Image aimablement proposé par Mark et the crew du site www.montanapictures.net
Doug Peacok, Pete Fromm, Abbey…
Le « nature writing » ou les chroniques des grandes plaines
Une bande d'écrivains écolos vit dans un coin reculé du Montana, et les états du nord. Une "appellation contrôlée".
Le long des Rockies et plus au nord jusqu’au Montana, vit en marge une espèce, pas encore connue chez nous, d’écrivains écolos qui se retirent dans des coins ou ils ne rencontrent aucune âme qui vive à des dizaines de miles à la ronde et peuvent ainsi passer des hivers dans des cabanes à l’instar des anciens trappeurs.
« Tales » en Anglais signifie Chroniques, ces histoires de vies, ces moments racontés afin qu’ils ne tombent pas dans l’oubli car ils ont la fragilité de la simplicité et sont irremplaçables, irréversibles.
Farouches défenseurs de ces immensités – encore – sauvages, leurs plus proches voisins sont les Grizzly, bêtes mythiques qui demeurent fidèles à leur réputation et il est surtout recommandé de ne pas les inviter à une relecture d’aventures au fond des bois…
Ils se nomment entre autres: Doug Peacok, Rick Bass, Pete Fromm, et se situent dans la lignée des grands écrivains comme Jack London, Richard Ford ou encore Jim Harrison. A ceci près qu’ils sont profondément engagés pour la sauvegarde des forêts sauvages, de vallées perdues, de rivières vivaces. Qu’ils soient vétérans du Vietnam ou des figures de la contre-culture comme leur doyen Edward Abbey activiste écologique aux méthodes assez radicales, ils sont des adeptes des contrées reculées où l’on se confronte à la nature dans son immensité et toute sa force. Une capitale « littéraire » dans ce nord: Missoula.
Ainsi Doug Peacok, en rupture avec la société à son retour du Vietnam où il a effectué son séjour en temps qu’infirmier, est devenu expert dans le comportement du grizzly. Cependant dans son essai « Une guerre dans la tête », il relate l’enterrement du chef de file de cet anar écolo Edward Abbey dans un canyon désertique enroulé dans une bâche et avec quelques pelletés de gravats.
Ce même Abbey avec lequel il dégommait les panneaux à coups de Winchester. Ces faits sont relatés dans le roman « Le gang de la clé à molette » qui deviendra dans les 70s un roman contre culture pour le pionnier de la défense écolo Nord Américaine. Mais Abbey a surtout écrit « Désert solitaire » et inspira la création de l’organisation radicale « Earth first » dont le slogan est « pas de compromis dans la défense de la mère terre ».
Pete Fromm beaucoup plus sage a accidentellement vécu sa première expérience dans les montagnes par la surveillance un hiver entier de millions d’oeufs de saumons. Il écrit des récits d’hommes des bois, transcende le genre pour atteindre l’oeuvre littéraire avec » Indian creek » il a écrit une dizaine de romans et recueils de nouvelles…
« Chaque matin, je prenais alors le chemin de la cabane, par tous les temps, et, installé à mon bureau devant la fenêtre, je regardais le marais, si près de la berge que les herbes ondoyantes venaient caresser la vitre. Ces hautes herbes formaient un océan. »
Rick Bass Le journal des cinq saisons
« La cabane où j’écris est située au bord d’un marais ravissant. C’est une vieille cabane en bois, très petite, qui ne dispose que d’un poêle à bois. Il n’y a pas d’eau, pas d’électricité. Juste une table, une chaise et la fenêtre. » C’est ainsi que Rick Bass décrit son « bureau ». Un endroit qui imprègne l’auteur au coeur de univers et de ses combats.contre les pipelines géants que Rick lutte et çà c’est son domaine de part sa formation et ses premiers emplois dans les pétroles. Il faut se souvenir qu’il est natif du Texas;
Des dizaines d’écrits donc à découvrir pour s’évader dans les rocheuses, le Montana, les Dakotas à l’épicentre des américains écolos. Et oui, tous ne sont pas les actionnaires des Monsantos et consorts.
Sujet inspiré par l’article de Didier Jacob du Nouvel Obs.
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La historia de Doug Peacock y el oso grizzly que salva almas
POR JUSTIN HOUSMAN
Doug Peacock, ex Boina Verde, veterano de Vietnam, amigo de Ed Abbey y la inspiración para el personaje de Abbey, George Hayduke en " The Monkeywrench Gang ", se mantuvo a flote en tiempos difíciles en las selvas del sudeste asiático con un viejo mapa que trajo de Wyoming y Montana. Sabía que necesitaba esperanza para salir de Vietnam con vida y con su ingenio intacto. Así que sacaba el mapa y lo estudiaba minuciosamente, imaginándose a sí mismo caminando por pasos de montaña, refrescando sus talones en arroyos alimentados con hielo, viendo salir el sol sobre lagos esmeralda, cualquier cosa para distraer su mente del fuego de mortero que explotaba a su alrededor.
Cuando regresó a Estados Unidos, Peacock buscó refugio en esos espacios en blanco de su mapa, las zonas sin gente. Sin carreteras, sin edificios. Con árboles, ríos y lagos. Con osos grizzly.
Peacock ha pasado los últimos 50 años asombrado por los osos pardos. Pasó años filmándolos, aprendiendo su comportamiento, convirtiéndose en un aficionado experto en animales. Luego fundó una organización dedicada a proteger al oso pardo llamado Save the Yellowstone Grizzly y un grupo de investigación y educación sobre conservación llamado Round River
Doug Peacock, ex-Green Beret, Vietnam vet, friend to Ed Abbey, and the inspiration for Abbey’s character George Hayduke in “The Monkeywrench Gang,” buoyed himself through hard times in Southeast Asian jungles with an old map he brought with him of Wyoming and Montana. He knew that he needed hope to make it out of Vietnam alive and with his wits intact. So he’d pull out the map and pore over it, imagining himself hiking mountain passes, cooling his heels in ice-fed streams, watching the sun rise over emerald lakes—anything to take his mind off the mortar fire exploding all around him.
When he returned to the States, Peacock sought refuge in those blank spots on his map, the zones without people. Without roads, without buildings. With trees, rivers, and lakes. With grizzly bears.
Peacock has spent the past 50 years in awe of grizzlies. He spent years filming them, learning their behavior, becoming an amateur expert on the animals. He’s gone on to found an organization devoted to protecting the grizzly called Save the Yellowstone Grizzly and a conservation research and education group called Round River.
En una nueva película del director Ben Moon, llamada "Grizzly Country", el amor de Peacock por los osos pardos y su hábitat se destaca. Este cortometraje de 11 minutos debutó como una selección de películas de Banff Mountain en 2019 y como una selección para el Festival de cine salvaje y escénico de 2019. La película en su totalidad se puede ver a continuación.
"Ármate de amistad y ama la tierra", dice el autor y naturalista Doug Peacock en Grizzly Country, un nuevo documental corto del cineasta Ben Moon. Y no, esto no es un corte de Grizzly Man, donde el tipo es devorado, es un corto conmovedor y bien hecho sobre la vida histórica y el trabajo de conservación en curso de Peacock, un ex boina verde y el modelo vivo del personaje de Edward Abbey. George Hayduke en su célebre novela sobre activismo medioambiental, " The Monkey Wrench Gang ".
Después de servir en la guerra de Vietnam, Peacock pasó años solo en el desierto de Wyoming y Montana observando osos pardos. Esta vez en la naturaleza cambió el curso de su vida, inspirándolo a convertirse en el bearar del estandarte humano del oso sin voz. Ahora que la protección de los osos pardos de Yellowstone está amenazada, Peacock reflexiona sobre la importancia del hábitat y por qué sigue luchando por causas salvajes.
"Sin nuestra arrogancia, armas de fuego y dominio, somos solo otro sabor de carne". Doug Peacock
https://www.adventure-journal.com/2019/01/the-story-of-doug-peacock-and-the-soul-saving-grizzly-bear/
https://www.les-cabanes.com/robinsons-cabane-vie-alternative/le-nature-writing-ou-les-chroniques-des-grandes-pl
El autor, cuyas mejores historias cortas se han recopilado en Por un rato, habla de cómo reconcilia su necesidad de tranquilidad con su ardiente activismo ambiental.
Las historias de Rick Bass tienden a centrarse en relaciones emocionalmente intensas en el contexto de la naturaleza salvaje estadounidense. Imágenes de UF Andersen / Getty
son dos caras muy diferentes de Rick Bass. La primera versión que encuentro es Rick Bass, el aclamado escritor que se despierta temprano y se pone a trabajar lo más rápido y silenciosamente que puede. Antes de que me ponga demasiado agitado. Solo silencio y café. Es difícil tener un sueño cuando estás demasiado agitado. Me gusta meterme discretamente en él ".
Este Rick Bass podría ser el poeta laureado de lo discreto. Escribe a mano, me dice, porque “es un poco más tranquilo. Realmente puedes acercarte sigilosamente a una historia. Es como cazar ". Esta búsqueda de la tranquilidad se ve reforzada por la preferencia por la soledad en lugares apartados. El hombre de 58 años me habla desde una cabaña en Bozeman junto al río Yellowstone que usa cuando trabaja como el primer escritor residente de la Universidad Estatal de Montana. “Estoy en un lugar llamado Paradise Valley. Gran nombre." Esa noche Bass regresará a su hogar permanente en el aún más remoto valle de Yaak.
La palabra "discreto" también podría aplicarse a la reputación literaria de Bass. A pesar de una gran cantidad de premios, becas y admiradores de alto perfil como Lorrie Moore, Carl Hiaasen, Joy Williams y el ex editor de Paris Review George Plimpton, quien calificó a Bass como uno de los "mejores escritores de su generación", no se ha ganado el reconocimiento internacional. su impresionante cuerpo de trabajo sin duda lo merece.
Si hay algo de justicia, esta situación podría cambiar gracias a Por un momento, que recopila lo mejor de la ficción corta de Bass de los últimos 30 años. Como ilustra cada una de las 25 historias extraordinarias, Bass se especializa en relaciones emocionalmente intensas, a menudo dúos o tríos, que pone en escena frente a un desierto estadounidense vívidamente representado. Las dificultades físicas que soportan muchos de sus protagonistas (cazar en páramos helados, nadar por los rápidos del bosque, combatir incendios en entornos más suburbanos) se duplican como pruebas existenciales. Hay pérdida, pena y dolor, pero también amor, ternura y redención. De hecho, la tristeza y la esperanza están entrelazadas conmovedoramente. En todo momento, Bass escribe frases que se alojan en la mente y atormentan la imaginación: "Las grietas y fisuras del azar, rupturas en la superficie de la tierra que reclaman a los tres,Paganos )
Encuentro a este Rick Bass al menos de buen humor. “He tenido un buen día”, me dice. “Estoy trabajando en una novela, que he estado probando durante 20 años. Se mueve bien. Creo que sufrió porque yo sabía demasiado sobre los personajes y el tema. Así que dejé de lado todo lo que sabía y empecé a ciegas. Ese es el camino a seguir: no saber qué traerá el día siguiente. Todo lo demás es salsa de aquí ".
Lejos del escritorio, emerge un segundo Rick Bass muy diferente. “Llego al final del trabajo de cada mañana. Me descomprimo. Y luego me pongo el uniforme y me voy a la guerra ".
Este es Rick Bass, el activista ambiental. Nacido en Fort Worth, Texas, siguió a su padre al estudiar geología, antes de trabajar para la industria del petróleo durante gran parte de la década de 1980. La ambivalencia de Bass sobre esta carrera se expresa en la historia Lease Hound , en la que un joven ambicioso convence a la gente para que venda sus tierras para que las empresas de energía puedan perforar en busca de petróleo. Habiendo comenzado a escribir en sus descansos para el almuerzo, finalmente dejó el trabajo diario en 1987. Hoy apoya su ficción con el periodismo y la enseñanza.
La guerra que Bass está ayudando a librar es por la supervivencia del planeta. Su ejército son organizaciones como el Yaak Valley Forest Council, Round River Conservation Studies y Blue Skies Campaign, que protegen el mundo natural del impacto cada vez más destructivo de la humanidad. Esta, argumenta en su sitio web, es la pregunta definitoria que enfrenta la humanidad hoy: "si el calentamiento global (lo que solíamos llamar hace unos pocos años" la amenaza del calentamiento global ") no es la cuestión moral de nuestro tiempo, entonces ninguno existe ".
Justo cuando esta amenaza parecía haber llegado a un punto crítico, el nuevo clima político en la tierra natal de Bass elevó aún más las apuestas. Bass menciona que está escribiendo un artículo de opinión para un periódico de Los Ángeles. Sobre lo que pregunto, mal preparado para la vehemencia de su respuesta. “Sobre Trump y su reinado de terror, sobre su intento de quitarle tierras públicas. Es increíble. En la peor película de terror de pesadilla, no tendrías ese tipo de cosas ".
Esa mañana, el presidente Trump había anunciado su intención de revertir una ley que impide que las empresas de carbón arrojen desechos en los arroyos circundantes, muchos de los cuales se utilizan para agua potable. Para Bass, tan flagrante desprecio por las preocupaciones ambientales es solo el comienzo. “No hay fin. Todos los que están de luto y sin palabras buscan un centro de corriente de resistencia. ¿Cómo podemos detener esto lo más rápido posible? No está emergiendo una forma clara. Creo que tendrá que hacerse a la antigua, a través de protestas sostenidas y desaprobación cultural. El aspecto del acoso es alarmante. El filo progresivo del fascismo. El componente militarista. Por mi parte, me alegro de tener armas. Es bastante aterrador aquí ".
Bass, un cazador comprometido, insiste en que no aboga por la lucha armada, o todavía no. “Creo que las reglas están cambiando mientras hablamos. Luchar contra la violencia genera más violencia. Del mismo modo, no voy a decir lo que haré y lo que no haré. A lo que nos enfrentamos no tiene precedentes ”. Bass explica lo que quiere decir: “Trump está privatizando los recursos públicos. Le está quitando los derechos a las personas. Está sucediendo tan rápido que todo el mundo tiene que defender sus derechos y su propiedad. Nos vamos a quedar sin nada en esta extrapolación ".
Como muchos estadounidenses, Bass se sorprendió por la victoria de Trump en noviembre pasado. “Pensé que la gente le estaba prestando atención por una aburrida sensación de entretenimiento crudo. Sé que ha habido un voto de protesta de larga data contra ambos Clinton. Pasé por alto eso porque se ha convertido en una actitud cultural y profundamente arraigada. Creo que realmente entró en juego ".
De hecho, Bass sospecha que habría tenido problemas sustanciales con la administración de Hillary Clinton, especialmente sobre el medio ambiente. Fue un crítico vocal de las políticas de Barack Obama, aterrizando en problemas en varias ocasiones. En 2012, Bass fue arrestado durante una manifestación contra el carbón en Missoula. Un año después fue arrestado frente a la Casa Blanca junto a la actriz Daryl Hannah, el poeta laureado estadounidense Robert Hass y el gurú ambiental Bill McKibben por protestar (con éxito) contra el oleoducto Keystone XL.
“Habríamos tenido las manos ocupadas como ambientalistas con Hillary. No creo que hubiera sido una gran defensora del medio ambiente. Creo que habría sido muy complaciente con los grandes negocios. Pero ciertamente no habría amenazado a los jueces y no habría hecho los nombramientos que hizo Trump. Tendríamos batallas más fáciles contra Clinton que contra Trump ”.
Me pregunto cómo maneja Bass las aparentes divisiones y tensiones en su propia naturaleza: ¿el escritor meditativo y el activista vociferante alguna vez entran en conflicto? “Intento mantener un cortafuegos entre los dos. Lo que para mí es un buen arte, es decir frases bonitas e historias luminosas o intrigantes, no proviene del terror ni del susto ni del descontento. Proviene de una celebración del misterio y la belleza. Esas son las grandes y ricas fuentes para mí, como lector, y por lo que me esfuerzo como escritor ".
Admite que historias como Pagans o Titán desdibujan la línea. “Sabía que Rick el ambientalista estaba en el horizonte. Si veo que ese tipo se acerca por la colina, le dispararé. Es como tener dos trabajos. Solo tengo que recordar para quién estoy trabajando ”, dice entre risas.
Tanto Bass como su nación han llegado a puntos de inflexión. Por un rato marca el final de un período creativo y el comienzo de uno nuevo. Trump representa un pivote bastante diferente. Aunque Bass admite miedo y pesimismo, dice que no hay tiempo para sentarse y quejarse. Entonces, le pregunto antes de que regrese a la guerra, ¿qué pueden hacer los ciudadanos preocupados? "Hablar claro. Grandes reuniones, pequeñas reuniones. Marchas de protesta. Inundación de artículos de opinión y cartas. Las conversaciones de persona a persona que estamos viendo son un comienzo ".
Sobre todo, Bass aboga por trabajar en la comunidad local. “Puedes tener una gran influencia”, dice antes de hablar apasionadamente sobre su asociación de 20 años con el Consejo Forestal del Valle de Yaak, que protege los recursos naturales alrededor de su propia casa. Estas áreas están recientemente amenazadas por la promesa de Trump de desregular las tierras públicas. Bass está furioso. Pero si no lo supiera mejor, podría decir que casi da la bienvenida a las próximas batallas. "Estamos cavando y luchando", dice desafiante. “Es aterrador si perdemos. Pero se siente bien estar haciendo algo ".
(James Kidd es un periodista independiente afincado en Londres.)
The Hermit's Story
An ice storm, following seven days of snow; the vast fields and drifts of snow turning to sheets of glazed ice that shine and shimmer blue in the moonlight as if the color is being fabricated not by the bending and absorption of light but by some chemical reaction within the glossy ice; as if the source of all blueness lies somewhere up here in the north—the core of it beneath one of those frozen fields; as if blue is a thing that emerges, in some parts of the world, from the soil itself, after the sun goes down.
Blue creeping up fissures and cracks from depths of several hundred feet; blue working its way up through the gleaming ribs of Ann’s buried dogs; blue trailing like smoke from the dogs’s empty eye sockets and nostrils—blue rising like smoke from chimneys until it reaches the surface and spreads laterally and becomes entombed, or trapped—but still alive, and smoky—within those moonstruck fields of ice.
Blue like a scent trapped in the ice, waiting for some soft release, some thawing, so that it can continue spreading.
It’s Thanksgiving. Susan and I are over at Ann’s and Roger’s house for dinner. The storm has knocked out all the power down in town—it’s a clear, cold, starry night, and if you were to climb one of the mountains on snowshoes and look forty miles south toward where the town lies, instead of seeing the usual small scatterings of light—like fallen stars, stars sunken to the bottom of a lake, but still glowing—you would see nothing but darkness—a bowl of silence and darkness in balance for once with the mountains up here, rather than opposing or complementing our darkness, our peace.
As it is, we do not climb up on snowshoes to look down at the dark town—the power lines dragged down by the clutches of ice—but can tell instead just by the way there is no faint glow over the mountains to the south that the power is out: that this Thanksgiving, life for those in town is the same as it always is for us in the mountains, and it is a good feeling, a familial one, coming on the holiday as it does—though doubtless too the townspeople are feeling less snug and cozy about it than we are.
We’ve got our lanterns and candles burning. A fire’s going in the stove, as it will all winter long and into the spring. Ann’s dogs are asleep in their straw nests, breathing in that same blue light that is being exhaled from the skeletons of their ancestors just beneath and all around them. There is the faint, good smell of cold-storage meat—slabs and slabs of it—coming from down in the basement, and we have just finished off an entire chocolate pie and three bottles of wine. Roger, who does not know how to read, is examining the empty bottles, trying to read some of the words on the labels. He recognizes the words the and in and USA. It may be that he will never learn to read—that he will be unable to—but we are in no rush and—unlike his power lifting—he has all of his life in which to accomplish this. I for one believe that he will learn it.
Ann has a story for us. It’s about one of the few clients she’s ever had, a fellow named Gray Owl, up in Canada, who owned half a dozen speckled German shorthaired pointers, and who had hired Ann to train them all at once. It was eleven years ago, she says—her last job.
She worked the dogs all summer and into the autumn, and finally had them ready for field trials. She took them back up to Gray Owl—way up in Saskatchewan—driving all day and night in her old truck, which was old even then, with dogs piled up on top of each other, sleeping and snoring: dogs on her lap, dogs on the seat, dogs on the floorboard. How strange it is to think that most of us can count on one hand the number of people we know who are doing what they most want to do for a living. They invariably have about them a kind of wildness and calmness both, possessing somewhat the grace of animals that are fitted intricately and polished into this world. An academic such as myself might refer to it as a kind of “biological confidence.” Certainly I think another world for it could be peace.
Ann was taking the dogs up there to show Gray Owl how to work them: how to take advantage of their newly found talents. She could be a sculptor or some other kind of artist, in that she speaks of her work as if the dogs are rough blocks of stone whose internal form exists already and is waiting only to be chiseled free and then released by her beautiful into the world.
Basically, in six months, the dogs had been transformed from gangling, bouncy puppies into six raging geniuses, and she needed to show their owner how to control them, or rather, how to work with them. Which characteristics to nurture, which ones to discourage. With all dogs, Ann said, there was a tendency, upon their leaving her tutelage—unlike a work of art set in stone or paint—for a kind of chitinous encrustation to set in, a sort of oxidation, upon the dogs leaving her hands and being returned to someone less knowledgeable and passionate, less committed than she. It was as if there were a tendency in the world for the dogs’ greatness to disappear back into the stone.
So she went up there to give both the dogs and Gray Owl a check-out session. She drove with the heater on and the window down; the cold Canadian air was invigorating, cleaner, farther north. She could smell the scent of the fir and spruce, and the damp alder and cottonwood leaves beneath the many feet of snow. We laughed at her when she said it, but she told us that up in Canada she could taste the fish in the streams as she drove alongside creeks and rivers.
She listened to the only radio station she could pick up as she drove, but it was a good one. She got to Gray Owl’s around midnight. He had a little guest cabin but ha not heated it for her, uncertain as to the day of her arrival, so she and the six dogs slept together on a cold mattress beneath mounds of elk hides: their last night together. She had brought a box of quail with which to work the dogs, and she built a small fire in the stove and set the box of quail next to it.
The quail muttered and cheeped all night and the stove popped and hissed and Ann and the dogs slept for twelve hours straight, as if submerged in another time, or as if everyone else in the world was submerged in time—encased in stone—and as if she and the dogs were pioneers, or survivors of some kind: upright and exploring the present, alive in the world, free of that strange chitin.
•
She spent a week up there, showing Gray Owl how his dogs worked. She said he scarcely recognized them afield, and that it took a few days just for him to get over his amazement. They worked the dogs both individually and, as Gray Owl came to understand and appreciate what Ann had crafted, in groups. They traveled across snowy hills on snowshoes, the sky the color of snow, so that often it was like moving through a dream, and except for the rasp of the snowshoes beneath them, and the pull of gravity, they might have believed they had ascended into some sky-place where all the world was snow.
They worked into the wind—north—whenever they could. Ann would carry birds in a pouch over her shoulder—much as a woman might carry a purse—and from time to time would fling a startled bird out into that dreary, icy snowscape— and the quail would fly off with great haste, a dark feathered buzz bomb disappearing quickly into the teeth of cold, and then Gray Owl and Ann and the dog, or dogs, would go find it, following it by scent only, as always.
Snot icicles would be hanging from the dogs’ nostrils. They would always find the bird. The dog, or dogs, would point it, at which point Gray Owl or Ann would step forward and flush it—the beleaguered bird would leap into the sky again—and then once more they would push on after it, pursuing that bird toward the horizon as if driving it with a whip. Whenever the bird wheeled and flew downwind, they’d quarter away from it, then get a mile or so downwind from it and push it back north.
When the quail finally became too exhausted to fly, Ann would pick them up from beneath the dogs’ noses as they held point staunchly, put the tired bird in her game bag and replace it with a fresh one, and off they’d go again. They carried their lunch in Gray Owl’s daypack, as well as emergency supplies—a tent and some dry clothes—in case they should become lost, and around noon each day (they could rarely see the sun, only an eternal ice-white haze, so that they relied instead only on their rhythms within) they would stop and make a pot of tea on the sputtering little gas stove.
Sometimes one or two of the quail would die from exposure, and they would cook that on the stove and eat it out there in the tundra, tossing the feathers up into the wind as if to launch one more flight, and feeding the head, guts and feet to the dogs.
Perhaps seen from above their tracks would have seemed aimless and wandering, rather than with the purpose, the focus that was burning hot in both their and the dogs’ hearts— perhaps someone viewing the tracks could have discerned the pattern, or perhaps not—but it did not matter, for their tracks—the patterns, direction and tracing of them were obscured by the drifting snow sometimes within minutes after they were laid down.
Toward the end of the week, Ann said, they were finally running all six dogs at once—like a herd of silent wild horses through all that snow—and as she would be going home the next day, there was no need to conserve any of the birds she had brought, and she was turning them loose several at a time: birds flying in all directions; the dogs, as ever, tracking them to the ends of the earth.
It was almost a whiteout that last day, and it was hard to keep track of all the dogs. Ann was sweating from the exertion as well as the tension of trying to keep an eye on, and evaluate, each dog—the sweat was freezing on her in places, so that it was as if she were developing an ice skin. She jokingly told Gray Owl that next time she was going to try to find a client who lived in Arizona, or even South America. Gray Owl smiled and then told her that they were lost, but no matter, the storm would clear in a day or two.
They knew it was getting near dusk—there was a faint dulling to the sheer whiteness—a kind of increasing heaviness in the air, a new density to the faint light around them—and the dogs slipped in and out of sight, working just at the edges of their vision.
The temperature was dropping as the north wind increased—”
No question about which way south is; we’ll turn around and walk south for three hours, and if we don’t find a road, we’ll make camp,” Gray Owl said—and now the dogs were coming back with frozen quail held gingerly in their mouths, for once the birds were dead, they were allowed to retrieve them, though the dogs must have been puzzled that there had been no shots. Ann said she fired a few rounds of the cap pistol into the air to make the dogs think she had hit those birds. Surely they believed she was a goddess.
They turned and headed south—Ann with a bag of frozen birds over her shoulder, and the dogs—knowing that the hunt was over now—all around them, once again like a team of horses in harness, though wild and prancey.
After an hour of increasing discomfort—Ann’s and Gray Owl’s hands and feet numb, and ice beginning to form on the dogs’ paws, so that the dogs were having to high-step— they came in day’s last light to the edge of a wide clearing: a terrain that was remarkable and soothing for its lack of hills.
It was a frozen lake, which meant—said Gray Owl—they had drifted west (or perhaps east) by as much as ten miles.
Ann said that Gray Owl looked tired and old and guilty, as would any host who had caused his guest some unasked-for inconvenience. They knelt down and began massaging the dogs’ paws and then lit the little stove and held each dog’s foot, one at a time, over the tiny blue flame to help it thaw out.
Gray Owl walked out to the edge of the lake ice and kicked at it with his foot, hoping to find fresh water beneath for the dogs; if they ate too much snow, especially after working so hard, they’d get violent diarrhea and might then become too weak to continue home the next day, or the next, or whenever the storm quit.
Ann said she could barely see Gray Owl’s outline through the swirling snow, even though he was less than twenty yards away. He kicked once at the sheet of ice, the vast plate of it, with his heel, then disappeared below the ice.
Ann wanted to believe that she had blinked and lost sight of him, or that a gust of snow had swept past and hidden him, but it had been too fast, too total: she knew that the lake had swallowed him. She was sorry for Gray Owl, she said, and worried for his dogs—afraid they would try to follow his scent down into the icy lake, and be lost as well—but what she was most upset about, she said—to be perfectly honest—was that Gray Owl had been wearing the little daypack with the tent and emergency rations. She had it in her mind to try to save Gray Owl, and to try to keep the dogs from going through the ice—but if he drowned, she was going to have to figure out how to try to get that daypack off of the drowned man and set up the wet tent in the blizzard on the snowy prairie and then crawl inside and survive. She would have to go into the water naked, so that when she came back out—if she came back out—she would have dry clothes to put on.
The dogs came galloping up, seeming as large as deer or elk in that dim landscape against which there was nothing else to give them perspective, and Ann whoaed them right at the lake’s edge, where they stopped immediately as if they had suddenly been cast with a sheet of ice.
Ann knew they would stay there forever, or until she released them, and it troubled her to think that if she drowned, they too would die—that they would stand there motionless, as she had commanded them, for as long as they could, until at some point—days later, perhaps—they would lie down, trembling with exhaustion—they might lick at some snow, for moisture—but that then the snows would cover them, and still they would remain there, chins resting on their front paws, staring straight ahead and unseeing into the storm, wondering where the scent of her had gone.
Ann eased out onto the ice. She followed the tracks until she came to the jagged hole in the ice through which Gray Owl had plunged. She was almost half again lighter than he, but she could feel the ice crackling beneath her own feet. It sounded different, too, in a way she could not place—it did not have the squeaky, percussive resonance of the lake-ice back home—and she wondered if Canadian ice froze differently or just sounded different.
She got down on all fours and crept closer to the hole. It was right at dusk. She peered down into the hole and dimly saw Gray Owl standing down there, waving his arms at her.
He did not appear to be swimming. Slowly, she took one glove off and eased her bare hand down into the hole. She could find no water, and tentatively, she reached deeper.
Gray Owl’s hand found hers and he pulled her down in.
Ice broke as she fell but he caught her in his arms. She could smell the wood smoke in his jacket from the alder he burned in his cabin. There was no water at all, and it was warm beneath the ice.
“This happens a lot more than people realize,” he said.
“It’s not really a phenomenon; it’s just what happens. A cold snap comes in October, freezes a skin of ice over the lake—it’s got to be a shallow one, almost a marsh. Then a snowfall comes, insulating the ice. The lake drains in fall and winter— percolates down through the soil”—he stamped the spongy ground beneath them—“but the ice up top remains. And nobody ever knows any differently. People look out at the surface and think, Aha, a frozen lake.” Gray Owl laughed.
“Did you know it would be like this?” Ann asked.
“No,” he said, “I was looking for water. I just got lucky.”
Ann walked back to shore beneath the ice to fetch her stove and to release the dogs from their whoa command. The dry lake was only about eight feet deep, but it grew shallow quickly, closer to shore, so that Ann had to crouch to keep from bumping her head on the overhead ice, and then crawl; and then there was only space to wriggle, and to emerge she had to break the ice above her by bumping and then battering it with her head and elbows, like the struggles of some embryonic hatchling; and when stood up, waist-deep amid sparkling shards of ice—it was nighttime, now—the dogs barked ferociously at her, but remained where she had ordered them to stay—and she was surprised at how far off course she was when she climbed out; she had traveled only twenty feet but already the dogs were twice that far away from her. She knew humans had a poorly evolved, almost nonexistent sense of direction, but this error—over such a short distance—shocked her. It was as if there were in us a thing—an impulse, a catalyst—that denies our ever going straight to another thing.
Like dogs working left and right into the wind, she thought, before converging on the scent.
Except that the dogs would not get lost, while she could easily imagine herself and Gray Owl getting lost beneath the lake, walking in circles forever, unable to find even the simplest of things: the shore.
She gathered the stove and dogs. She was tempted to try to go back in the way she had come out—it seemed so easy—but considered the consequences of getting lost in the other direction, and instead followed her original tracks out to where Gray Owl had first dropped through the ice. It was true night now and the blizzard was still blowing hard, plastering snow and ice around her face like a mask. The dogs did not want to go down into the hole, so she lowered them to Gray Owl and then climbed gratefully back down into the warmth herself.
The air was a thing of its own—recognizable as air, and breathable, as such, but with a taste and odor, an essence, unlike any other air they’d ever breathed. It had a different density to it, so that smaller, shallower breaths were required; there was very much the feeling that if they breathed in too much of the strange, dense air, they would drown.
They wanted to explore the lake, and were thirsty, but it felt like a victory simply to be warm—or rather, not cold—and they were so exhausted that instead they made pallets out of the dead marsh grass that rustled around their ankles, and they slept curled up on the tiniest of hammocks, to keep from getting damp in the pockets and puddles of dampness that still lingered here and there.
All eight of them slept as if in a nest, heads and arms draped across other ribs and hips, and it was, said Ann, the best and deepest sleep she’d ever had—the sleep of hounds, the sleep of childhood—and how long they slept, she never knew, for she wasn’t sure, later, how much of their subsequent time they spent wandering beneath the lake, and then up on the prairie, homeward again—but when they awoke, it was still night, or night once more, and clearing, with bright stars visible through the porthole, their point of embarkation; and even from beneath the ice, in certain places where for whatever reasons—temperature, oxygen content, wind scour— the ice was clear rather than glazed they could see the spangling of stars, though more dimly; and strangely, rather than seeming to distance them from the stars, this phenomenon seemed to pull them closer as if they were up in the stars, traveling the Milky Way—or as if the stars were embedded in the ice.
It was very cold outside—up above—and there was a steady stream, a current like a river of the night’s colder, heavier air plunging down through their porthole, as if trying to fill the empty lake with that frozen air—but there was also the hot muck of the earth’s massive respirations breathing out warmth and being trapped and protected beneath that ice, so that there were warm currents doing battle with the lone cold current.
The result was that it was breezy down there, and the dogs’ noses twitched in their sleep as the images brought by these scents painted themselves across their sleeping brains in the language we call dreams but which, for the dogs, and perhaps for us, were reality: the scent of an owl real, not a dream; the scent of bear, cattail, willow, loon, real, even though they were sleeping, and even though those things were not visible: only over the next horizon.
The ice was contracting, groaning and cracking and squeaking up tighter, shrinking beneath the great cold—a concussive, grinding sound, as if giants were walking across the ice above—and it was this sound that had awakened them. They snuggled in warmer among the rattly dried yellowing grasses and listened to the tremendous clashings, as if they were safe beneath the sea and were watching waves of starlight sweeping across their hiding place; or as if they were in some place, some position, where they could watch mountains being born.
After a while the moon came up and washed out the stars.
The light was blue and silver and seemed, Ann said, to be like a living thing. It filled the sheet of ice just above their heads with a shimmering cobalt light, which again rippled as if the ice were moving, rather than the earth itself, with the moon tracking it—and like deer drawn by gravity getting up in the night to feed for an hour or so before settling back in. Gray Owl and Ann and the dogs rose from their nests of straw and began to travel.
“You didn’t—you know—engage?’’ Susan asks: a little mischievously, and a little proprietary, perhaps.
Ann shakes her head. “It was too cold,” she says. I sneak a glance at Roger, but cannot read his expression. Is he in love with her? Does she own his heart?
“But you would have, if it hadn’t been so cold, right?”
Susan asks, and Ann shrugs. “He was an old man—in his fifties—and the dogs were around. But yeah, there was something about it that made me think of . . . those things,” she says, careful and precise as ever.
“I would have done it anyway,” Susan says, “Even if it was cold, and even if he was a hundred.”
“We walked a long way,” Ann says, eager to change the subject. “The air was damp down there and whenever we’d get chilled, we’d stop and make a little fire out of a bundle of dry cattails.” There were little pockets and puddles of swamp gas pooled here and there, she said, and sometimes a spark from the cattails would ignite one of those, and all around these little pockets of gas would light up like when you toss gas on a fire—these little explosions of brilliance, like flashbulbs—marsh pockets igniting like falling dominoes, or like children playing hopscotch—until a large-enough flash-pocket was reached—sometimes thirty or forty yards away from them, by this point—that the puff of flame would blow a chimney-hole through the ice, venting the other pockets, and the flames would crackle out—the scent of grass smoke sweet in their lungs—and they could feel gusts of warmth from the little flickering fixes, and currents of the colder, heavier air—sliding down through the new vent holes and pooling around their ankles. The moonlight would strafe down through those rents in the ice, and shards of moon-ice would be glittering and spinning like diamond-motes in those newly vented columns of moonlight; and they pushed on, still lost, but so alive.
The mini-explosions were fun, but they frightened the dogs, and so Ann and Gray Owl lit twisted bundles of cattails and used them for torches to light their way, rather than building warming fires: though occasionally they would still pass through a pocket of methane and a stray ember would fall from their torches, and the whole chain of fire and light would begin again, culminating once more with a vent-hole being blown open and shards of glittering ice tumbling down into their lair . . .
What would it have looked like, seen from above—the orange blurrings of their wandering trail beneath the ice; and what would the sheet of lake-ice itself have looked like that night—throbbing with the ice-bound, subterranean blue and orange light of moon and fire? But again, there was no one to view the spectacle: only the travelers themselves, and they had no perspective, no vantage or loft from which to view or judge themselves. They were simply pushing on from one fire to the next, carrying their tiny torches. The beauty in front of them was enough.
They knew they were getting near a shore—the southern shore, they hoped, as they followed the glazed moon’s lure above—when the dogs began to encounter shore birds that had somehow found their way beneath the ice through small fissures and rifts and were taking refuge in the cattails. Small winter birds—juncos, nuthatches, chickadees—skittered away from the smoky approach of their torches; only a few late-migrating (or winter-trapped) snipe held tight and steadfast, and the dogs began to race ahead of Gray Owl and Ann, working these familiar scents—blue and silver ghost-shadows of dog-muscle weaving ahead through slants of moonlight.
The dogs emitted the odor of adrenaline when they worked, Ann said—a scent like damp fresh-cut green hay—and with nowhere to vent, the odor was dense and thick around them, so that Ann wondered if it too might be flammable, like the methane: if in the dogs’ passions they might literally immolate themselves.
They followed the dogs closely with their torches. The ceiling was low—about eight feet, as if in a regular room—so that the tips of their torches’ flames seared the ice above them, leaving a drip behind them and transforming the milky, almost opaque cobalt and orange ice behind them— wherever they passed—into wandering ribbons of clear ice, translucent to the sky—a script of flame, or buried flame, ice-bound flame—and they hurried to keep up with the dogs.
Now the dogs had the snipe surrounded, as Ann told it, and one by one the dogs went on point—each dog freezing as it pointed to the birds’ hiding places—and it was the strangest scene yet, Ann said, seeming surely underwater; and Gray Owl moved in to flush the birds, which launched themselves with vigor against the roof of the ice above, fluttering like bats; but the snipe were too small, not powerful enough to break through those frozen four inches of water (though they could fly four thousand miles to South America each year, and then back to Canada six months later—is freedom a lateral component, or a vertical one?) and as Gray Owl kicked at the clumps of frost-bent cattails where the snipe were hiding and they burst into flight only to hit their heads on the ice above them, the snipe came tumbling back down, raining limp and unconscious back to their soft grassy nests.
The dogs began retrieving them, carrying them gingerly, delicately—not preferring the taste of snipe, which ate only eartwhohworms—and Ann and Gray Owl gathered the tiny birds from the dogs, placed them in their pockets, and continued on to the shore, chasing that moon—the ceiling lowering to six feet, then four, then to a crawl space—and after they had bashed their way out (with elbows, fists and forearms) and stepped back out into the frigid air, they tucked the still-unconscious snipe into little crooks in branches, up against the trunks of trees and off the ground, out of harm’s way, and passed on, south—as if late in their own migration—while the snipe rested, warm and terrified and heart-fluttering, but saved, for now, against the trunks of those trees.
Long after Ann and Gray Owl and the pack of dogs had passed through, the birds would awaken—their bright dark eyes luminous in the moonlight—and the first sight they would see would be the frozen marsh before them with its chain of still-steaming vent-holes stretching back across all the way to the other shore. Perhaps these were birds that had been unable to migrate due to injuries, or some genetic absence. Perhaps they had tried to migrate in the past but had found either their winter habitat destroyed, or the path down there so fragmented and fraught with danger that it made more sense—to these few birds—to ignore the tuggings of the stars and seasons and instead to try to carve out new lives, new ways-of-being, even in such a stark and severe landscape: or rather, in a stark and severe period—knowing that lushness and bounty was still retained within that landscape. That it was only a phase; that better days would come. That in fact (the snipe knowing these things with their blood, ten-million-years-in-the-world), the austere times were the very thing, the very imbalance, which would summon the resurrection of that frozen richness within the soil—if indeed that richness, that magic, that hope, did still exist beneath the ice and snow. Spring would come like its own green fire, if only the injured ones could hold on.
And what would the snipe think or remember, upon reawakening and finding themselves still in that desolate position, desolate place and time, but still alive, and with hope? Would it seem to them that a thing like grace had passed through, as they slept—that a slender winding river of it had passed through and rewarded them for their faith and endurance? Believing, stubbornly, that that green land beneath them would blossom once more. Maybe not soon; but again.
If the snipe survived, they would be among the first to see it. Perhaps they believed that the pack of dogs, and Gray Owl’s and Ann’s advancing torches, had only been one of winter’s dreams. Even with the proof—the scribings—of grace’s passage before them—the vent-holes still steaming— perhaps they believed it was only one of winter’s dreams.
It would be curious to tally how many times any or all of us reject, or fail to observe, moments of grace. Another way in which I think Susan and I differ from most of the anarchists and militia members up here is that we believe there is still green fire in the hearts of our citizens, beneath this long snowy winter—beneath the chitin of the insipid. That there is still something beneath the surface: that our souls and spirits are still of more worth, more value, than the glassine, latticed ice-structures visible only now at the surface of things.
We still believe there’s something down there beneath us, as a country. Not that we’re better than other countries, by any means—but that we’re luckier. That ribbons of grace are still passing through and around us—even now, and for whatever reasons, certainly unbeknownst to us, and certainly undeserved, unearned.
Gray Owl, Ann and the dogs headed south for half a day until they reached the snow-scoured road on which they’d parked. The road looked different, Ann said, buried beneath snowdrifts, and they didn’t know whether to turn east or west. The dogs chose west, and so Gray Owl and Ann followed them. Two hours later they were back at their truck, and that night they were back at Gray Owl’s cabin; by the next night Ann was home again. She says that even now she still sometimes has dreams about being beneath the ice—about living beneath the ice—and that it seems to her as if she was down there for much longer than a day and a night; that instead she might have been gone for years.
It was twenty years ago, when it happened. Gray Owl has since died, and all of those dogs are dead now, too. She is the only one who still carries—in the flesh, at any rate—the memory of that passage.
Ann would never discuss such a thing, but I suspect that it, that one day-and-night, helped give her a model for what things were like for her dogs when they were hunting and when they went on point: how the world must have appeared to them when they were in that trance, that blue zone, where the odors of things wrote their images across the dogs’ hot brainpans. A zone where sight, and the appearance of things—surfaces—disappeared, and where instead their essence— the heat molecules of scent—was revealed, illuminated, circumscribed, possessed.
I suspect that she holds that knowledge—the memory of that one day-and-night—especially since she is now the sole possessor—as tightly, and securely, as one might clench some bright small gem in one’s fist: not a gem given to one by some favored or beloved individual but, even more valuable, some gem found while out on a walk—perhaps by happenstance, or perhaps by some unavoidable rhythm of fate—and hence containing great magic, great strength.
Such is the nature of the kinds of people living, scattered here and there, in this valley
Fuente:https://www.theparisreview.org/fiction/1120/the-hermits-story-rick-bass
Cambiar de vida en invierno, la naturaleza según Rick Bass
Tenia ganas de hablar de un libro de Errata Naturae, una de mis editoriales favoritas por la concreción de su catalogo y por la importancia de que exista un sello que se dedique a este tipo de literatura. Me refiero a lo que a menudo se conoce como nature writing, es decir la producción textual que tiene como centro el estudio o la reflexión entorno a la naturaleza y la experiencia que tiene el individuo de esta. Una temática que más allá de tendencias mayores o menores al ruralismo marca la vida y la historia de la humanidad ya sea por proximidad o por oposición al medio y es des de este punto de vista que tiene para mi un lugar primordial para el pensamiento. El libro en cuestión es Invierno (Errata Naturae) donde Rick Bass relata un diario que se construye como una suerte de biografía de su propia vida y en concreto de su primer invierno viviendo en el valle del Yaak, Montana, en un pequeño poblado al norte de Estados Unidos rodeado de naturaleza salvaje donde viven cerca de una treintena de personas habitualmente sin ni siquiera electricidad o teléfono. Se trata de un libro de todavía 2018, la ultima lectura navideña que tenia pendiente.
En la época de internet y las redes sociales, uno va a la montaña y tiene la sensación de estarse perdiendo algo. Vivimos a menudo en esa sobre excitación permanente en la que no nos damos un momento de descanso, como si tuviéramos que verlo todo y estar en todos lados, como si se nos fuera la vida y necesitáramos retenerla. De eso habla Rick Bass cuando piensa en la mujer de ochenta años que lleva toda la vida en ese pequeño poblado de Yaak, cuantas cosas se habrá perdido. Aún así, Bass y su mujer, naturales de Texas, él escritor y ella artista plástica, deciden con tan solo veintinueve años irse a vivir a Yaak. Cuantas cosas habrá visto esa mujer que nadie más habrá visto, piensa mas tarde el escritor, no se puede estar en todos lados.
Rick Bass no duda en reconocer que su migración a Yaak es una huida de una sociedad en la que ya no se siente a gusto. Una sociedad en decadencia dominada por el engaño, el absurdo y la falta de conversaciones realmente interesantes y cita a Thoreau cuando dice que el ermitaño se aleja de unas cosas para acercarse a otras. La referencia a Thoreau no es por supuesto casual. Thoreau es el referente indiscutible de diferentes generaciones de americanos interesados por la naturaleza. Una sociedad, la americana, plagada de contrastes entre los grandes núcleos urbanos que están entre los más contaminantes y activos del planeta, donde la actividad industrial y empresarial nunca se para y los inmensos bosques salvajes, y por lo tanto aún no domesticados, donde pueden pasar meses sin tener presencia humana alguna y puede volverse incluso imposible transitarlo en cualquier tipo de vehículo. El contacto con la naturaleza puede ser mucho mas potente que en Europa, por poner un ejemplo, donde todo territorio está más regulado y es propiedad de alguien y uno no puede siquiera acampar una noche en un bosque sin pedir permiso para hacerlo.
Es en este contexto en el que siguiendo el ejemplo del pensador Thoreau o del protagonista del conocido libro (y después película) Hacia Rutas Salvajes (Into the wild, recogedor de un caso real), un cierto numero de estadounidenses dejan su vida acomodada de ciudad para empezar una nueva vida en algún bosque del extenso territorio americano, cuanto más remoto y salvaje, mejor. Los motivos pueden ser mas o menos dispares pero en el caso estadounidense suelen tener mucho que ver con la búsqueda de la propia individualidad a través de un modo de vida más pausado y conectado con las necesidades básicas y primitivas del ser humano que permita un trabajo de autoconciencia de uno mismo, de sus necesidades, sus pensamientos y singularidades y también como acto de libertad de si. De un ejercicio de liberación de las coacciones sociales que limitan el desarrollo y la libertad del individuo, valores todos ellos muy americanos.
Rick Bass bebe de esta tradición y escribe de forma muy tranquila y aparentemente vacía pero que muestra entre las descripciones de sus rutinas diarias como su vida se va transformando en Yaak y las razones que lo van convenciendo de haber escogido correctamente su lugar de residencia. Argumentos que cogen fuerza si somos conscientes de que Rick Bass es hoy un hombre de sesenta años que sigue viviendo en Yaak, cuarenta años después. En su dietario habla frecuentemente de la leña, la caza y la agricultura, en un lugar extremo, con temperaturas de hasta cincuenta grados bajo cero. La propia subsistencia ocupa gran parte del tiempo de sus habitantes y les da una lección de humildad. Viven mas pendientes del clima ya que el frío, la noche, la nieve marcan de una forma mucho mas evidente cuando empieza y acaba el día que se puede hacer y que no.
Los animales también forman parte del paisaje que dibuja Bass, animales salvajes como los coyotes, los osos o los ciervos con los que conviven de una forma silenciosa, se ven de lejos, se siguen unos a otros. Los animales subsisten de una forma más salvaje, los humanos necesitan en cambio de las herramientas de la cultura para sobrevivir en esas condiciones.
En definitiva Bass nos muestra como se impone un ritmo de vida diferente en la alta montaña. Uno tiene que hacer un mayor trabajo de aceptación de las duras condiciones climáticas y darle la vuelta transformándolo en un sentimiento de agradecimiento de estar en el mundo, de recibir nieve o lluvia, de contemplar la naturaleza mas salvaje y pura. En definitiva el placer estético que supone para el humano conectarse con sus raíces mas primitivas y autenticas. Aquellas que posibilitan mas directamente su vida.
En lugares así uno acaba encontrando gentes semejantes a uno mismo ya que todos en Yaak huyen de la sociedad por unos motivos o otros y se impone un ritmo de vida y de comunicación mas pausado y libre (incluso entre Bass y su pareja se ve reflejada esta independencia.) Al no disponer de teléfono o televisión la gente espera (también la gente de la ciudad) y se impone un cierto aislamiento y un tempo mas lento favorecido por el silencio. Uno piensa mas las cosas que hace y porque las hace y a través de la atención plena, del constante aprendizaje, vivir cada día como algo nuevo, parece incluso que el tiempo pase mucho mas despacio. Para no alargarme mas de la cuenta quiero contestar a todos aquellos lectores que quizás se están preguntando a cerca de la dificultad de cambiar su modo de vida en una sociedad tan exigente como la contemporánea citando al propio Rick Bass en una de sus frases que más me resuenan: “claro que tenemos nostalgia. Si salieran baratas nuestra felicidad y nuestra libertad no merecerían la pena”. Lectura diferente, muy bien escrita y que da mucho para reflexionar.
http://blog.jessicalowry.com/published_rick_bass_magazine/
https://www.theparisreview.org/fiction/1120/the-hermits-story-rick-bass
https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2020/04/21/redux-suspension-of-disparate-particles/
http://www.culturalresuena.es/2019/02/cambiar-de-vida-en-invierno-la-naturaleza-segun-rick-bass/
https://www.thenationalnews.com/arts-culture/meet-rick-bass-the-us-author-prepared-to-do-battle-over-trump-s-environmental-policies-1.633025
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