Twenty. I walked ten blocks and counted twenty disposable face masks. Almost all were those pleated pale blue paper masks, crumpled in gutters, netted into bushes, flattened on muddy lawns. They’ll be turning up soon, if they haven’t already, snagged on dolphin fins.
That was when I could still take a walk. It has been forty-four days of over 90 temps here and we have yet to get through September, our second August. Heat combined with auto exhaust makes ground-level ozone. Sensitive people like children shouldn’t breathe that air. Add to it the smoke of Western wildfires and I’m wearing a mask again to go outside. It has been weeks since we were able to see the mountains from Denver. We could be in Omaha.
The dying Norway Maple in front of my house and a dim sky at 2 p.m.
This polluted air lockdown is as bad as Covid’s, although the Delta variation is trying to compete, thanks to the unvaccinated, who keep the virus active and mutating. I’m weary of stinging eyes and headaches, of featureless skies, miss the blue, miss the towering cumulus clouds of summer.
The rising sun is a dull red ball, growing glittery, less easy to look at as it pulls through the smoke into a solid, pale sheet of gray-brown sky. By noon, the sun’s copper-colored
light burnishes leaves bronze, stained as it is by particulate-laden haze.
Summer in the western U.S. now gives annual evidence of how our damage to the planet is compounding out of control: fires burning all summer in our worsening drought, water levels dropping faster than we anticipated. For the first time, a Colorado River shortage has been declared. Arizona, Nevada and Mexico have already had their allotments reduced. California, New Mexico and Colorado can’t be far behind. And yet people keep moving to the West.
The East Coast may flood, but it’s the fire next time for us. And not enough water to put it out.
I went out this morning for a walk hoping to beat the heat and haze, but the foothills were almost invisible. I was born here, lived away, moved back, and sometimes think about moving away again, but where?
Oh yeah. You summed it up, kiddo. I m staying inside! I learned from a forestry guy while camping last week that they will be emptying the Blue Mesa Reservoir (outside Gunnison) into Lake Powell as California and Arizona “need our water”….. We did have a bit of bluer sky down south of Cimarron, and above Creede. Denver just wants to hold it all in against the mountains. Not sure where we can go where it would be better. Smokey summer fires are here to stay. Our planet is weeping.
It is amazing I was feeling so down yesterday, saddened by the plight of our mother planet. And this morning I see your blog. We are on the same page Pat. Our planet will never be the same.
Yesterday I was remembering my childhood in the summers and I looked to my son and I said the summers we knew are gone. My son agreed, looking very sad.
The world is in crisis. Such much is done in ignorance. People blame, leaving themselves out of it. Who else is there to blame, who else is there to act? We are more interested in buying a new truck, a new television, a new phone. “Life goes on,” we say — until we run into the wall.
I miss our attempts at monthly walks, especially since fire season has arrived so much earlier this year. I’m an early riser, so I’ve been trying to get out and walk while the air is still cool and the AQI is within reason. I used to check the temp first thing when I got up, now I check the AQI. I can see the foothills from the top of my street – or at least I could. They never cease to stir my heart when I look at them, but I sure do miss them. Like you, have not been able to walk much the last several weeks. I’ve shifted some of that energy to the yard, trying to work when it’s still cool and slowly but surely. Overall, what you’ve described so well, and what we’re all experiencing, feels like matricide and suicide to me. I don’t ever give up hope, especially seeing some of the amazing contributions young scientists and innovators are making, but that thing with feathers is banging around against the chambers of my heart.
Kathleen, you made me cry—in a good way. Every other day since we got back from San Francisco, I’ve said, “maybe Kathleen and I can have a walk THIS week,” and every week, I’ve abandoned the hope, but yes, it still bangs away within the heart.
Pat, yours is a concise collection of our many, and collective, laments. How, when–and whether–the individual bits add up to any meaningful reversal is impossible to tell. I keep telling myself that we got in these messes by increments, will get out of the same way…but I’ve been saying that long enough that I begin to feel like a dope.
Our environment is in crisis. The air is not breathable, the sidewalks unwalkable, beetles are winning and our water disappearing. Remember how we shook our heads when we saw people in China wearing masks in the streets. Well .. it looks like masks might be here to stay, even if we defeat COVID.
“We could be in Omaha.” Well, they have their problems. Were my daughter not living there, I would not have heard about it, but they had quite a flood last weekend. A friend of hers had to climb out of her car’s sunroof to swim to safety.
Wow, Gregg, and I had not heard about it either. I picked Omaha for its flatness. Thanks be your amazing daughter was safe.
Just walked around Washington Park. Work crews are paving the road.The Canada geese are back. The lakes still shimmer. The mountains are somewhere over there. A few people smile at me and I at them. But for how long?
Pat, Sending you and Denver love and prayers. I think we may already be too late to save our Mother Earth. Here in the east we have had flash floods, tornado watches (unheard of around western North Carolina) and heat waves further north and south but not here. Nor do we have smokey air. Delta variant is raging through, and now they speak of boosters.
But we are so much safer and happier than most of the rest of the country I feel very fortunate. We just travel along, singin’ our song, side by side.
Winnie Barrett
I am very sorry. The damage has been terrible. Many look the other way. Abrazos, Pat.
Mil gracias, Araceli!