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CHAPTER 1

ARRIVING

I sit beside a roaring stream of water that pours through a gully toward the lip of a waterfall and plunges to the beach below. The water clatters with rocks, so loud it fills my mind. I feel its flow from the top of my head to my toes. Remaining stationary requires resistance to the seaward pull that carries torrents of soil, leaves, needles, blossoms, branches, and whole trees downward.

How could I ever hope to find peace and stillness in this place that is always in motion? This place could sweep me away in a seismic moment or wear me down slowly, drop by drop. The physical forces of the world move me just as surely as they move rocks and water. In this long rushing moment, I can barely stand firm and resist becoming part of the flow.

Kachemak Bay is an edgy place. It straddles the edges of lands scarred by glaciers. The cooled ash of volcanoes is interwoven with the leavings of streams that meandered the landscape for millions of years. Glaciers and streams wrote their chapters into this land. The volcanoes provided punctuation, and an entire book lies beneath the rubble, written huge by the patterned, heaving rhythm of the world's tectonic heart. Beyond a southern horizon of peaks, the Pacific Plate nudges the North American Plate in the many-fathomed Aleutian Trench. The plates lock up and then bolt into earthquakes. The Pacific Plate dives down and bubbles back up as fiery lava.

The name Kachemak is derived from Native words ka, "water"; chek, "cliff"; and mak, meaning "large, high, or great." It was Highcliff Bay on the earliest American maps and chartsuntil Kachemak Bay stuck in 1896. One persistent local legend is that the word translates as "smoky bay," for the place where fires burned and smoldered in coal seams for decades. Homer, its largest town now, lies on the north shore with cliffs above the beach in either direction. Coal miners and fishermen, homesteaders and tourists, scientists and artists, Russian Old Believers and Methodists have all called it home — and Homer. No poet, Homer Pennock founded the town in the best tradition of Alaska conmen, leaving with the dough to die penniless in New York after one scheme too many. Now, the cabin hippies chop firewood, haul water, and homeschool their children. An advancing front of retirees shares the million-dollar views. Here the road ends.

The water shape-shifts, from bay to fog and cloud and back to the bay again as rain or snow. Currents and tides arrive from the south and depart to the north in a great counterclockwise gyre spun up by the moon and the revolving planet. The tides, with a range that is among the most extreme on Earth, are two enormous in-and-out breaths every day. The land recedes in trickles and sudden slips. During the melt season, the bare slopes of the bluff are strewn at their gully knickpoints with eighty-foot-tall spruce trees. They point down toward enormous piles of rocks and soil covered with vegetation that traveled so quickly that fireweed remains in bloom.

The boundary of land and beach and water shifts, changing slowly — tide by tide, storm by storm — or suddenly. The 1964 earthquake caused the bottom of the bay to drop by six feet in ten minutes, and the entire planet rang like a gong. It was only a minor setback for land that has been rising for thousands of years as the great weight of the glaciers is dissolved by the sun's warmth.

"We are all living for the halibut," we say in Homer. It's our made-for-tourists joke in the town the chamber of commerce claims, without credible challenge, to be the Halibut Fishing Capital of the World. "We are here because we're not all there," our bumper stickers proclaim. We've been dubbed one of America's One Hundred Best Small Art Towns (presumably because the town is small, not the art). Our artists weave fish skin and kelp into baskets, throw and bake beach clay into pots, turn moose antlers into coat racks, and burn a massive and communal basket of remembrance every year on the beach.

We have the "coolest zip code" in America among the Top Ten Dream Towns chosen by Outside magazine. According to Men's Journal, we're one of the Fifty Best Places to Live, "the capital of the subsistence lifestyle, where people move so they can eat what they kill." Coastal Living magazine has touted Homer as a "So you want to live in" kind of place, "a place where artists, entrepreneurs, and adventure seekers find nirvana on the shores of Alaska's Kenai Peninsula." A "funky enclave," it's one of Fifty Fabulous Places to Retire in America, one of Fifty Top (Wilderness) Places to Live and Play according to National Geographic Adventure, and one of the Top Ten Coolest Small Towns according to Frommer's Budget Travel. We're the town at the end of the road, not as impressive a distinction in largely roadless Alaska as it might be elsewhere. We're "the cosmic hamlet by the sea," so-named by our own patron saint, Brother Asaiah, who settled here in the short-lived Barefooters' commune and spent his elder years proclaiming peace and love at every city council meeting.

No one compiles a list of the one hundred best science towns in America, but Homer could certainly be a contender, with its combination of a State Critical Habitat Area, a National Estuarine Research Reserve, and an ice-free harbor that's the winter home port for a National Wildlife Refuge research vessel that ranges all the way out along the Aleutian Islands. At any given time, traps, divers, or sensing devices are somewhere within the bay. A marine lab on the south shore is thronged by scientists from NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) and the University of Alaska. They roam and scour the bay, count the fish, measure the currents, and poke and prod the wildlife. They detect molecules from Chinese smokestacks in the fat of harbor seals that have sustained Alaska Native cultures for ten thousand years.

For eleven years, I was a naturalist in Homer and manager of the Center for Alaskan Coastal Studies, a nonprofit organization dedicated to guided field trips, hikes, and ecotours on beaches and through the forest. For six weeks between mid-April and late May, it was schoolchildren nearly every day. They emptied out Alaska classrooms to go on their beach field trips during the most extreme tides of the year. From Memorial Day to Labor Day, it was a combination of locals and tourists of all ages learning about not only the beach creatures but also the ecology of the forest and meadows, edible plants, and pioneer history with a smattering of archaeology thrown in. When I began working for the center in 1998, the organization based their trips and tours out of the Peterson Bay Field Station on the south shore, perched on an isthmus between Peterson and China Poot Bays and accessible only by boat. On the bluff above Homer, we provided even more educational hikes and programs at the 125-acre Wynn Nature Center. By the time I left the job, we had added acres, buildings, and yurts in both places; purchased a building in downtown Homer for our headquarters; and extended our yurt empire to Homer Spit to book tours among the halibut charter offices.

I couldn't have imagined a better job if I had conjured it up, even with the daily vexations of volunteer-engineered plumbing, obsequious fundraising, and lost-and-found rain gear and socks. Being the logistical maven of errant naturalists, boats, food, and building supplies occupied most of my waking hours from April to October, but I was a naturalist at heart. I led tours whenever I was needed to fill in. Other days, I found a reason, however flimsy, to spend the day across the bay or several hours at the nature center. After adjusting the plumbing or declaring it intractable and soothing hurt feelings with my best supervisory empathy, I went for walks along the trails. I justified it as necessary to being both teacher and model for my much younger naturalist staff, but I always felt a little guilty that I was paid to do exactly what I loved.

I walked the beaches, attuning my meanderings to the tidal cycles. The rocks lurking beneath the water were exposed by the ebbing tide, and they teemed with life in glistening swaths. The many-legged and shelled creatures clung to their crevices and the last drops of moisture until the tide returned. I walked the forest trails when the plants emerged, green-legged, and the flowers shifted from violets in spring to a panoply of blossoms during summer and later as bursts of red and yellow marked their dying back under the spruce trees. I watched the sun rise in the sky higher and longer before descending into its short winter arc. During the winters, in the midst of writing grants and endless thank-you letters, I read everything I could find about the natural history of the boreal and coastal forests and the marine ecology of the North Pacific Ocean of which Kachemak Bay is a part.

I like to think of this as my Victorian naturalist period, in the sense of giving full rein as passionate amateur interested in all aspects of nature. It was lore I was after, the stories as well as the careful scientific observations that followed hypotheses and someone else's numbingly repetitive scientific methods and clever data analyses. Like the Victorian naturalists, I became a collector of the remains of living things and the facts of their natural histories. Unlike the Victorians, however, I had no curio cabinet or parlor to show off my finds. I didn't even have separate rooms for living and for entertaining guests. Shells, rocks, and artifacts — selected for their striking patterns and my quest for the stories that shaped them — slowly settled as sediment on my window ledges and bookshelves.

But the pace of change in the world overtook me. Over and above the daily cycles of tides and the stately march of seasons, things altered in the bay in ways I hadn't anticipated. I arrived during what turned out to be a spruce bark beetle epidemic, which spread on both sides of the bay. I recognized the extent of the infestation when I stood on my porch one winter day and heard loud crunching emanating from beneath the bark of my stack of firewood. Dead trees girdled by beetles soon crashed down into a jumble of pick-up sticks across our trails. Over the course of several summers, the glacier in the bay to the west of the field station galloped backward. More and more silt swirled into the tidal current and was deposited around our dock, grounding it more and more frequently. A new species of sea star that no one had seen in two decades of beach walks began showing up alive in massive windrows on the beaches at the same time that nearly a dozen species of sea stars that we saw regularly on low tides shrank to just a handful.

We adapted. A chainsaw brigade of volunteers opened up the trails blocked by dead spruce windfall each spring. Our forest hikes became quieter every year as the flute notes of thrushes and the scolding chirps of red squirrels became rarer. Hikes became less and less mysterious in the absence of the density and enclosure of live trees. Even the woodpecker's rat-a-tatting through dead wood for insects disappeared. I used my tidal math and my woeful physics to schedule pickups and drop-offs at the field station at times when the dock could be counted on to float. We drew fewer lines between different types of sea stars and their prey in our food web diagrams of who eats whom.

The pace of change accelerated. The environment shifted, veering in directions that my personal stash of lore and scientific information couldn't quite map. I reluctantly tuned into the science of climate change and the soon-raging debate. Which changes were natural and "normal"? Which were occurring in cycles that took place over decades or centuries, to which everything that lived in the bay, including myself, could surely learn to adapt? Which were caused by my own species at accelerating rates that would change the ecosystem irreparably? Was the future to be one of more and more change and loss of what I had come to see as intricate patterns of life, as givens?

Scientists amassed evidence of global climate change, which hit Alaska near the North Pole at nearly twice the rate of the planet's more temperate places. In addition to shorter cycles for insects like the spruce bark beetles, our ponds and lakes began evaporating and going dry during warmer summers. Animals — even sea turtles — moved northward from more tropical waters to now warmer Alaska seas. In the far north of Alaska, sea ice and permafrost melted more each year. Although the popular argument over climate change seemed to be one about belief, among scientists it was a matter of theory backed up by large amounts of evidence. The changes — the dead trees, the monster storms more intense than anyone could remember, even the temperature of the ocean measured by our scientists — became the stuff of everyday conversation in Homer.

The idea that the weather could change globally and in a direction that might be unstoppable does have the ring of a conspiracy theory, of the type a number of Homerites are prone to recite. It seemed to shake people up in the way that the theory of evolution must have shaken Victorian society and its naturalists. The country parsons who botanized to find evidence of the glory of God's creation and the budding agnostic scientists had been forced to take sides on the question of the true relations of the species, only one of which was considered to be made in the image of God. Just as the theory of evolution pointed backward to origins, climate change pointed backward to the smokestacks in London around the time Darwin published his theory. Both theories pointed forward as well to consequences, many of which some claim God would never allow to happen unless they signaled the prophesied end of the sinful world.

It was obvious to me that I would take the side of the scientists. Yet I felt compelled to understand the nature of the impacts that would be wrought in my own home. Could I teach anything that could forestall the end of the natural world as I had come to know it? Did human nature make drastic change inevitable? And if it did, how could I adapt to a vanishing world?

I began my search for some place to start, for a baseline. But I immediately realized there were problems with baselines. My sense of change, and of place, was based on my own personal baseline. I compared the rate and direction of changes in the bay to the only timeline I really knew: that of my own life.

Like everyone, I have trouble thinking about places except in terms of memories of more perfect, or more miserable, times. Some memories from my childhood feel solid and burnished, like the days I spent with my father fishing on small streams that meandered over Montana's sprawling ranchlands. As he drove farther away from the highway on narrow dirt tracks overgrown with grass that scraped the bottom of our station wagon, he told stories about his childhood and the driving trips he took into the same country with his parents. I was impatient at the time, and his stories barely registered. It took me years to figure out that going fishing was his way of remembering the land and waters of his childhood.

Catching trout for dinner mattered, but not nearly as much as memory. He often left me alone on the bank of the stream with a can of worms and a fishing pole as he fly-fished the holes farther and farther away until he was out of sight. I was particularly inept at learning to fly-fish, which may have been the reason for being left behind, but I think now that it was also his own desire for solitude in the places he remembered. In the end, he bequeathed me that same solitude and memories of an enduring Montana baseline, a place where wild animals and wild beauty, wheat crops, cattle, deer, and elk all thrived together on land threaded with the vibrant streams that we fished.

When I was ten and sitting on the bank of that Montana creek, my father, moving out of sight around the bend, was forty-five and remembering his own baseline of a place he had visited with his father thirty-five years before that. The Alaska I arrived to at the age of twenty-three and the Kachemak Bay I moved to at forty-seven are not the same places that anyone arrives to at a different time. Places change as does the nature of abundance. New people are born or arrive in new places all the time. Baselines and ecosystems shift.

Scientists recognize the phenomenon of shifting baselines. In 1995 Daniel Pauly, a fisheries biologist, published a paper titled "Anecdotes and the Shifting Baseline Syndrome in Fisheries Management." He chided fisheries managers for failing to identify the correct baseline for the size of a population of fish under "natural" conditions, before people began harvesting them or exploiting them as resources and extracting them from the ocean. The baseline that the managers begin with, Pauly suggests, is a personal one, based on the state of the world and fisheries at the start of their careers. If no one pays attention to historical data, if it even exists, before paying attention to populations of fish already being exploited, it's possible to make a terrible mistake. The managers, in effect, reset the baseline at a much lower level than it once was, just as I reset my baseline for a much tamer Montana than the one my father sustained in his memory. This matters, Pauly says, because long but slow declines of fish populations over extended periods of time would never be detected. It was widespread throughout fisheries management; it was a syndrome. What's lost in the process, Pauly concluded, is the "perception of change," when each generation redefines what's natural.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Entangled"
by .
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