On My First Publication and Gaining Familiarity with the Landscape
I’m happy to relay that my first article has been published in the Black Range Naturalist—I am very excited as this marks the beginning of the availability of my writing to audiences outside of my friends and family, something I have been planning for quite a while now.
This article came to fruition through my desire to write about the landscape and its inhabitants, both human and non-human—a theme that will likely always be a driver of my work. To me, the landscape is an amalgamate of geography, climate, ecology, and culture where geologic history plays as much of a role as current settlements in defining the ethos and life force of an area. The landscape is the pronghorn climbing through a barbed-wire cattle fence, it’s the saguaro lining the highway, it’s the salmon in the Great Lakes, it’s the cliff face behind the Sinclair dinosaur. It’s the current state of the world, informed by the past. It is encompassing; it is undefinable.
My doctoral research has sent me to wonderful places in search of lizards to collect—the place that has gripped me the most is the desert. More specifically, southern Utah, Arizona and New Mexico—an area I’ve wanted to visit because of the impact it had on Aldo Leopold, a fellow Midwesterner, the father of conservation biology, and author of one of my favorite books, A Sand County Almanac.
When preparing for such trips, I’ve tried to make a concerted effort to engage with the landscape actively, rather than being a passive visitor. Time in new places is ephemeral—novelty exists to wear off; I remind myself to go past the surface and immerse myself. Indulge myself in the landscape, wherever I am. This includes trying to connect with locals who know the area well, and eventually led to a meet-up in the Black Range with Jan Richmond and Bob Barnes—the experience I recount in my first-ever magazine article titled The Black Range: Thoughts from a Visitor published on January 3rd in the Black Range Naturalist. The Black Range Naturalist is an amazing, quirky, and thoughtful grassroots publication from Hillsboro, NM by Barnes himself. I highly recommend reading through a few issues!
Prior to embarking on the expedition through the desert southwest, I revisited some of the remarkable works in Terry Tempest Williams’ Erosion and Red, both ecological and political tours-de-force. Williams writes with a conviction about her relationship with the landscape and its politics that can only be driven by immense familiarity. The deserts of southern Utah permeate everything from her marriage to her devotions, and even her grief.
“Whatever I know as a woman about spirituality I have learned from my body encountering Earth. Soul and soil are not separate. Neither are wind and spirit, nor water and tears. We are eroding and evolving, at once, like the red rock landscape before me. Our grief is our love. Our love will be our undoing as we quietly disengage from the collective madness of the patriarchal mind that says aggression is the way forward.”
-Terry Tempest Williams, Erosion
William’s pervasive vulnerability when translating the world for her readers makes me realize that there is no better reward in life than the of deep familiarity with the landscape and the ability to fight for it. This cavernous feeling of belonging requires a stillness that is not possible when traveling from place to place, spending more time in the car than on your feet. Hence, we turn to literature.
Along with Terry Tempest Williams, I also read some of the works of Edward Abbey, including Desert Solitaire and The Monkey Wrench Gang. The former is his first work of non-fiction, depicting his time as a park ranger in the canyonlands of southern Utah and his time in the surrounding area. It is a gripping read. Its raw and poetic prose weaves his humanity, search for solitude, and aptitude for conservation with every canyon, ridge, and river across the landscape. One quote in particular gripped me:
“The desert will still be here in the spring. And then comes another thought. When I return will it be the same? Will I be the same? Will anything ever be quite the same again? If I return.”
-Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire
The relationship between time and familiarity is often contemplated by humans. In the above quote, Abbey laments his leaving the desert, unsure of what changes may or may not take place. He is questioning how he will feel upon his return. If he returns. He is dealing with uncertainty. This is the ephemerality of humanity—a short-sighted glimpse of an everchanging being (in this case, the desert) is set to a constant. It was never a constant; maybe it’s our aversion to change that allows it to appear the same. There will come a spring when the desert will not be there. This is why I think the word landscape is undefinable and addicting—it’s an incongruence; perhaps it’s more of an emotion than anything else.
Red rocks in Sedona, AZ
I will continue to write about the landscape endlessly—especially the way that it changes. The way it moves across North America, its cultural and ecological shifts, the way it meets itself at every intersection. Whatever that may mean. I will also write more about the Black Range—the place that marks a start in my publicized writing. I can’t imagine it’ll be the same when I return. If I return.
