Another drought year coming up, I post online. Someone says no, another drought decade. And I think of all the decades that we have been in this drought. My neighbor dropped off a logged tree. I counted the rings and you could see for the first 35 years of its life, the tree got plenty of water. But then the rings towards the outer bark were packed in so tight that you cannot count them. These rings our drought journal, the real drought journal.
Driving the back roads to West Marin, I pass a field covered in dandelions, each line on the hill, cattle trails lined up like topomaps, and the lip of each trail was punctuated by a row of dandelions, the hill wears its yellow stripes like a bumblebee. Invasive species blazing with a ferocity Ive never seen before.
Because of the drought, the flora lifecycle seems to be off kilter. Some plants have decided it really is spring and they’re going fullbore doing the whole life cycle as quickly as possible. Others are holding out for more clement weather.
It’s been a strange year of brown and green. I’ve never seen the hills turn brown at the end of March. But last night’s rain continues to nourish the grasses that have not yet turned brown. I think of the animals that will be impacted by this lack of water. The drought continues its stranglehold.
What’s interesting, is the places where the soil is thin, especially on rock outcrops, the hills are dark brown, not even golden. It’s as if they bleed. So much for the golden rolling hills of California. However, those iconic golden hills are largely the byproduct of non-native grasses. Shallow roots and the need for constant water determine their lifespan.
Sometimes we get lucky—in between the curtailed green grasses that normally drown out native species are isolated island of lupines, it was as if a painter had laid down color with a pallet knife. We need words to name things. We call it superbloom but that’s not what it is. Was a time when the California the hills would’ve been permanently painted with an abundance of super blooms each spring.
This is what the explorers saw as they came west. Those old romantic paintings by the Hudson school depict how it might’ve looked 200 years ago. Sure, it’s romanticized.
So little rain, too late for so many of the trees. In particular, the planted redwoods, having survived for decades, in some cases centuries or longer, are turning brown, not seeing new growth, not like the ones that were burnt by the wildfires that have largely come back with greenery sprouting from the trunk. These trunks will not resurrect. We are racing headlong into the wholesale extinction of species and genera.
Because of the drought, the flora lifecycle seems to be off kilter. Some plants have decided it really is spring and they’re going fullbore doing the whole life cycle as quickly as possible. Others are holding out for more clement weather.
It’s been a strange year of brown and green. I’ve never seen the hills turn brown at the end of March. But last night’s rain continues to nourish the grasses that have not yet turned brown. I think of the animals that will be impacted by this lack of water. The drought continues its stranglehold.
What’s interesting, is the places where the soil is thin, especially on rock outcrops, the hills are dark brown, not even golden. It’s as if they bleed. So much for the golden rolling hills of California. However, those iconic golden hills are largely the byproduct of non-native grasses. Shallow roots and the need for constant water determine their lifespan.
Sometimes we get lucky—in between the curtailed green grasses that normally drown out native species are isolated island of lupines, it was as if a painter had laid down color with a pallet knife. We need words to name things. We call it superbloom but that’s not what it is. Was a time when the California the hills would’ve been permanently painted with an abundance of super blooms each spring.
This is what the explorers saw as they came west. Those old romantic paintings by the Hudson school depict how it might’ve looked 200 years ago. Sure, it’s romanticized.
So little rain, too late for so many of the trees. In particular, the planted redwoods, having survived for decades, in some cases centuries or longer, are turning brown, not seeing new growth, not like the ones that were burnt by the wildfires that have largely come back with greenery sprouting from the trunk. These trunks will not resurrect. We are racing headlong into the wholesale extinction of species and genera.
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