Weather, Mars, and wildfires ... who knew?

I've always loved weather. I love the kinds of weather than many folks hate. I love wind. I love desert heat. I love snow, falling so hard I can barely see through it. There's something in weather about being connected to this huge cosmos, (temporarily) surrendering comfort to the openness of it. And there's something about its freedom—not my freedom in it, but weather's freedom from me, from us. Its indifference to our wishes, its refusal to yield to our control. It schools us, humbles us. Reminds us of our inevitable limitations. And usually welcomes us, provided we enter on its terms and not our own. I'm reminded of the message on a friend's t-shirt: "Skiing is the ultimate dance, and the mountain always leads." To paraphrase: Weather is the ultimate dance partner, and she chooses the music.

I mention my love for weather as an entree to another topic—actually, two other topics, both weather-related. But lest I lose your interest because you're thinking this is going to be nothing but an overdrawn, totally naive paean to weather, let me qualify my enthusiasm. I also recognize the terrible side of weather's indifference to human wishes and human interventions. And I have to admit that my affection for weather has been challenged in recent years by the stark realities of its extreme versions both locally and worldwide: record drought, record wildfires, record rains, record tornadoes, record flooding, record hurricanes, record typhoons ... the terrible side of weather.

Weather is unquestionably a force in our lives, both marvelous and terrifying. And knowing more about it can only help. Fortunately, balancing my naive affection for strong wind and dessert heat are calm, scientific approaches of folks like the atmospheric scientists at the University of Colorado and at the National Center for Atmospheric Research (NCAR), both located in Boulder, right next door to my weather innocence. Which brings me to my actual topic: My concept of "weather"—the kind I love or curse—is so much narrower than "weather" science tells me it could be. I learned this by happenstance. In the past week, I've read about two scientific undertakings that happily merge my interest in weather with other topics about which I am just about as enthusiastic: space and fires.

First, and most immediate, is today's launch of a new Mars orbiter whose scientific payload is the MAVEN, which stands for "Mars Atmosphere and Volatile Evolution Mission" (I know, the acronym is a stretch, but it actually does describe, in an obscure sort of way, what the orbiter will do). I actually just watched the launch live on NASA TV. The timing of the launch was crucial, because Mars isn't sitting still waiting for us to send a spacecraft up to visit. So missing this time window might have sunk the mission. But off it went on an 11-month trip to Mars, where it will put itself in orbit and hang around for a decade or so.

Assuming all goes well en route, MAVEN, whose lead scientist is at CU, will be studying Mars weather (ah, there's the connection!) in an attempt to figure out what happened to the water that clearly used to flow on Mars. Now, this undertaking may seem really remote (well, it is really remote .... but I mean it in a different way here), but this information could tell us a lot about how Mars evolved differently from Earth, losing the atmosphere that retained water and therefore sustained life. This in turn, will tell us something (more) about how planets nurture life—important information as we try to determine whether life exists (has existed, will exist) on other planets. If you've followed at all my interest in cosmology, you can imagine why I find this fascinating, especially with the weather connection, another passion that you now know about. Weather! on Mars! How cool is that?

The other unexpected weather connection I just learned about is a link between weather and fire. Not in the way you might think. This isn't about how fire is affected by weather—factors like aridity, heat, and wind. Instead it's about how fire actually is weather. This time, it was scientists at NCAR (working with others at the University of MD) whose thinking stretched my own. Fire behavior has always been the province of forestry scientists, who have tried to explain (and, ideally, predict) how fires will act based on phenomena related to forests and weather—type and distribution of fuel, terrain, natural barriers, humidity, wind, and so forth. But it seems that when atmospheric scientists brought a new perspective to the question of how wildfires behave, the game changed. It's testimony to the value of interdisciplinary work (and to the problem of academic "silos") that their different "eyes" saw something new. 

It turns out that fire behavior looks a lot like weather, perhaps especially like thunderstorms. As the fire consumes fuel, it produces moisture and heat, which rise—much like heated air in a thunderstorm. This draws in air at the base of the fire (much like thunderstorms do), creating multi-directional winds of the sort that may cause wildfires to "blow up" and that catch firefighters unprepared. The combination of this model of wildfire behavior and improved satellite weather data may change the future of wildfire management. If so, this view of fire as weather may save some lives.

I've always loved weather. It's one reason I love Colorado—the weather here is so varied and so changeable, so wonderful and so humbling. So free, despite our wish to control it. It turns out that the very word "weather" has the same quality. It just keeps morphing, changing. I love that about language. It's so free, despite our wish to control it.

Balm

For some time, I’ve been hinting about a future blog on issues around fire, flood, climate change, etc. Last night, I sat down to start what I imagine as a series of blogs on these things. But instead of a thoughtful, informative piece, I found myself writing a rant—a tirade about our misdeeds as a species, our failure to “get it” about climate change, and our individual responsibility for how we deal with the risks of living with nature in all her beauty and danger.

After a few pages of that, I settled down, having “vented my spleen,” as they used to say back in the 18th century. And now, I think I’m prepared to start the blog(s) in a more calm and thoughtful mood. To ease the transition from the rant to the conversation, I thought I’d share some photos from a lovely, balmy late afternoon walk—the glorious fall air, the Colorado blue skies, and persistent autumn colors. Oh … and a mysteriously perched token left by (or for?) some passing child. 

In only two cases did I take more than one picture of the same tree ... or maybe it's three. Spot them if you can!

Who wouldn’t be soothed by such a day?

“The fine line ...

… between nature’s beauty and her indifference.”

It’s a phrase I read in a Time magazine description of movies featuring a single protagonist caught on this line (“Cast Away,” “Into the Wild,” “127 Hours,” “Gravity”). It’s a perfect description of our ambivalent feelings about nature: our delight in her beauty and diversity and our ultimate powerlessness over the magnificent forces that we still can’t control. (Although we do influence them … more on that in another blog, coming soon). Being a weather freak, I think about this a lot.

It’s been an amazing year in Colorado weather-wise. Of course, folks in Colorado (and in New England and Michigan and San Francisco … heck, folks everywhere) are fond of saying of the local weather, “If you don’t like the weather, just wait a few minutes. It will change.” Still, it’s true that Colorado has all the makings of dramatically erratic weather. The high altitude and low humidity combine with that amazing wall of mountains bisecting the state from north to south to stir up some complex and only vaguely predictable weather patterns. But this year has been one for even Colorado’s record books. Over and over.

Only slightly belaboring the point, it went like this. A very dry winter that left the snow pack far below average was followed by record-breaking precipitation in April and May, raising the snow pack in the mountains to normal levels in a few weeks and bringing much-needed rain to lower elevations. Then the rains ended, and a parching drought set in that lasted all summer. With it came record-breaking fires, fires that reached new levels of intensity, speed of growth, and degree of devastation to wildlands and property. The early rains added long grasses to the fuel—but there was already plenty of fodder for the fires. (More on that in another blog, coming soon.) Then this summer of virtually zero rain slid toward fall, culminating in record high temperatures in early September. Ironically, news coverage of that record heat wave predicted a “welcome” cool-down and increased chance of rain a couple of days later. The cooler weather was welcome, but not (for a change in Colorado) the rain. In just 10 days of record-breaking rain, the early-summer fires receded from the weather news to be replaced by the late summer floods. The “thousand-year rain,” the “hundred-year flood,” the signs of which were still all-too evident on walk near my home earlier this week.

             

Then, remarkably, nature’s indifference gave way to her beauty, and we’re suddenly gifted with this amazing variegated fall with its spectacular morning skies—a chance for some pictures, which have been missing from my recent, more text-dense blogs. Not that I’m finished talking, of course. But before I start, an interlude:

Fabulous fall …

  

... and its spectacular morning skies

  

 

A fine line, indeed.

Snippets: “Old” from the outside, movies, and winter walks

I’ve been feeling a little like a whirling dervish the past few weeks, too busy to do all the things I want to do (does this sound familiar?). As I whirled, a whole flock of thoughts have landed along the wires of my mind, although you’d never know it from this blog. So, seeing no large chunks of free time ahead, I thought I’d pass along a few “Cliff Notes” on this mental aviary.

“Old” as a culture—the view from the outside

Last week, my partner and I went to Houston for the biannual National Multicultural Conference and Summit. This conference is put on every other year by several sub-groups of the American Psychological Association. It’s intended to offer a space to consider in some depth the issues that arise when psychologists put their collective mind to questions of diversity and multiculturalism. It’s always a thought-provoking few days, and it regularly pushes me to think on new levels about these things.

This time, I attended one session that framed aging as a culture in its own right. Now, I’m not personally persuaded that this is a worthwhile framing. We old people for sure create communities, and we might (emphasis on might) be able to identify some commonalities about us. But the “culture” label seems a stretch to me. Anyhow, I was prepared to consider this notion and to be stretched by the process. Unfortunately, I was not only disappointed but a bit irritated (cranky old woman that I am). Here’s what got me going:

Throughout this presentation, the speakers (three mid-life-ish women) kept referring to old people in the third person. “They” do this or that. “They” need something or other. “They” have one or another characteristic. I can’t quite express how odd it felt to be sitting in the room, being talked about as if I weren’t there (and I wasn’t the only older person in the audience). I’ve had this experience as a lesbian before, many times. In that case, at least there’s the excuse that my sexual orientation is (rather) invisible to those who don’t know me. But my age is not—nor was the age of the other old folks in the room. Still, the speakers completely invisibilized us. In the language of diversity educators, they “othered” us. They made us “others” who didn’t belong to the group with the power—the power, in this case, to describe us and our lives. It was really creepy.

Now, I knew that these people were undoubtedly well intentioned. They were trying to present old people in a positive light and themselves as appreciative of old people. But in the process, they were doing this thing we so easily do when we really want to do the right thing by a group: we create an idealized image of them, we dress that image up in all the best stereotypes about the group, and we smile at our creation. In the process, we objectify and dehumanize the individuals that make up that group. 

For instance, the lead presenter kept saying how much she “just loved” old people. “They're the most amazing people!”, she said. The problem is that we're not. Some of us are extremely cool; some of us are jerks; most of us are somewhere in between. Most of us are cool sometimes and jerks at other times. We're complicated human being with good and bad moments. Given her idealization of old people ("exoticizing," diversity folks call it), you have to wonder whether she'd care about us at all if/when we aren't amazing. Like when we're crabby or when we complain or when we're frail instead of matching her view of vibrant retirees who dance and jog and adventure their way through life. Does she “just love” old people, or does she love her idealized, imagined version of old people? 

As I reflected on all this afterward, I had yet another troubling realization: none of the presenters was herself an old person. Think about this: It would be totally unacceptable to present a session about virtually any other group and not give that group a chance to speak on their own behalf. I can’t anyone planning a panel about, for instance, people of color, people with disabilities, LGBTQ people, or religious diversity if the group in question was not included in some significant way. Yet, these presenters apparently thought it was completely appropriate to speak on our behalf. Creepy.

So, did I say anything about this at the tinme? No. I can argue that the session ended without time for questions—which is true (and all too common). But I could have spoken to the presenters afterward. I didn’t. Why? I was sort of dumbfounded. I’m basically shy. I hadn’t quite articulated to myself what felt so uncomfortable. All true … but I realize that those answers simply permit their approach to go unchallenged and prevent them from realizing something that may not have crossed their minds.

Dang! All right, I get it. I’ll send a thoughtful, reasoned (vs. flat-out cranky) letter to the lead panelist. Thanks for the nudge.

Movies

“Cliff Notes” about some of the movies we squeezed in over the holidays and the long (MLK Day) weekend:

Skyfall: The latest James Bond flick, different (I think) from others in this series. Less violence (although some), fewer gimmicks and contrivances (also, some), more actual drama, great scenery. I liked it partly because it was sort of an ode to age and change: the old guard is moving on (dying, even), and the youngsters with new ideas and new techniques are moving in. I mean that in a good way.

Les Miserables: A familiar story from the stage version. Great acting, good music, thin plot line … but hey, it’s a musical!

Django Unchained: Terrible, over-the-top violence and gore bring awful realism to the horrors of slavery. This one has received really intense commentaries—pro for dealing directly with slavery and the completely understandable Black anger it aroused; con for its historical and psychosocial inaccuracy, it's disempowerment of slave women, and its gratuitous violence.

Lincoln: Excellent acting really brought Lincoln to life for me. I learned a lot about the Civil War era and the end of slavery—like about the questionable legality of the Emancipation Proclamation (BTW: you can now get an Emancipation Proclamation commemorative stamp at the post office). Don’t miss this one. Really.

Silver Linings Playbook: Getting good press, but some psychologists I know are conflicted: They’re glad to see mental health issues addressed as (potentially) manageable. But they’re bothered by the the overly-simple message: one still-troubled person rescues another still-troubled person and they live (apparently) happily ever after.

Zero Dark Thirty: The story behind the killing of Osama bin Laden. How could it not draw big? But I hated the not-at-all subtle message that torture is OK and that good information was gleaned through torture. The research is really clear that people who are tortured can be made to say things. Some of it is true, and much of it is false (either because they really don’t know and make stuff up or because they lie). Also, good interrogators can get as much, equally good information without torture. This stuff was dramatic (and sometimes graphic) but unnecessary. Maybe they used it to keep the audience engaged because otherwise, it’s sort of sloooow until the final moments.

The Impossible: The story of a (wealthy, Spanish) family of 5 who were vacationing in Thailand when the Dec. 26, 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami struck. I found myself scrunched down in my seat, practically sucking my thumb (an understandable if not especially functional response to terror) as I watched. The movie pulled me right into the vastness and power of the waves and the relative insignificance and powerlessness of the people in their path. And then, after the water receded, it pulled me into the pained struggles and heroic resourcefulness of the survivors. The intensity never let up (although there were isolated happy moments), and the film stayed with me for a day or so. Some have criticized the focus on this rich foreign family when millions of local people all across the region suffered equally, and hundreds of thousands died. A legitimate critique. Still, the intensity of the movie changed forever how I understand the impact of natural disasters. I'd say see it for sure. Take your blankie.

Still to be seen: Life of Pi, The Hobbitt, and Amour (if we can find it). And any others you all suggest. Time permitting.

And finally ... Winter walks

Among the (many) blessings of the place I live is the weather—although climate change may make me eat my words. Colorado is graced by lovely sunny days, even in the midst of winter. Add to this the fact that the Boulder area is woven together by bike and walking paths, including many along creeks and beside wetlands. That combination makes for scenes like these on winter walks:

                    

          

What a gift to live here.

Indian summer

When we’re really lucky, one of the great weather pleasures of Colorado comes around this time of year. Often, after a brief interlude that looks a lot like winter, we return to this lovely, crisp, clear weather when the remaining fall leaves hang on for a few more days or weeks, the sky is bluer than blue, days are balmy and mornings and evenings are cool. And you wish it could last forever.

I grew up calling this “Indian Summer,” which seemes like a lovely name for a lovely time. But each time it comes around, I think about stories of the origin of the term, and I’m reminded of how our prejudices melt into our language.

Here are some of those tales about the roots of the term “Indian summer.” Some are simply descriptive: it’s said to come from the colors of the season—the reds, golds, and rusty colors that are often associated with Southwestern Indians, or the copper colored skin that distinguishes Indians from Europeans. But others aren’t as benign. Some writers have said that the term came from colonial days, when it referred to a period when lingering good weather allowed the Indians to renew their attacks on the European invaders. Others have suggested that it referred to the warm weather caused by fires set by raiding Indians. Some linguists have pointed out that “Indian” has often been used to mean “false” (as in “Indian giver” and “Indian burn”). So this “false summer,” one that follows a glimpse of winter and that will surely be followed by more, is referred to as Indian summer because it’s fake, it will be stolen away.

Likely, the term Indian summer has carried all these meanings at certain times and in certain places. And likely, I will continue to wonder (and worry) about this each time I have the pleasure of walking on a day like today. And accompanying my wondering, if I’m lucky, will be scenes like these.

       

                                                                                                           

  

  

Indian summer: the luscious, lovely, warm, crisp, colorful moment between fall and winter.