving in the Jawai Hills. There have been countless moments where the leopards of Jawai have been documented living in the picturesque beauty of the granite hills alongside close human activity, however, they are so secretive that they remain ghosts lurking in the darkness of the caves of Jawai.

The Jawai Hills are located in the Pali district of the Indian State of Rajasthan. In these rugged hills, surrounded by grasslands, fields, riverbeds, and the Jawai Bandh (a manmade dam), one can explore the relationship a culture maintains with its bioregion.

The Rabari shepherds, the region’s local tribe, are devout worshippers of Ambe Mata, whose ‘vahan’ (vehicle) is a leopard. The Rabaris consider leopards a divine symbol and respect all the nature that supports their well-being in Jawai.

Sharing land with a predator is not easy, but the Rabaris are able to live with the fact that their goat or sheep will be prey to the leopard someday. They do not retaliate in anger, but instead protect these leopards from outsiders.

This reverence and deep love interconnected to strong beliefs are one of the reasons why India has been able to conserve this magnificent species so remarkably. In fact, the Rabari region has one of the highest densities of leopards globally, but the animals have not harmed any humans yet. However, it is essential to acknowledge that this is the case unique to the Jawai Region, people from other areas in India view leopards differently therefore having a relationship of conflict and disharmony.

“

Whatever and whoever is on earth, has it’s role to play, we are no one to control the natural cycle.

”

“Since years my family has been living here and it (leopard) has never attacked me, and nor have I heard it attack others.

The leopard kills goats, sheep, calves, and sometimes even an adult cow when they get a chance, and we have no problem with it because with the grace of our Goddess (Ambe Mata) we are never going in a loss. We will be blessed with protection and our livestock having more offspring in the future. With that in mind, we need to share this land with them, and except the fact that they will eat our livestock in order survive and be healthy, which our Goddess expects.”

-The Rabari Shepherd who worked at the resort ‘Leopard’s Lair’ in Bera, Jawai.

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Op-Ed: Growing Beyond Gold: Why Indigenous Sovereignty is Integral to Climate Work

By Clara Feldman

There is unity among all things in this world—a web of interconnection that endures the strongest of storms.

Humans are intimately related to the natural world, but we have been distanced from this space through centuries of colonial ideology and capitalist ventures. The violence and resource extraction that cleaved this separation persists today. In light of the escalating climate crisis, the relationships between humans and all of the natural world are becoming clearly visible as a greater number of communities begin experiencing effects of the climate crisis that can no longer be ignored. The relationship between humans and the Earth should be one of mutuality; but we have done more harm than good to this planet and the consequences of that behavior are visible.

As ice shelves fall, fires rage, and storms tear apart communities worldwide, coalitions of climate activists such as Sunrise Movement and Extinction Rebellion are working to challenge the capitalist ideologies that create injustices

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across social and ecological spheres. Rather than focusing solely on consumer-responsibility and individual action, climate groups are turning focus towards conglomerates and institutions that enable ecocide and exploitation. Coupled with this shift in focus is activists’ attempts to ensure that environmental justice is at the core of their work.

In doing so, an abundance of Indigenous wisdom and leadership has found space to blossom where it was once stamped out. Progressive groups within today’s broader climate movement are increasingly aware of how necessary it is to highlight Indigenous leadership in all aspects of policy and activism work. Colonialism and capitalist systems that dominate our world do not focus on cultivating a sustainable relationship with the earth and are contradictory to Indigenous ways of knowing, which makes Indigenous leaders powerful agents for guiding and reshaping the ideologies that ground the climate movement.

Representative of how Indigenous liberation and cli-

mate salvation are intertwined is the proposed reopening of Rise Gold’s Idaho-Maryland mine in the Nevada City Rancheria of Northern California, ancestral homeland of the Nisenan Tribe. If this proposal were to become reality, the environmental and social outcomes would be devastating, with impacts spreading far beyond the immediate Nevada City Rancheria area. As Nisenan spokeswoman Shelly Covert acknowledges, “This is about land. With the Native American people, it’s always about land.”1 It is impossible to separate the tribe’s goals of reinstated federal recognition from the activism movements trying to preserve the area’s social and ecological health. Like the Nisenan Tribe, the objectives of many Indigenous communities are closely aligned with mainstream climate goals, yet are not often treated as such. Recognition of Indigenous nationhood places authority of land management into Indigenous hands—hands that would mitigate exploitation and protect the integrity of land and all its inhabitants. Failure to acknowledge the interrelation between Indigenous sovereignty and environmentalism is a great loss for any climate movement. By protecting their cultural worldviews, Indigenous nations continue to be active proof that human existence is not inherently detrimental to land; we can and do exist alongside the rest of the natural world. Securing the land-back goals like those of the Nisenan Tribe inherently advances the restoration and regeneration of land that climate activists desire.

Ecological degradation following the reopening of this mining operation is certain. The sanctioned exploitation the mine proposes would plunge the area into a state of environmental and social distress as clearly explained by Mine Watch scientists and leaders. Thus, there is no room for debate over the destructiveness of continued extraction.

The county’s current “F” air quality rating would only worsen with the expected release of numerous greenhouse gases, fugitive dusts, and other asthma and cancer-causing particulate matter. Water, an increasingly at-risk resource in California and beyond, would be consumed by the millions-of-gallons per day for nearly a century after the mine’s construction. Energy use in the mine would employ 48 billion watt hours per year, a 12% consumption rate of the county’s entire energy supply—knocking back the county government plan to decrease fossil fuel use, and

significantly upping energy costs2. A consumption of fossil fuels this intense cannot be sustained during this time of record power shut-offs and wildfire damage, nor can it foster a livable community for animals and humans. An additional 75 acres of woodland and chaparral, originally intended for supervised restoration and toxin clean-up, would be demolished to make way for mine waste products. These lands are not only ecologically vital to the area’s watershed, but intrinsically and practically valuable to all beings in the region. What is lost ecologically rarely goes unfelt viscerally.

The Nevada City Rancheria area exhibits a disproportionately high rate of lung afflictions and related mortalities, but also a significant and inequitable number of mental health concerns. Rates of depression, anxiety, and annual suicides are significantly higher than state averages, while access to psychological health services remains severely lacking. Spokeswoman Covert adds that “extreme rates of undereducation and under employment, in addition to high rates of drug and alcohol addiction, domestic violence, suicide, and poor health,”3 are experienced by the community. Disproportionate health outcomes concentrated in Indigenous communities is not a novelty. In fact, it is the standard. Worse, environmental degradation caused by the mine is likely to increase community anxiety over property values and depletion of resources, while also increasing depression and frustration as community health outcomes worsen. No consolation is granted, as any possible financial benefit of the mine is immediately counteracted by the negative impacts to the area’s tourism and recreation industry. Destruction of a healthy community ethos through both physical and psychological means is a tool of oppression towards Indigenous communities and the wider area, hindering the progress of conservation initiatives and positive environmental action.

Additionally, even without federal recognition of Nisenan sovereignty, the construction of this mine is in violation of state health and safety codes. Section 41700 of the California Health and Safety code states almost verbatim, that no amount of air pollutants can be released if they will cause “injury, detriment, nuisance, or annoyance” to any public group or jeopardize the “comfort, repose, health or safety” of the public—realities that will come to frui-

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tion if the mine is approved. With this clash of policy and proposal, it is clear that existing resources are not enough to serve the community members fighting this mine. Even when they are using all available institutions in their effort, it is still not enough to protect their community.

Thus the critical question arises: where does Indigenous recognition come into play? If the responsibility of land stewardship were returned to the hands of Indigenous nations, activism could occur alongside and in conjunction with state and federal institutions; protecting Indigenous land through existing frameworks, but under the direction of the land’s ancestral kin. Restoring Indigenous sovereignty over the Rancheria means recognizing that the institutions of the State of California and the government of the United States will not be enough to heal the climate of this area, or anywhere. Existing pathways for bureaucratic and institutional change will never adequately serve the interests of land stewardship because they were built by a society with a fundamentally extractive method of thinking. Shifting and recomposing societal ways of thinking is necessary to make substantial, lasting change. Integration of Indigenous worldviews in all spaces is what is missing in activism. To make a dual-lens approach that integrates both Indigenous and Western perspectives simultaneously, the new norm of climate work first requires a recognition of Indigenous nationhood and land sovereignty. This shift begins with rescinding outright federal control, and asking for permission from the caretakers of the land when resources are needed.

If we are to care for Earth and regenerate our relationship with it, we need a fundamental shift in the lenses through which we approach the climate crisis. A prioritization of exploitation and rights-based thinking has allowed for projects like the Idaho-Maryland mine to come to fruition around the world. Take Line 3 in Minnesota or the Dakota Access Pipeline as examples. Opposition movements everywhere are suffocating because the system around them is formulated to nurture extraction not reciprocity, apathy not kinship, transaction and not gratitude.

With respect and responsibility, we must integrate alternative ways of understanding our relationship to Earth that prioritize regenerative approaches to climate restoration.

But herein lies an important distinction—we must not in-

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spire the theft of Indigenous paradigms, but rather advocate for the elevation of those paradigms through the establishment of Indigenous leadership and sovereignty. For the Nevada City Rancheria, this means supporting opposition initiatives like Mine Watch, as well as supporting the goals of the Nisenan Tribe, acknowledging that neither objective is complete without the other.

If the Idaho-Maryland Mine proposal holds any value at all, it is that actions directed by a desire to extract are not actions worth taking. As our worsening climate strains interconnected ecosystems worldwide, learning to see the crisis ahead of us through different lenses remains one of the most powerful tools available for change making—if we have the courage and accountability to ask for guidance.

If you’d like to help stop the approval of the Idaho-Maryland mine, visit https://www.minewatchnc.org/ for more resources and action items. For more information on the Nisenan Tribe of California and how to support their heritage conservation initiatives, visit https://www.nisenan.org/. H Notes 1 Rebecca O’Neil, Nisenan Spokesperson Says She Believes State Recognition Is Possible, The Union (November 2020).

2 Mine Watch (June 2020).

3 Brooke Schueller and Avery L. White, The California Tribe the Government Tried to Erase in the 60s, Vice (January 2017).

Art by Ella Weatherington

Shark Conservation in the Anthropocene: Can Sharks Survive Us?

By Tessa Weir

When you have survived five mass extinction events over the course of roughly 400 million years, you might think you are doing something right.

You have seen the dinosaurs come and go, and outcompeted the most fearsome marine reptiles. You are a shark, one selachian amongst 440 different species, and you have dominated the marine world since the Devonian Period. Life as an apex predator in the ocean should warrant few worries, but sharks’ longtime reign may soon be under threat.

Today, sharks are underprotected, overfished, filled with plastic, and tragically misunderstood. In addition to many species being brutally overharvested for their fins and organs, many more are being impacted by the effects of climate change and ocean acidification. Despite these struggles, sharks continue to play a vital role in sustaining the ocean as a functional biome, and even help reduce some of the worst effects of climate change. Given that humans depend on the ocean for food, water, and industry, sharks’ maintenance of the ocean supports the terrestrial environment as well. It is precisely because of their role in sustaining ocean ecosystems and the climate that shark conservation has become a necessity. Advocates and

scientists alike have had to come up with creative solutions to protect this species, starting with protective legislation.

These conservation efforts have come not a moment too soon, as sharks are now facing the greatest threat of all: extinction.

Films like Spielberg’s 1975 blockbuster “Jaws” and other sensationalized depictions in popular culture exemplify the

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extent to which these animals are misunderstood. Despite the majority of shark species posing almost no threat to humans, they are seen as menances always on the verge of attack. In truth, the number of unprovoked shark attacks in 2020 was lower than the average for the last five years, according to the International Shark Attack File (ISAF).

This statistic may be lower due to COVID-19 limiting activities like surfing and beach-going, but long-term trends show that shark bites are decreasing and are a statistically unlikely event. You are more likely to get in a car crash or be struck by lightning than to be bitten by a shark. In addition, many shark attacks are considered provoked, which the ISAF defines as when the victim purposefully interacts with a shark by petting, feeding, or fishing it.

In addition to this sensationalized reputation, there is a lack of understanding regarding the critical role sharks play in maintaining marine ecosystems. Positioned at the top of oceanic food webs, sharks are integral to holding their ecosystems together. A food web can be imagined as a pyramid with organisms like plants, referred to as primary producers because of their ability to transmute sunlight into energy, sitting at the bottom. At the top sit comparatively few apex predators such as sharks, with a plethora of fish and other intermediate species making up the middle tiers, which are called trophic levels. Sharks are the tip of

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a top-down controlled food web, meaning that, through predation, they help control the abundance of species found in lower trophic levels. One study from the International Council for the Exploration of the Sea’s (ICES) Journal of Marine Science discovered this effect by investigating the interactions in marine food webs off the coast of Brazil. Researchers looked at tiger sharks, dusky sharks, and hammerheads, and found that these large predators indirectly affect the rest of the food web. By controlling the population of their immediate prey, they influence the population of their prey’s prey, all the way down to the primary producers. Unpredated, populations of species in intermediate trophic levels grow to uncontrolled proportions, decimating the populations of the species they feed on. Consequently, many sharks are considered keystone species within marine ecosystems.

This status gives them influence that can have climatic effects. Biosequestration describes the process of plants capturing and storing carbon, often referred to as blue carbon in marine ecosystems. Mangroves, salt marshes, and seagrass meadows all take carbon out of the atmosphere and store it in their roots and tissues, thus reducing its ability to warm the globe. A study published in Nature Climate Change found that “vegetated coastal habitats bury C [carbon] 40 times faster than tropical forests and contribute 50 percent of the total C buried in ocean sediments.” The study looked at, among other places, the seagrass meadows of Shark Bay, Australia and found that predators like tiger sharks are vital for this process to take place. Sharks control the populations of sea turtles and dugongs that eat the seagrass, ensuring enough vegetation is left to sequester blue carbon.

Despite their ecological importance, sharks are more often valued as a commodity in today’s economy rather than a critical species in the ecosystem. They are overfished for their meat, fins, organs. The porbeagle, hammerhead, and oceanic whitetip are especially sought-after due to their large fin size, according to

the World Wildlife Fund. Multiple hammerhead species have become endangered or threatened as a result of finning, the practice of cutting off the fin of a live shark then throwing it back to die in the water. Each year, an estimated 100 million sharks are killed by fishermen and 1.3-2.7 million hammerheads become victims of finning, according to the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History.

Sharks are valued in a more sustainable manner through the ecotourism industry, which controversially capitalizes on interactions with local wildlife and natural areas to boost tourism. According to a 2015 study done in the journal Biological Conservation, when ecotourism is practiced responsibly, it can be a helpful, revenue-producing conservation tool. Shark viewing is important for nations like Palau and the Bahamas, and increases their gross domestic products (GDPs) significantly. Ecotourism can bring attention to a vulnerable species and motivate people’s desire to conserve it. For sharks, it can prevent overfishing as protected areas are often created at the spots where tourism takes place. Pictures and data gathered from interactions at these locations can be used to help scientists study sharks.

Local communities also benefit from the jobs created by ecotourism. When done irresponsibly however, it can lead to more unnecessary provoked attacks. Though there is not much universal regulation to ensure shark ecotourism is done safely, in a world where sharks and so many other species are threatened with extinction, ecotourism may be the best conservation tool possible.

Thankfully, some legislation exists to protect sharks and the ocean from the worst effects of overfishing. In 2010, the United States passed the Shark Conservation Act as a way to prevent shark finning by making it illegal for anyone under U.S. jurisdiction to possess shark fins aboard their fishing vessel. Subsequently, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) provides Congress with a yearly report on how they are implementing the act. Several states have also adopted their own laws that ban shark finning. Internationally, the US Fish and Wildlife Service’s Convention on the International Trade in Endangered Species of Fauna and Flora (CITES) protects a number of sharks targeted for their large fins. This convention is enforced by the USFWS’s International Affairs program that monitors trade of wildlife in an effort to combat illegal wildlife trafficking, helping deter shark finning.

Protecting sharks means protecting the entire ocean, and by extension, life as we know it on land.

Still, human impacts on the environment such as pollution, climate change, and ocean acidification threaten shark conservation efforts. A study published in the journal Scientific Reports found that 67% of sharks sampled had plastic in their stomach. As oceans warm, sharks may move

to deeper, cooler water and be forced to abandon their typical foraging ground in response to the rising temperatures.

The long term effects of these shifts in behavior and distribution are still unknown.

One of the most drastic effects of climate change on the ocean is acidification, which occurs when the pH level of the ocean becomes more acidic as a result of massive amounts of carbon dioxide (CO2) put into the air by humans. In her 2014 book, “The Sixth Extinction,” author and environmental journalist Elizabeth Kolbert examines the myriad of effects climate change has on ecosystems worldwide. She writes about the proposed Anthropocene, a name for the modern geologic era that encapsulates the extent to which humans are pushing the planet seemingly into a sixth mass extinction event. She writes, “No single mechanism explains all the mass extinctions in the record, and yet changes in ocean chemistry seem to be a pretty good predictor.” This human-driven change in ocean chemistry has seen the ocean become 30% more acidic since the industrial revolution, which can affect the “… metabolism, enzyme activity, and protein function” of many organisms.

One hundred and fifty billion metric tons, or about one third of the CO2 put into the air by humans, has been absorbed by the ocean. For coral reefs, and the thousands of organisms that depend on them, ocean acidification is bad news. According to a study from the journal Royal Society, ocean acidification (OA) can affect sharks by altering the metabolic rate and blood chemistry, causing brain damage, and changing their aerobic potential and digestive enzyme activity. It can also alter their behavior, making it more difficult to navigate and detect prey. The study posits that this change in behavior could be the result of OA altering the function of the GABA-A neurotransmitter receptor which controls functions like awareness of potential danger, injury response, and muscle tension. Despite surviving five massive extinction events over millions of years, human impact has been so great that sharks may not survive the sixth.

It can be difficult to be hopeful with all this in mind.

Whether contemplating the fate of sharks or the world in general, the prospects may seem bleak. However, all is not yet lost as legislation does exist to protect these precious species. These conservation measures are critical, because without sharks doing their job in the marine world, there would be no life in the terrestrial one. Just as the survival of sharks hinges on us reducing our impact, our survival depends on sharks continuing to maintain the oceans. Every effort made to reduce the impact of humans on the planet is an effort to help sharks. Afterall, if sharks have survived this long, they should survive us too. H Art by Ellie Yatco Headwaters Magazine 30

The California Fire Season

By Valentin M. Kostelnik

In mid-August, 2020, my family and I were eating dinner on our porch, chatting and enjoying the view of the forested ridge next to our house as it glowed in the evening light.

It had been a warm, dry, hazy day, typical for a California summer.

Then, strangely, I felt a raindrop on my face.

Looking up in surprise, I saw a low, dark storm cloud rolling towards us.

(Woodward Fire, August 2020. Taken by Maia Perry.)

CRACK. Lightning struck unexpectedly. My family sprung up to run around in the rain, thrilled by the sudden relief from the endless heat of the summer.

The next morning, some friends and I were walking along a beach near my house. In classic West Coast fashion, the beach abutted a line of crumbling cliffs, blocking our view of the world above. Suddenly, the wind shifted and ash was in the air, tumbling down off the cliffs in swirling clouds. I caught a charred twig in my hand, grey and weightless, and in a panic, clawed my way up a deer trail to the top of the cliffs. When I reached the summit, a reddish-brown cloud of smoke rose before me, sweeping down from the raging, lightning-sparked fire in the Woodward Valley seven miles north of us.

That same morning, August 16, thousands of Californians woke up to a similar sight. The freak lightning storm my family experienced the night before hit Northern California with more than 12,000 strikes in 24 hours, beginning the worst fire season in the state’s history. The resulting fires capitalized on California’s extremely dry conditions, and immediately strained the state’s firefighting ability. Within the first three days, 2,500 fire engines and 14,000 firefight-

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ers were deployed—nearly all of the state’s resources. In the first week, over a million acres had burned, destroying countless homes, and killing over 20 people. By August 23, it was already the third-worst fire season on record. That week my family prepared for the worst and loaded up two truck beds with our essential belongings. The fire was still far enough away that we did not leave.

Climate change has brought intense drought and steadily increasing temperatures to California over the past decades.

Though forest fires have always affected the state, the fires of today are larger and more destructive, requiring more resources to fight them. California’s firefighting service is designed so that first responders can immediately react and address fires anywhere in the state. The state is divided into sections that are each watched over by a firefighting agency. CalFire, a state-funded division of the Forest Service, is the largest agency, responsible for the most acreage in the state. In response to worsening fires, CalFire’s budget has grown from 774 million in 2010-11 to a proposed budget of 2.9 billion for 2021-22, with an additional 1.13 billion already drawn from the Emergency Fund this year. Despite this, it is still unable to keep pace with the unprecedented scale of modern fires.

(My sister’s horse in the smoke at Luchetti’s ranch, August 2020. Taken by Cass Kostelnik)

Fires are a unique natural disaster because, unlike a hurricane or earthquake, they can be fought, sometimes successfully. In our modern, industrialized society it is natural to assume that if we want to defeat a fire, we can, and this belief is supported by almost a hundred years of successful fire suppression. Between 1930 and 1999, only 600,000 acres burned—the same area that burned in the first four

days of the 2020 fire season. In the past few years, Californians have come to realize that no government or reactionary emergency response program can keep fire out of our lives—at least not with the advent of climate change.

The worsening fires are the direct result of a changing climate. It is widely known across the country that California experienced drought conditions, but the cause is often misunderstood. The main driver of the drought is not less precipitation, but rather the combined result of increasingly extreme weather patterns and rising temperatures. The wet years are getting wetter, the dry years are getting drier, and all are getting warmer. Between 2012 and 2015, California experienced the driest four-year period in at least 2000 years and 2017 was one of the wettest years on record.

Seventy-five percent of California’s precipitation arrives in the winter, and most of that falls over the Sierra Nevada— ideally as snow. The Sierra snowpack controls the dry season by slowly releasing water throughout the year, but due to rising temperatures, the snowpack has been shrinking in the last decade. Even with a relatively wet winter, California might still find itself in drought come summer.

viable following a fire, Douglas fir bark grows thick and fire-resistant, and chaparral ecosystems need to burn every 20 to 30 years to remain healthy. Fire can be beneficial to a forest ecosystem by returning nutrients to the soil, priming serotinous cones, clearing underbrush, and keeping a forest from getting too dense. However, if fire is removed from an ecosystem that evolved for it, it can become unhealthy, overgrown, and burn hotter than ever. We see this in forests where a ground fire can become a crown fire, burning an entire tree rather than scorching the lower bark.

(Scorched pasture at Luchetti’s ranch, September 2015. Taken by Emily Luchetti.)

(Luchetti’s ranch, driving towards the fire, August 2020. Taken by Cass Kostelnik.)

California’s climate follows a Mediterranean, boombust cycle of precipitation that naturally favors wildfire that many plants have evolved to co-exist with. Ponderosa pines grow serotinous cones that are glued shut and only become

As it becomes clearer that fire is a necessity for many ecosystems, experts are calling for prescribed burning, which means lighting a fire at a time and place that allows a forest to respond naturally to it. This is far from a new idea. For thousands of years, Indigenous peoples lit fires according to a well-developed management plan designed to keep forests as productive as possible while also preventing uncontrollable fires. White settlers initially adopted some of these practices, but early twentieth century foresters, who were interested in timber harvesting, viewed fire as a purely destructive force. They decided to implement a plan of total fire suppression that survived into the twenty-first century.

This was mostly successful in preventing fires in California for nearly a century but is now backfiring as temperatures rise and drought worsens.

Our dense forests are dry tinderboxes and were overdue to burn when the freak lightning storm swept over California. We played in the rain, unaware of the dangerous consequences the storm would have. As it continued north, the storm sparked four of the largest fires in history, including one next to a ranch owned by Peter Luchetti, a close family friend. It spread rapidly and became what is known as the LNU Lightning Complex, the sixth largest California fire in modern history. Fifty miles north, the August Complex

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became the largest California wildfire ever, and fifty miles south the SCU Complex became the third largest.

Luchetti knew that fire would soon be edging towards his ranch, so when the smoke started pouring over the hills, he called CalFire to ask what the response plan was.

They told him that CalFire had reached the point where more resources were being requested than could be provided, and the only thing they could send was a paid private contractor and his bulldozer, ‘Larry the Dozer Guy.’ With minimal state assistance, Luchetti, the ranchers, and Larry built bulldozer fire-lines, strips of bare dirt designed to stop approaching fires.

At one point, Larry realized that without further assistance the approaching fire would jump the line he was building. He called CalFire, and they were able to temporarily release a few firefighters from a nearby town to assist in reinforcing the line. The crew pulled up to the ranch house where Luchetti, my mom, and my sister were waiting to guide them to the fire. They drove out through the backcountry to Larry’s position and, as Luchetti describes it, “tried to get this thing under control.”

(Luchetti’s old barn, smouldering 12 hours after being burned, September 2015. Taken by Emily Luchetti.)

The LNU Complex expanded omnidirectionally at extraordinary speeds thanks to parched fuels, and hot, dry, windy weather. In total, six civilians died, 1,421 structures burned, and thousands of acres went up in flames. Three days after the LNU started, I got a chance to see the fire up-close. We brought some water to the fire-line for Larry, who was standing next to his bulldozer watching flames rage through vegetation. With 300,000 acres of ash behind us, Larry reflected on what he was fighting for, detailing his home not 20 miles away and the koi pond he had built for his wife. This fire was ravaging the place he loved, a place he did not want to abandon.

Slowly, the LNU Complex was finally contained, and

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Luchetti’s ranch was safe. We were lucky, but that is not always the case. Five years earlier, a fire sparked a few miles north of Luchetti’s ranch, exploding out of control. In one day, it destroyed much of the ranch, damaged three nearby towns and killed four people. The region had been vulnerable following the driest 4-year period in California’s recorded history. The first firefighters to respond almost died, and after the initial effort, almost no further attempts were made to contain the blaze.

My family drove up the next morning, talked our way through police barricades, and brought badly needed supplies to the ranch. That day I saw cars melted to the road, puddles of aluminum where trailer homes used to be, and a crashed trailer of animals that did not make it. There were seemingly endless burned homes with a few residents left, looking stricken.

‘Fire season’ is a term that now describes half the year, though five years ago no one had heard the phrase. It is strange, but the 2015 fire felt separate from the current crisis. It felt like a once-in-a-lifetime experience, a rare moment when a natural disaster broke into our lives. Since then, fire has become ingrained in our lives.

As I stood at the precipice of the 2020 fire season, images of scorched landscapes and smoking homes flashed in my head. Though my house would be spared that year, I know that it may burn soon. Fire will burn whether we like it or not, the question is: How? A century of poor fire management on top of a changing climate has resulted in wildfires that are too large for the current model of firefighting to combat. It was hubris to believe we could suppress natural processes without consequence, and now we must accept fire as an integral part of the California landscape. Climate change has to be reversed, but that will not happen before next August, and prescribed burning is now our best hope for managing large-scale fires. As the Indigenous peoples proved for thousands of years, fire can be a part of our lives. The last few years proved that it will be. H

UVM to Stop Composting ‘Compostable’ Products January, 2022

By Jolie Scott

The University of Vermont (UVM) carries prestige in its environmental awareness and many aspiring applicants are attracted to the school’s sustainable commitments, one of which is a key part of campus life: composting. Food waste and compostable foodware products (e.g., plates, utensils, napkins that meet physical and chemical breakdown criteria) are collected daily in dining and residence halls and sent to a commercial compost facility. Composting has been a decade-long practice at the University; however, beginning Jan. 1, 2022, the compost facility UVM uses, Green Mountain Compost (GMC), will no longer be accepting compostable foodware products, marking the end of an era. This is the perfect opportunity for the school community to ensure that UVM takes the right steps forward in reducing single-use disposable packaging altogether. Highlighting this importance is The Princeton Review’s (a popular test preparation company) “Top Green School” list in which UVM’s position has been falling significantly. In 2018, UVM was named number three out of 50 schools, whereas in 2021 their rank fell to number 44, and for 2022’s version they are being kicked off the list entirely. Student advocacy, like the 2019 fossil fuel divestment campaign, is the main reason UVM upholds environmentally friendly decisions and as the climate crisis worsens, we must keep pressuring the University to keep up with the standards of a green school.

Every week, UVM sends 15 tons of compost, including food scraps and foodware, to GMC, the Organics Diversion facility in Williston managed by Chittenden Solid Waste District (CSWD). These compostable products are implemented in nearly every dining location on campus, including retail. Such products include food service packaging that comes in the form of green Eco-Products utensils, Greenware drink cups, uncoated paper take-out containers, Green Mountain coffee cups, or any other product that is labeled ‘compostable.’

These materials are frequently used as substitutes in dining

halls for washable plates and cups. Similarly, they serve as the primary take-out containers for retail locations like the Skinny Pancake. Beginning next year, however, these materials will be banned from GMC. As of right now, GMC is the only commercial compost facility near UVM that accepts compostable packaging. According to Corey Berman, the Program Manager of UVM Recycling & Zero Waste, when the ban is put into effect, UVM Dining will continue to serve food using the packaging on account of supply issues that make it impossible to switch to another product. The school cannot choose another facility to divert waste to as transportation costs would be too high and many facilities have already banned compostable foodware products. The alternative to getting rid of this waste is to throw it in the trash where it will be taken to a landfill or an incinerator.

Landfills are only designed to store waste, not break it down. It can take upwards of a couple centuries for some waste to completely biodegrade, and even then the average life expectancy of a landfill is only 30-50 years.

In landfills, microorganisms that function without oxygen break down organic matter, such as food waste, and produce biogas as a by-product.

Biogas is composed mainly of methane and carbon dioxide which, when released into the atmosphere, contribute to greenhouse gas emissions.

According to the EPA, food waste accounts for 24 percent of the waste that enters landfills. Luckily, composting is one way to reduce this percentage to instead create a nourishing mixture that enhances the health of soil and plants. Oxygen-dependent microorganisms in compost, such as bacteria and fungi, feed on decaying organic matter like food waste and transform it into nutrient-rich soil, commonly referred to as “black gold” by farmers. This process has many benefits such as conserving water, reducing erosion, and cutting the waste stream. GMC is valuing these benefits with their new ban by reducing factors that can ruin compost quality such

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as wrongful sorting, PFAS, and product buildup.

Compostable foodware poses a threat to high-quality compost due to the potential for per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances (PFAS), which are long-lasting chemical compounds commonly used in non-stick cookware and water-repellent clothing. Unfortunately, they are also associated with cancer, liver damage, decreased fertility, and an increase in the risk of asthma and thyroid disease as well as other adverse health impacts. Currently a chemical of emerging concern, PFAS are a topic of interest right now and according to Michele Morris, Director of Marketing & Communications for CSWD, it is impossible to know which compostable food packaging products contain them. Outside of biodegradable foodware, 46 percent of paper food wrappers (like McDonald’s hamburger wrappers) contain PFAS, which are used to coat the packaging in order to make it grease and water-resistant. As for compostable food packaging, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) found that PFAS concentrations were higher in compost that incorporated compostable food waste packaging than compost without. Chinet paper plates are another example, found to leach PFAS into the soil as they break down. This is a potential issue because compost is commonly used to grow crops, raise seafood, and feed animals, which can lead to PFAS ending up in the food supply. The only way to remove PFAS from compost is to discontinue acceptance of feedstocks that knowingly contain them. Again, it can be difficult to know which products contain PFAS without expensive testing.

Commercial facilities may find that buildup is a potentially devastating issue to their composting process.

Compost piles contain a lot of heat in the center which is required to break down compostable food packaging (that and a long residence time). However, in many cases

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packaging ends up on the edges of the pile which are not as warm and have a hard time breaking down. Dr. Eric Roy, a Gund Fellow and Assistant Professor at the Rubenstein School of Environment and Natural Resources, said he has observed multiple compost piles that have had foodware accumulating on the top and sides of the pile that were still intact, even though the rest of the pile was successfully undergoing the composting process. Although not highlighted as a key issue for GMC by Morris, this problem likely exists in other compost facilities.

Wrongful sorting, or compost catfishing, is the act of throwing waste into the wrong sorting bin. We have three sets of waste bins at UVM: trash, recycling, and compost.

There are labels on each one telling the user what kind of waste can be put into each bin. Unfortunately, many people will put an item into the compost that is not compostable simply because they saw the person in front of them do it. According to a survey I conducted among 25 UVM students, 60 percent said they would imitate someone’s actions as described above. I then asked if the students had ever seen someone at school put something in the compost bin that did not belong, to which 68 percent of the participants responded yes. With a chain reaction like this, it is easy for mistakes to pile up. Next thing you know, GMC will be receiving compost full of trash without the staff or resources to sort it out. Furthermore, they cannot sell poor-quality compost to their customers, who typically consist of wholesalers and landscapers, because it tarnishes the reputation they have built.

Morris offered more information on what happens in the commercial composting process. Part of the process involves a screening section where pickers are sometimes hired to go through the compost piles and clear off visible pieces of trash such as plastic bags. There are also ma-

chine screeners that are used on the compost piles that have about half an inch of tolerance. Unfortunately, this also means that stickers typically found on fruits and vegetables from grocery stores can easily pass through as well. Similarly, many other types of small waste could fit through that margin, potentially including microplastics. Morris confirmed that if compostable foodware products cannot be put into the compost, they must be placed in the trash.

This is the same for recyclable packaging that has been tarnished with food residue. Both originally environmentally friendly options would then have to be sent to a landfill.

The only landfill in Vermont is located in Coventry and it has limited capacity, like many other landfills in the United States. Waste goes wherever it makes sense economically to put it, meaning the Coventry landfill is enticing to VT waste distributors who need to get rid of their trash.

Almost 65 percent of trash from homes and businesses ends up in landfills and incinerators, which leads to environmental hazards and contributes to climate change. For this reason, supporting the compost process is of growing importance in order to reduce the waste stream entering landfills.

Although the new ban raises concern for the future of compostable foodware, we need to focus on solutions that prevent single-use disposable packaging that is attributed to ‘throwaway culture.’ Roy highlighted some potential solutions for the UVM community, one of which refers to this ‘grab and go’ philosophy. This refers to the idea that it is easier and more convenient to use disposable products in our fast-paced lives. Many of us do not have the time to think ahead and sort through our waste properly, and some people simply do not care about the issue. The solution to this lies in an increase in the reuse of more items and the overall minimization of waste on campus, both com-

postable and non-compostable. Another suggestion he has for the UVM community is to emphasize the importance of clean food waste streams which face difficulties like contaminants that can lower the quality of the compost that is produced. “I think we can improve food waste source separation on campus, but it will take education as well as buy-in from students, faculty, and staff,” he says. Lastly, we want to ensure that UVM has a relatively low environmental impact, which we can do via ecological accounting according to Roy. This takes a look at energy and water use on campus as well as compost contamination that occurs off-campus. “We might find that more old-fashioned ways of doing things (e.g., washing and reusing metal utensils) far outperform the current model that relies more on compostable products,” he remarks. Luckily, UVM already has the groundwork for this with the Eco-Reps and EcoWare programs where students aid in the distribution of reusable packaging to use as takeout containers in UVM dining locations.

One survey respondent had this to say about UVM’s environmental commitment: “All things considered, the school still produces a massive amount of waste when it comes to plastic and there isn’t much initiative by the school to change that.” Composting is a widespread part of campus life and is vital to UVM’s environmentally-aware reputation. As students, we need to encourage alternative methods to single-use disposable packaging (compostable or not). UVM has taken big steps towards being an environmentally friendly and sustainable school, especially compared to other colleges and universities in the United States. Therefore, it is essential to hold UVM accountable to its sustainable commitments and as a community we can reclaim our rank as one of the greenest schools in the country. H

Art by Abby Kaiser Headwaters Magazine 36

Leis out to the World A collection of poetry by Matthew Foster Time present and time past

Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future And time future contained in time past If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden

Solitude

Finished meditating in complete solitude Woke up, and felt like I had been on a high ridge— with some altitude.

Seven thousand feet above the creek.

Beyond the white pine roots, which bind the rocks to gether Comes walking a boy with a wooden stick.

Green meadow watered by past memories, slowly dropping down on the both of us.

The boy asks himself, innocently, “why can’t I live with the trees?”

I heard his thoughts wander through the cold and winding path.

I laughed and thought to myself, “When I am back, I will still be hiking on the same path”

Daisy Miller

Along the city streets the moon shines on a flower In a clear sky it illuminates the truth Great sympathy for such a pearl Buried in the sand What is this culture?

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Photo from September 2018

Two Branches

I can see branches growing, but moving further and further away.

Originally connected like the four-armed body—the divine mirroring each other’s eyes.

Undivided, thriving in a vibrant landscape where they walked by rivers through deep green grass, And then split. Cracking until they continually grow further and further away, hoping to flourish Together like they once did.

Spring-water in the aquamarine creek is clear. Moon light on Ko’olau mountain range is white.

Silent answers—the soul is enlightened of itself.

Contemplate the void and separation: This way of life is detrimental for the soul and exceeds stillness all at once.

Why I meditate

Looking at a busy street People moving towards the end Awkwardly passing by each other A big tree begins to creak.

I’m walking back to Trinity campus While I slowly am pondering the endless possibilities That could have happen Back in Hunt Hall I rushed over to my yoga mat and meditated The drop of water leaves the leaf Falling from the tree—pattering the lake softly, con necting with a greater whole

Sentience

Sitting alone by the flaming fire, Classical jazz swirling my way, Here, inside this cave, it’s soft.

Mind is bright, woke up the lion.

Through the silver gate in a dream.

I return to the bamboo forest daily. Where are the things that troubled me? Wind blowing softly Rattling the leaves Looking inward at all that is around Connection pleases the soul

The Fire Pit

The smell of smoke drifts in the air like a memory of our last meal together.

I’ll sit by this fire, watching over it… poking the coals with my stick, in anticipation of your Return.

Editor’s Note Matt Foster was a writer, musician, student of the natural world, and a beloved friend. Growing up in Hawaii, Matt came to UVM as a sophomore transfer student in the fall of 2018. In late July 2021, he drowned while visiting family and friends in his home state. Matt is remembered by us as a wellspring of joy, equanimity, and wisdom. We have been fortunate to have shared many wonderful memories with him as his friends, and hope to share with you through his poetry the feeling of light he so effortlessly created.

Aloha, Noah, Alex, and Abby Headwaters Magazine H

Blue Mountain

My home was at Blue Mountain from the start, gliding along the waters, far from trouble Going! Sparkling like a million fireflies at night Whispering closely in my ear through the galaxies in my mind Flowing out an endless stream of light for all creation A fountain of stillness, pointing at the road—not a sin gle leaf spotted, yet it appears before me: Now I know the pearl exists Know it’s use: boundless sphere spinning perfectly Lines moving to no end

Heaven’s Gate

A bright light, Or the slow-moving snow on the trees falling closer and closer where people fly.

In hours, minutes, or seconds, buzzing of moments is all we have Held tightly by those who choose wisely Humanity is like an explosion without end All we have is each other.

Adrift

I can’t listen to the patterns of falling water anymore.

But, I used to.

I can only hear the water rising The cherry flower blooms when there is light.

The willow is covered in snow and forgotten, for the better.

Morning sun will rise each and every day.

Bright clouds will watch over.

Who knows where the canoe is heading? Giving lei’s out to the world.

Photo from September 2018 Photography by Abby Kaiser Headwaters Magazine 38

Limitless (front cover)

By Abby Kaiser Acrylic

Before the Storm (back cover)

By Sadie Holmes Watercolor and Ink

I chose to paint lily pads floating within a body of water. The stems are intertwined with a school of fish to represent a microcosm within an ecosystem. By showing the stems and fish physically wrapped around one another, I wanted to highlight how each living organism relies on the other to survive.

My piece represents the fragile beauty of the natural world in the face of climate change. The moth is a symbol of change, but also the ability of life to persist through transformation. The clock, rising waters, and storm clouds on the horizon are a reminder that the time to act is now.