By Zach Hively

Sometimes, I like to offer a glimpse into the inner workings of a poem, or provide a bit of story around the margins.
This week, though, the poem is here. Just like the flowers are, right now, in northern New Mexico. And beauty does not always emerge gently.
Here you are:

Desert Flowers
 
It's a good year
for wildflowers
 
but not
for metaphors
 
about gentle rains
and deep roots
 
or patient seeds
biding their time.
 
These flowers
do not unfurl,
 
groveling and grateful,
where they may.
 
They claw
without claws,
 
scrabble
without toes,
 
fight tooth
and nail
 
without--
you know--
 
just to explode
themselves,
 
bleed swagger
with every violent
 
scrap of hard-
claimed, luck-
 
granted cloud.
They burn.
 
They burn,
and no one
 
asks them
"why here?"
 
because
where the hell else
 
and desert flowers
don't need
 
to talk back, don't
need to punch
 
your throat or
break your heart
 
to dig their roots,
bide their time.

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In which I am left stranded

By Zach Hively

Are you in northern New Mexico? Come say hi this weekend! I’ll be set up with my publisher, Casa Urraca Press, in the artists’ mercado at the El Rito Studio Tour.  

I am my own man. You can’t pin me down to any one taste, or any single allegiance. Like Neil Young said, “I don’t sing for nobody.” Because he is always right and I agree with everything he does, I believe in staying true to myself and only myself.

One of the things I do to stay true to myself is to purchase every new Neil Young album, which I’ve done since 1999 or so, when you could get them at a magical place called Hastings. I listen to them the whole way through, in my own uninterruptible sanctum, liner notes in hand. 

These rituals used to happen with CD releases, though for the last ten or fifteen years I have adapted, like any good American does, to the latest cutting-edge technology for most new album drops. Neil Young puts out enough new music that the modern large-format liner notes that come with these newfangled vinyl records are probably the main reason I still don’t need glasses.

For this latest record with Crazy Horse, called Fu##in’ Up, I was feeling nostalgic for the CD format. Not least of all because it is cheaper, while still provoking a certain tactile satisfaction I have yet to glean from old-school streaming. I sliced open the cellophane, popped a beer, and slid the still-as-yet-unsmudged CD into my--

—into my--

—into nothing, because I no longer own a CD player.
That’s okay. An impromptu road cruise also affords a superlative first-listen experience. I jumped into my car and fed that now-slightly-smudged CD into my--

—into my--
—into my realization that CD players are not, and have not been, standard automotive features since sometime in one of the Obama administrations.
What a world we live in. CDs (the investment ones) are sitting at 5% interest rates, which incidentally is probably the current-day percentage of households with functioning CD players.

Now, I hardly live a life of American excess. I have only two vehicles, for instance, and the one without Bluetooth capabilities plays cassettes, but only in one direction these days.

Yet technology has left me behind in even this most fundamental way, if neither my car, nor my other car, nor my computer, nor my other computer, nor my stereo, nor my alarm clock, nor my telephone, nor I, with the world’s knowledge at my fingertips, can play a single CD, once heralded as both a durable and a portable audio medium.

But I, as my own man, refuse to change my ways just because technology doesn’t support them anymore. Besides, it’s nothing a quick trip to Radio Shack can’t fix.

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OLNEY, ILLINOIS - Nestled in the heart of the Midwest, the city of Olney, Illinois, is known for its historic charm, friendly community, and a unique ecological marvel - its population of white squirrels.

These snowy-furred creatures have become a beloved symbol of the city and hold a special significance for residents, visitors, and wildlife enthusiasts alike. Unlike their commonly seen gray or brown counterparts, white squirrels are a rarity, making Olney's abundant population all the more astonishing.

The white squirrels of Olney are not albinos, as many initially presume. While they sport a coat of pure white fur, their eyes are not red but instead hold a deep, dark hue. This distinguishes them from true albinos in the squirrel world, making them a unique sight to behold.

The story of how these distinctive creatures came to call Olney their home is shrouded in mystery, with various local legends offering differing accounts. Some say they were brought to Olney as a novelty in the late 19th century, while others believe they were a natural mutation that thrived in the town's welcoming habitat.

Regardless of their origins, the city of Olney has embraced these white squirrels with open arms, implementing ordinances to protect them and promoting their presence as a local attraction. The city even conducts an annual squirrel count to monitor the population and ensure their continued survival.

Today, Olney is officially recognized as the "White Squirrel Capital of the World," a title that the community wears with pride. The city park offers an ideal location to spot these fascinating creatures, and visitors are encouraged to partake in "squirrel tourism," an opportunity to learn about and appreciate the unique wildlife that calls Olney home.

The white squirrels have even influenced local culture and art, with numerous businesses, events, and art installations around the town featuring the beloved creature. From the annual White Squirrel Festival to the paintings and sculptures that adorn the city, the influence of the white squirrel is as woven into the fabric of Olney as its historic buildings and friendly residents.

In conclusion, the white squirrels of Olney, Illinois, are a unique treasure, embodying the charm and uniqueness of the town. They serve as a testament to the city's commitment to preserve and cherish its unique ecology, inviting visitors from across the country to witness a true natural wonder. So, if you ever find yourself in the Midwest, make sure to pay a visit to Olney, the white squirrel capital of the world.

By: [Your Name]

​If you're paying attention you might have noticed how weirdly written that article is. Especially the end where it says: By: [Your Name]

That's because I didn't write it, AI did, specifically, ChatBox AI. That particular app uses ChatGPT, a common AI program used all over. I entered a basic request to write about the white squirrels, particularly from Olney Illinois. White squirrels are fairly rare, found in only a few places, and one place, Olney, is quite near where my cousins live. My brother and I stopped down there for a quick visit and stayed at the Best Western in Olney, which is way better than the one in Flora.

The squirrel was a lot of fun to see, and Olney was a charming, small Illinois town with friendly people and a great coffee shop. The AI article is technically accurate, if not a bit embellished.

By Jessica Rath

​Well, not really, but close. You may recognize Rick Hilsabeck as an oil painter who participates in the Abiquiú Studio Tour, but did you know that he also was a highly successful professional singer, dancer and actor on the Broadway Stage? He and his wife Sarah Pfisterer toured for many years in the first national tour of The Phantom of the Opera by Andrew Lloyd Webber, with Rick in the role of the Phantom and Sarah as Christine. Other Broadway shows they starred in were Billy Elliot, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Show Boat, Phantom of the Opera,  and many more.
How does one end up in sleepy and isolated Abiquiú, after being used to much applause from national and international stages? Abiquiú’s artist community will readily understand Rick’s motivations; after all, he has been a painter all his life and is fascinated by the light and the colors here. But I was curious to find out what else inspired Sarah and Rick to move to New Mexico, and they kindly agreed to an interview.
 
Both Sarah and Rick grew up in the Midwest. Rick is from Chicago, and even as a young boy he loved to paint. He’d regularly visit the Chicago Art Institute where he particularly enjoyed Impressionist art and color.  In high school  he caught the theater and music bug, as he told me, and singing, dancing, and performing took precedence – but he still always painted as well.
 
“We spent a lot of time in Boston, Chicago,  and in the New York City area. Our careers were spent working on the Broadway stage and in New York CIty. We also traveled all over the place”, Rick explained. 

​“Several years ago, I took a 10-day painting trip with my teacher to Ghost Ranch, which made me  fall in love with Northern New Mexico”, he continued. He decided that some day they would return. They  raised their two daughters in Connecticut,  and when the girls had graduated from high school and were ready for college, Sarah and Rick could realize their plan.
​
“We've always loved Abiquiu. But we thought it'd be difficult to find something there. We looked for a long time …”
 
“We were looking at the Santa Fe region”, Sarah continued, “and we were almost ready to throw in the towel. We gave ourselves another two weeks. And that night I was looking through the listings, and this house came on the market, and that’s how we ended up here!”
 
Tell me a bit more about your theater life. When you say you were touring, what were you doing exactly?
Sarah answers:  “Well, we played opposite each other in The Phantom of the Opera; he was the Phantom and I was Christine. We were in the First National Company and we toured all over: Chicago, Washington DC, Dallas, Atlanta, Denver… and all over the country. We would stay in one city for months at a time; for example, we played Chicago for nine months and were in Boston for about six months. It was a great way to see the country. I left Phantom to play Magnolia in Showboat on Broadway and then to reprise the role of Christine in Phantom of the Opera, also on Broadway.  Prior to his Broadway Musical Theatre career, Rick was a founding ​member and principal dancer in Chicago's Hubbard Street Dance Co”. 

Sarah and Rick have two daughters who are both in college now. “When they were younger, we wanted to be home for them”, Rick continues. “So, following our regular Broadway theater work, where we had to go into the city for an eight-shows-a-week schedule, we decided to shift our careers in order to be home more often. We opened a Performing Arts School (Wiremill Academy) in the town where we lived in Connecticut, outside of New York City. We did that for 11 years. The pandemic shut us down, like it did to a lot of places. And that  set our timetable forward at least a couple of years”.
 
Sarah found a position as the Arts Program Director at the New Mexico School for the Arts in Santa Fe. I asked her to tell me more about her job.
 
“Well, New Mexico School for the Arts is a public charter school, open to students from all over the state of New Mexico. It’s a high school, grades nine through 12. Thanks to a lot of tireless work on the part of the President of NMSA, Cindy Montoya, generous donors, and the State of New Mexico,  we have a residence; next year, we will have a seven-days- a-week program, enabling our students from further afield to be able to be here the whole time and not have the burden on the families of traveling four or five hours each way, twice a week. Our students have their rigorous academic classes from 9:10 until 2: 05. And then from 2:15, to 4:55, they have their classes in their arts block. We have five different disciplines: we have creative writing, dance, music, both instrumental and vocal, theater, and visual arts. And if a student is with us for four years, they graduate with over 2000 hours of mastery arts training. We have a 100% college acceptance rate, 97% of our students go on to college, or they take a gap year. And so we feel really wonderful serving the students and families of New Mexico.  I have the privilege of overseeing the five arts programs”.
​
When was that school established?
“In 2010. Next year will be our 15th year. Bill Richardson signed it into law. We're grateful to the state of New Mexico and to our very, very generous donors. We have a wonderful board of directors and we have donors who are so generous with both their time and, of course, financially”.

Sarah continues: “It's a public charter school, and students attend at no cost. The Art Institute, which is the part that funds the arts programming, raises over $2.7 million a year to fund the arts. But for the students it's a public school and it's tuition free. The state funds the Charter School’s academic programming. The Art Institute is a non-profit organization”.
 Rick adds:  “It’s really a unique thing. As Sarah was saying, an amazing amount of support comes not only from the families and the arts donors and supporters, but the state and the city are quite proud of the program. So it's a pretty great thing”.

I bet you have many applications – how do you choose who will be admitted to the school?
“We have a workshop model now where students apply”, Sarah explains.  “We evaluate them on passion, promise and aptitude. They come for three hours, they create something, whether it's  something in writing or something in visual arts, a sculpture or drawing, or they learn something theatrical or learn a piece of music – everybody creates something. And then we evaluate   our students' passion, promise, and aptitude”.

I’m impressed. Sarah found this great job that allows her to be involved with the arts and to educate young people, and Rick is able to pursue his painting career.

Rick, tell me a bit more about your painting.
“I didn't always have the kind of time that I have now. But it always was a dream of mine. And so, again, all of the pieces kind of fell in place. The color here, and the light and the air are all reasons why there are lots of artists here. Something drew me to that light. I work in oils, I do a lot of landscapes,but I also paint lifes, abstracts and abstract landscapes”.

​Sarah and Rick have lived in Abiquiú for just about two years now, but they have already formed many close friendships and feel they’re part of the community. They can ask their neighbor across the road if they need anything. They appreciate that everybody welcomes them and  is friendly and helpful. I’m not really surprised: they’re both so open and warm, people simply return what they receive. Maybe there will be an Abiquiú Theater in the future?
​
Thank you, Sarah and Rick, for a lovely interview.

By Zach Hively

For the Birds

This isn’t the sort of thing you’re supposed to say out loud. It could jinx you, or keep you from getting laid. But I’ll say it anyway, because I am neither superstitious nor insecure, even if I should be: I am doing a Big Year.​

Big Year, for those of you with love lives and other social interests involving human beings, is the attempt by amateur birders to spot and identify as many species of birds in North America as possible within a calendar year. We do this in hopes of becoming professional birders; although no one has yet accomplished this leap, we imagine the sponsorship deals must be lucrative.

Many birders go all-in on their Big Years. Plane tickets, motel rooms, chartered watercraft, loads of those little bird-identification books in which none of the illustrations quite match the little sucker you definitely probably spotted flitting into that tree over there, unless it was a discarded Ruffles bag or maybe a leaf: Big Years are not cheap.

Unless you do them my way.
​
As I write, the year is more than one-third complete. I have already knocked out many of the more exotic birds, like the raven, the crow, the robin, and the rock pigeon. It took me until April to spot a turkey vulture, but I got one. So please bear these specimens in mind—along with more generally familiar finds, like whatever kind of grackle lives in Walmart parking lots—when I tell you that I am all the way up to 18 species so far. And counting!

Unlike every other Big Year birder, I have accomplished these one-and-a-half-dozen feats without the aid of a single bit of travel. Well, okay, I traveled once. But I didn’t see any birds there. I am confident that no other Big Yearer can say THAT in mid-May.

Strictly competitive-hearted people might ask me why I am even bothering with this Big Year nonsense when there are much wealthier and more retired birders out there with current tallies in the several hundreds. To them, I might answer that Big Years are on the honor system and therefore any one of my fellow birders might be cheating. I might also answer that the sort of Big Year they imagine requires far more planning, patience, and interest in birding than I currently have.

That said—I think I am nonetheless likely to win under any reasonable calculation of birds-per-mile or birds-per-dollar.

I mean, obviously, if you discount all those backyard birders in more bird-hospitable zones where the abundance of water and foliage and insects means you can’t even walk across your backyard swamp without stepping on a living, not a plastic, flamingo. Factor in my specific geography, along with my specific age bracket, socioeconomic status, BMI, and need to submit a column about SOMETHING this week, and I am the odds-on favorite to crush this Big Year on a birds-per-effort basis.

Big Years aren’t all about winning, though, unless of course I win. Even the winners don’t receive anything much beyond bragging rights and probably a nod on some blog somewhere. There is no Olympic qualifying round of birding, no Nike deal (yet!), no guarantee that you won’t feel compelled to come back and best your own record the next year, or the year after that, or the year after that, like some sort of under-appreciated Tom Brady.

Big Years are much more of an experience, a Zen art, a chance to live out the dreams many people have had their entire lives since signing up for AARP. They provide learning opportunities aplenty. For starters, Big Years are about breaking down stereotypes: birding is not purely for older people with nothing better to do with their 401(k)s. It is also for youthful people who cannot afford to do things that cost money.

Big Years are the sort of absolutely non-commercial, unproductive, anti-capitalist endeavors that remind us what really matters: Getting outside once in a while. Connecting with the world beyond our screens. Getting in tune with the cycles of living creatures beyond ourselves.

Remembering that there is an inquisitive, feeling, breathing being behind (or above) every splash of poop on my windshield that I just freaking squeegeed.

And absolutely, positively, they’re about getting laid. But not yet. Maybe next year. Can’t jeopardize the very real chance that, any month now, I’ll spot Bird Number 19.
​
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By Brian Bondy

A month or so back I wrote about driverless taxis, in particular, the Waymo driverless taxis in the Phoenix area. Last week, my brother and I took a Waymo to try it out.

My brother has been quite skeptical of these, and after seeing them on the streets, we were both still apprehensive, but also intrigued. Our opportunity came one evening and we decided to take a Waymo to a restaurant. I already had the app on my phone, it was very simple to use. Basically, it comes up and asks where you want to go. It assumes the pickup location is where you are, which can be altered.

The app gives you the price of the ride, and you press the button to summon the car, a final bit I unfortunately neglected to do. I realized several minutes later that I didn’t actually press ‘Enter’ so the price went up a dollar. Apparently, pricing is based on demand.

In this area, the house where I was staying was just outside the Waymo boundary, so we had a 5 minute walk to the Camelback Inn to meet the car. It tells me this on the app, and it gives a map for where the car will stop. We have 5 minutes, once the car arrives, to get in and start the ride. It also said the taxi was 18 minutes away.

We walked down to the Inn and waited. The app said the car was there, but we didn’t see it. Apparently, we were in the wrong spot. I spoke to a hotel worker and he kindly gave us a lift to the back of the hotel lobby where the Waymo was waiting. We got in, and as you can see in the first video, and it was weird. I mean, really weird. There’s no driver. Nobody is in the front seat.

​The car has a touchscreen in the back seat prompting us to start the ride, which I tapped. The car then slowly proceeded to make its way out of the labyrinthine parking lots of the Camelback Inn. It was very cautious driving there, on its way to the main road.

The car told us to fasten our seatbelts, signaled the turns, and avoided hitting cars and pedestrians. Once on the bigger street the car drove confidently, not aggressively, but definitely not like it was afraid, like its passengers were. It never exceeded the speed limit. We arrived at our destination in one piece, and again, it was very cautious inside the parking lot. We got out and the car locked itself up and drove off.   

Click to see how it all ends

​The return trip was similar. I requested the Waymo from the restaurant. It picked us up out front, where only it knew exactly where it would stop and unlock its doors. The only comment I can make on its driving was when it left that parking lot and went to cross a 6 lane roadway, I was a bit concerned at it crossing in front of a truck in the suicide lane that was trying to turn into the parking lot. I would have waited, but it did work out fine.

The ride back to the Inn was still exciting, but I have to say, a bit less so. The ride was ordinary, which is exactly what you’d want. It was still weird, and fun, but also, it was a just a taxi ride. The ‘driver’ was confident, and never went over the speed limit. There were some odd movements in the parking lot, but not concerning. One pedestrian seemed to see it was a Waymo and purposely didn’t move out of the way. Maybe that’s his thing, or maybe he doesn’t like Waymo. I would have moved faster than he did, but the Waymo simply moved around him.

Since I am all for driverless vehicles, I quite enjoyed the experience. I don’t know when they will get to the Abiquiu area, but for now, I guess I’ll have to drive my car all by myself.

By Sara Wright
Republished from 5/19
 
According to The Guardian, and every other source I consulted, krill (zooplankton) have suffered an 80 percent decline beginnings in the 70’s and currently creating a starvation scenario for many marine animals from whales to penguins.

 A recent article in The New York Times states that we have also lost 80 percent of the insects on the planet. Insects and krill (zoo plankton) are at the bottom of the food chain and the loss of these animals on land and in the water is nothing short of catastrophic because all other life forms including humans depend on them to survive.
​
On land the insect loss is directly tied to insecticide use. In the water, pollution (partially due to insecticide use), and increased industrial fishing for krill are culprits.
 
Human induced Climate Change is also a fundamental factor.
 
How is it possible that we are unwilling/unable to face the fact that we are actively engaged in the process of our own self - destruction?   
 
I am writing this article on May Day. The cottonwood trees are feathered with pale green leaves, emerald green shoots and wildflowers abound. Gardens and fields are being tilled and planted. Adequate rain has blessed us creating seemingly unbelievable abundance. The river is a raging brown torrent ripping away the fragile shoreline; the acequias are running. The earth continues to celebrate renewal even as life on this planet becomes more threatened with each passing day.
 
Lately, I have been thinking a lot about the marine biologist and author Rachel Carson probably because I have had only one tree frog singing through the cottonwoods. I feel the loss of the abundance of these amphibians keenly, recognizing that pesticides are to blame. I have also spent time in gardening places where all sorts of deadly chemicals are still being sold much to my raging disbelief.
 
My relationship with Rachel Carson stretches back to my childhood. I remember being so proud of the fact that I could read her book “The Edge of the Sea” at age twelve and understand everything she said. After moving from Monhegan Island to Southport Maine as a young mother, I discovered that Rachel Carson’s cottage was situated in the woods just behind my house. Although she died five years before I moved to Southport I suspect her influence on me lived on fueling my need to speak out as an environmental Earth activist, even now.
 
Rachel Carson, writer, scientist, and ecologist, grew up in the rural river town of Springdale, Pennsylvania. Her mother bequeathed to her a life-long love of nature and the living world that Rachel expressed first as a writer and later as a student of marine biology. Carson graduated from  Chatham University in 1929, studied at the Woods Hole Marine Biological Laboratory in Massachsuetts, and received her MA in zoology from Johns Hopkins University in 1932.
 
She began a fifteen-year career in the federal service as a scientist and editor and rose to become Editor-in-Chief of all publications for the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service.
 
Carson wrote pamphlets on conservation and natural resources and edited scientific articles, but in her free time she wrote her first book, Under the Sea Wind. In 1952 she published her prize-winning study of the ocean, The Sea Around Us. She won a National Book Award, a national science writing-prize and a Guggenheim grant, which, with the book’s sales, enabled her to move to Southport Island, Maine in 1953 to concentrate on writing. This book was followed by The Edge of the Sea published in 1955. Together, these books created a biography of the ocean and made Carson publically famous as a naturalist and science writer. Carson resigned from government service in 1952 to devote herself to her writing.
 
Carson’s prophetic Silent Spring (1962) was written in response to the chemical pesticide use that became rampant after World War II. She also recognized that pesticides were killing her beloved birds. The book was first serialized in The New Yorker and then became a best seller, creating worldwide awareness of the dangers of environmental pollution.
 
Silent Spring suggested that the planetary ecosystem was reaching the limits of what it could sustain. She challenged the practices of agricultural scientists and the government and called for a change in the way humankind viewed the natural world. Carson   courageously stood behind her warnings of the consequences of indiscriminate pesticide use despite the threat of lawsuits from the chemical industry and accusations that she was too emotional and grossly distorted the truth (criticisms I too have endured as a nature writer – at least I am in good company).
​
Carson was also attacked by the chemical industry and some in government as an alarmist, but continued to speak out to remind us that we are a vulnerable part of the natural world subject to the same damage as the rest of the ecosystem.
 
Outlining the dangers of chemical pesticides graphically, the book eventually led to a nationwide ban on DDT after Carson’s death, and sparked a movement that ultimately led to the creation of the US Environmental Protection Agency.
 
From my point of view probably the most important aspect of Carson’s writings is her view that human beings were just one part of nature distinguished primarily by their power to alter it, in some cases irrevocably.
 
Unfortunately, except for a few folks and some Indigenous peoples, these ideas with respect to species equality and the human ability to alter the earth’s ecology permanently are not part of the dominant cultural reality, especially in this country.
 
It is difficult for me to wrap my mind around the fact that up to the present we continue to export DDT and other toxic chemicals to third world countries like Mexico and South America, apparently believing that the toxicity in their water, soil and air will not have an effect on us while those of us who can afford it buy organic whatever.
 
Silent Spring was written in 1962 and almost 60 years later  pesticide use continues unabated. It is rarely mentioned that now we have even more lethal chemicals to use in our backyards. As far as I can tell the EPA was left behind somewhere back in the last century. By conservative estimates we have lost 50 percent of the non-human species on earth. How can we continue to believe that we will be able to survive these losses? We are on the edge of our own extinction.
 
As I walk out the door into this glorious blue, green, and gold May Day I am heartsick. Every year we draw closer to  ‘silent spring,’ the one without renewal.

By Jessica Rath

​Northern New Mexico has its fair share of strange and unusual landscapes, but nothing can top the badlands south of Farmington in terms of being otherworldly, bizarre, and utterly surreal. The 45,000 acres belong to the most unique scenic areas on this earth.
 
A quick note about the pronunciation: when I first heard about the badlands, people always pronounced Bisti the way you pronounce “misty”: the stress is on the first syllable, ˈmɪs.ti. But that’s incorrect, the name comes from the  Navajo word bistahí which means “a large area of shale hills” and is pronounced “Biss-tah-HEE”, from what I could gather. De-Na-Zin, from the Navajo word Dééł Náázíní, means “Standing Crane”. 

The desolate, semi-arid terrain is adorned with magnificent rock formations and stunning colors: mushroom-shaped hoodoos (also called tent rocks or earth pyramids) are ubiquitous, as are spires, stone pillars, and pedestals suggestive of castles and mystical figures. Huge logs of petrified wood, adorned with patches of brilliant colors: yellow, orange, rust, and red dot the landscape. Layers of sandstone, coal, silt, mudstone, and shale form distinct stripes of mauve, greys, beige, rust, and bronze. Abundant fossils of dinosaurs, crocodiles, turtles, fish, and even mammals have been found. 

There’s actually a dinosaur called Bistahieversor, which means “Bistahi destroyer”, known also as “Bisti Beast”. They belong to the Tyrannosaurus family and lived some 75.5 to 74.5 million years ago, in the Late Cretaceous Epoch. It’s estimated that the animals were up to 30 feet long and could weigh nearly 3 tons! The Bisti Beast has been found only in New Mexico.

It’s hard to imagine that today’s barren badlands once hosted abundant vegetation and animal life.  We’ll have to look back millions of years – approximately 74 million. Actually, one has to start even further back: at the time of the Western Interior Seaway which connected the Arctic Ocean with the Gulf of Mexico and split the Northamerican continent into two landmasses. Just imagine – what is New Mexico today,  was covered by a shallow sea! That was 100 million years ago. At its largest extent, it was 2,500 feet (760 m) deep, 600 miles (970 km) wide and over 2,000 miles (3,200 km) long. In the late Cretacaeous the sea levels fell several times and created swamps with lush plants and prehistoric animals. 

Eventually the water completely disappeared. Massive amounts of plant matter and organic material became compressed over time and left a 1400-foot layer of mudstone, shale, sandstone, and coal. And then erosion gradually formed the spires, towers, and hoodoos. They exist because everything around them has eroded. The mushroom-like caps and thin stems of the hoodoos for example are made of harder material and withstood the wind, rains, and floods that washed out the softer stuff.

The area around Bisti and De-Na-Zin is about 6,500 feet above sea level, but the badlands are about 200 - 400 feet below that. After the last ice age some 6,000 years ago the floods which resulted from the melting ice washed much of the sandstone away and revealed lots of fossils, petrified wood the size of huge trees, and the bizarre and unique formations so worth a visit.

​Paleontologists have found that the area has been occupied by humans since at least 10,000 BC. The prehistoric Great North Road, which connected many ancestral pueblos belonging to the Chacoan Anasazi, crossed the Bisti/De-Na-Zin Wilderness. 

A woman and her horse maybe? Taken on two different days, from opposite sides. 

​Each time I visited – always with one or two friends – I didn’t meet another soul. The area is truly desolate, and you better come prepared. There are no services, there is no water, there is no shade; no marked trails, no signs. Better not to expect a visitor center, and cell phone reception is sketchy. Depending on the time of the year, daytime temperatures can be rather hot. Plenty of water, sunscreen, a hat, and a GPS or compass are absolute necessities. Don’t forget sturdy shoes – while it is fairly easy to follow the main washes and there isn’t much climbing involved, the ground can easily crumble and you should make sure that your ankles are well supported. 

​Another thing to be aware of: the unpaved access road can become extremely slick when it rains and driving is almost impossible. I learned this the hard way on one of my visits. While we were hiking, it started to pour and soon everything was soaking wet. Well, no big deal, I thought – after all my car has  four-wheel drive. So we took off, but the tires were immediately caked in mud, without any tread – I was spinning around and sliding, getting all worked up in the process. Steering was impossible and I slowed down, but that was a bad idea, because soon I was stuck – literally stuck in the mud! 

​We were lucky. Although the area is sparsely populated, a car showed up shortly after I had dug myself into the clay-like gloop, and a friendly couple stopped to help. The man soon managed to get my car free and I drove on for a bit, trying my best not to get stuck again. The couple followed behind us, keeping an eye on my progress, but soon I saw them flashing their lights – they wanted me to stop. The reason: they had noticed that my right front wheel was loose; it leaned at a 45-degree angle! 

​We had to call a tow truck. This was harder than it sounds, because there was no cell phone reception where I got stuck. The helpful couple drove my friend further up the road, they knew a spot with higher elevation where phone calls were possible. And I sat in the car and waited, bemoaning my bad luck… 

As it turned out, we were actually quite fortunate. When the tow truck from Bloomington arrived, the driver told us that we should count our blessings: he was the only towing company in the whole area with a four-wheel tow truck, and without that, he said, he would have never come out: it’s more slippery than ice, he said, and a rescue would have been impossible. But more importantly, on a dry road the wheel might have held until we reached the freeway, US 550, where the speed limit is 70 miles/hour. Which means I would have driven close to 80. Quite likely, the wheel may have come off, causing a serious accident.
​
Just be sure to check the weather report before you visit the Bisti/De-Na-Zin Wilderness, and it’ll be an immensely rewarding adventure.

Note: BLM Rules

• Camping is permitted within all units of the National Wilderness Preservation System administered by the BLM in New Mexico.  
• Visit the Farmington BLM District Office website for possible advisories or restrictions.
• The Bisti/De-Na-Zin Wilderness Area is closed to motorized vehicles and mechanical forms of transportation (mountain bikes included).
• Also prohibited are campfires, collecting fossils or petrified wood, climbing on delicate geologic features, traveling in groups of more than eight people, and trespassing on adjacent tribal lands.
• Tread lightly on the land and leave no trace of your visit.
• The use of drones is prohibited.
• A BLM issued permit is required for commercial video and photography.
• When using a motorized vehicle for camping, limit your parking and vehicle-based camping to parking areas and set-up no more than 300 feet from an established road.
• Permits are required for uses such as grazing, scientific research, and commercial guiding.

By Sara Wright

​Republished from 5/19

By Sara Wright​

​About two weeks ago my dogs and I had a glorious experience in a remote well wooded area. I had identified fresh bear sign and the three of us were following bear tracks into a steep gully when we came upon a young golden brown bear who emerged from behind a boulder to regard us with curiosity. When I spoke to him/her quietly the bear watched me intently; I lost time. Unafraid, the youngster eventually meandered on.

And then, twice in the last week, I attended presentations during which people literally winced and moaned when the subject of Black bears was raised.
 
As a researcher who conducted a formal fifteen year academic study of these remarkable animals, I experienced the usual crushing dismay that Black bears continue to be perceived as such a threat to humans, when the truth is that they evolved as a prey animal, and remain so today. Black bears are cautious around humans unless they have been terrorized by them; then they avoid people at all costs. A human has a one in a million chance of being killed by a Black Bear; one is 17 more times likely to die of a spider bite.
 
How has the Black bear become such a perceived threat to humankind, especially in this country?
 
 One reason is that we are a culture that is hell bent on keeping the outdated “man against nature” paradigm alive. This perspective pits humans against all nonhuman species with a vengeance. In addition, the unconscious psychological mechanism of projection allows people to ascribe human killer tendencies/evil onto hapless animals giving us permission to kill them indiscriminately. We also imagine that we are separate and superior to every species but our own. How else could we continue to destroy the planet that is our home without whose resources we could not survive?
 
Of course, this cultural attitude of senseless fear of Black bears in particular (and all wild animals by extension) is also generated in this country by powerful special interest organizations like the NRA that deliberately uses the myth of the killer bear for its own benefit while pontificating that we have the “right” to bear arms, regardless of character or self responsibility. This current explosion of men with guns has created a crisis of monumental proportions at the cost of lives, human and non-human alike.  
 
One critical lesson I have learned in my life is to watch what people say and what they actually do. If there is a split between the two, pay attention to what these folks do and not what they say – talk is cheap. The so called state Wildlife organizations say they are interested in caring for/saving animals but what they do is to make money from ordinary folk and support hunters who slaughter animals as a matter of course. These people also expose their colossal arrogance/ignorance by stating as “truth” that all wild animals need to be managed by humans when animals have been around for 350 million years and humans for about 200,000 years. How utterly absurd.
 
There is something deeply repellent to me about the state fish and game folks who want us to slaughter bears for “fun” and for trophies, rarely for food. In fact, here in New Mexico, the head of a black bear is the symbol for our state wildlife organization.
 
There are a number of theories that attempt to address why bears in particular are so feared by humans. One of the most popular (not scholarly) of these is that humans were originally prey animals so we “instinctively” fear black bears and all wild animals. In this way of thinking the story is written into our DNA. The problem with this theory (and please remember that theories are intellectual ideas, and not truth with a capital “T”) is that it contradicts a multitude of children’s studies that indicate just the opposite – namely that very young children appear to be universally drawn to wild animals, especially bears, and are not afraid of them. There are many European children’s fairy tales that focus on the special relationship between bears and children. The helpful bear saves, protects, or imparts hidden knowledge to the children (especially girls) – like how to trust one’s instincts. In this country Native peoples honor the bear as a great healer/protector. Children who are afraid of animals have been taught to fear them by the adults around them.
 
And this brings me around to the power of the image to influence human perception. Look at any hunting magazine and you will note the frightening predatory look of the animal on the front cover. In Maine I used to dread August not just because it ushered in bear hunting season but also because in every store the covers of all the hunting magazines portrayed a GIANT Black Bear as a vicious bloody killer roaring with a huge open mouth full of teeth (contrary to popular belief, bears don’t roar at all). Exaggerating the size of an animal to generate unrealistic fear is something that every hunting magazine and state agency routinely does. Most adult male Black bears run about 250 pounds and yet these magazines/agencies always use the pictures of the exception to the general rule - the one that weighs 400 pounds - and is probably a captive animal. Most Black bears don’t survive long enough in the wild to attain a weight that even approaches this number, because the majority are shot as yearlings or sub adults. Yet, these horrific images work on us below the threshold of our awareness especially if we have no relationship to the wilderness and the wild animals around us. We have all been socialized/inculcated into a culture that supports the idea that any wild animal is “automatically” dangerous to humans. And creating mindless fear and revulsion for profit is something advertisers do well.
 
In reality Black bears are extremely shy, intelligent, curious animals that learn to avoid people unless people choose to befriend them as I did. My trust-based study was based on my ability to develop a personal relationship with any bear that would tolerate my presence and allow me entrance into her/his world. Needless to say, many would not. Too shy.
 
What I discovered early on was that Black bears always clearly communicated what they needed/wanted from me. My initial challenge was learning to understand their language. For example, most bears needed me to respect their need for space. Even the bears that chose to interact with me let me know when I got too close by huffing or slapping the ground, twig, bush, tree with a paw. I learned quickly that talking to them quietly relieved their anxiety. When badly frightened, Black bears moan like children, or do the opposite, hiss/chop and slap branches while hugging the upper limbs of their trees which they co–evolved with. Too often a bear’s anxiety is interpreted as aggression. It’s worth repeating that the Black bear evolved on this continent as a prey animal who was/is totally dependent on tree cover for protection (Infant bears begin climbing shortly after birth, exploring the den, long before they emerge in the spring).
 
In New Mexico we have a population of about 6000 Black bears that live in remote mountainous terrain, always close to some kind of water. If you happen to meet a Black bear while hiking, please don’t panic. Speak quietly to the animal and give it the space it needs to go on its way. For anyone who is really terrified of bears it is useful to carry a whistle. When blown the bear will disappear in an instant, I promise you.