Archive: November, 2009

Two minds meet in a parking lot

Haines Ferry Terminal, Haines, Alaska

I had just pulled the van into the ferry queue and stepped outside when they arrived: from the tree-tops of the nearby Pacific Northwest temperate rain forest, two Northwestern Crows (Corvus caurinus) glided and landed on the asphalt beside me. Hopping to a stop and quickly re-arranging their wings, they looked up at me and I looked down at them. In a moment, with our mutual glances, it was obvious that these two were here because of the growing line of cars, vans and campers that were parked, lining up to board the evening ferry to Skagway, Alaska. I decided to watch.

Earlier in the evening, I had glimpsed a pair of Northwestern Crows foraging by the ocean as I was driving along the coast of the Lutak Inlet to the ferry terminal. As the common corvid of the coast in this part of North America, it wasn’t a surprise to see them here. The tide was receding along a rocky beach, and as I passed, the crows appeared from the shoreline below. Their wings beating in the stiff on-shore breeze with the kind of tempo one expects when birds take flight, they both flew up into a sharp parabola. One of the pair had something in its bill—it looked like some sort of mollusc—and slowed down its wing beats, quickly decelerating. Reaching the apex of its flight, it dropped the object from its mouth onto the rocky shore below. Down the birds flew, on I drove.

This kind of behaviour isn’t unusual in the Northwestern Crow. They’re known to be foragers along the edge of the ocean, looking for aquatic organisms that become stranded as the tide ebbs. If it can be found between the exposed rockweed, it can be considered food and these crows find their protein in the fish, molluscs and crustaceans that live along the coast of the Northern Pacific. While they are foragers, and live commensally with humans, I experienced something unexpected along the line of vehicles.

Northwestern Crows

As I watched the crows standing at my feet, they hopped past me and my vehicle towards the van that had pulled up behind mine in the queue. With what I would describe as curiosity, the two crows began to inspect the grill of the camper van. It became clear what they were looking for: insects. Or, more correctly, they were searching out freshly-deceased insects that had stuck to the camper’s metal and chrome. And so the metal grill became the shore: up these birds flew, gleaning the remains. Because of the lack of a good perch, they looked more like oversized Ruby-Crowned Kinglets (Regulus calendula) feeding in this way, with their wings quickly flapping to give them the purchase they needed to get their food. This was challenging work for the crows. After the “easy” carcases were gone, it became a cooperative effort with each bird taking turns in one of two roles: one flying up to remove the insects and the other, after the insect hit the pavement, eating it up.

In the minutes before the ferry arrived they continued looking for more to eat, moving from car to van down the line of vehicles.

I can’t skate

Rental Skates 7-07-09 -- IMG_8234
Creative Commons License photo credit: stevendepolo

Confession time: I can’t skate.

Bombshell, eh? It’s not that I’ve never strapped skates on, it’s just the last time I did so, I was in Grade 8. By my calculations, that was nineteen years ago. We had a neighbourhood skating rink when I was growing up in Guelph, and I would go to skate when I was a kid. But I distinctly remember stopping by plowing full-bore into the snowbanks that surrounded the rink. Saying I could skate would be like saying PopoZão is a subtle pop masterpiece.

Given the Canadian cultural identity surrounding ice skating (in full view this fall with the CBC mash-up hit Ice Capades Battle of the Blades), its something that I don’t really advertise. I feel like any white Canadian boy who was born in the late 20th century has the common experience of playing hockey. Me? Not so much. I don’t think I’ve ever played a proper road or ice hockey game. I can count on one hand how many NHL games I’ve seen from start to finish. Wayne Gretzky means more to me as being born in the same city than as The Great One. Icing is something on a cake, not a rule of the game. I don’t know what the lines on a hockey rink mean. I don’t care if a loonie was melted into centre ice at the Salt Lake City Olympics. You’re getting my point.

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I just won a free vacation!

Melting Sun
Creative Commons License photo credit: the_tahoe_guy

I just got off the phone with a fellow who identified himself as “Mark Wilson” of Master Resorts. Mark had great news—because I had earned “golden points” on my VISA card, I had qualified for a free trip1.

I have Mark’s name in quotation marks because I’m positive this was a scam—from the private caller / number on the caller ID to VOIP-quality phone connection, to the slightly-off “golden points”—this “free vacation” phone call screamed that I shouldn’t trust this guy. So, I decided to have some fun and waste as much of his time as possible.

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  1. Jack, after I updated my status on Facebook suggested that they were offering a trip to Club Fraud in the Greater Scamtillies—those puns are too good not to go unmentioned []

Sucker Lake



Sucker Lake, originally uploaded by Gavatron.

Product of my first real foray into night sky photography.

Is crisis all that Environmental Education has left?

the extinct
Creative Commons License photo credit: the|G|™

I just finished reading an article in The Walrus by Chris Turner titled The Age of Breathing Underwater. The hypothesis of the article, broadly stated, is that we’ve irrevocably entered the Anthropocene and nature, as the Romantics knew it, or as the prototypical environmentalist tries to protect today, is no longer. Based around twinning the lament of loosing coral reefs and realizing that it is only through the (highly industrialized) technology of scuba diving that we have the first-hand experience of this loss, Turner makes the argument that it is not the beauty of the reefs, per se, that need to be preserved. Rather, it is the “ungainly apparatus” (otherwise known as Western culture) that needs the preservation.

Which brings me to my question: What is environmental education for? I’ve been contemplating this question since I attended the 5th World Environmental Education conference, held earlier this year in Montréal, Québec. One of the keynotes for the 5th WEEC was Stephen Lewis and he spoke about global climate change—he has special insight on this given his role as chair of the first international conference on Climate Change—and the connection to social justice. In a sense, the keynote was a lament: Lewis suggested that our jobs, as educators, was to now go forth and prepare the world for the crisis that global climate change will precipitate.

If this is our jobs as environmental educators, then I want out.

So, we’re presented with fact: the world is irrevocably changed by humans and consequently we’re in the “midst of chaos and devastation on the scale of a world war” (Turner’s words). Do we then say that environmental education is about learning to preserve the “apparatus” that allows us to experience the sublime first-hand? Is it teaching about crisis—extinction, environmental degradation, climate change and the like?

I do feel like, in practice, much of environmental education’s domain is marking change—we tend to embrace a declensionist narrative of the more-than-human world. I do want to clarify that I’m not suggesting that environmental education ignores the human. I am interested in kinds of environmental education that acknowledges that we’re an integral to natural world. In relation (however asymmetric) with many kinds of others. But we (and this is a Western we) need to do more than react to impending doom.

I’m somewhat concerned—and this may strike you as silly—about what happens to environmental education after the crisis is over. So, a challenge then: how do we move beyond crisis in environmental education?