A few weeks ago we flew back to the Midwest for a short family get-together. Late winter is always the best time for the drive along the river. Landing in St. Louis, we drove north up the Missouri side of the Mississippi, through little one stop-sign towns like Old Monroe, Elsberry, Annada. . . . At Clarksville, tucked under the limestone bluffs, the famous ice-cream parlour is newly shuttered, and the cement works is silent. But you get a brilliant view of Lock and Dam No. 24 and the bald eagles perched in the bare trees looking for fish. We crossed over at Louisiana and drove up the broad flood plain on the Illinois side—fields still showing frozen corn or soy bean stubble—no one tills heavily anymore—the old deep plows are rusting or scrapped. At times we were six or seven miles from the river, again hugging the limestone bluffs, crossing half dozen wide creeks and washes that drain the uplands before turning up one wooded draw that led to my home town. The entire route—with the exception of the area around I-70 as it exits St. Louis and crosses the Missouri River before the confluence with the Mississippi—was virtually unchanged from the days of my childhood: ninety miles of familiar drainages and outcrops. I know it’s not always the case—but there, the fate of the land is largely entrusted to those who live on it—both literally and figuratively. No corporate board in Miami or Dallas plunks down retirement homes, assembly plants, RV parks, or golf courses. Its very obscurity has spared it the often fatal attentions that befall areas blessed with more obvious natural beauty; no Herculean efforts are needed to preserve what isn’t under direct threat. Along our stretch of the Mississippi, locals manage the Sny drainage system that ensures access to the flood plain’s astonishing fertility—and they are men and women who cherish morels in the spring and ducks in November. As Wendell Berry notes, “You may need a large corporation to run an airline or to manufacture cars, but you don’t need a large corporation to raise a chicken or a hog.” Carl Sandburg is western Illinois’ presiding poet—here’s his full take on the landscape we drove through ( posted a line from this on a earlier blog—here’s the full version):
“There was a tall slough grass
Too tough for the farmers to feed the cattle,
And the wind was sifting through, shaking the grass;
Each spear of grass interfered a little with the wind
And the interference sent up a soft hiss,
A mysterious little fiddler’s and whistler’s hiss,
And it happened all the spears together
Made a soft music in the slough grass
Too tough for the farmers to cut for fodder.
”This is a proud place to come to
On a winter morning, early in winter,”
Said a hungry man, speaking to his dog,
Speaking to himself and the passing wind,
“This is a proud place to come to.”
The mid-Willamette Valley—our proud place—is not blessed with inattention from the whirling world, from those who live elsewhere but want this where to augment their bank accounts. Ten years here can render once familiar sights unrecognizable, relegating them to the preserve of memory. Once converted, such lands rarely return to their former states. Yet we have just as many natural allies as we do threats—we’re rich in farmers, ranchers and orchardists, men and women who know first hand that the true test of a land’s vitality is its ability to regenerate itself and who live on the land whose fate they control. Their support—just as much as those who live along paved and lighted streets—will make or break our efforts at ensuring that our rivers and streams, our uplands and savannas, remain capable of self-renewal. Over a decade ago the Catholic bishops of the Columbia watershed wrote in their pastoral letter that “[t]he means are now available to use regional resources more efficiently while doing much less harm to regional ecologies.” They also pointed out that the courage and resilience necessary to cultivate this watershed over a century ago are now required to navigate the challenges of living in closer harmony with it.
How does that work, exactly? There isn’t a one size fits all model —each property, each landowner, each dialogue is different. While the broader goal remains the same—to enhance and, where necessary, restore the network of waterways and adjacent lands to the point where they are self-regenerating in a meaningful way– the solutions will require finesse, time and trust. Courtney White (from Quivira) lays out in “The Working Wilderness: A call for a Land Health Movement” one prospect—but one drawn from high-range grazing on semi-arid land. Definitely, not us—especially the semi-arid part; I’m looking at frog-ponds in my lawn as I write and I suspect our lambs are evolving into a semi-aquatic subspecies. But the salient features of the dialogue he recounts ring true: landowners are our natural partners because they understand stewardship—our interests coincide or can easily be adjusted to overlap. Stewardship is polyvalent–everyone knows you can’t take care of the land without taking care of those who live on it. In one sense, we all live on the land—let’s make sure this is true in every sense. Once upon a time we didn’t need to ask whether the land also lives off us. A glance at the state of the Willamette and its tributaries confirms that those days are demonstrably past. Our fates are now intimately intertwined– in this dance, the music will play only as long as we dance together.
