Climate Change and a Hail Mary
Diary of the West Coast's hottest day ever recorded in June
5:20 am - 64º F
No one should be up this early. Even the rooster is still in bed and hasn't made a peep. I pull on a shirt, not realizing it's inside-out, throw on yesterday's shorts, tie my shoes and stumble down the path leading to the driveway. If I don't walk now, I won't walk at all. The forecasted high today is 111 in this valley and 115+ in Grants Pass. The 10-day forecast then "cools" down and hovers at 100 degrees for the foreseeable future.Â
A mama deer and her spotted fawn munch grass in the lower field as my shoes crunch the bone-dry gravel on the road. Yesterday, during the 100-degree evening stroll to the garden, I saw the mama and baby standing in the irrigation ditch cooling down. The little tyke looked heat-stressed and wobbly. Seeing the fawn well enough to eat this morning makes me happy. They both high-tail it to the bushes as I pass.Â
A quarter-mile up the hill, a man, suited up in full weed-whacking regalia, knocks down waist-high grass along the ditch in front of his hayfield. He waves the whipper and nods. I smile and wave back in acknowledgment that we are members of an unspoken club of early risers bent on living anyway, no matter what the thermometer says.
They tell us this will be the hottest day ever recorded in June on the West Coast. This ecosystem isn't designed for desert-style heat. There is a reason the Mojave is sand, rock, and sagebrush. My homestead is mostly wooded with large Doug Fir, Ponderosa Pine, Oak, and Madrone trees sheltering a ferocious understory of Blackberry, Snowberry, Oregon Grape, Ceanothus, forest grasses, and my favorite - Poison Oak. The fuel load, as wildland firefighters call it, is heavy on the property.Â
The garden sits on a cleared, south-facing slope in the lower meadow and sometimes registers 5 degrees hotter in summer than the temperature at my house, which is nestled in the middle of the forest. After getting 2.5 miles in, I stop to water and wish the veggies good luck, then make a bee-line for the coffee pot. Cup in hand, I sit down at the computer and Google "best places to live in the north." It will likely be Google's top inquiry today. In case you're wondering, I did not find Utopia. The heatwave is baking the entire West Coast halfway through British Columbia. It is supposed to be as hot in Bellingham, Washington today as it is here in Southern Oregon. The lesson? With Climate Change, there is nowhere to run.
10:30 am - 90º F
I look out the window at the stand of dying Cedar trees on the north side of my house. Needles crispy brown, dropping off or hanging willy-nilly on branches die of thirst before my eyes. There is nothing I can do for them. I'm rationing water by choice, keeping the garden and myself alive. I can't water everything. It's a brutal triage that I fear is just beginning.
Trees matter. Trees help cool the air around them via a phenomenon called "transpiration cooling," which means trees absorb groundwater through their root system then release it into the air through leaves and needles, cooling the atmosphere around them. So when I consider the bonus shade they offer the ground beneath them, it makes me wonder why humans haven't yet found an affordable way to make stuff out of something other than wood.
1:32 pm - 116º F
The mercury soars. It's a privilege to work at home online. I feel genuine compassion for any living creature that has to be out in this heat. I follow a blog by Daniel Swain, a climate scientist at the University of California, Los Angeles, who reports and forecasts mainly for California. What happens in Northern California usually happens in Southern Oregon. I clicked on his current article warning that it's only June, and we're not even close to peak dry season yet. I close my eyes and notice a hot ball of emotion smoldering in my midsection when I think ahead to what August and September may bring. Â
Starting today, everyone I know will be on Level 1 Evacuation Notice that most likely won't end until rains come in October. One of the downsides to living in a high-risk wildfire zone is living on edge the entire summer and keeping a go-bag parked at the front door. Welcome to the new reality.
This morning, in The New York Times, a story on the heatwave and massive drought in the American West lays out the road ahead of us. Statements like, "Extreme heat is the clearest signal of global warming, and the most deadly," and, "Across the country, heat waves are becoming more frequent, lasting longer and occurring earlier in the year," get my attention. The thought of this heatwave being the new normal for summer on the West Coast falls on my heart like a brick. How will we survive this? "We" meaning living beings; trees, plants, soil, humans, baby and mama deer, butterflies and bees.Â
My wish today, this hottest day on record in June on the West Coast, is that it will serve as a lesson. Or, a heeded warning that this planet is warming out of control. If we stick our heads in the sand, our asses will get burned. Instead of finding a way to live on Mars, why not fund solutions for fixing the problems human civilization has created on earth? Â
Easy for me to say, sitting in my air-conditioned living room, right? There are no quick, easy fixes, but I believe with all my heart we have to try. And what does that mean for me personally? What can little me do to turn this ship around? Conserve water. Drive less. Go Solar. Simplify. Consume fewer goods. I stopped flying two years ago, does that count?
5:00 pm - 113º F
I step outside to suffocating heat and an eerie silence in the woods. Not even the crickets or bugs make a sound. I’m a wimp and can’t handle it so I duck back into the 86 degree house which feels like a refrigerator. The AC unit is giving all it can.
7:00 pm - 103º F
Elvis crows and breaks the silence. The free-range chickens come out of hiding and head to the water bucket along with the Blue Jays and Robins. It’s now a mere 103 degrees. A thought breezes through my mind, They survived! I down a glass of water and psyche myself up to walk to the garden and see what shape the plants are in.
May this day be an anomaly and not the new normal. May this lead us from denial to a solution-based future. I wish I had a clever, tidy ending to this missive, but I don't. So I will leave you with a photo my mom took of the meadow thermometer at peak heat this afternoon. Proof that here in Southern Oregon, Climate Change has arrived.Â
Author closes eyes and tosses a Hail Mary into the ether.
☆
This line jumps out at me: there will be "nowhere to run." You succeed in portraying at ground level the seriousness of the crises we face.
Be careful