July 21, 2010

Just Say No to Fracking

Bhopal. Exxon Valdez. Three Mile Island. Chernobyl. Love Canal. Dimock, PA? And is upstate New York next?

I am not well-versed in the politics, nor the science, involved in natural gas drilling and hydraulic fracturing. I don’t know benzene from formaldehyde, and when you say arsenic, I think “old lace.” But I do know a little about human emotions, and I know a little more about what it means to live in the Catskill forest, inside the blue line.

Right now we have a crisis on our hands, and a moratorium (or a ban) on drilling in this area – upstate NY and neighboring PA – seems like our only hope for maintaining our health, our drinking water, our fishing streams, our tourism industry, our breathable air, etc. It sounds dire. It is. I sound histrionic. I know. Let’s hope one day you can tease me about this and we’ll all have a good laugh (remember Y2K?).

But clamoring for a moratorium or a ban on drilling sounds like taking up the rallying cry of “Just Say No.” Of course we say no. Of course we implore our elected officials to say no. But saying no isn’t enough. Saying no doesn’t change the fundamental problems that existed before Inflection Energy pursued lease arrangements in Broome County, NY. The lack of local opportunities for good jobs and the expenses of maintaining a farm combined to make fertile ground for the gas companies to plant an insidious seed. In one simple transaction, years of debt and stress can evaporate. Counties can balance their budgets. That thought that I can get my family out from under a devastating debtload is compelling. Add the drillers’ promises of safe practices and low impact technology and it is very compelling. But the stories that have emerged post drilling are even more frightening.

Damn good reasons to say no are abundant, and abundantly obvious. I won’t reiterate them here. My point is that we must address the problems that render us vulnerable to economic blackmail. We have to decide where, how, to what and to whom we say yes. Yes, we will support local small business owners and farmers. Yes, we will change out consumption patterns to be more energy conscious. Yes, we will support and protect our neighbors’ interests trusting that they have our back too. Yes, we will use the image of an underground aquifer as a metaphor for the vast and sometimes unknown connections among potentially disparate people. Yes, we will take responsibility for our actions, accepting that while not always cheap or convenient, the alternative is a fracking disaster.

I go to the Kingston Farmers’ Market every week for two reasons. The first is to shop: I buy the stuff I know I can’t get at my CSA that week, like fruit or cheese. The second reason I make the trip is that this particular market feels alive. It is vibrant and bustling, full of people buying. It is an example of supporting local efforts that works. It makes sense and it makes cents. It reeks of recovery and health. It is an oasis of hope: real cold-hard-cash-based hope. Spend some time there. I promise it will feed your soul.

So yeah, just say no to drilling. No fracking up our air, no fracking with our health. But remember, that’s only half of the equation. We have to live in a way that makes us all strong and healthy, individually, as families, as communities and as a region. WE have to do it, not our politicians. Their role is to say no, to listen to us, and to stop this threat. Our role is to tell them what to say yes to – to tell them we want to support small scale organic farmers, light manufacturing, renewable clean energy technologies, and that we want small businesses to have a fighting chance to compete against big box bullies.

Please let me know what you think. How do you navigate the maze of decisions you have to make about how much you drive, where you shop, what you support, and how you protest. Let’s share ideas and hope. And sign those "just say no" petitions every chance you get. The water you save may be your own.

July 17, 2010

From the Kingston Farmer’s Market to the Summit of Hunter Mountain

Ok, ok, so I promised a blog about all things Catskillian and I’ve been writing about hiking, hiking, and more hiking lately. Where’s all the food?

Sometimes the stars line up and writing about hiking and local food comes together. As I sit here on a steamy Friday night in July, sipping Whitecliff Winery’s un-oaked chardonnay (lovely but not as dry and complex as Millbrook’s), I am reflecting back upon the events of the week and eagerly anticipating what’s to come. This week I became a volunteer interpreter for the Hunter Mountain Fire Tower. What, you ask is a volunteer interpreter? Best analogy I can offer: the Catskills are the museum. The fire towers are the exhibit. I am the docent with the plastic nametag, extra copies of the brochures, and an insider’s beat on the info you might really need to know (e.g. where’s the bathroom and what’s the best restaurant around here for dinner).

I took a day off from my clinic job and hiked up Hunter Mountain in the rain with Gordon, the Chairman of the Hunter Mountain Fire Tower Volunteer Committee. That’s the kind of thing volunteers do. The hiking was hard - I don’t recommend hiking up ski trails, and especially not in the rain. It was supremely steep and slick like a greased pig. We searched for the old Shanty Hollow Trail - the trail that predates the ski area built perhaps by the CCC. Some of the oldest trail markers, Gordon told me, were made of leather. I wanted to find one but no such luck.

Working hard keeps you warm, even in the rain. Gordon and I talked about search and rescue efforts, movies, our children, hiking, and of course our charge for the day: the fire tower. I did not promote my books or talk about my fascination with the idea that fire towers could hold fire much like water towers hold water. It was Gordon’s day and he shared with me his memories of the mountain and of his father, an 83 year old hiker with personal history entwined with this tower. When we made it to the cabin, Gordon showed me a photograph of his dad and friends, back in the 1940s, up at the tower. He also showed me a photo of himself, nine years old, up here with his brothers and his dad. I got it; this mountain is Gordon’s mountain, the cabin is Gordon’s cabin and the tower is his tower. It may also be many other people’s, deeply, romantically etched in memories and photos, but in some way that I grasp because Hook Mountain is mine, Hunter is his. It is his childhood mountain, his family’s mountain. I suddenly feel the intimacy of the cabin in a whole new way, and with it a wave of respect for men I will never meet – his dad, but also all the other dads and husbands – the generations of observers who lived here and watched for fires protecting the forest and the families living within it.

It is a chilly rain up top, and I am soaked to the skin. The breeze is welcome in the stuffy cabin but almost painful. I shed my nasty polypro shirt and don a wool t-shirt and fleece pullover. I’m hungry. Lunch is a sandwich: Bread Alone harvest grain bread, spread with Acorn Hill goat milk ricotta, Veritas Farm snipped parsley, and roasted red peppers from a jar. The Kingston Farmer’s Market has followed me up this mountain and fed me while I adjust to my new role.

It is July, but Gordon builds a fire in the pot-bellied stove and I find myself shivering and standing close. I take in as much as I can (“Same key for both padlocks,” “Don’t sleep on the top bunk; that’s where the roof leaks,” “Don’t let Korean hiking groups make soup inside the cabin”) but my mind is full of writer’s retreat visions and my heart is full of childhood dreams come true. I need to start moving again soon; or I need to stay here and take off all my wet clothes and get really warm and dry. My boots are sodden. We get moving.

We walk the loop, which involves losing and regaining 240 feet of elevation. The trail is gorgeous, rocky and dramatic, and we are in a cloud. Spider webs everywhere are bejeweled with tiny droplets and I am ducking and dodging their itchy tickle. We do not see the resident snowshoe hare, nor do we hear ravens - perhaps the rain has sent them packing. We check out the view ledge where I should take people who cannot climb the tower; we can’t see 20 feet in front of us. We are in a cloud.

I will be doing my interpretations the first weekend of August, September and October this year. If all goes well, I will continue to hike up Hunter to hole up in the cabin with my husband and my dogs and experience life at 4040' elevation for a day or two every so often. I can’t believe the stars have lined up to place this opportunity in my lap. Check back to hear about how it all pans out!

And yeah, I guess I still owe you all a food post...