The Fruit Barn, Dead Geese, and a Bobcat: We're Off to Big Sky!

Finally, at three on Friday afternoon, the car was packed. Amelia had finished her environmental methods paper, Anna had ordered us take-out sandwiches from Graze, Galen had found his cross-country ski boots, and I had arranged all my plants in the living room for a friend to water over spring break.

We were off!

Taylor Swift dominated our soundtrack as we drove out of Walla Walla, through rolling brown wheat fields with thin green shoots, and past the stench of the Wallula Paper Mill. We stopped at one of the famous eastern Washington fruit barns for salted caramel and peanut butter fudge, honeycrisp and pink lady apples, and a cultural experience.

Galen and Amelia show off our $16.95/pound fudge and the endless racks of jams, jellies, and fruit butters.

I sampled chocolate-covered mangoes and chili-spiced almonds. (The elderly man next to me declined the almonds, citing his "gringo palate.") A customer at the soda bar received a jumbo-sized Pepsi cup stuffed with ice cream, and two enormous scoops were balanced on top. My cashier asked if I'd like my apples rinsed -- to remove the pesticide residue, I assume. The parking lot was home to a herd of absurdly long-horned cattle.

The warehouse of chocolate candies and canned fruit products made me dizzy. I asked the young woman who cut my quarter-pound chunk of fudge if she ever had to throw away unsold chocolate. She told me, "Never! I've never seen a batch last more than a couple days." These fruit barns are a quirky phenomenon.

As darkness fell, we continued north into Ponderosa pine forest. We stopped at the Sinclair Dino gas station in the impossibly sleepy town of Mullan, Idaho where we met the friendly young cashier who let me roll out my sore leg muscles on the floor. We filled the tank, thanked him, and left -- only to return in three minutes for directions.

It was my turn to drive on the dark stretch of I-90 East over Lookout Pass, the border between Idaho and Montana. Just after we crossed the state line, a bobcat ran across the road in front of us! She was the size of a dog, but with the regular gait and dark brown fur of a cat. Luckily I braked in time to let her get across safely.

Photo credit: Linda Tanner, Creative Commons License.

"Did you see that?!" I yelled. Nobody had. I was thrilled to see my first bobcat, but I wish it had been in rather different circumstances!

We spent the night at a friend's house in Missoula, and continued our trek the next morning. We stopped for lunch (bison burger, oh boy!) at the Hummingbird Cafe in Butte, Montana.

Miniature collages by a local artist adorned the walls of the Hummingbird Cafe.

My favorite piece was "Rat and Roses." Maybe I'll make my own version next time I have a rat skull on hand.

The broken windows, falling-over retaining walls and abandoned buildings of Butte reminded me of certain neighborhoods in Ecuador. The looming, dusty brown hills with paths and words etched into them reminded me of Cusco, Peru.

Unplanned street art of Butte.

Before we left town, we had to stop at the infamous toxic lake, Berkeley Pit. This mine produced one third of America's copper from 1955 to 1982. We approached the Pit through a fake mine-shaft for tourists.

The lake holds 40 billion gallons of water. It looked huge from the surface, and became even more impressive when I realized the sloped sides got progressively steeper as they went down below the surface.

An infographic sign informed us, "The water has very high concentrations of copper, cadmium, cobalt, iron, manganese, and zinc." It also mentioned the concentration of arsenic and the water's stunningly acidic pH of 2.5.

Meanwhile, a reassuring voice over the loudspeaker reminded us about the water treatment facility that's being built to meet EPA regulations. The facility will treat seven million gallons of water per day and discharge "clean water" into Silver Bow Creek. The treatment plant is "designed to operate forever."

Another infographic noted that "even with the metals and the acid, the Pit supports life." Two species, to be exact: waterboatmen insects and an iron-digesting algae. I think the sign was trying to convince us that the Pit isn't all that toxic after all, but it made the opposite impression on me. Life is amazingly adaptable -- the fact that only two species manage to survive in the Pit persuades me of its extreme toxicity.

Back in the car, we listened to a fascinating Radiolab podcast about the Berkeley Pit. We learned about a flock of 340 snow geese that died on the water in the 1990s, the first green slimy life in the Pit discovered by two married chemists from Montana Tech, and an incredible cancer-curing yeast. You don't want to miss it. Check out the podcast here: Even the Worst Laid Plans?

Site of the proposed Pebble Mine in the Bristol Bay region of southwest Alaska.
Photo credit: Erin McKittrick, Creative Commons License.

The Berkeley Pit got me thinking about a different copper mine: the proposed Pebble Mine near Bristol Bay, Alaska. Pebble Mine is being contested by native groups, fisherman and environmentalists for its potential to destroy the world's largest remaining wild salmon run. If it goes through, Pebble Mine will likely be the largest open pit ever built in North America, dwarfing the Berkeley Pit and rivaling the Grand Canyon with its depth of nearly a mile.

After seeing the Berkeley Pit, learning about its toxic effects on ground and surface water, hearing of the untenable plan to treat its water "forever," and listening to the clearly deceitful message of environmental consciousness at the Pit viewing site, I am convinced that we should take action to prevent the Pebble Mine from being built.

By the mid-afternoon, we arrived at Anna's house in the gorgeous snowy mountains of Big Sky, Montana for a hot meal of potato-leek soup and blackberry cobbler. (Thank you Barbara!) Finally, we made it to Amelia and Galen's house where we received a warm welcome from Beth and John. I can't wait to strap some skis on my feet for the first time and get out into the lodgepole pines, Douglas firs and Engelmann spruces out the back door!

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The Journey of a Water Droplet

WOW. My first semester at Whitman is already over. My year began in Brazil and took me all over the place, from Ecuador and Peru to the San Juan Islands and the great state of Idaho. It's hard to believe I started this blog just one year ago!

One of my greatest adventures has been starting at a new school, Whitman College, as a super-sophomore transfer student. In the two-and-a-half years since I graduated from high school I've attended five different colleges! I feel lucky to have finally settled into Walla Walla as my home for the next three years.

Many of my recent blog entries have been based on the weekly excursions I took with my Introduction to Environmental Studies class, which acquainted me with my new surroundings in eastern Washington.

For my last blog of 2014, I would like to take you on a journey of a water droplet, from the headwaters of Mill Creek in the Umatilla National Forest all the way to the Walla Walla sewage treatment plant. After all, there isn't much that is more central to our lives or our connection with place than water.

My Whitman adventure began in the sweltering sunshine of September, during Walla Walla's hottest autumn on record. I knew my Environmental Studies class was going to be a great one when we had to climb over a No Trespassing sign for our hike. (Not to worry, the government official in charge hopped over right next to us.)

As a water droplet, you fall onto the trees of the Umatilla National Forest as rain or snow and trickle your way downhill into Mill Creek. Then you may be siphoned off into the drinking-water pipe at this low diversion dam.

The diversion dam is equipped with a mossy concrete fish ladder for returning steelhead (anadromous rainbow trout) and salmon.

Our professor Bob got up on a stump pedestal to demonstrate the aesthetic value of this native white wildflower with the poetic name, pearly everlasting.

We hiked through lithosol meadows and huckleberry patches on the 36 city-owned square miles of the Mill Creek watershed.

A ranger from the United States Forest Service explained the extreme care taken by the city of Walla Walla to prevent forest fires, from removing fuel (downed wood and dead grass) to thinning out the less fire-resistant tree species.

These fire-resistant tamaracks are allowed to remain in sparse stands that don't touch one another. Walla Walla takes such strict precautions because the ash from a forest fire would be disastrous for the city's unfiltered water supply.

Here's the Environmental Studies gang enjoying a sunshiny meadow at the top of our hike.

I found one small gray bird! Maybe its body contains a droplet of water that will end up in some Whitman student's water bottle next week.

Flash forward a couple weeks and here we are in the Water Treatment Plant. Here's the end of that pipe that began all the way up in the mountains at the Mill Creek diversion dam. Because the altitude drops 300 meters from the dam to the treatment plant, the city is able to produce electricity from a "micro-hydro" operation pictured here.

The water is sterilized with ozone produced from regular oxygen in these machines I call Lightning Tanks. They are possibly the most awesome thing ever.

After treatment the water must pass rigorous tests for low microbial content and low turbidity (cloudiness). Here's a colony of bacteria growing on an agar in the treatment plant's on-site microbiology lab.

We were shivering in 20 degree Fahrenheit weather as we toured the city's reservoirs, water towers, and deep-basalt well.

The rest of our day was spent exploring the portion of Mill Creek which is not diverted for drinking-water treatment. Here, Mill Creek flows through a series of little red homes for elves. (Our professor told us these elf homes are actually debris-capture devices, but you and I know better.)

Mill Creek then reaches another fork in the river. Based on decisions made by the Army Corps of Engineers, water can flow through this concrete gravity dam and through the city of Walla Walla, or it can be diverted to flow into the man-made reservoir (and birding sanctuary) known as Bennington Lake.

Here is Bennington Lake in all its frozen glory. The water level was looking quite low, which is good for flood control but not great for recreational uses like hiking and boating. The water levels aren't always low, though. Our professor told us about a time several years ago when the water rose to within feet of the top of the earth-rock dam from which this photo was taken; the parking lot and bathroom were all submerged!

Walking on that earth-rock dam in the freezing wind was not fun.

The water that isn't diverted to Bennington Lake continues on through downtown Walla Walla in the "concrete box" portion of Mill Creek, pictured here. The channelized creek looks more like a public park wading pool (with a fast current) than a river.

Flash forward again and we arrive here, the Wastewater Treatment Plant. The droplet of water that rained upon the Mill Creek Watershed, produced microhydro electricity, and underwent ozone sterilization has been soiled by the city in any number of ways -- in a toilet bowel, shower or sink, through a human body or that of a cat or dog, perhaps for an experiment in a Whitman College organic chemistry lab. Finally it ends up here, where it goes through settling tanks, microbial digestion, aeration and filtration.

The wastewater is disinfected with UV radiation and chlorine. Depending on the time of year, it's released back into Mill Creek (downstream of the city) or used for irrigation of regional crops. The solid portions of the wastewater, known as biosolids, are used as fertilizer.

A discussion of the city's waste stream wouldn't be complete without a look at the other repository of solid waste: the landfill.

Check out those studded trash-compaction tires.

At least the European starlings found the trash attractive!

And there you have it, the exciting journey of a Walla Walla water droplet. I hope your journey through 2015 will be just as exciting!

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A Visit to Ice Harbor Dam

Last month I visited Ice Harbor Lock and Dam on the Lower Snake River with my environmental studies class. We learned a great deal about fish passage, lock operation and dam construction.

Ice Harbor Dam, with a fish ladder on the near side and a lock on the far side.

The fish ladder is used by lamprey, jack, steelhead trout, and wild and hatchery salmon. This season 190,000 chinook salmon have already passed through!

As we toured the dam, I was constantly reminded of a much larger dam I visited just nine months ago: Itaipu Binacional. That enormous dam sits on the border between Paraguay and Brazil; it's one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World and the largest dam on earth after the Three Gorges Dam (and it claims to produce more electricity than Three Gorges.)

My classmates and I spell out O-H-I-O in front of Itaipu Dam.

Standing inside Itaipu Dam, looking down from a dizzying height.

One of the massive turbines seen from outside Itaipu Dam.

As I compare my two dam experiences, I notice differences in spillway engineering, turbine size, and electricity transportation, but the most interesting comparisons were the ones I could make between people's reactions.

At Itaipu Dam in Brazil, my study abroad program was led by a natural resources economist from Universidade de São Paulo, and each of us participants hailed from The Ohio State University College of Food, Agriculture, and Environmental Sciences.

We toured the immense structure with an English-speaking guide, took a multitude of photos, and returned at night along with flocks of tourists to watch the famous light show. The next morning, we each wrote a journal entry in which we marveled at the dam's engineering and expressed our gratitude at the chance to see such a wonder (you can read mine here.) There was no mention of environmental impact or displacement of people.

Itaipu Dam at night after the lighting ceremony.

At Ice Harbor Dam in eastern Washington, my class was led by a geologist and professor of environmental studies from Whitman College, and each of us students had just watched a new documentary called DamNation and even heard from one of the film's subjects in person.

As we approached the dam itself, I heard a classmate say, "It's so ugly!" There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd. I asked my friends where this sentiment came from, and they told me they had always felt negatively toward dams. I wonder, though, how much of the reaction was based on the dam-critical documentary and lectures we had experienced in class that week? How much depended on the reactions of the peers surrounding them?

To me, the juxtaposition of my classmates' very different visceral reactions to dams -- wonder and awe versus skepticism and disgust -- was an example of how controversial topics like dams become polarized. One group focuses on the good, another on the bad, and the individuals within each group reinforce the opinions of the rest of the group. When individuals from the two groups meet, they might encounter a disconnect in emotional response (are dams beautiful or ugly?) and underlying assumptions (are dams fundamentally positive or negative?) which preclude meaningful dialogue.

I am endlessly intrigued by the processes through which individuals develop opinions about controversial political topics like dams. What would it take for a Whitman student to become pro-dam? What would it take for an Ohio State student to become anti-dam? At what point is someone open to changing her opinion, and at what point is she opposed to new ideas? Perhaps by understanding these processes, we can be better prepared to come together and address environmental issues which impact each of us.

The lone specimen of wildlife I noticed at Ice Harbor Dam: this female mallard duck chilling in the reservoir lake.

Irrigated wheat fields, vineyards and orchards seemed to increase as we neared the dam, which is the source of agricultural water in this arid region.

Whitman's Introduction to Environmental Studies class looks on at Ice Harbor Dam.

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Do You Know Your Wheat Farmer?

Do you know your wheat farmer? Or any wheat farmer, for that matter?

I do! Last weekend I met Dwelley, a life-long Palouse farmer who harvests about 1500 acres of wheat per year (and, incidentally, who majored in philosophy at Whitman College.)

Dwelley gives us a history of the farm using two huge framed photos from the farm's past.

Although the field trip was billed as "Ride a Combine!" we actually learned about much more than equipment.

Though the combine WAS pretty cool!

For example, I knew the Palouse was full of "winter wheat" but I never knew what that meant.

It means the wheat crop is planted in September or October and sprouts in the fall. The delicate green shoots have to hang out under the freezing snow all winter! The wheat develops a sturdy root system until it can finally photosynthesize and grow above-ground all spring and summer. It's harvested in July and August and BAM -- planting season again.

Sophie examines the inside of the combine, which sorts the wheat from the chaff. Literally.

Wheat is not the only crop planted on Dwelley's farm: he rotates his fields with peas, garbanzo beans and alfalfa to replenish nitrogen in the soil and break up disease cycles.

Seed peas from a past harvest.

We spent a lot of time talking about disease challenges facing wheat farmers. Pathogens come in many forms (and colors), from the Midwestern mosaic virus which turns whole patches of wheat yellow to stripe rust, a fungus that coats the wheat in vivid orange.

Water and weeds are also difficult issues to reckon with. Dwelley discussed the trade-off between center-pivot irrigation and dry-land farming. And while no-till farming does decrease erosion and (eventually) increase organic matter in the soil, it sometimes results in the need for more herbicides like Round-Up to control weeds.

Dwelley demonstrates the blower which spreads the straw back onto the field to dry.

We love tractors!

Examining a combine from the top down.

Dwelley talked about the type of wheat he wants to provide and the soft, flavorful, high-quality bread he hopes it will become. 

It was wonderful to hear Dwelley's down-to-earth views on topics that effect his crops, land and livelihood. As consumers, we often hold lofty ideals about sustainable farming and how food ought to be, but it's important to realize that farmers are as concerned about the long-term sustainability of their farms as we are (and probably more so).

The decisions Dwelley and other farmers make are incredibly complex. Every new variety of wheat Dwelley tries is a risk; each day he withholds expensive fungicide during an outbreak of stripe rust is a gamble. Even as we admired Dwelley's lush green alfalfa field, Dwelley expressed his doubts. "This field is highly acidic," he told us. "If I'd realized how unsuited alfalfa is for acidic soil, I probably wouldn't have planted it!"

The essential farm "junk yard" with Dwelley's acidic alfalfa field in the background.

Every decision Dwelley makes is based on economics, risk management, experience, and intuition about what's best for the land, the crop, the product and the consumer. In a perfect world, Dwelley would love to grow wheat without Round-Up, fungicides, insecticides, irrigation, tilling or any other risky technology, but that's not realistic.

As consumers, let's expand our discussion to include the reality of agriculture: that every calorie is eeked from the ground with a precise combination of technologies and a whole lot of elbow grease. Let's talk about agriculture not as a binary between industrial monoculture and sustainable organic production, but as the fluid art and science it truly is. Let's ask: what is the ideal balance between Round-Up and tillage? What breeding techniques can we use to improve dry-land varieties, thereby reducing the need for irrigation? How can we use genetically modified organisms to improve the safety and sustainability of agriculture?

These questions are actively being asked by farmers and scientists right now, not only by organic producers and food activists, but within the context of mainstream agriculture as well.

So what can you do? Go out and meet a wheat farmer!

And don't forget to climb a tractor... The view's great from up here.

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