A Voice from the Wood

Beasts, Strong and Furry

2012-01-26T14:21:00.000-08:00

I strive to draw every day. In between larger comics projects, I simply open my hardbound sketchbook, get out my pencils and nib pens and brushes, and draw what I imagine--often aided by picture-laden books and google image search. A sampling of beasts from my most recent sketchbook:

Cyborg Owl

2012-01-16T12:40:00.000-08:00

A cybernetic skeletal owl. Since both owls and cyborgs are known for their potent eyesight, imagine what a cyborg owl could do!

And happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day, World! I'll need to remember to perform some community service in honor of Dr. King once I get home. Right now, I'm getting ready for a big move.

Protest in the Zeitgeist

2012-01-10T13:58:00.000-08:00

In 2011, protest was in the zeitgeist. (Even a publication as mainstream as TIME took notice, in making the protester the person of the year.) Thus far, the trend does not seem to have slowed with the new year. I hope that it intensifies. I am thankful for the technological tools that help to make it all possible.

Effective protests happened in many parts of the world, including some good ones in my country, the USA. Being an environmentalist, I was particularly proud of the protest on Capitol Hill against the Keystone X-L pipeline (led by Bill McKibben.) And then, the Obama administration postponed their decision on the project. Another example (and perhaps under-reported one) of how protest CAN lead to changes in national policy.

And I am proud of all the brave folks at Occupy Wall Street—especially for their day of occupying bridges, to demand that governments create jobs by investing in the aging infrastructure. The real way out of our jobs crisis is to create useful government jobs, which put people back to work while improving everyone's quality of life. A win-win approach, successfully applied during the great depression, in form of the New Deal. Today, we still reap the benefits from the good work done by the WPA and CCC. And those jobs were not created by cutting taxes or curbing spending! In fact, they were the direct result of spending, and funded by taxes.

Evidently, the zeitgeist visited me, as well as my friends in Colorado. We had our own uprising against a local dictator. Although we ultimately lost, we made a mighty display of courage and moral conviction. Captain America would be proud.

Back in March 2011, I appeared at a public protest for the first time in years—a Wisconsin solidarity rally in downtown Seattle, in front of the fire station (organized by MoveOn). In opposition to Governor Scott Walker's “union-busting” bill, and in support of public workers. I should resolve to attend more protests in the future. Our leaders must be held accountable for their decisions. And while emails, letters, phone calls, and online petitions are useful and essential, they cannot match the power of live human beings at your doorstep, with a demand for change.

*******

I was introduced to political protest in my college Homestead days. I attended Denison University (Granville, Ohio) during turbulent political times. September 11th, 2001 occurred during my sophomore year. Everyone remembers where they were on that day, and I am no exception. I stopped to check my mail at Slayter Hall, and my friend Mike asked, “Did you hear what happened?” I said, “about Cassi?” (our mutual friend). “No, about the World Trade Center,” he said. I went down the stairs to the lower floor of Slayter, where the cafe with the televisions was located. What appeared to be the entire body of students and faculty at Denison were crowded around the televisions. I managed to find some standing room. And saw the towers fall.

9-11 was beyond horrific, but worse nightmares were to follow. George W. Bush and his cronies planned to use 9-11 as an excuse to drop bombs on innocent people in Iraq and secure some rich oil fields. Unless the American people could unite to stop them! In the Denison community, several of my Homestead friends emerged as leaders of the anti-war movement. My comrades Dave and Marko took the lead in moving an anti-war petition all over campus, gathering many hundreds of signatures from students, faculty, and staff, and mailing copies to every key member of the Bush Administration. Multiple Homesteaders were involved in staging an anti-war walkout on a Friday at noon, wherein students and faculty took turns making speeches—both planned and impromptu, and petitions circulated for ending the war and impeaching the president.

Every Thursday morning, I joined my Homestead friends for the protest on Main Street, Granville. We piled five-to-ten deep in the bed of our old beat up gray dodge pickup—the DURP truck—and drove through the icy wind of an Ohio winter, to Main Street, Granville. (Granville resembles a small new england town.) We joined other DU students, professors, and Granville townsfolk, armed, like us, in winter jackets and hats and gloves. We brandished signs with slogans like “Peace is patriotic” and “Support U.N. Weapons Inspections”. We stood on the sidewalk for an hour, and made ourselves as visible as possible to vehicles and pedestrians. Some pedestrians stopped to converse with us, and many simply smiled and waved in support. Once the war started, competition arrived on Main Street, with some war-supporters standing beside us (some of them veterans in uniform.) Their signs read “Support our troops.” Ours read “Support our troops: bring them home safely now.” I am glad that both sides could exercise their first amendment rights.

And we took the protest beyond Granville. We marched alongside thousands of other demonstrators, first in Washington D.C., then in New York City (Columbus as well, and D.C. again, although I missed those two.) In October 2002, a dozen or so Homesteaders and friends piled into a few cars and a rental van to go to the first big anti-war march in DC. We were a motley band of college boys and girls, diverse in size, skin-color, and hair-length. We brought sleeping bags, and white signs with red letters, the same signs which we would later use in Granville. (I liked “US oil consumption is a weapon of mass destruction.”) Mud spattered both our signs and ourselves. There is a lot of mud at the Homie, which tends to find its way onto one's person and belongings. Ol' Homesteader Matty made a unique sign: “Re-elect Carter.” After a long evening and night of driving and an arrival to D.C. in the wee hours, we slept the remainder of the night in a university auditorium (a friend let us in). The next morning, we answered multiple inquiries from fellow demonstrators and pedestrians as to who we were and where we came from that is so muddy. Then we joined the demonstration. We marched, in a wave of bodies and signs and artwork (and some costumed traveller's dressed like Bush and Cheney monsters.) Drums beat, and chants arose of “1-2-3-4 We don't want another war; 5-6-7-8 stop the racism stop the hate!” It was an honor to have been a tiny piece of this historic day, and the subsequent ones.

Despite our best efforts, the war still happened. And exceeded our worst nightmares in its level of violence. Nonetheless, the efforts led by my Homestead comrades were noble, and the experience was unforgettable. And it is another demonstration of the power of community. I would not have had the motivation to be so involved in the movement had I been operating alone. It is an honor to have marched next to friends.

Times of Celebration

2011-12-31T17:03:00.000-08:00

Happy last day of 2011, world! I wrote this blog entry for the day after Christmas, but I am behind as usual. So here it is now, some holiday reminiscences.

I had a few good holidays in 2011. I celebrated Christmas among family, beside the magic light of a recently-cut REAL Christmas tree, and the warmth of a fire. I brought in some applesauce and salsa and pickles (which I had made at the ranch) as presents for family-members. (And if only I had made it to the RBR candle-making workshop, I would have more presents than I'd know what to do with.) I had an extra-special present for my mom—the porcupine, featured in my December 4th blog entry. The original scratchboard now adorns the wall of my folks' house, and so I hope that visitors will visit and see it there.

I also have fond memories for Thanksgiving 2011, which I celebrated in Colorado, at Toklat, among 15 or so comrades from Rock Bottom Ranch and ACES and affiliates. I showed greater culinary ambition than I have at any previous holiday. I made a squash pie, and co-made a spinach quiche, and worked cooperatively with my comrade Melanie to make the main dish, being two free-range chickens from the ranch (freedom rangers), roasted with a plethora of vegetables. This combined with a multitude of other dishes (spinach pie and cranberry sauce and pumpkin bread and etc etc.) as each participant made their favorite item, from their own family traditions. From a culinary perspective, it is hard to compete with an “orphan” Thanksgiving. My comrade Betsy got a photo of me commanding the Toklat kitchen:

Remarkably, after dinner, I convinced the whole crowd to watch one of my favorite movies: Cemetery Man or Dellamorte Dellamore (1994, directed by Michele Soavi). The story of Fransisco Dellamorte, the keeper of Buffalora Cemetery, where the dead just don't stay dead. And so he is forced to shoot and rebury the "returners", while trying to keep the strange events secret from the townspeople, and avoid the hassle of associated government paperwork. Dellamorte is aided by the igor-like Gnaghi, and seduced by “She” (his immortal lady-love who returns after death, in multiple incarnations, zombie and otherwise). While an action-packed horror film (with some deliberately-B special effects), Cemetery Man also a grand philosophical meditation on love and death, dream and reality. It is thought-provoking and artfully constructed—to the select few of us who get it; most viewers don't. (Perhaps they are turned off by Gnaghi's romance with the severed head of a young girl?) In any case, I am for some reason proud when I can get anyone to watch it. And a few weeks later, I gathered most of the ranch staff to see another wonderful movie that almost no one has seen: Fantastic Planet or La planète sauvage (1973, directed by René Laloux). I suddenly have a few achievements as a film-educator. Perhaps I should update my resumé.

My visit home has granted me access to my grand archive of artworks from my past. And so I will share one with bright colors, which seems fitting for the holiday season:

This painting would be of Espigah, my tarantula, whom I kept in captivity for around 18 years, until she finally shed this mortal coil last year. Leaving Bud the pacman frog as the last survivor from the pets from my youth, which my mom has so graciously and skillfully cared for since I left home.

~ And may your holiday season extend BEYOND New Years' Day ~

portrait photo by © Betsy Defries

Frogs of Might and Voracity

2011-12-20T19:56:00.001-08:00

Big Willy isn't the only animal out there with food on the brain. Well, food is a primary concern for most animals (including humans), but some critters, like Big Willy and Bud take 'living to eat' to a higher level.

Bud, my pac-man frog, whom I have had for 15 years, has been the inspiration for many pictures and stories. He sits motionless in a hole in the mud for days. Then, when a live earthworm or insect is offered, he launches the attack. Snatches the victim in his jaws and devours it. Onlookers are always surprised--to see the amphibian transform so suddenly from statue to pouncing tiger. And Bud will attack anything that moves (including your hand), will eat any animal he can swallow, and has no taboos on cannibalism, if given the opportunity. Some of his wild relatives die by choking, when they try to swallow prey that is too large. All this makes for a character as fantastic as those dreamed up by Jack Kirby or Steve Ditko! Although I cannot claim their level of skill at rendering such a character on the comics page, I try my best. As such, I recently completed my second Bud-inspired comic story, which is titled "The Threat of Big Bad Bo." It is a sort of parody of the Marvel monster comics of the 1950s, with a pac-man frog as the monster. On display above is the opening splash-page, which is followed by four more pages, dense with action in a nine-panel grid. (My first Bud-inspired comic "Song for a Hungry Horned Frog"--which takes a more contemporary dramatic approach--is available on iknowjoekimpel.com.) Soon, I will collect these and other stories into a comic book of "Frog Stories." Watch for it in the coming year, true believers.

In a recent visit to my parents' house, I uncovered this colored pencil drawing from my high school days. It depicts a giant Bud, hidden among the swamp-plants. A nice reminder that I have been drawing the ol' frog for many years. (And was drawing him impressively well when I was a teenager.) In my visit, I have not had the opportunity to greet the real Bud, for he is buried under mud for his winter sleep. He sleeps for many months out of the year; and the duration of the long nap has increased with each passing year. However, when he does emerge, he is as vivacious as ever. His appetite is not quite as great as in his younger days, but he is still a horrifying predator, to any animal small enough to be engulfed in his jaws. We keep wondering how long the amphibian can live, and thinking that every winter will be his last. And then he surprises us again when he emerges, late in the spring. Whenever he does go to the great mud-hole in the sky, he will be remembered, in pencil and ink.

Porcupine

2011-12-04T19:42:00.000-08:00

Being overdue for a blog post, I looked through my archive of drawings—and found this porcupine on scratchboard. Evidently, the animal and the medium complement each other well. I seem to have captured its handsome but deadly coat of quills. The peaceful forager, who is armed like a battle tank. The cute mammal who can make an impaled corpse of any predator who dares to attack him. Few will take the chance. The assailant must target porky's achilles heel—his unprotected head. A single mistake can spell the end.

Speaking of “the end”, we have had some intense events at Rock Bottom Ranch, and some fine animals have met their end. I will post about these events soon—I am still gathering my thoughts.

Good fortune, my viewers!

The Mind of Big Willy

2011-11-20T09:24:00.000-08:00

Naturally, posted both here and the Rock Bottom Ranch blog....

As we hear reiterated at many a ranch educational program, fall is a time of harvest. (We are now nearing the end of this harvest-season, as winter weather starts to arrive.) We collect apples from trees, pumpkins from the vine, dig potatoes and carrots, slaughter a pig or two, and so forth. On our field programs, students join in for cider pressing. They take turns spinning the crank of the apple-crusher, and all sing the song: “This the way we crush our apples, on an autumn day.” Next we turn the topmost crank, and the press mashes the fruits.. “This is the way we press our apples...” And the sweet cider oozes out.

Meanwhile, a 600-pound beast watches. Big Willy stands right behind the fence at the edge of his pasture. He pants and grunts, and shakes with excitement. Drools streams from his open mouth, with tusks on full display. (Don't be afraid; Big Willy uses his tusks ONLY for display.)

A singular obsession has entered his mind. The apple-chunks that remain after cider pressing. Sweet and delicious. To be eaten with speed and gusto. Big Willy has apples on his mind. And in a short time, his desire is satisfied. Apples. They please the tongue, and fill the gullet.

Long have humans contemplated the mind of the beasts. Biologists, psychologists, philosophers, and lay-people all have their own explanations for what goes on in animal minds. But in the case of Big Willy, animal thoughts are not hard to deduce. His sole preoccupation in life is food. Being a large black pig, his primary diet is grass, supplemented with a bit of grain. But he'll take any food he can get. When a human comes before him, he approaches and pants and looks and sniffs, hopeful for the goodness of grain. Or eggs or milk. Big Willy's great bulk is a heavy burden on his thin legs. Nonetheless, he will run from the far side of the pasture if he thinks the gift of grain is waiting. He will interrupt intimate love with the sow Laura Jean, if grain is offered.

On countless farm tours, I have reassured children that Big Willy may look scary, but is totally nice, harmless. But when I have a bucket of grain in my hand, a spark in Big Willy ignites. 600 pounds of hunger barrels toward me, as fast as those twig legs can run. His interest is entirely in the grain, but he may incidentally bowl over me along the way. And when Big Willy escapes his pasture or goes wandering into the chicken-enclosure... a scoop of grain may be the only way to lure him back to his proper spot. And so the rancher must run, with the giant hog in hot pursuit, grunting and salivating.

Sometimes, people ask if hogs are really as smart as reputed. I don't know for sure, but I do know that Big Willy can be quite clever, when there is an opportunity for food. If his gate is left open, just enough for a huge hog to slip through, he'll go out. Not for fresh air or social life, but because our only way to lure him back in is with food. When we move chickens and their pens and fence to new pasture, Big Willy is close behind. He'll scarf any chicken feed left on the ground, and slurp all grain spills. If we leave a barrel of grain unprotected, Big Willy will knock it over. The resultant pile of culinary goodness is his version of heaven.

When the butcher shot Big Willy's offspring for pork, the boar did not seem concerned. Instead, he walked over and sniffed their blood, to see if any food might be there.

Fat Freddy is an amateur next to Big Willy. In his voracity and scope of appetite, the hog is just below “The Pet” (of a 1921 Winsor McCay theatrical cartoon.) Although he may not have grown skyscraper-size, he used to be quite overweight. Until put on a diet, to reach a slim 600.

Even the slimmer Big Willy, at the age of two-and-a-half, has developed some joint issues in his front legs. We monitor him now. Our hogs have short lives, but they live a version of the American dream. “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”. And for Big Willy, happiness is something that you chew.

Studlar's Nightmare

2011-10-30T19:41:00.001-07:00

Halloween is a special holiday for fans of the strange and terrifying, like yours truly, and probably most students and alumni of The Center for Cartoon Studies.

Hence, I'll share a special drawing.

"Studlar's nightmare." Based on a true story.

It was a windy night in July, on Galveston Island, Texas. My parents were visiting from West Virginia. We were on a much needed vacation. For our first night out, we camped at Galveston Island State Park. We did not anticipate the extent of wind. On the sandy beach, on a barrier island, with ocean waves rumbling. With no trees to guard us, the wind blew full-force. Sleeping in a tent was a difficult endeavor. The whole structure shook and rocked, nonstop through the night. The fabric whipped and slapped about. Sleep could happen only in short doses. Finally, I went to sleep solidly. And then awoke. A huge, wolf-like dog had my hand in its jaws. It felt like a solid clamp, a vice grip. But it wasn't cutting my flesh, yet. I wanted to pull away, wanted to make noise, to escape. But I couldn't move. I tried very hard, but my body didn't quite respond. Like I was made of led. As I gradually came to, I could move my limbs slightly. Gradually, I came to realize that there was no dog. My hand was only clamped in place with one of my knees on either side. I regained control, and pulled my hand free. Evidently, I had experienced sleep paralysis. I had read about the phenomenon before, as a possible skeptic's explanation for reports of alien abductions, and visits from angels and demons. I thought it would be a frightening thing to experience. And indeed it was.

Happy Halloween, one and all!

Small and Savage

2011-10-25T09:09:00.000-07:00

Once again, I'm posting this one both here and on the Rock Bottom Ranch blo g. Same entry, two addresses.

Among the egg-laying hens, there lives a one-pound rooster with 100 pounds of testosterone. He has become known as Napoleon, for want of a better name. Rarely does five minutes pass without the little bantam unleashing his high and squawking crow. The full-size chickens, turkeys, and peacock are like giants next to him. Nonetheless, Napoleon walks with the pride of a king. And the audacity of a wolverine; he has no fear of larger opponents. With spurred feet blazing, he challenged a freedom ranger—but was pecked into retreat. With a piercing stare in his eyes and flailing rage in his wings, he leaps at humans—but cannot touch the wearer of boots, for his striking range barely reaches above the ankle. I have used my oversize feet to guard youngsters from his attack. He will retreat from me; even Napoleon gives pause for my size. If Napoleon were the size of an ordinary rooster, he would be the terror of the ranch. At present, he is too small and awkward. There is more entertainment than danger in his aggression. Even so, we are wise to give him space. He is content to crow to the air, and assert himself to the world. And in the small world of a chicken yard, Napoleon is ruler. Until he is bested by a larger bird … but after a short retreat, he’ll declare himself king again!

(Napoleon is also known as Stewart.)

Fear in Pictures

2011-10-16T19:55:00.001-07:00

It being the Halloween season, it seems a fitting time to share a few more metal-inspired drawings. The stuff of nightmares.

Yes, I know that the Fortune Teller made an appearance last year, but I am fond of her, so I brought her back.

October is also the harvest season. For tales of our harvest at Rock Bottom Ranch, and my recent artistic-educational creation featuring Apollo the goat, consult the ranch blog.

Metal in a Dark Place

2011-10-09T10:25:00.000-07:00

I am a longtime fan of heavy metal music, and often draw to the sound of Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, or Metallica. Many people are surprised that the quiet, nature-loving Ross Wood Studlar listens to music of such volume and intensity. However, I find metal the best music to draw to, for it keeps the pen or brush MOVING. I also deeply appreciate the multi-layered, symphonic song patterns and the 'heavy' lyrical themes—war, drug addiction, insanity, monsters, death, power, corruption—and much that is pertinent to the dark world we live in.

When my friend Raven became the lead singer of a heavy metal band called Vendetta, I had to nominate myself to draw the cover of their first album. For this image, I took some influence from Derek Riggs' cover art for Iron Maiden, particularly the first two albums. I had planned to add color, and maybe I shall at a later time. Unfortunately, Vendetta has disbanded. And so my cover art has no home—save this blog.

Freedom Rangers in the Land of Dragons

2011-09-18T20:26:00.000-07:00

Rock Bottom Ranch now has an official blog! My colleague Melanie launched the effort and wrote the first entry. Hannah wrote the second, and I came in for the third--many voices and many pictures of animals already, less than a week after the blog was born.

My entry "Freedom Rangers in the Land of Dragons" currently adorns the homepage. At the risk of being slightly redundant, I also will copy and paste the entry here. ... It seems a logical next event, in my series of posts about ranch adventures. So yes, it is precisely the same entry as seen on the other blog--you can chose whether you prefer to read it here or there.

Freedom Rangers in the Land of Dragons

Rock Bottom Ranch is featured in the fall issue of Edible Aspen Magazine! The article (composed by RBR educator and ranch hand extraordinaire Hannah Lippe) features the FREEDOM RANGERS. No, they are not the stars of an action TV series. They are a breed of free-ranging chickens whom we have been raising for meat (with the ancillary benefit of soil-fertilizer from their droppings.) In a bold cooperative endeavor with Jock Jacober of Crystal River Meats, Rock Bottom Ranch will raise a total of 1,000 meat chickens in 2011. (And we have all already raised and had processed over 500 of them.)

If you have visited the ranch since May, you probably recall the free-ranging chickens in the pasture, with their dome-shaped mobile pens (chicken tractors). An electric fence protects the chickens from bears, and their grain reserves from the ravenous jaws of Big Willy. As their name suggests, the freedom rangers spend their days roaming the pasture, pawing and pecking the earth in pursuit of bugs and worms and plants to eat. Considering their small size, I consider the birds to be remarkable eaters; they dive into grain at morning and evening feedings, and spend the rest of their days finding wild food. They break to drink water, rest, or enjoy a dust bath. Or they may interrupt their quest to fight another chicken.

Fights are a natural part of life for chickens. Roosters face off with other roosters for dominance, while hens tussle with other hens. They stand face-to-face, cluck, and fluff their feathers threateningly. If neither opponent backs down, they peck each other. Roosters kick with their spurs. Most fights ends when one combatant flees; serious injuries occur only rarely. And on the free range, there is ample space for the loser to escape.

Although they are natural explorers, chickens prefer to explore close to home. Once a chicken has found a safe zone (such as a chicken tractor), she will return night after night. Our egg-laying hens (at the other end of the ranch) rome with fence-gates open during the day, but don’t venture too far from their home coop. Perhaps chickens perceive the world similarly to early maritime explorers—beyond the edge of the map, there is mystery and danger. “Here there be dragons.”

Recently, we brought some of the freedom rangers beyond the edge of the map. And there were dragons there.

The survival rate of our meat birds has been so high that we had a surplus of freedom rangers from our last crop. More birds grew to market size than we had arranged to be slaughtered. And so, these extra birds inhabit the ranch now. (And you can take one home for $10!) On Friday, Amy recruited my assistance to move these birds in with the egg-laying hens. The plan: move them in the afternoon to a separate ‘room’ of the layer’s chicken coop. Let them stay overnight. In the morning, let them out to mingle with their new neighbors.

We placed the chickens in crates for transport across the ranch. They fluttered and squawked when we caught them by their legs, but calmed down quickly inside the crate. Boxed in with their fellow chickens, they took a crowded truck-ride across the ranch. Then we introduced them to their new home.

In the early morning, the opened the chickens door. In the late morning, I returned to check on them—only to find that the “freedom rangers” were still huddled in their room, and hadn’t dared to venture into the yard. Evidently, they needed some persuasion. I lifted some by the feet, and pushed them through the door; others I chased out.

Once on pasture, the freedom rangers again began to act out their namesake. But they stayed huddled together, safe from this foreign flock of chickens, who now shared the pasture. Inevitably, as both parties pursued food and water, the egg-layers and the freedom rangers started to intermingle. A bit of grain that I put on the ground encouraged this process. A few freedom rangers came to eat—uncomfortably beside the strange other chickens, who came in so many different colors.

And then, the dragons arrived. The six young turkeys who joined the ranch this year, also came to the grain to eat. With their larger size, long necks, and menacing beaks, they must have resembled dragons to our freedom rangers. And, like dragons, they did not take kindly to intruders on their territory. A turkey pecked at a freedom ranger, chased her, tried to jump upon her. The ranger ran off and escaped. And returned to peck at the grain. And the process repeated. The ranger escaped again, but could not resist the lure of grain….

The laying-hens pasture has become an avian jungle, with chickens of all breeds and ages, the young turkeys, the elder turkey King Louie, and Eve the peacock. The animals learn to coexist, by cooperation or mutual avoidance. I am sure that the freedom rangers will follow suit, and find their place in the “pecking order.” In the meantime, they must rely on their wits and speed, to survive in the land of dragons.

Epilogue: After composing this post, I revisited the birds, and found freedom rangers and turkeys sharing the pasture, at a safe distance from each other. Evidently, both have adapted to the new neighbors.

The chronicles of trimming goat hooves

2011-09-10T19:49:00.000-07:00

Percy the goat, drawn from life

Recently, I took it upon myself to trim the hooves of the goats. Wild goats live and climb upon rocks, which wears down their hooves. Our domestic goats spend most of their time in pasture, with a soft carpet of grass beneath their feet. As a result, their hooves grow much too long, to the point of interfering with proper standing and movement. It is up to the rancher to correct this problem, with knife (traditional) or clippers. I prefer the latter, being that it is safer for both parties when the goat gets ornery.

Evidently, goats do not grasp the concept of trimming hooves (at least for me they don't.) They only sense danger, and respond accordingly. However, most of the goats have grown quite accustomed to the large Ross wandering about their pasture. I decided to trim Corona first... the 11-year old goat is the matriarch of our herd, after all. She strolled up to me, I took hold of her collar, attached the leash, and led her to the 'milk room.' I led her atop the milk stand, secured her in placed with the head catch, and fed her a bit of grain. Corona shook—apparently she was afraid. I spoke to her, brushed her grizzled hair, then lifted her back hoof, and set about clipping it. She was mostly cooperative. But for the whole operation, she trembled like an aspen leaf. When I brought her back to pasture, her daughter Delilah approached and nuzzled her. Goat families stay together.

For the next in line, I knew not to try Plum, Percy, or Grey. Plum and Percy both fear me, probably due to my size. Any goat can out-speed a human, but Plum can run like a pronghorn antelope and jump fences like a mule deer. And she never falls for my 'baiting' trick. Percy is also hard to lay a hand on. Grey is the grouchy old man of the goat herd. When anyone tries to pet the small and compact goat, he runs away. He butts other goats with his horns, often unprovoked. Rosie is apparently his partner, but that doesn't stop him from trying to woo Corona. Even as he nuzzles the matriarch, he butts her daughter and granddaughter at every opportunity. Grey won my disdain when he butted a pregnant Delilah in her belly; I try not to hold grudges, but Grey gives me little reason to like him. And he can run surprisingly fast for such a small goat. The only way to catch him is to corner him, with two people, in his stall when he exits for the morning. So for hoof-trimming, he was not next in line.

But Charlotte seemed a fitting choice. Delilah's daughter and Corona's granddaughter, Charlotte has never been a popular goat among the ranch staff. She is aggressive and recalcitrant, traits that call her status as a future milker into question. Nonetheless, she remains part of the herd, for the time being. Well, she is part of the herd even though she does not run with the herd at present. We found that she had been drinking Delilah's milk—rather inappropriate for a one-and-a-half year old adult goat. So we consigned her to roam in the other pasture with her little siblings, Athena and Apollo. She has not given much effort to bonding with her little brother and sister. Instead, she spends most of her time baying, whining to rejoin the herd of larger goats, and her lactating mother. Her request is denied.

Charlotte did not take kindly to the milk stand. The lure of grain led her onto the stand, but once her head was latched in, she fought back. She pulled and banged against the wooden bars, attempted to free herself. She succeeded. I realized that her head was smaller than the other goats, hence she could slip out of the head catch. I took it upon myself to fix the problem. I fetched the power drill, detached one of the wooden bars, which go on either side of the goat's neck. I moved it closer to the other, and reduced the size of the head catch opening by one inch. Once Charlotte's head was back through the catch, she couldn't get free. She tried with all that was in her. She turned her head upside down, chin high in the air, 180 degrees. She scampered her feet off the milkstand, and onto the ground. She assumed contortionist positions like I had never seen before from a goat. But the head catch held her fast. I tried to explain that my only goal was to trim her hooves, which is quite a painless operation, much like trimming my own toenails. Unfortunately, goats do not speak english. And so I trimmed one hoof at a time, against her kicks and body-quakes. I returned her to her pasture, and she kept baying to return to her mother.

I easily brought Delilah to the stand, but found that her hooves were already trimmed. I brought Pomegranate (“Granny Pom”) over, and she was cooperative, and unafraid. Our largest goat, Deb, was next in line. Deb is armed with one horn, and has somehow managed to grow to a solid weight of 150 pounds or more on a diet of grass and tree leaves. Despite her size, she is perhaps the friendliest goat towards humans—she is quick to approach people, and use her head to rub stomachs (or rear-ends.) But she doesn't care to be leashed or led. She could see me lead her friends to the milk room, and did not intend to go there herself. And so she walked away whenever I approached. I tried coaxing her to join me, to no avail. I had to be crafty. I knew that Deb could not resist grain. I brought a bowlful from the milkroom. The goats swarmed me, stood on their hind legs and walked on me, all wanting the delicious crunch. I maneuvered through the crowd, and put the bowl before Deb. She stuck her head in, and ate greedily. I seized her horn. She thrashed and jerked her head and body about. But I held her fast. “Don't even try it, I've got you.” I said forcefully. I attached the leash and started leading her to the milkroom. She pulled away, with some force. Enough to make me slide for a few yards on the pasture. I regained my footing. “You can pull hard, I can pull HARDER,” I said, and pulled her along, to the milkroom. Until I find a way to win over Deb by diplomacy, I must resort to force. I understand if my readers disapprove of such rough handling.

On the milkstand, Deb impressed me again with her strength. I lifted her back hoof, and anchored it between my knees, which is standard for trimming. She kicked hard enough to loose herself from my grip, and kept kicking as I stood aside with her hoof in my hands. I realized that against this beast, convention wouldn't work. There were better uses for my body weight. I leaned against her large belly, and pushed her against the wall. Then I took hold of her hoof again with my hands, and took to it with the clippers. I removed the extra “hoofnail” on the sides, and her extra “toe.” She kicked and pushed to resist. I weigh 190 pounds and am in fine shape, but this goat made me sweat and work. Each hoof was an ordeal. I brought her back to the pasture, thinking the next goat, Rosie, would be much easier.

Rosie is a pygmy goat, white in color and rather overweight. She is closest to Grey, the old grinch. Maybe opposites really do attract. She enjoys being pet, on her bulging belly and horned head. When children visit, she approaches with wagging tail. I thought that her demeanor would make her an easy hoof-trimmer. I was incorrect. I was surprised by the speed with which the portly goat ran when I approached. Kind words had no effect. I had to 'bait' her, like I did with Deb. And once the leash was on her, she resisted like no other goat. She dropped herself to the ground, and rolled over. I pulled the leash, but feared that I would kill her—from the weight of her fat body drug by her thin neck. I had to use a different strategy. I held the leash, walked behind her and pushed her along.

I had to physically lift her corpulent form onto the milk stand. She wasn't tall enough to put her head through the catch. And so I used a caribiner and strap to clip her to the stand, and set about trimming her hooves. She resisted and walked off the stand, and I had another workout lifting the heavy Rosie several times. Eventually, I managed to trim her hooves.

As I led Rosie back to the front pasture, Grey trotted out to meet me. The other goats were far away, in the back pasture. Grey was well apart from the herd. In his eyes, did I see concern? Was he worried about Rosie? If so, I have discovered something that I hadn't known existed—a positive character trait in Grey. Evidently, even the tetchiest of goats has his bright side. Perhaps there is more to the old goat's character—I simply must probe deep to discover it.

Ode to the Piglets

2011-08-30T20:59:00.000-07:00

I wish good luck and good fortune to my comrades in Vermont, and to everyone who was affected by the recent hurricane and floods.

I have faced travails of my own in Colorado, but not due to weather. I have every hope that I am now coming to better times.

Our mother pig Laura Jean knows a thing or two about travail, having experienced a traumatic birth, which would make the most experienced midwife shudder. You may recall my account of the drama, "A Matter of Birth and Death". I made some illustrations to the story, which I share below.

Now, the piglets have grown. They weigh close to 100 pounds each. They utter low grunts and high-pitched squeals, loud enough to drown out my voice when I visit them. Being pigs, they are preoccupied with food, and seem especially fond of grain, milk, and eggs. They eat frantically, and shove their brothers and sisters aside when they become barriers to food. We separated the pigs from their mother over a month ago, so that she is spared from their hunger for her milk. They are too big for that now, we have declared.

Now seems a fitting time to commemorate the piglets when they first entered the world, as six-pound bundles of curiosity....

Kids love animals, so should we all

2011-08-01T21:21:00.000-07:00

At Rock Bottom Ranch, my past two weeks have been very busy. I have guided day camps for kids, including specialty 'Map and Compass' and 'Barnyard Art' camps, as well as 'Goat Ropers' (our general farm & nature camp for ages 8-10.) I have worked feverishly to prepare lessons that carry themes and impart knowledge and skills. No matter how clever I think that my programs are, the kids are still primarily interested in visiting the animals and touching them. Evidently, my orienteering course or landscape painting session still cannot match the magic of petting a living, breathing goat. Or holding a chicken, petting its feathers and hearing it cluck.

This fascination with animals seems to be universal among children. Even in our high-tech age, kids willingly put down their smart phones when a live animal enters the scene. Beautiful mountains and landscapes can also capture kids attention—but not as much as animals. I have seen a group of four-year-olds turn their gaze away from Crater Lake to observe an ant.

For some reason, as people get older, their fixation with the beasts dissipates. Their favorite place for recreation changes from the zoo to the bar; animals are noted mainly for their utility value (which is, most often, their corpses as food).

In my days at The Homestead, I remember the thrill of bringing four chickens home, in a box in the back of the truck, after I obtained them from a local farmer. They huddled close together as I drove, while the box shielded them from (most of) the cold wind. We put them in the coop, and they continued to huddle. A few days later, we let them outside. They squawked and flapped and strutted and pecked and pawed the Earth. They were ALIVE! They laid tasty eggs. I was proud to have re-launched the chicken project, which had lapsed after raccoons and foxes ate the previous flock. And I was proud to be raising the birds in general, while 99% of the people at Denison University had only one sort of interaction with chickens: eating their flesh or eggs, which had been trucked in, mostly from factory farms. The Homestead and I were ahead of the curve, when it came to understanding and feeling the essential connections between soil, food, and people.

Adult humans of the 'mainstream' culture do maintain interest in at least some animals. Dogs and cats continue to win the hearts of their keepers, of all ages. Evidently, the spark of affinity for animals remains, somewhere in us all.

I hope that we can kindle that spark, in both the young and the older. We should give our fellow animals more heed. I only wish that we could impart but a fraction of the empathy that people feel for cats and dogs to pigs, chickens, cows, and other livestock.

We live in the age of factory farming—a mass abuse and torture of animals to exceed anything undertaken in previous generations. Farm animals have the right to feel the sun and wind on their backs and the earth beneath their feet, to experience the changing seasons and the delightful buffet that mother nature provides. All of this is denied them in the cages of factory farms. If you have not heard about the horrors of such farms, I advise viewing the short film "Meet your Meat" (narrated by Alec Baldwin). It is graphic, and painful to watch, but it is the responsibility of consumers to know the truth.

While factory farming remains the dominant mode of animal agriculture, interest in alternatives is on the rise. The local food movement is growing. In some places, graduates of The Homestead lead the way. In 2007, the intrepid Homestead alum Colin McCrate founded the Seattle Urban Farm Company, the first of its kind in the Emerald City. He recruited fellow Homesteader Brad Halm to become co-manager. They work to convert backyards and urban lots into secure and sustainable sources of food. Their efforts include egg-laying chickens, as well as variegated edible plants. And in the Roaring Fork Valley of Colorado, Rock Bottom Ranch isn't the only place raising livestock. An increasing number of urbanites and suburbanites have expressed interest in learning how to farm in their backyards. And, I recently learned that a Basalt woman is determined to keep her flock of chickens—and will fight the town council to make it happen.

These are encouraging signs. The rewards of farming, and raising free-range livestock, are many. In the process of improving animal lives, we will improve our own.

Welcome to Bubble Land

2011-07-24T12:44:00.000-07:00

I'll depart for a moment from my string of farmer/naturalist blog entries, and share a story about a strange belief that I harbored in my youth: "Bubble Land." Yes, the artwork for this childhood dreamworld is influenced by Winsor McCay's Little Nemo in Slumberland. I submitted "Bubble Land" for inclusion in the upcoming comics anthology Lies Grown-ups Told Me. The editors were full of praise for the work, but chose not to include it, because they had received a high number of submissions, so selected only those which fit more strictly to the title theme. Even so, I was glad to get their vote of support.

If you know of a laundromat or a purveyor of tea called Bubble Land, it is probably just a coincidence.

Lizards and Dragons

2011-07-11T21:32:00.000-07:00

I encountered this bearded dragon at Science Works museum in Ashland, Oregon. The lizard's wild relatives dwell in Australia. Although no dragons are known to inhabit Rock Bottom Ranch, we do keep two leopard Geckos, whom I have named Spiny and Rex. They are as terrifying as the dinosaurs for whom they are named (Spinosaurus and Tyrannosaurus Rex)... but only to crickets and insects, whom they stalk, pounce upon, and chomp to pieces. Whether rulers of a Mesozoic jungle or a sandy terrarium, reptiles carry an aura of ancient mystery. This bearded dragon, basking in lamp-light, appeared like the king of his little world.

The ranch gives wisdom

2011-06-26T16:44:00.000-07:00

On a Ranch or Homestead, one learns something new every day. For the past week, I have been on agricultural duty at Rock Bottom Ranch, and have learned quite a bit. In a single Tuesday, I built a head-catch for the goat milking stand, had my first truly successful goat-milking session, assisted with the construction of a 'hoop house' green house, and discovered the most humane way to kill a chicken. On the same day, I did morning both morning and evening chores to feed, water, and shelter the many animals, and collect their food products. In the end, it was a workday almost as epic as The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

Delilah the goat now gives milk in spades—up to four to six quarts a day. Harvesting the white liquid, however, has been a challenge for me. Until recently, I had never retrieved milk fit for human consumption from the dear goat. Every time, she kicked or knocked over or defecated in the bucket. What little milk was salvaged went to the young pigs.

This week, such results would not do us well. We had two children's camps in session (for 4-6 and 6-7 year olds), and both planned to make goat cheese. The pressure was on to keep them supplied.

I needed to improve the milk setup and improve my skills. First, I built a head catch for Delilah, based loosely on a diagram I found online, adapted for our specific stand. Next, Caitlin gave me a milking lesson, advice on how to lead the dance with the reluctant mammal. I learned from Caitlin a number of tricks and techniques, to supplement those I had earlier learned from Hannah.

Prior to bringing Delilah, we shooed visiting cats away and closed the milkroom doors—to block Delilah's biggest distraction, the baying of her kids. We brought her onto the stand. With head catch in place, the goat's range of motion was restricted—and she seemed calmer. Goats have two udders and humans have two hands, but we need several skills. First there is the pinch-and-squeeze with the fingers, which I can do well enough to get by, although my left hand is somewhat clumsy. Then, there is accuracy at milk-squirt, as one must fill a bucket through a small hole in its lid. Most importantly, however, one must learn to take calm control of the milking—strategically pet and massage the goat, feed her grain, push her against the wall when she attempts to jump over the bucket, and generally keep her feeling calm and snuggly... but also let her know who is boss. A multi-pronged challenge, like a karate match. And, like in a spar, one is wise to stay relaxed and fluent, despite the mental urge to tense up. And both activities feature a contact that does not break. Once one takes hold of the goat's udders, one should not let go until the milking session is over—much like the eye contact which does not break between the battling karateka. Although milking is not a fight, it is similar in being a game of control.

Tuesday night, it was my turn again to milk the goat. This time, I applied my new knowledge, and gathered one and a half useable quarts, one small squirt at a time. By the end, my hands were tired, but I felt like a child who had just rode a bicycle without training wheels for the first time.

At my next milking, Saturday morning, I generated two and a half quarts—enough to feed both Delilah's babies, and keep a bit for breakfast. (We allowed the babies to nurse for their first several weeks, but have now switched to bottle feeding; it is more work but makes them become friendlier to people.) Athena and Apollo suck heartily at plastic teat.

Back to Tuesday: After assembling my head-catch, I returned to the back pasture, to work on the hoop house (greenhouse). Throughout the week, the hoop house, which came as a giant assemble-it-yourself kit, has been an area of focus for us all. The instructions are barely decipherable, and the design is outrageously complicated. Hence, it has been cause of great frustration for some members of our team. Nonetheless, I always find it thrilling to build a purposeful structure. We dug post holes, ripped large rocks from the ground as they barred our path (they don't call this place Rock Bottom Ranch for nothing), placed the metal upright posts, assembled the archway, and generally bolted together many pieces of metal (and used all manner of tricks and levers to force the pieces together, as they didn't fit so well on their own.) We sweated and grunted through it, on the ground and on high ladders, under a hot sun. Progress on the greenhouse has been much slower than hoped. Even so, at the end of each day, progress is made.

On Tuesday, after a short time on the greenhouse, Amy announced her departure to deal with two chickens. One was a young meat bird, which had been run over by the chicken tractor, and had a broken hip. The other was an egg-layer, who was caught eating eggs. With such cannibalism, the hen negated her purpose on the farm. The sentence for both was death, with Amy and I as judge, jury, and executioner.

I hate to kill animals. I have done it several times. It has always made me feel like I will vomit, and made me think 'who made me god, to have the right to take life?' Curious then, that I am now a practitioner of animal agriculture, where killing animals is all in a day's work (although it does not yet feel that way to me.)

Here at the ranch, we try to give our animals the best possible lives, and the swiftest deaths. I took the egg-laying hen. I examined the Storey's Guide to Raising Chickens (a valuable book which we used both at The Homestead and here.) It described the way to kill a chicken instantly: to dislocate its head from the neck. I remembered how we used this method at The Homestead, but encountered difficulties in executing the process by hand. Storey's next paragraph had a solution: use your feet, and a broom. I read it carefully. I took hold of the hen, placed its head under the broomstick, stood with one foot on each side, anchoring broom and head flat against the ground. I gave the bird's feet a swift, hard pull. I not only dislocated the neck, but pulled the head off completely. The bird went into death throes, and spattered blood all about. Surprised, I dropped the flailing bird. It did somersaults over the ground, as the postmortem electricity surged through it. Other chickens trotted over, and pecked at their sister's detached head. Evidently, they don't share our taboos on cannibalism.

Although it may sound gruesome, the method has its advantages. It is easy to execute, and kills the bird in an eye-blink. Another common way to slaughter a chicken is to put it in a killing-cone, and cut its jugular vein. I am less impressed by this technique, as the bird may suffer for several minutes, while it bleeds out.

The chicken is now in the crockpot. Delilah is out grazing on grass and flowers and aspen leaves. The other laying hens roam about the ranch, pawing the earth in search of worms and seeds. They enter their coop to lay eggs. Inside, I continue to find eggs that were pecked open. I patched a hole through which magpies had been entering, but the problem persists. Evidently, another egg-eating hen is on the loose. We shall keep watch.

The baby goats frolic about the yard. Athena has grown her own tiny udders. One day, she will join her mother among the milk-givers. She will present new challenges at the milk-stand. Every goat is different, and I still have so much to learn.

Hoop house photo by Caitlin Bourassa; everything else by yours truly.

Night prowlers and day petters

2011-06-19T18:27:00.000-07:00

Every ranch has its cat. Rock Bottom Ranch is home to three: Titan, Teton, and Cecil. They entertain children, keep the ranchers safe from mice, and threaten native songbird populations. (The dark side of domestic cats has been scientifically documented. Hence, I contend that the ranch should cap its population at three.)

The cats show remarkable tolerance for the visiting children who cannot resist the urge to pet—sometimes en masse. Quite recently, one child held Titan in her lap, while six other hands stroked his fur, and one poked his eye, by accident. The cat didn't flinch, as tolerant as a father lion at play with cubs. Titan seems to have accepted such handling as part of his routine, as natural as climbing fences or stalking birds in the wetland.

In the woodlands beyond the ranch, other cats lurk. Titan's big relatives. They walk silent as shadow; they see us but remain unseen. They observe the ranch and our animals, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting. We kept a few domestic geese at the ranch, until the bobcat found them. Before dark, we must lock the goats inside, for cougars are on the prowl. Living with predators is part of ranch life. We protect our livestock as best we can.

Over a year ago in winter, snow covered the mountain peaks, and the foliage upon them. In search of exposed greenery, an elk ventured downhill, to the valley. He found Rock Bottom Ranch, and its goat pasture. He set to munch, beside his fellow ungulates. Enamored with the luscious grasses, the elk stayed in the pasture--perhaps until a little too late. A cougar leapt from out of hiding; her claws and jaws delivered a swift end to the elk. He became sustenance for the cat and her cub.

Of all terrestrial animals, cats seem the most graceful. Humans are awed by their elegance, stealth, athleticism. They populate our stories and art, and we name countless sports teams in their honor.

I present from my sketchbook a lynx and an imaginary beast which looks sort of feline. I have not yet had the privilege of so close a view of a wild lynx... it is based on photos. I had one close encounter with a cougar in Oregon. That story is for another day.

These goats are in your hands (some of the time)

2011-06-04T16:12:00.000-07:00

Photo by Caitlin Bourassa, features goats Charlotte and Corona.

I have some anecdotes to share about our goats. But first, I will share a bit of my sketchbook from Rock Bottom Ranch. These images are all drawn from life—and our animals are moving targets, a challenge for the artist.

Delilah the goat has joined Laura Jean the pig in a proud procession of Rock Bottom Ranch mothers. Delilah's birth-giving was comparatively painless. She delivered her two babies without hitch or tangle. Then she delivered the placenta, which we composted before she had a chance to eat it. (Goat mothers occasionally choke on the afterbirth.) And with the placenta gone, she could focus on her new younglings, whom she watched, licked, nursed. We named the babies Athena and Apollo. They have grown fast in three weeks. When firstborn, Athena was shaky on her feet, and spent most of her time sitting and resting. Now, she runs and jumps and frolics about the yard, alongside her twin brother. They butt heads in playful combat. (John the vet has already led us in “dis-butting” the kids once, but Apollo's horns are already growing back.) Delilah produces milk for her babies, and then some extra. I recently led children in milking her; the mother goat was amazingly patient when a sequence of small hands grabbed her teats. Soon, we can get some good cheese from Delilah's lactation.

The goats are popular among tourists and ranch hands. They are clever and curious animals. Whenever a door or gate opens, they cannot resist going to examine what lies on the other side. They are skillful in outwitting fences. If there is a hole or breach that a goat can pass through, or a gate they can open, the farmer will know in minutes. And each goat has a unique personality. Among our goats, Delilah is shy and cautious, Charlotte is inquisitive and aggressive, and Grey is an irascible old man, liable to butt his fellows with his horns at the slightest provocation. However, Grey mostly gets along with his sister Rosie and lady-love Corona. Corona is the matriarch of our goat herd. Where she goes, the others will follow. (With the possible exception of Deb, who is mostly friendly, but quite independent.)

This week, as part of staff training, we brought Corona and Charlotte for a walk up down the Rio Grande trail and up a juniper-covered hill. The aging Corona (who is Delilah's mother and Charlotte's grandmother) panted and puffed on the way up, but still used her hooves to efficiently traverse the rocky slope. On the way back, Corona determined that she wanted to reach the hill's base in the swiftest possible fashion. I remarked that Corona was “falling down the hill and taking me with her” as I strained on her leash, and scampered to keep up with her downhill trots and jumps.

This past Friday at Rock Bottom was a challenging day. We pushed to get the ranch looking slick and shiny for a special dinner event involving special guest Melissa Coleman, and many noted members of ACES and Roaring Fork Valley communities. I volunteered for lawn-mowing duties, only to discover that both lawnmower and weed-whacker were out of order. And so I reconnected with one of my favorite hand tools—the “golf club” or weed cutter, which one swings like its namesake to slice through plants. After I had hacked for a bit, a comrade suggested that mowing would be accomplished more readily by goats. Following the suggestion, we led the goats to the yard and kept them there. Through the process, only Corona needed a leash; the other goats would not venture too far from the matriarch. Typically, goats are voracious herbivores. But when we brought them over to the yard, they did little grass mowing. Instead, Deb and Corona munched on a shrub while Grey and Rosie just wandered around, particularly in the driveway where they were a hazard to the pickup truck, as it went back and forth on supply runs. We returned the goats to their pen, and I returned to my weed-smacking workout. Like cats or three-year-old children, goats have their own agenda. Luckily, most of them (but not Grey) are friendly to young humans and enjoy a good pet. In that instance, they do make our jobs easier.

As for the yard, I accomplished what was needed by hand, and then lent my hand to comrades. Collectively, we accomplished all else. The Coleman event was a success.

Flash, a goat kid who was on loan to us until recently, accepts grass from a human kid.

The mystery of high fructose corn syrup

2011-05-29T07:34:00.000-07:00

I am quite glad to have returned to the practice of ecological agriculture. Here at Rock Bottom Ranch, we strive for sustainability. We raise free-range chickens, pigs, goats, and variegated vegetables and fruits. In our products, you are unlikely to find preservatives, GMOS... or high-fructose corn syrup.

In my college days (early 2000s), The Homestead introduced me to the wonders of growing one's own food. Simultaneously, I became curious about the strange contents of industrial food. I pondered, what the $*(@$*$ is high fructose corn syrup? I saw that it was the first ingredient in so many products at the grocery store, but what WAS it? Obviously a sweet substance, sugar-like, from the sound of it.

Between then and now, Michael Pollan's Omnivore's Dillema and Aaron Woolf's King Corn have enlightened the world on the American corn industry, and the nature of the mysterious sweetener.

In 2003, as part of my comics directed study at Denison University, I crafted a short science fiction comic, with corn syrup as the centerpiece. I will share it here. It is the earliest of my comics yet to be unveiled. (In the future, I will unveil much older ones, as I have been drawing comics since I was quite young.) When I revisit this older work, I see that I have since improved on many aspects of cartooning... but I also detect some techniques that I had forgotten about. I make no apologies. Well, I make ONE apology--that some of the lettering stretches the limits of legibility. Enjoy.

For more science fiction, I advise checking out “Tethered”, a film by David Lovett, a wise and imaginative Homestead alum.

And, an update on my previous post. My Rock Bottom Ranch comrade Betsey shared with me this BBC Nature article, which describes how scientists in Japan have observed giant water bugs eating turtles and snakes. Fearsome!

An Aquatic Alien World

2011-05-15T08:50:00.001-07:00

"Pond-Dipping"--using net and bucket to search for critters in a pond--is an activity that can win over virtually any child. For that matter, it can captivate most teenagers and adults as well. The miniature alien world (of insects, crustaceans, annelids, algae, and more) piques our curiosity and sense of wonder. Beneath the water's surface, strange creatures fight a life-and-death struggle for survival. Typically it all takes place apart from our notice. Like Dr. Seuss' hero Horton (of Horton Hears a Who!), we must open our senses to discover the hidden world. Running a net through the mud and plants also helps.

Damselfly Nymph

This week, I made two visits to Riverside Middle School in New Castle, Colorado, to guide pond dipping. Our discoveries included leeches, water striders, frog eggs, scuds and small crustaceans, dragonfly nymphs, damselfly nymphs, various fly larvae, duckweed, a dead salamander, a dead leopard frog... and two giant water bugs!

The giant water bug--five inches in length--is truly a giant next to most insects. The creature waits in the water, resembling a dead leaf. When prey wanders by, the ambush hunter springs into action. It snatches the victim with its front legs, paralyzes it with a poison bite, and feasts. With its size and power, the water bug's prey is not limited to other insects. Minnows, tadpoles, and small frogs fall to its merciless jaws. To these creatures, the giant water bug is a monster; insect and amphibian alike flee before it. To the giant water bug, the pond is simply an all-you-can-eat buffet. In turn, the bug is eaten by larger fish and birds.

Handling a giant water bug is not recommended, as its bite is reputed to be among the most painful of insect defenses. It can cause severe swelling, but typically does not do permanent damage.

For a time as a youth, I kept a giant water bug (whom I named Nosferatu) as pet. Now, I am glad to reconnect with these predators in the waters of Colorado.

Giant Water Bug Versus Minnow

A Matter of Birth and Death

2011-05-09T21:28:00.000-07:00

After two weeks at Rock Bottom Ranch, I have seen lives end, and new lives begin. High dramas have played out at the hog pen and pasture. Laura Jean, our noble sow, gave birth to her second litter recently. And she lost two from her first litter to the butcher's rifle. The seven-month-old pigs, who had already grown to around 150 pounds, went down instantly at the gunshot, and into the death throes. They have already become sausage and ham. Hence, the food chain, in all its wonder and cruelty. Although I dread to see an animal die, I acknowledge that a grass-fed pig from one's backyard is a protein-rich foodstuff, with a markedly low ecological footprint. And I am glad to see the animals lead happy lives, in the sunny pasture, by the willow trees, against the backdrop of the snow-capped Basalt Mountain.

Laura Jean's second litter was a challenge, especially for the venerable sow, but also for our staff, who watched with great anticipation. Two days ago, the sow's vulva was enlarged, her teats swollen with milk, and she had ceased to eat—all of which should have been signs that delivery was imminent—but no piglets came. Her breathing was heavy, and she alternated between treading slowly about the yard and resting in her pen. Finally, as the time of birth drew nearer, she took to staying in her pen full-time. On her side she lay, under the heat lamp. And still we waited. She returned to eating, in small amounts. And we listened to her deep breathing, and waited.

And in the morning, we looked in her pen and saw two pigs, one large, and one quite small. A female piglet, of perhaps five pounds, scampered about her 400 pound mother. The little one was covered mucus and blood, and a severed umbilical cord trailed behind her. She stumbled about, rapidly learning the use of her four limbs, and sniffed and felt with her nose, to gain understanding of her new world. Central in this world was her mother. The baby sniffed and felt about the mother's stomach, legs, head, vulva. She suckled at the air, and various places on the mother, in search of sustenance. After more exploring, the piglet discovered what it sought, the mother's teat, and she drank briefly, continued her exploration, ever-curious. She returned to the teats, and suckled more.

Laura Jean's previous litter had six piglets. A sow of Laura Jeans's breed (the large black) can give birth to up to thirteen. Typically, they are 20-30 minutes apart. Two hours after the birth of the first piglet, Laura Jean still lay on her side, her breathing heavy, her body periodically shook with labor. But the second piglet was conspicuously absent. This situation caught the attention of our educational and agricultural staff, which includes our leader Margaret, Hannah, Betsey, Peter, Caitlin, and myself. Captivated by the hog pen, we could only depart for essential duties. I spent the afternoon going back and forth from the hog pen to the office, where I used my graphics skills to assist Margaret with the maps and visuals for a grant proposal concerning a new greenhouse, which was due at the end of the workday.

We called the vet about the overdue piglets. He suspected that the second piglet was turned laterally in the womb. He gave instructions to correct the situation. We persuaded Laura Jean to stand for a moment. Margaret donned gloves, and reached inside the mother pig. Carefully, she had to go elbow-deep. She felt many feet within the womb, many babies. The front infant had indeed turned sideways. I stood at Laura Jean's head, tried to pet and reassure her—she was obviously distressed by the whole affair. Margaret reoriented the piglet. Shortly thereafter, it emerged from Laura Jean, feet first. This young male joined his sister, scampered back and forth and investigated the great mass of flesh that was their key to survival.

It seems that Laura Jean's trial would not end. She lay on her side, her nose mashed against the side of her pen. Uncomfortable, it would seem, but unnoticed next to her other stresses. She rode the earthquakes and the plagues and the agony of her own biological machinery. Such are the perils of live birth, the mammalian burden. We wished her luck, and brought what assistance we could.

The vet said that we should get Laura Jean to stand on her four feet, that it might encourage the next birth. By now, however, the sow was rather committed to stay lying on her side. We positioned four ranch hands around her. I took the central position, squatted low beside the sow's belly, and reached across her and took hold along her back. The others said that our goal was to encourage her to stand, not to physically move her, so great was her size. I, however, considered it fine challenge to see if I could physically lift and “roll” her to a standing position. On the count of three, we heaved. We managed to rotate her toward me a bit, a little closer to a standing position—and out popped a piglet! My colleagues congratulated me, gave me credit for this third challenging baby. I do not know whether our efforts prompted the birth, or if the timing was coincidental. In any case, I triumphantly exited the pen, with the mother's milk on my boot.

She labored on, and more piglets came. Slowly, sometimes more than an hour apart, but they came. A fourth piglet, then a fifth and a six. Hannah got us started tossing the football in the yard, as we played the role of 'anxious dads.'

The vet paid us a visit, with a shot of oxytocin for Laura Jean. By bedtime, nine babies nursed at her side, climbed on and around her and over each other. He advised us to check on the sow every hour, assist with delivery if needed, and provide a second dosage of the hormone if need be. I got the one AM shift. I awoke to my alarm, disoriented. I made it to the pen. I sat and spoke to the twitching, heavy-breathing pig, petted her sandpaper flesh. I counted the piglets. Ten. I counted twice more—ten still. Laura Jean's labor had not ended, but it was now for the afterbirth. I sat with the mother for some while, then returned to bed, for it would soon be my successor's turn.

Upon returning inside, I saw a note that I was supposed to see before I went outside. It had the updates from Hannah then Caitlin when they checked the embattled sow, a sort of hourly journal. And another dose oxycotin was there, in case needed. As it was already 1:45, I left the decision to my successor as to whether more drugs would help the pig. I returned to bed, and Betsey soon awoke for the 2 AM shift.

Morning. The sun bright. Ten piglets suckled at Laura Jean's side. She was alive, healthy, if a bit weary. The heroic mother. Although there were only ten piglets, her work was comparable to the twelve labors of Hercules. (Perhaps the afterbirth and piglet-raising were labors eleven and twelve?)

Fifth graders from Rifle Middle School came to visit the Ranch that day. They were enamored with the babies, as we all are. Near the end of the field trip, Hannah and a class chanced upon tragedy. A piglet lay on its side, motionless.

Laura Jean, being a pig, is a devoted and careful mother. She treads with caution about her young. She goes from standing to lying on her side and back again, giving the piglets signals to clear, and keeping her movements wary. Alas, the early hours of life are dangerous for the young. Their mother is groggy, and they are new to the world. And hence, this unfortunate boy piglet—with crease marks on his head from where his mother had crushed him.

Birth and death are common on the ranch. We had lost a chicken to a raccoon earlier in the week, and had lost two pigs for sausage and ham. Typically, animal remains go to the “bone yard,” and become food for ravens. But this instance was special. So much effort to bring the new piglet into the world, so much vivacity and cuteness—to end so prematurely. Peter lifted the piglet with a spade. To the boneyard we went, the five educators and ranch hands.

We couldn't let the ravens have this piglet; it seemed undignified. And so Peter started a hole, next to a cottonwood tree. I took my turn at the dig. Perhaps a foot square. In went the limp piglet. We covered him, and placed a pile of large rocks atop, to mark and protect the grave.

We each took a turn saying or singing a word for the piglet. Hannah sang “I Say a Little Prayer” by Arethra Franklin. I spoke a few words from the book of Ecclesiastes: “All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.” Peter said he was glad that the tree would absorb the nutrients. And we left the piglet to return to the soil.

Several days later, we lost another piglet. She was wounded in the midsection, cause uncertain.

The eight siblings remain alive and vivacious. Eighty per cent is an excellent survival rate, in the dangerous world that baby animals inhabit. The piglets drink mother's milk, and follow her about the lush green pasture, against the backdrop of Basalt Mountain. It is spring—herons fly overhead and Canada goose parents lead their goslings about the pond. It is spring, and Rock Bottom Ranch is full of life.

I have hit Rock Bottom, and consider it a good thing

2011-04-25T19:36:00.000-07:00

Rock Bottom Ranch, Basalt, Colorado is my new home, and my new place of work. It is already beginning to feel like a home, even though I only arrived yesterday afternoon. (This entry was composed on April 24th.) I am connecting fast with the landscape, the animals, the people. I have a good feeling about this place. However, work proper begins on Monday, so I should not jump to conclusions too quickly.

First impressions: a quick sketch of the pasture from the porch of the ranch house

The Ranch is located in the Roaring Fork Valley. I stay in a ranch house, next to a stream, with tall willow trees about, whose leaves are now yellow-orange. We are surrounded by pasture, which leads to forested mountains, then snow-capped peaks in the distance. Yesterday, I stood on the back porch and did some quick sketches of the landscape. It snowed this morning, and the snow turned to rain. The pigs deigned to avoid the icy drizzle, and stayed in their pen. The cows and burros seemed to mind less, and were still out grazing. A Canada goose stood atop one of the structures, face to the wind, experienced the elements. The goose stayed there for the duration, and walked back and forth. Whether the bird was out to enjoy the view of the valley, take a cold shower, or something else entirely I do not know.

The ranch is run by the Aspen Center for Environmental Studies. Being an Environmental Educator and Ranch Hand, I will guide youngsters on educational programs involving caring for the animals and learning about ecological agriculture, as well as exploring the wetlands, fields, and forests and learning of the ecosystem therein. I'll also do my bit to care for our local population of chickens, cows, pigs, burros, and garden vegetables.

I have high hopes for this endeavor. I feel that it is in the spirit of The Homest ead. It is thanks to The Homestead that I have made pursuit of opportunities like this one; the community in Ohio is the intellectual and emotional impetus for my eco-agrarian ambitions.

It was a long road trip from Seattle to Portland (where I visited Nisus and Stumptown comics shows, and Wealth Underground Farm) and then across Oregon, Idaho, and Utah, to reach Basalt, Colorado. Aerosmith contends that while “On the Road Again,” “you can do what you want.”1 I, however, found that I couldn't do much other than drive for most of the days, so great was the distance. Huge continent we live on. Makes me not even want to think about the size of the Milky Way Galaxy, much less the universe.

Somwhere in Idaho

Somewhere in Utah

Near the end of my journey, I managed to do a bit of tourist activity, at Dinosaur National Monument, mostly on the Utah side. The pastel red and yellow plateaus and desert quietude captured my attention. So did the bones of a giant sauropod, which I viewed on a guided tour.

deserts of Dinosaur

sauropod femur (species unknown)

I also took in the Desert Voices Nature Trail, which had a set of interpretive signs, which were considerably more impressive than what we typically see. They were rich in their level of philosophical depth, and their use of the wisdom and artistic visions of children.

I camped at Green River, where pelicans and Canada geese flew by. The night was cold, and so was the early morning. So much that I became motivated to dig through my tightly-packed Subaru, find my backpacking stove, and use it to boil water. I sipped hot chocolate in the cold desert, and felt like a king, with camp chair as throne.

I shall miss my Homestead-alum friends, most of whom now dwell in Seattle. Such a great group of people I know. I shall also miss Crater Lake, and its supportive community. But I do look forward to my new adventure. And I hope to stay at Rock Bottom Ranch for a while. We shall see how events play out.

1. Pandora's Box disc 1

Departing Seattle, planting trees in my wake

2011-04-11T16:54:00.000-07:00

For Earth Day, I have a tradition of doing service for our planet. It's not the only day that I work for Earth, but I hold April 22nd in special esteem.

This year, I will be moving on Earth Day. I am off to start a new venture in Colorado, the details of which I will reveal in a future post.

Ross the restorer; photo by Lizzie Petrin

So I did my service early. This past Saturday, I returned to a place where I have put in quite a bit of work in the past several months—the West Duwamish Green Belt. With 182 acres on public land and another 300 on private, the green belt is the largest contiguous forest in Seattle. Seattle was nicknamed the Emerald City for its abundance of evergreen-dominated forests. But due to logging and invasive plants, many of the forests are now in a weakened state. Parts of the once-proud green belt have turned into thickets of Himalayan blackberry; the formerly-biodiverse habitat has become a monoculture. The Nature Consortium, a nonprofit based in West Seattle, works to restore the forest of West Duwamish to its emerald glory. (The NC also provides youth environmental education programs which integrate the arts, for more information consult their website.)

Restoration director Mark "Buphalo" Tomkiewicz provides instruction for the tasks ahead.

The Nature Consortium holds half-day work parties at the green belt three or more times per week. A work crew consists of one to three NC staff, and a number of volunteers ranging from three to one hundred or more. The NC staff give a short presentation on forest ecology, restoration techniques, and safety, and set the crew to work. Armed with shovels, dibbles, pruning shears, rakes, pitchforks, and weed wrenches, the crew—which sometimes includes yours truly—unearth and remove invasive plants including Himalayan blackberry, Scot's broom, and wood ivy. We plant natives, including Douglas fir, western red cedar, mock orange, service berry, and snowberry. We spread mulch to suppress the return of botanical invaders, and aid the natives. (And leave with the pleasant aroma of fresh wood chips on our sleeves). A Douglas fir can grow to be 300 feet tall and live for over 400 years, and reproduce to make many more trees. So our efforts today can yield high results in the future.

Volunteers take on the Himalayan blackberry.

The Nature Consortium and I have several goals in common, one of which is bringing ecology and the arts together. Hence, many of NC's work parties are also concerts. Musicians of many stripes, including singers, guitarists, and players of varied wind instruments, enter the forest. The restoration crew digs, cuts, and plants to live tunes.

Live music helps plants to grow and volunteers to dig.

We get the forest into better shape. In the process, we get ourselves into better shape. Forest restoration can work up a sweat, and is considerably more rewarding than running on a treadmill.

The restoration creates improved habitat for animals as well as plants. Often, we encounter these denizens of the green belt. Varied birds play their music to accompany that of the humans. At Saturday's work party, a cooper's hawk flew overhead. We met a red-legged frog. It's their breeding season, so this frog most likely had just finished a successful mating. The offspring will inherit a healthier habitat.

Buphalo shares the red-legged frog before releasing it.

Nature Consortium volunteers have planted over 7,000 native trees and shrubs this planting season, and will be back for more. At the end of Saturday's work party, I looked ahead of me into the acres of blackberry and trees covered in wood ivy, and the task of restoration seemed impossible. Then I looked behind me and saw the huge empty stretch of earth we had created, and mountain of blackberries we had uprooted in a single session (wherein the focus was blackberry removal.) And I concluded that the restoration task is doable, thanks to the sweat and energy from willing workers. It will keep the Nature Consortium busy for years to come, and educate countless volunteers on forest ecology and wisdom. The green belt will be a source of community pride and personal inspiration.

I look forward to seeing the ever-improving forest when I next visit Seattle. For now, I have a new adventure in Colorado.... !

NEW comic to debut at Nisus Gallery, April 2011

2011-04-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

On April 7-30, 2011, The Nisus Gallery in Portland, Oregon will display Paneled, an exhibition of comics and art by students and alumni of The Center for Cartoon Studies. My work will be in the show, alongside that of a 14 other CCS artists, including Pat Barrett, Colleen Frakes, Alexis Frederick-Frost, Penina Gal, Bob Oxman, and Mario Van Buren.

The show will include a wall display of original art, and a pop-up store of comic books and zines. As this show is in Oregon, my works about Crater Lake are especially pertinent. Hence, The Raven and the Crayfish will be prominently displayed. And, my new comic Avian Tales from Crater Lake will make its debut. Both books will be for sale in the store, and an original drawing from Avian Tales and a version of the back cover for Raven and Crayfish will be part of the wall display.

Avian Tales from Crater Lake is twelve pages long, and contains three short stories based on my experiences as a Park Ranger: "A Flying Leap," "Mergansers in the Blue," and "A Visit from Thunderbird." (The first two are comics, and the third is an illustrated story.) The tales feature my remarkable observations of bald eagles and diving ducks, and encounters with dangerous weather. Although the booklet may be short, it has received high praise from my fans. My friend Raven even thinks it is the best comic I have yet created.

If you find yourself in Portland in the next month, it would be worth your while to visit this show and examine the masterworks by some of America's most dedicated rising cartoonists. The Center for Cartoon Studies (CCS) has rapidly become one of the Nation's most prestigious schools of cartooning. The faculty are famous cartoonists, writers, and designers, and many of the students are destined to become famous. I was part of the pioneer (first-ever) class at CCS, and even gave the student-speech at our commencement ceremony. I remain part of the CCS alumni community. It has led to opportunities, the Nisus show included.

Have a grand April, everyone!

Dangers from nuke and sewer; wiser approaches

2011-03-22T23:21:00.000-07:00

For this drawing, I took some influence from Japanese giant monster movies.

The nuclear situation in Japan remains frightening, as does the threat of a similar event in the US. The bone-chilling guitar riff from Black Sabbath's “Electric Funeral” plays repeatedly in my head.

Since my previous post, I have learned some new things about our unsafe reactors. According to Dr. Ira Helfand, The U.S. nuclear plant most vulnerable to earthquake damage is not in California, but Indian Point, 27 miles north of New York City—with a population of over 20 million within a 50 mile radius. Where or how that population could evacuate in a meltdown crisis is an open question. For more on nuclear power and why it is not good energy policy, consult this thoroughly-researched blog by the U.S. PIRGs.

Meanwhile, wind farms in Japan were unscathed by the earthquake. Remarkable.

Tectonic and climactic forces have ravaged our cities multiple times in recent years. And repeatedly demonstrated our unpreparedness for such events.

I have experienced the destructive power of weather firsthand. In 2008, I lived on Galveston Island, Texas, and worked for an environmental education organization there. In September, Hurricane Ike struck. Prior to the storm's arrival, I evacuated to a Houston. I and several other employees and relatives of the director rode it out in an upper floor apartment. I spent the day before the storm frantically gathering and preparing all the supplies I could—gasoline, batteries, emergency phone charger, radio, water, more water, canned food, rubber boots, etc. The night of the storm, I was alternately asleep and awake, as I listened to wind and rain pummel the building—first from one side, then the other. The sturdy brick structure absorbed the weather's assault. The next day, we were without electricity. The building quickly overheated, being designed for air conditioning. Neighbors gathered for a grill-fest of the meat in their fridges—we had to eat it before the bacteria set to work seriously on that task, making the stuff foul-smelling and unpalatable. We gathered around battery-powered radios and listened to weather updates (and audiobooks). I stood in a long line to collect my allocated food and water from FEMA. Driving in Houston became even more hazardous than usual, in the absence of functional traffic lights.

I returned to Galveston after the storm, to move myself out, and to help the organization recover. I found a devastated island. I learned about the dangers brought on by a storm surge.

An excerpt from an email that I sent to friends about the situation on September 26, 2008 (slightly edited):

“I have made my exit from Galveston Texas. I hid safely in Houston during the storm, and my second-floor apartment back on the island was remarkably undamaged. I lost amazingly little property in the storm, only some books that were at the office. The office was not so lucky as my place. The office is located on the ground-floor, but near the highest street on the island. Even so, the storm surge flooded the building up to four feet. Computers, microscopes, binoculars, slide-projectors, many books, and cabinet drawers full of essential grant papers were waterlogged, went swimming, or were overgrown with mold. And this was no ordinary water filling the office. When the water level riseth, the sewer overfloweth. My last day with the organization was spent clearing and cleaning the toxic office. The smell made my head swell and nose run, and I hoped that my rubber gloves and boots were sufficient shield from the brown scum that covered all surfaces that were flooded. The organization lost about 75 per cent of equipment, and the Galveston Bay will be unsafe to kayak for months. All but the four veteran employees were laid off temporarily, and I have decided to migrate onward.”

When the water level riseth, the sewer overfloweth. Even without a Hurricane, there are many dangers to so-called sanitary sewers. Human excrement combines with drain cleaners and industrial chemicals, and is distilled at sewage treatment plants to create toxic sludge. Depending on your municipality, the sludge may be landfilled, incinerated, or applied to agricultural lands. All of these approaches can be hazardous to your health, and none are environmentally sustainable.

There is a better way. I learned about it thanks to The Homestead, and made it my topic for the Homestead Seminar for my senior year. Human excrement or “humanure” can be a valuable resource—if it is composted under the right conditions so as to kill pathogens. Sustainable living-practitioner Joseph Jenkins has authored an invaluable resource on this subject—The Humanure Handbook. (The Composting Toilet System Book by David Del Porto and Carol Steinfield is also a worthy tome.) With composting toilets, we could all be safer and our planet healthier.

Beyond waste management, The Homestead also taught me about temperature management. The strawbale Cabin Bob is cool in the summer with no air conditioning, and comparatively warm in the winter, even when there isn't a fire. Overall, the structure maintains homeostasis considerably better than the apartment complex in Houston. The Homestead has much to teach us about wiser forms of technology.

Cabin Bob and its proud south-facing windows, which capture the sun's warmth in the winter. The structure and its surroundings have evolved considerably since this 2001 photo.

I had intended to include with this post the educational comic/ poster on humanure that I created for my seminar project. I have been unable to find this item, so will post it at a later date. For now, I'll share a sea turtle. These critters are affected by all that occurs around coasts, and will appreciate a transition to sustainable methods.

Love in Washington; Tragedy in Japan; Innovation in Ohio; Hopes for a Sustainable Future

2011-03-14T14:26:00.000-07:00

A huge congratulations to my friends Dave Hughes and Erin Stamper, who will be married this Saturday.

I spent the weekend at Mount Baker, Washington, for Dave's bachelor party. What better way to spend one's last weekend as a bachelor than skiing in a winter wonderland?

Left to right: Mark Pascoli, Andy Juechter, Ross Studlar, Dave Hughes, Colin McCrate; photo by Brad Halm

Since returning to town, I have been barely able to leave my computer, as I read, watch, and listen to news with rapt attention.

My heart goes out to the people of Japan. My sorrows and sympathies go to the casualties and their families. I hope that the survivors of the Sendai earthquake and tsunami can recover your lives and livelihoods as soon as possible.

I sincerely hope that the damaged nuclear reactors at Fukushima Daiichi do not have a full-scale meltdown. I also hope that humanity learns from the experience.

satellite image of explosion at unit 3 of Fukushima I nuclear plant on March 14, from Digital Globe

Japan is not the only geologically unstable area with nuclear reactors. A similar or worse event could easily happen in California. As the anti-nuclear activist Harvey Wasserman points out, the nuclear reactors in Japan and the United States are designed to withstand earthquakes with magnitudes of 7.5 on the Richter scale. The Sendai quake had a magnitude of 9.0—over 10 times what the reactors were built to handle. No reactor is earthquake-proof (or terrorist-proof), despite the assurances of industry pundits. I stand with Wasserman that “this technology simply does not belong on this planet.”(1) If only we could get our elected officials to agree! President Obama's 2012 budget currently includes $36 billion in loan guarantees to the nuclear industry, to provide for the construction of new reactors. But with sufficient public pressure, that can be changed.

Civilization is better off with solar energy. It is clean and renewable, and a damaged solar panel will not give anyone radiation sickness. There is no time like the present to launch a full-force effort to transition to sustainable energy sources, solar included. (It would create jobs!)

Harvesting sunlight at The Homestead.
Structures left to right: green outhouse, tool-shed and photovoltaic panels, corner of Cabin 3

As a graduate of The Homestead at Denison University, I have seen the power of renewable energy up close and personal. I even used wrench and screwdriver to install solar panels, and hammer and saw to build parts of a strawbale cabin. The Homestead has always been ahead of the curve when it comes to sustainable technology. Homesteaders installed the first on-site solar-electrical system in 1983 (when I was a wee child in Kentucky); it is one of the oldest continuously-operating photovoltaic systems in Ohio. Homesteaders started work on the strawbale Cabin Bob in 1997; it is one of the first such structures on any U.S. college or university. And Homestead students were building cabins with passive solar heating way back in 1977. As Michael Noble (executive director of Fresh Energy) said, “First you change your lightbulb, then you change the law.”(2) The latter change is markedly more difficult than the former. But The Homestead and places like it give us glimpses of what is possible if we work together. Perhaps that can inspire us to move to change the larger world.

At work on the mudroom of Cabin Bob, 2004, Ross at far right.

1. Harvey Wasserman interviewed on Democracy Now! 13 March 2011, 32:28.
2. Michael Noble interviewed on Fuel (2008 film by Josh Tickell) 1:42:50
Low-resolution version of copyrighted image from Digital Globe is used for educational and informational purposes.

Those clever and compassionate critters

2011-03-06T08:50:00.000-08:00

In the beginning of Wild Animals I Have Known, Ernest Thompson Seton writes:

“THESE STORIES are true. Although I have left the strict line of
historical truth in many places, the animals in this book were all
real characters. They lived the lives I have depicted, and showed
the stamp of heroism and personality more strongly by far than it
has been in the power of my pen to tell.”

I feel the same way about the animal stories that I have written and drawn. With pencil, brush, or even film camera, we can only capture faint shadows of the real animals.

Animals show personality, compassion, love, intelligence, insight, foresight, creativity, and a host of other traits that we arrogant humans try to claim are reserved for ourselves.

I recently discovered this video thanks to my Homestead comrade Luke. A story of friendship and compassion between a canine and a pachyderm.

And THIS video shows one of the most impressive displays of insight by an animal. The raven is the star. Biologist Bernd Heinrich presented Ravens with a never-before-seen puzzle, and 80 per cent of them found the solution with no demonstrable trial-and-error learning.

Ravens and their brain-power have become a subject of fascination for many people, including yours truly. I discuss the subject in my Crater Lake campfire presentation “Tricksters in Myth and Science.” And of course, the mythic Raven is co-star of the my epic comic book (right). I have just completed a new mini-comic, which does not involve a raven, but does involve his distant cousins--mergansers, bald eagles, and others. I'll have more to say in an upcoming post, when I announce its release. In the meantime, I'll be drawing more of our wise and caring relatives, the other animals.

Merganser spreads her wings

Thinking Machines

2011-02-20T10:15:00.000-08:00

Curious that, right after I post some thoughts about intelligent thinking-machines, IBM's computer Watson soundly defeats the two best human players at Jeopardy. An astounding move forward for computers in understanding human language--which is a feat that continues to challenge even the most sophisticated silicon-based brains.

It seems almost a shame that Isaac Asimov did not live to see this event. However far-fetched it may be, the premise of "The Last Question" now seems slightly more plausible.

It is interesting to note how in discussing Watson's significance for the future, people refer to science fiction works. David Ferrucci, IBM researcher who led the development of Watson, urges us to compare the electronic Jeopardy champ not to the villainous Hal, but to the wise and helpful computer on Star Trek. In a similar vein, the novel Brave New World and movie Gattaga are frequently cited in discussions of the impact of human genetics on the future. Scientists may love or hate these cautionary tales, but cannot avoid them, and the vivid images they create in the minds of the public.

sneak preview (above). Image from my upcoming (not-yet-titled) SF comic book.

Living Dinosaurs

2011-02-08T17:15:00.000-08:00

One of my childhood ambitions was to become a paleontologist, to study dinosaurs. A competing ambition was to draw comics for Marvel. I haven't met either goal. In recent years, I have shown greater interest in living animals than extinct ones. Maybe my paleontological dreams have vanished like the great sauropods, or maybe they have simply morphed--evolved--into something new.

Among my sketchbooks and comic book productions, we find a variety of reptiles, as well as their relatives, the amphibians and birds. Among these, we find modern giant reptiles, such as sea turtles and Komodo dragons. Some biologists have described these creatures as 'living dinosaurs.'

Last fall, I encountered a giant amphibian! (Almost a living dinosaur?) It was a giant coastal salamander. Although considerably smaller than me, it was a leviathan by salamander standards, nine inches in length (and they can get bigger.) I chanced upon this critter on a rainy day hike, in a forest just outside Portland, Oregon. Northwest dwellers, these great beasts may be lurking in YOUR backyard, unbeknownst to you. Dear salamander, it is an honor to share the forest.

Computers of Future Passed, part II: Man vs Machine

2011-02-06T16:53:00.000-08:00

Most of us don't think of the folktale of John Henry as a science fiction story. But, in a sense, it is one. It is a story about how new technology affects people and society. At the time the story was invented, strong men were feeling the new competition from stronger machines. Today, we take it for granted that a forklift can lift more than the strongest person in the world, and that a bulldozer can move more earth in a day than a person can in a month.

Today, humans have another (greater) source of pride with which machines are competing: our brains. And so, not surprisingly, many science fiction stories on computers and robots deal in the question of what will happen when the machines become smarter than us. In the real world, the much-publicized Garry Kasparov versus Deep Blue chess match of 1997 was the intellectual equivalent to John Henry versus the steam-powered hammer.

Although computers can play mean chess, compose music, write poetry, and devise clever TV commercials, they can't yet do everything that humans can. I'll leave it to the philosophers, linguists, psychologists, and computer scientists to debate over whether they will match or exceed all our cognitive abilities someday. I simply know that such prospects are good material for science fiction. My SF comic book Myths from the Future contains stories about intelligent robots, and a great awakening, when robots become self-aware. And I have comic book in preparation (still untitled), wherein a humans brain is copied into a new cyborg body--although it isn't exactly the body he was hoping for!

Photo at top: statue of John Henry outside town of Talcott, West Virginia. Photographer Ken Thomas has released this image into the public domain.

New links and promotions; Computers of Future Passed

2011-02-01T17:34:00.000-08:00

Comic book retailers take note: I have hired Tony Shenton as freelance sales representative for my Raven and Crayfish.

Comic fans take note: On the right sidebar, I have added links to retailers who are cool enough to sell my comics, as well as links to some other notable cartoonists and artists.

Comic people also note: Susan Soares of Sky Pirates of Valendor was nice enough to let me post a banner on their site. I'd better go read some Pirates!

Even though I am in what educators call the "millennium generation," I have been a bit slow to catch on to the world of online self-promotion. I am trying to catch up.

Remarkable machines, these computers. Remarkable tool, this internet.

Hardly anyone foresaw the world wide web as we know it, and increasingly we forget what life was like without it.

Indeed, most predictions regarding computers of the future are famous for being so far off the mark.

The line from a 1949 issue of Popular Mechanics is frequently quoted:
"Computers in the future may weigh no more than 1.5 tons."

At the time the article was written, computers were giant, centralized machines. The author extrapolated from current trends. Science fiction did similarly. Most SF stories on computers from the 1950's and 60's feature super-versions of the early digital computers--whirling tape, vacuum tubes, flashing light bulbs and all.

ENIAC, built in 1946, was the world's first general-purpose electronic computer (according to wikipedia).

On New year's eve 2011, I was visiting family and presented a reading of Isaac Asimov's classic "The Last Question" (1956). It tells the saga of Multivac, the grand supercomputer on the moon (at the stories beginning), and its quest to solve for man the question of whether there is a way to reverse entropy and prevent the end of the universe. (The "AC" in Multivac or ENIAC stands for automatic computer.) In only 13 pages, Asimov takes the reader on a journey beginning in the year 2061, and ending trillions of years later. By a few generations from the opening scene, the planet-spanning Multivac has been replaced by Microvacs, miniaturized computers--each occupies only half a starship! Microvac later evolves to a universal computer, a cosmic AC. In the final scenes he is simply AC, existing in hyperspace, and instantly reachable from anywhere in the universe. Through calculation, the AC solves all man's problems until man discards the flesh, and his immortal collective mind roams across space. But still that problem of entropy vexes Man and AC alike …..

Although many of the details in Asimov's story now seem quaint, still he predicted that computer would become humankind's best friend ... a forecast for the "information age." That may be one of the reasons why "The Last Question" was Asimov's favorite of all the short stories that he authored.

Asimov mainly foresaw computers (and robots) as being used for peaceful purposes. Robert Heinlein explored more military applications, as with his giant supercomputer "Mike" in The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (1966). The self-aware computer is a likable character. And he is invaluable for aiming rock bombs in the war between the lunar colony and Earth.

Then there are the good computers that turn bad and take over. The most famous of these is HAL 9000--with his gently disturbing voice--from 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Colossus: The Forbin Project (1970) is another example. Notably, this film contains a short scene of a chess game between Colossus and the man who programed him. At the time, the idea of a computer that could challenge the smartest human in chess was wild speculative fiction. Now, it's history.

All of the aforementioned works deal in giant "super-brain" computers. None predict the decentralized international network of today.

As far as early and accurate predictions for the internet age are concerned, there is one story that tops them all.

"A Logic Named Joe" by Murray Leinster, 1946. ('Logic' is Leinster's term for what we now call a personal computer.) He forecast in the existence of desktop computers with screen and keyboard. The story goes farther from there. He offers a clear and accurate prediction of the world wide web, google, craigslist, Skype, concerns about the absence of censorship on the internet, and much more...fifty years before the fact, and at a time when the world thought of ENIAC as the pinnacle of computing. I first learned of this story from a column by Robert Silverberg in the December 2008 issue of Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine. I found the tale and was amazed. (You can find it at your library, or use your 'logic' to find it online.)

The lesson that I take from 'A Logic Named Joe': somewhere out there in science fiction, there is a story that seems too fantastic to believe, but that will come true. I just wonder what story it is!

ENIAC image (top) by an unindentified US Army photographer, public domain.

Wolf on the Prowl

2011-01-23T09:52:00.001-08:00

I too take inspiration from wolves. I have not yet encountered one in the wild, and hope that if I do, it is at sufficient distance so as not to disturb the canid. They have taken quite enough disturbance from us already!

Wolf of Legend

2011-01-22T20:17:00.000-08:00

I have seen a lot of good wildlife documentaries in recent years. But 'The Wolf That Changed America' (Nature episode, 2007) stands out for its emotional impact.

And you can see it for free online.

Based on Ernest Thompson Seton's Wild Animals I Have Known (1898) and his journals, the film reenacts the story of Seton's hunt for the legendary wolf Lobo, evaluates the scientific plausibility of the story, and explains its significance for Seton and this country.

Lobo, a huge alpha male, leads a pack of livestock-hunting wolves in the Currumpaw region of northern New Mexico. The cunning animal eludes all guns, traps, and poison, and feasts heartily on cattle. The bounty on Lobo escalates until it reaches a record $1000, and still he makes fools of all pursuers. Finally, the ranchers call in one of America's foremost authorities on wolf-hunting--Ernest Thompson Seton. And so the contest for the ages ensues, the best trapper versus the wiliest wolf. The wolf proves no easy opponent.

In his prolonged hunt for Lobo, Seton comes to new insights about the animal's intelligence, bravery, loyalty, and capacity for love and loss. By the end of the saga, Seton's attitude towards wolves has changed, and he has discovered a new desire to preserve wild America. Seton goes on to become a founder of the American conservation movement.

Many of the early leaders of the conservation movement were writers and artists. Seton was both... and a cartoonist. Cartoon images populate his books, along with occasional comic sequences. I wish that I could travel back in time to meet this master of animal stories.

Wolf image by Seton, public domain

I have joined the Jobs Party

2011-01-20T11:41:00.000-08:00

There is an obvious solution to many of our economic woes, a way to stimulate the economy, improve the lives of millions of Americans, and even curb global warming along the way... Create government jobs!

A federal jobs program, a 21st-century equivalent to Franklin Roosevelt's WPA and CCC, is exactly what the nation needs right now. We need high speed rails and effective forms of public transportation--and thousands could be put to work building them. There are countless potential "green collar" jobs in our cities and towns, doing things like installing photovoltaic systems, passive solar heating, and good old insulated windows. Our National Parks have a huge maintenance backlog of bridges, buildings and other infrastructure in need of repair. Many people who lost their jobs in the recession are from technical fields like construction and automotive and would bring valuable skills to such projects. And new recruits would have a grand opportunity to learn from the experienced. There are so many projects for the public good that we could undertake with the right federal investment.

And many of you are asking "how are you going to pay for it?" Consider the following calculation, which I borrowed from Bob Fertik on the new Jobs Party website:

"In December, Republicans demanded - and won - an extension of Bush's tax cuts for the rich costing $858 billion over two years.

Amazingly, that same $858 billion could create jobs for all 14.5 million unemployed Americans paying nearly $30,000 per year!"

I advise everyone to tell your senators and congressmen to create jobs now!

CCC workers constructing a road, 1933, Franklin D. Roosevelt library and museum, public domain

Wherefore art thou Wood

2011-01-03T05:23:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year 2011! Twenty-Eleven (or Two-Thousand Eleven, if you prefer). The words sound high tech, science fiction-like; the future has become the present.

For my first blog entry of 2011, I shall discuss a technology that sounds "old school," but may actually be quite appropriate for the future: a wood furnace. I shall also discuss one of my favorite activities: splitting wood. And I have yet another educational comic to share, which involves (you guessed it)--wood.

When I returned home for Christmas, I was glad to meet a gathering of stumps in my parents' backyard, the remains of a cherry tree. I fetched the maul to prepare wood for stove. My brother Carl (left) joined in the action.

In the immortal words of Henry David Thoreau, "He who splits his own wood warms himself twice."

Splitting wood is one of the most rewarding forms of exercise. It gets the blood pumping, and works both the upper body and core muscles. One hears the satisfying THWACK of a well-placed blow, and sees the two halves of stump fly in opposite directions. As the pile of firewood around him grows, so does the splitter's sense of satisfaction. The morning chorus of birds provides background music to this ancient and practical sort of work-out.

I trained in the art of wood-splitting at The Homestead. Since graduating, I have experienced some splitting deprivation, as most of my subsequent residences have been heated exclusively by gas or electricity. Still, I jump at the opportunity to bring maul to stump, and split wood voluntarily for Land's Sake last spring when I was in Massachusetts.

The ecological footprint of wood fuel is debated. It is worth noting the wood is a local resource, which can be harvested and used with little or no expenditure of middle-eastern oil. And it is renewable, provided that one harvests and plants at the right pace. And, with the use of newer wood-gasifying technology, wood heat can be very energy efficient and low in greenhouse gas emissions. Indeed, a wood-gasifying furnace is a vast improvement over an ordinary wood stove. No, I don't have a wood-gasifyer. I was first introduced to the technology at Cobb Hill CoHousing. I visited this intentional community in Hartland, Vermont in 2006, to complete a journalism comic (which appeared in the Connecticut Valley Spectator as well as Cobb Hill's own newsletter.)

And here, I share my comic again:

My middle name is Wood because it is a family name from my mother's side, not because of any preordained affinity for fibrous plant tissue. I am not related to the cartoonist Wally Wood, or to any of the other famous people named Wood, as far as I know.

Real(!) Christmas Trees; Adventures in Recycling

2010-12-26T19:55:00.000-08:00

I hope that everyone had a Merry Christmas (or a merry whatever-other-holiday-you-celebrate), and will have a Happy New Year.

I celebrated Christmas with my family in West Virginia. My brother Carl and I arrived on December 24th, just in time for the whole family to partake in a tradition of ours, acquiring a real Christmas tree from a local cut-it-yourself tree farm. We chose a fraser fir (an authentic Appalachian species).

Regarding the perennial debate over which is better (or worse) for the environment, a real Christmas tree or an artificial one... Research demonstrates that a real tree is clearly the more earth-friendly choice (1)(2).

And speaking of the environment, here is another educational comic from the pen of yours truly. This one I created in the fall of 2003, during my senior year at Dension University. Throughout my time at Denison, I was involved in DURP (Denison University Recycling Program). Due to great organizational efforts by some other DURP members and university staff, the institution greatly expanded its recycling program in 2003--introducing, among other things, recycle containers for every dorm room. But there was a problem: many students did not follow proper recycling protocol. We faced recycle bins contaminated with non-recyclable garbage, and various other issues. To address these difficulties, I created this instructional comic/ poster.

Boris, the star of the story, is DURP's long-time mascot. I do not know who originally created the character.

My comic still graces some walls at Denison, thanks to the efforts of current DURPers. It may be the second most widely-viewed media work of mine, after my earthship video.

Happy Holidays!

An Attendance Issue

2010-12-20T11:53:00.000-08:00

Here is the second of the two educational/ instructional comics that I produced for ICLAD. This case deals with the problem of a high dropout rate in Marshallese Schools. Analysis revealed that the schools' strict policies on attendance and timeliness were counterproductive, if keeping students enrolled through graduation is the goal.

Keeping the Charles River clean

2010-12-15T06:21:00.000-08:00

I produced this educational comic for the International Consortium for Law and Development (ICLAD). It illustrates the "Seidman Method" for addressing social and environmental problems. In this example, the problem at hand is a Charles River contaminated with motor oil....

Birth of Fear

2010-12-08T18:50:00.000-08:00

I am currently in an intensive EMT course, and intensively studying for the big National Registry exam. Still, my speculative imagination is at work, somewhere in the background.

After reading the chapter on emergency childbirth, inspiration struck, and I ran for my sketchbook. I envisioned a woman giving birth to an evil space alien. With brush and ink, I placed this nightmare on paper. It is one of the most shocking and graphic images to come from my brush, "for mature readers," I must warn. Granted, you have probably seen worse in horror movies.
To view the image, click here.

The blood of turkey on my hands

2010-11-24T22:21:00.001-08:00

I have always loved animals. I have never been a vegan.

Although I consume dramatically fewer animal corpses per year than the average American, I have never been disciplined enough to completely purge animals or their products from my diet. I am somewhat ambivalent about the ethics of eating animals. Sometimes I agree with Peter Singer: his arguments against killing animals seem impeccable. Other times, my view is closer to that of Michael Pollan, that raising animals for meat, if done right, can be ecologically sustainable and good for animal welfare.

Every year, I have eaten turkey at Thanksgiving. This year, I 'met my meat' most directly.

Some friends in Seattle, many of whom are graduates of The Homestead, have a Thanksgiving tradition of obtaining live turkeys from a local free-range farmer, and butchering them personally. This year, I joined the effort. My initial plan was only to help with setup, takedown, and 'dressing' the birds.

For this narrative, I have given pseudonyms to my friends and associates.

It was an unusual day for Seattle. Below freezing, four inches of snow on the ground, light snow still falling. By weather, it felt like The Homestead (Ohio) in the winter.

Byron had obtained seven turkeys from a local farmer a few days prior. (We had multiple Thanksgiving dinner tables to cover.) They were fine and healthy animals. They clucked and strutted about in a pen in the backyard.

Seven persons were present. (I am not trying to sound Biblical; my numbers are accurate.) We set up the chopping block, with two nails close together pounded into it. Prepared some pots of hot water, tables and tools for dressing the birds.

Byron went into the pen, came back holding a turkey, upside-down, by its legs. Chickens and turkeys 'mellow out' when upside down; it seems to be an autonomic response. Some birds in high stress can resist the inversion sedative. This bird did just that, flapped and squawked, shed feathers; they drifted to the ground. But Byron held its legs tight.

Then he put its neck between the nails, pulled it taut. And Moab brought the axe down, missed on the first two attempts, severed the head cleanly on the third. Byron held the bird upside down as it thrashed with death throes and spattered blood all over the snow. And then he fetched the next bird. He moved efficiently, and without hesitation. He was a 'man on a mission.'

The turkey's head remained on the choppig block. Its beak continued to move as though still clucking for up to two minutes after decapitation. Someone removed it from the block and tossed it into a bucket, for the compost. (Seattle's municipal composting can even take meat and such.)

Jaya took the second turkey. I encouraged her to take several practice swings before we put the bird on the block, as she was less familiar with the axe. I was quite familiar, because I split a lot of wood in my Homestead days (and still split wood these days when the opportunity arises). She decapitated the bird. Commented that she felt her stomach fall to her knees when she did.

Byron asked me to volunteer. I asked if we had other volunteers. Adair stepped up.
Being a Homestead-trained splitter of wood, Adair cut through the bird's neck on first swing. Adair was also a religious vegetarian in his Homestead days, with some of his inspiration and reasoning based on Hinduism. I must find out what inspired his 180 degree shift.

Jeb volunteered to hold the birds in the chopping block setup while others delivered the final blows. Senga stepped up to the plate. I offered her too, a bit of coaching. I explained how chopping through wood or flesh is like baseball--keep your eye on the target. And Byron noted the need for weight on the blow as well as accuracy. (For many, the greatest dread when stepping up to the block is that one might misfire and cut but not kill on the first hit, and cause additional suffering.)

Byron then told me "two birds left, one for each of us." I took the axe with little hesitation. Byron held the bird fast. I said, "Turkey, I thank you for your blessings. And I apologize that the cycles of life are sometimes so grisly."

I began with the axe-head by my feet and swung it above my head and down onto the target in a continuous motion, like chopping wood. The axe bounced off the bird's neck, the blow accurate, but too light. I very quickly squared back up and delivered a short, solid hit. The bird's head was severed and blood gushed forth from its body, and added to the growing patch of spattered dark red on the snow.

Byron killed the last one with a short, precise, forceful swing. Like a pro.

We immersed the birds in hot water, plucked, eviscerated. They very quickly started to look more like turkeys at the grocery store do, and less like those on the farm. They have many feathers, and plucking every last one is quite a task. The removed innards smell foul.

It seemed strange how polite we were with sharing the tools around and not stepping on each others' feat when we cut up the dead turkeys. Ironic that we are so dignified to each other, after such violence to our fellow animals.

Adair and I examined the birds' anatomy as we dissected our respective turkeys. We noted the radius, ulna, bicep, windpipe, lungs, and whatever other features we could identify--all of which humans share, in slightly modified forms. Somewhere in the past, we and the turkeys have a common ancestor. Hence, we dissected our relatives.

I assisted with the slaughter of a small flock of chickens eight years ago. That was emotionally harder, in part because I had raised the birds and known their personalities. Then, I did not deliver the fatal stroke myself, but tied one bird in place so that it could be delivered. And so felt that I was part of the deed.

This was the first time that I personally dealt a bird its deathblow. A number of rationalizations went through my head before I stepped to the chopping block.

Among them:

"The turkeys are going to die today, regardless of who brings down the blade. I can volunteer my wood-chopping skills and deliver these birds a swift and expedient death, and minimize suffering."

(I do wonder if executioners of people use similar reasoning--'They'll die anyway, if I don't pull trigger someone else will.')

"I was raised a Lutheran (Christian), but am very skeptical about what they told me in church. I don't think that I must fear God's punishment. Besides, most Christians I know are hardcore meat eaters. Killing animals isn't such a bad thing, in their worldview."

Another bit of philosophizing that came to me as I cut up the turkeys is that I have no right to complain about any of the minor things that I sometimes complain about. I am so much better off than the turkeys, who are now dead.

I have a great deal to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.

The Fortune Teller

2010-11-15T22:52:00.000-08:00

Halloween 2010

2010-10-31T18:21:00.000-07:00

...Ross as a one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple people eater.

Happy Halloween!

The Midgard Serpent

2010-10-28T13:05:00.001-07:00

I have always been rather fond of Halloween, being a holiday to celebrate monsters and the like. It is Halloween all year in my sketchbook, which I populate with strange beasts. Here is a depiction of the Midgard Serpent, the monstrous snake that encircles the Earth, according to Norse myth. He is Thor's arch-rival, and the two shall battle to the death at Ragnarok, the battle to end the world. (And no, it won't happen in 2012.)

Happy Halloween!

Reflections on Crater Lake 2010, part two: experience and inspiration

2010-10-09T10:59:00.000-07:00

Crater Lake remains an awe-inspiring place, whether you are seeing it for the first or the five-hundredth time. Visually spectacular, scientifically unique, sacred from many perspectives. Prompts contemplation among Native Americans on the mystic powers of the waters, and contemplation among white men on the presence of fish, variation in lake level, and whether the lake freezes.

Being a ranger and interpreter, it has been my charge to share the wonders of Crater Lake and the surrounding old-growth forest with the world, through boat tours, trolley tours, guided hikes, talks from the rim, roving interpretation, and campfire presentations.

My iconic ranger photo atop Mount Scott, the highest point in the park, at almost 9,000 feet.
The Klamath call the mountain Muckwulx, “a place where chiefs sleep.” To them, it is a place for vision quests. To tourists, it is the only place where one might fit the entire lake into a camera's viewfinder.

A boat tour, with me at front, visits the waterfalls in Chaski Bay.

The sunset from atop Watchman peak.

The plunge into Crater Lake. The water is *$@#($#*( cold! (I understand if you consider me to be cheating by wearing a wet suit, but for me the suit makes a bit of swimming possible. Without it, one jumps into the lake, and then right back out.)

I managed to get out for one day with the trail crew. It was a rewarding day of clearing for the new Pleakney Falls trail (apologies if I mispelled the name). Turning the volcanic earth of Mt Mazama into a trail, especially one accessible to people with disabilities, is no easy task. We used leverage, technique, and a bit of brute force to clear massive rocks from our path. It is quite rewarding to see a rock go crashing down the hill, after much effort by rock bar and muscle.

Towards the end of my season, we had summer weather in late September (clear and sunny), producing astounding reflections on the lake (to which my photography does not do justice; nonetheless, the view from the Phantom Ship Overlook.)

And thus I conclude my reflections.

My thanks to the unnamed tourists who shot the various photos of me. (The scenery photos are by yours truly, and the trail photos are by Kara Reinhardt.)

In other events, coming up is 10/10/10, a day to take action for a better world, by participating in a local project to mitigate global warming. Find one near you. (I will be aiding the harvest of Wealth Underground Farm in Portland.)

I have now moved to new locations, and so shall my blog. Coming soon... scary drawings, and notes on scarier world events.

Reflections on Crater Lake 2010, part one: art show

2010-10-04T20:40:00.000-07:00

My time at Crater Lake has come to an end, once again. I do not know whether I will return, and do not know what I am doing next. I was in a similar situation previous two times I made my exodus from this grand park. There is some sadness every time I turn in my badge and radio, and a combination of reflecting on the past and contemplating the future.

This season has been short (only a little over three months) but busy. Especially since August, I have been going almost non-stop. Among my many projects in this short time: the first-ever Crater Lake National Park staff art show. (First-ever as far as I know, anyway.)

I took the lead in organizing, with instrumental guidance and assistance from our dynamo of an Education Coordinator, Linda Hilligoss. Twelve staff artists displayed work in the show. Over 600 park visitors attended, by a very conservative estimate. Our efforts were documented in the Herald and News of Klamath Falls.

I was simultaneously honored to have my own work on display, and impressed that there was so much artistic talent in our staff. Once I announced my intentions across park headquarters, the artists started coming out of the woodwork, with captivating images to show me. To name a few: Fire Management Officer Greg Funderburk had mystical-looking photos of Crater Lake in the winter, with Wizard Island covered in snow and the lake shrouded in fog. Ranger Dave Harrison had skillfully rendered watercolor paintings of scenes from the coast. Lesley McClintock, an art teacher from California who volunteered this summer as a ranger at Crater Lake, had accurate and attractive illustrations of the park's geologic features and wildlife (including the spotted owl on our NPS flyer above; the Raven over Crater Lake is by yours truly.) I hope that the art show becomes an annual tradition.

Ross Wood Studlar and his artwork

My personal Artist Statement for this show:

“At Crater Lake, one is awed by the forces of nature. Volcanoes, glaciers, earthquakes, blizzards, lightning storms and forest fires have all left their mark upon this landscape, and made it what it is today. The mythic beasts of my illustrations interpret the powers of nature metaphorically. I take some inspiration from Native American Legends, as native peoples are great interpreters of earth's might and wonder. On display is the three-part “Llao vs Skell,” an interpretation of the Klamath Legend on how Crater Lake formed. Also there are scenes from my book The Raven and The Crayfish. It is an original story that re-envisions the mythic guardian of Crater Lake. My “Thunderbird Over Crater Lake” is inspired by a lightning storm which sent I and a boat full of tourists to hide in the shelter on Wizard Island. “The Unlucky Pika” is a tribute to the cute but heat-intolerant member of the rabbit family. With Global Warming, the Pika's survival is in question. My drawings are pen-and-ink or scratchboard, which I scan and modify digitally.”

"Thunderbird Over Crater Lake"

Coming up, some reflections on the season as a whole, to conclude my recent string of Crater Lake-related posts.

Ross meets the Klamath tribe

2010-09-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

Lahoma Schonchin of the Klamath tribe and Ross Wood Studlar of the white men,

Ross having presented his book The Raven and The Crayfish, which is inspired by Klamath legends.

Photo by Ranger Dave Harrison, used with permission.

The Crater Lake Trust hosted a special Family Fun Day on September 25th, 2010, which featured drummers, dancers, and storytellers from the Klamath tribe. It took place at the rim of Crater Lake.

The Trust hailed the NPS to recruit a Ranger to give a short presentation on the lake's geology and scientific significance, to complement the Klamath perspective. By the luck of schedule, that honor was assigned to me. I welcomed the opportunity to meet the first denizens of the Crater Lake region, and to share with them my Raven and Crayfish, which is so inspired by their stories. (I have met Klamath folks a few times before and listened to their perspective, but have never been brave enough to share my artistic interpretations with them... until now.)

I introduced myself to the public as follows....

“Hello I'm Ranger Ross, and before I begin my talk I must say that I am honored to have members of the Klamath tribe here. They are the true discoverers of Crater Lake, and the first people to inhabit this area. Although their perception of Crater Lake and that of most members of the National Park Service may not be the same in every detail, there is an underlying theme in common. Both parties see Crater Lake as a very special place. I would even go so far as to say that we, like the Klamath, see Crater Lake as a sacred place. I have long been fascinated by the Klamath stories about this landscape, just as much as I am with its geology and biology. I share their stories with visitors wherever I can. I have even drawn illustrations to their stories. I even wrote a book, my story about Crater Lake, which borrows elements from some of theirs. Ordinarily, when I do my presentation about the origins of Crater Lake, I give the Klamath perspective as well as the geology. But today, since the Klamath people are here to speak for themselves, I will omit the former. And without further ado, I present the origin of Crater Lake, according to geologists....”

I told the tale of how Mt Mazama became Crater Lake, and then turned things over to the Klamath. Lahoma Schonchin commented on the special significance of Crater Lake to the Klamath tribe, and introduced the performers. Then commenced the drumming and dancing. The ages of the Klamath people involved in the festivities ranged from three to senior citizens. The dancers wore their traditional regalia.

During the intermission of the dancing and drumming, Lynn Schonchin, a senior member of the tribe and father of Lahoma, took the stage and noted that he appreciated my presentation and it was interesting, but that he would tell the real story of how Crater Lake formed. His story was a version of “Coyote in Love with a Star.” He also commented on the sacredness of Crater Lake's water, and his people's traditions of drinking it for strength.

I have not yet heard any two Klamath people tell exactly the same story about the formation of Crater Lake. My favorite Klamath legend is “The Origin of Crater Lake” as it appears in Indian Legends of the Pacific Northwest by Ella Clark. This story was originally recounted by the Klamath Chief Lalek to the young white soldier Willam Colvig in 1865. It tells of the battle of the ages between the Chief of the Below World and the Chief of the Above World... and has AMAZING parallels to the geologic explanation for how Crater Lake formed. Not all Klamath stories are as close to the geology, but most have one notable thing in common... they describe a high mountain, which collapsed into the ground to create a gaping hole, which filled with water to become Crater Lake. Geologists long debated whether Mt Mazama blew apart or fell into the ground, and finally concluded that the mountain “fell in”--just as in the legends.

After the ceremonies, I presented one of my Raven and Crayfish to the Klamath folks. They were enthusiastic to receive it. I shall find out if they have any especial comments.

Notably, my book now has an ISBN number. It is 978-0-615-38888-5

The Rime of the Phantom Ship

2010-09-09T22:20:00.000-07:00

Phantom Ship photo © 1999 Benjamin Zingg of Switzerland, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic license

If ever you visit Crater Lake National Park in the summer, a boat tour is highly recommended; it provides a unique perspective on the lake. I know firsthand, having guided a few hundred tours.

The Phantom Ship is among the lake's most spectacular features when viewed from the water.

Inspired by the Phantom Ship and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, I have composed the poem below. I share this poem on my tours, when we visit the Ship.

The Rime of the Phantom Ship

Looking forward, I behold a something in the lake.
At first it seems a little speck,
and then it seems a mist.
It vanishes, returns and takes at last
A certain shaped I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape I wist.
And still we neared and neared.
Like moths to flame, we are drawn to see,
the mysterious phantom ship.

Spires like sails, the ship prevails
over the deep blue lake
Without a breeze, without a sail
its shadow makes the heart shake

400,000 years old,
the eldest in the caldera,
these rocks do tower,
At the base of Mazama they did stand
in the mountain's final hour.

One after one, by the smoke-filled sky
Too quick for groan or sigh,
The surrounding rocks crumbled and cracked,
and cursed me with their cry.

In two great landslides, the surrounding rocks,
too loud for sigh or groan,
with deafening crash, into the ground,
They dropped down all at once.

The Phantom Ship, betwixt the landslides
Survived the boom.
In subsequent epochs,
the wind and rain have shaped its craggy loom.

Its walls are steep, and hot and dry
And yet, life persists
Growing upon these grand spires
seven species of tree exist
A point of fascination, to any botanist.

Lichens and penstemons also grow,
the pink flowers they do thrive
Upon the Phantom Ship, between the lake and sky.

Gramercy! I cry! Violet green swallows
on the spires!
They fly and dive, in green and glossy black,
They coil and turn, and ever track
is a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! No tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushes from my heart
And I bless them unaware.
Sure my kind saint takes pity on me,
for I bless them unaware.

the mariner and the water snakes, one of Gustave Doré's illustrations to Coleridge's
Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The poem and the illos are now in the public domain.

Ranger Art Show at Crater Lake August 22nd

2010-08-19T11:01:00.000-07:00

Beyond the Blue: Interpretations of Crater Lake

Community House, Rim Village, Crater Lake National Park
10 am - 5 pm FREE

All artwork by Park Employees!

This special show illuminates the "off hours" creativity of the Crater Lake National Park Rangers.

Features work by over a dozen ranger artists, including Ross Wood Studlar, Lesley McClintock, Dave Harrison, Mike Cook, Carole Holomuzki, and many more.

Made possible by the Crater Lake Science and Learning Center.

A Flying Leap

2010-07-25T22:01:00.001-07:00

Beaver at Vidae Falls

2010-07-18T18:03:00.001-07:00

I returned to my seasonal park ranger position at Crater Lake National Park in mid-June.

Just yesterday, a fellow ranger and some visitors on a trolley tour made a discovery.... a beaver at Vidae Falls. (Vidae is a little waterfall on the southeast part of the rim drive, not far from park headquarters.) I visited the waterfall with another trolley tour later that same day, encountered the rodent and got a photo (without the flash so as not to disturb.)

NPS photo, public domain

It is the first time that I have seen a beaver in this park, also a first for some other employees who have been here much longer than I.

It makes me recall a Native American Legend from the Pacific Northwest, wherein the trickster Coyote battles Aprooish, a giant beaver.

Wikipedia tells me that in the Pleistocene, giant beavers lived all over North America. They went extinct around 12,000 years ago. Humans have inhabited the northwest longer than that, so the two species must have crossed paths.

Therefore, a mortal giant beaver might have been the inspiration for the mythic Aprooish!

The Emu and the Earthship

2010-05-11T18:33:00.000-07:00

I am overdue for a blog post, so I shall share two creations: an interesting but unknown sketch, and an intriguing and widely-viewed video.

A sketchbook drawing which I call 'weird emu head.' A popular image among the five or so persons who have yet seen it.

And my youtube video, "Earthship Construction at The Homestead." The Homestead at Denison University is a unique student-run intentional community with a focus on environmental sustainability. I shall write about my experiences there in more detail in later blog posts. I shot this short video at The Homestead 30th Anniversary Reunion in May 2007. Current Homesteaders and alums joined together to work and celebrate. Events incuded contributing to the construction of Cabin Pheonix, which is an Earthship--a building made of tires filled with compacted earth. The design is durable, energy-efficient, and generally friendly to the earth. Homesteaders began planning the Pheonix design in 2006, and finished the grand structure in 2009, after much labor and love. At the time of this post, my little video has received 41,419 views! Therefore it is probably the most widely-seen media work of mine ever, to date.

Plant a Maple

2010-04-25T16:02:00.000-07:00

Few activities in life are as rewarding as planting a tree. In an Earthweek event, our small crew of Land's Sake volunteers and employees transplanted three sugar maples at Dickson Fields in Weston. It was a good morning's work and a productive workout. In eighty years, the pictured tree may be quite large, and may even be a source of maple syrup--assuming that global warming doesn't completely nullify maple syrup production. Perhaps I have found a new motivator, which should convince me to do more to combat the climate crisis. I want to harvest sap from this tree in a future year.

Happy Earth Week; praise and FAQs for The Raven and The Crayfish

2010-04-18T06:31:00.000-07:00

'blue marble' earth photo by NASA, public domain

Happy Earth Week everyone! I advise that you celebrate by volunteering a good deed for your planet. I plan on planting some Maple trees for Land's Sake. There are thousands of volunteer opportunities of all types out there, some near you, and easily found through the magic of a web search.

****

From Crater Lake National Park, Ranger Dave Grimes had high praise for THE RAVEN AND THE CRAYFISH:

"Studlar has taken many of the essential elements of Oregon's deep blue lake (crayfish, ravens, the introduction of fish, native tribes, discovery by gold prospectors, the question of what lies below the lake's surface, uncertainty about the volcano's future) and wrapped them up in a story that is simultaneously surprising and satisfying and that, moreover, wrestles with the key concepts that are fundamental to this mountaintop caldera: mystery, power, violence, transformation, and protection. After reading his legend, I will never look upon the lake in quite the same way.”

Yes, Crater Lake fans, he's THAT Ranger Dave, the one from Colorado, and a legend among park interpreters.

FAQs

When folks who are less familiar with Crater Lake read THE RAVEN AND THE CRAYFISH, these are the most frequently asked questions:

1. Is this a real legend?
In my 'about the author' I said that I heard the story 'from an elderly Thamalk chief from a village called songe.' In the real world, there is no Thamalk tribe, and 'songe' is French for 'dream'. I invented the story, or discovered it in our collective unconscious, so we can think of it as a modern legend. There is a Klamath tribe, famous for their stories and religious beliefs on the sacred Crater Lake. I borrowed elements from their stories in crafting mine.

2. You wrote of radiation from the lake. What is the story behind that?
Down on the water, the UV light is INTENSE. The sun is bright, and the clearest lake in the world reflects UV light back at us in our little open tour boats. During the first summer that I worked at Crater Lake, I became a bit concerned about the UV, especially considering that there is a history of skin cancer in my family. I only half-jokingly called the UV light 'Llao's revenge.' (The Klamath spirit who inhabited Crater Lake was named Llao, in most versions of the stories. In some versions, he is referred to as simply 'the Chief of the Below World.') In my second summer on the lake, I took to wearing long sleeves and hi-tech 'glacier' sunglasses whenever on the lake, and found the sun considerably less threatening as a result.

3. What about the bubbles rising from the lake?
The US Geological Survey classifies Crater Lake as an active volcano. However, it has not had a sizable eruption in 5000 years. The mountain has shown some signs of activity in recent years. In 1945, there was a 'burp', wherein park visitors and staff reported bluish gray clouds of smoke or gas rising out of the lake. On September 20, 1993, the park experienced earthquakes of up to 6.0 on the richter scale, another probable sign of volcanic activity. And in 2007, visitors hiking Wizard Island reported seeing bubbles rise out of the lake, accompanied by a smell of sulphur. They reported this event to me (because I was guiding their boat tour), and I forwarded the message to the lake research crew. The research crew visited the approximate site of the bubbles in following days, and did not find any more evidence of activity. In any case, we never know when Llao might awaken!

******
In the near future, I'll follow up on my April 6th post with some comments on the work of Dunstan Firbolg. Stay tuned.

MOCCA, Cyborg Horse, and Slime Mold Revolt

2010-04-06T06:15:00.000-07:00

I will be at the MOCAA comics festival April 10 and 11, New York City, at the IKnowJoeKimpel table.

My RAVEN AND CRAYFISH will be for sale (and it is still selling online via IKnowJoeKimpel.)

This will be my first MOCCA appearance since 2005. Other duties have called me away every year between then and now. It will be interesting to see how the festival has evolved. SO MUCH HAS HAPPENED for small-press comics in the past five years; it will be interesting.

Now a preview of a current project, which certainly will not be ready in time for MOCCA....

The Futuristic Wood

Since I was very young, I have had a special fondness for science fiction. My first published comic book (small press) A HUMBLE JOY (2004) was an SF work about a research physicist and his guinea pig. SF themes dominated my comics work during my time at The Center for Cartoon Studies (2005-07): notable works there included MYTHS FROM THE FUTURE, “Paper Slave” (with Sean Morgan), and my thesis project ARRIDABA, an unfinished SF graphic novel featuring sea turtles. It would be wise for me to finish the work as a script, but so far I haven't mad much progress on that.

However, my CCS comrades might be glad to hear that I am currently working on two projects in the venerable genre of science fiction. One features a cyborg horse.

In 2008, I produced this drawing:

I took a bit of inspiration, or at least the idea of a priest riding on some sort of weird robot-donkey-like creature, from “The Quest for St. Aquin” by Anthony Boucher. Just about everybody who saw this drawing said the same thing: “I like the horse / donkey.” With that in mind, I wondered if I might compose a narrative starring a cybernetic horse. Evidently, the parts have been coming together in my imagination, because I am right now at work on just such a story.

A sneak preview:

His ally ia a cybernetic orang-utang:

And to you sports fans out there, this work also features a futuristic athlete (who also has musical ambitions):

And that is as much as I'll reveal, for the time being.

My other SF work in progress is a collaboration with fellow CCS pioneer Sean Morgan. (Warning: his site is 'for mature readers.') The “Paper Slave” team is back together. This time, we're creating an SF/ horror comic featuring zombies. I have composed the script, and we have made a bit of opening progress on the artwork. I hope that announcing the effort here will help to prompt greater progress.

And on a related subject...

I didn't know it, but science fiction could be in my genes(?!) Last week, my mother and her three siblings made their final clean of my late-grandparents house in Minnesota, before the new owners move in. My mom made a startling discovery. Or, should, I say an ASTOUNDING discovery.

She found a manuscript “Slime Mold Revolt” by Dunstan Firbolg, the pseudonym of my grandfather, the famed naturalist and conservationist John B. Moyle. It was accompanied by a rejection letter from the editor of ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION. I had no idea that anyone else in my lineage ever wrote in this genre, but evidently my grandfather had made this effort, unbeknownst to his eldest daughter, until now.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION lives on today, having been retitled ANALOG SCIENCE FICTION AND FACT. The editor during the era of the former title was John W. Campbell Jr. He was, among other things, mentor to the great Isaac Asimov. An honor to think that Campbell read my grandfather's story, presumably.

I haven't had a chance to read SLIME MOLD REVOLT yet, but I may have more to say once I do.

Coyote and his Huckleberry Sisters

2010-03-24T05:32:00.000-07:00

At Crater Lake, I created a dramatic digital slideshow presentation called “Tricksters in Myth and Science” and delivered it weekly at the outdoor amphitheater at Mazama Campground. My program featured the coyote, raven, and fisher, Native American legends and biologic facts about each. I revealed many parallels between the mythic animals and the mortal ones.

The first and best story of the program was “How Coyote Brought Fire to the People” also called “The Fire Race.” The story describes an ancient world where the only fire on earth is on a high mountain, guided by wicked old spirits called Skookums. The people tired of cold homes and raw food and asked Coyote to bring them fire. At first Coyote could not think of a good plan, so he asked his wise advisors for assistance. They are his three sisters, who live in his stomach as huckleberries. (On the west coast, the term 'huckleberry' refers to a type of wild blueberry.) They share a plan, and coyote tells him that was his plan all along. Then he leads the animals in a team effort to get the fire.

In many stories from Northwestern tribes Coyote calls upon the wisdom of his huckleberry sisters. And he never gives them due credit. After they develop a plan for him he says something like “ah, yes, that is just what I thought. That was my plan all along.”

At one point last summer, my parents visited me at Crater Lake and saw my program. My mom, the wise botanist Susan Moyle Studlar, had an insightful interpretation for the huckleberry sisters. They are a metaphor for how a person carries his family with him throughout life. Their voices and care are present always, however many thousands of miles away they may be in the flesh.

I had already created a few original illustrations to include in the slideshow, including one of coyote sneaking about the skookums' lodge—now the banner atop this page. Mom prompted me to also draw Coyote consulting with his huckleberry sisters. And that one now graces my business card:

To read the story of how coyote brought us fire, consult INDIAN LEGENDS OF THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST by Ella E. Clark (an amazing book, also contains my favorite version of the Klamath myth on the origin of Crater Lake). Also, it appears that I am not the only person so intrigued by the fire story as to illustrate it. The Karuk version of the story (in which the wicked skookums are wasps) is the subject of a picture book, FIRE RACE by Jonathan London and Sylvia Long.

"Top Three Comics" and "Poorly Crafted Comics That Can Still Change Lives"

2010-03-13T09:42:00.000-08:00

In the early days of The Center for Cartoon Studies (fall 2005), our fabled instructor Steve Bissette taught his first CCS course: Survey of the Drawn Story. At the beginning of each session, he asked a few of us to explain our top three comics… What three comics have had the most profound influence on you and your artwork? It's an intriguing question, and one that requires some probing into one's unconscious. After some thought, I determined that my top three comics were…

1) SPIDER-MAN, because it was thanks to the wallcrawler that I became interested in comic books in the first place. At age four I saw Spidey on television and then acquired a Spidey comic the first chance I got. (I even had a period in preschool when I wore a Spider-Man mask at all times.) I was influenced by a variety of Spidey creators, including the classic work of Steve Ditko and Stan Lee. I have continued to follow the wallcrawler ever since.
2) DOOM 2099, a '90s series that featured a futuristic version of the classic Marvel villain Doctor Doom; Warren Ellis wrote some of the series including the noteworthy "One Nation Under Doom" storyline. DOOM got me particularly interested in science fiction and the future, including cyberspace, artificial intelligence, nanotechnology and genetic engineering. I explored similar future technologies and their philosophic and political implications in A HUMBLE JOY and MYTHS FROM THE FUTURE; and in my unpublished work-in-progress graphic novel ARRIDABA.
3) THE SANDMAN, particularly volume 8: WORLD'S END. I discovered Neil Gaiman's SANDMAN at age 17, and WORLD'S END was the first volume that I read. It was a reading experience unlike any I had ever had in a comic book before. It enabled me to envision more possibilities for the comics medium and ways that I might use it than ever I had previously.

Every member of our CCS inaugural class had a different set of top three comics, although LOVE AND ROCKETS, AMERICAN ELF, and CALVIN AND HOBBES had the special distinction of making more than one top three list.

The top three comics project gave each of us a rare insight on our colleagues artwork--the influence of their respective top three comics was often quite evident. I also noted that many comics that made the top three list of one student or another (ARCHIE, Swedish children's comics, Marvel STAR WARS comics, etc), were not works that most critics would consider for a "100 best comics of the 20th century" list. It showed that a comic doesn't necessarily have to be formally perfect to influence someone, to inspire them to take their life in a particular direction, whether towards drawing comics or towards something else.

I'm sure that by the standards of most analytical critics, JIMMY CORRIGAN would rate as a better comic than SPIDER-MAN. But it was SPIDER-MAN, not JIMMY CORRIGAN, that captured my imagination as a youngster and made me want to be a cartoonist. When Chris Ware (author of CORRIGAN) visited CCS, I got a bit frustrated at his criticisms of my web-slinging hero (prompted by a Spider-Man poster that I had affixed to the wall of our classroom/ studio.) So I produced this cartoon (for a little thank you booklet that we made for the guests of honor).

I was concerned that Chris might find this cartoon a bit harsh, so also included a warm and nice note in the copy of the booklet that we gave him. I don't know what was his reaction. I do know that Tom Devlin (Creative Director at Drawn and Quarterly publishing) really liked this cartoon.

New book: THE RAVEN AND THE CRAYFISH

2010-03-02T08:56:00.000-08:00

A beautiful deep blue lake in the cascade mountains radiates mystic energy and otherworldly power. The Raven, a legendary trickster, wants the lake for his own- but the mighty Crayfish Beast stands in his way! A warrior of the Thamalk tribe, the birds of the sky, and a strangely-haired man with a bucket of fish all play a role in the conflict over the sacred waters.
40 pages, 10.75" X 7.75"
FOR SALE ON IKNOWJOEKIMPEL.COM ! Only $7.00 plus shipping.
This first printing is limited to 100 copies. I advise getting yours while supplies last.

And comics legend Steve Bissette (TABOO/ SWAMP-THING/ TYRANT) has more good things to say about RAVEN AND CRAYFISH in his 02-March-2010 MYRANT blog post.

On display are the front (top) and back covers.

Thunderbird!

2010-02-14T09:35:00.000-08:00

"Thunderbird is a very large bird, with feathers as long as a canoe paddle. When he flaps his wings, he makes the thunder and the great winds. When he opens and shuts his eyes, he makes the lightning. In stormy weather, he flies through the skies, flapping his wings and opening and closing his eyes."

"When Thunderbird flies toward the ocean, his wings darken the sky and their movement makes a loud noise. When he sees a whale, he throws Lightning Fish into its body and kills it. Then he carries the whale back to the mountains and eats it."
--Quillayute and Makah legends, as retold by Ella E. Clark, INDIAN LEGENDS OF THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST © 1953 the Regents of the University of California

It occurred to me that it would be really #$%*ing scary to encounter Thunderbird by hot air balloon. And I followed that strange impulse to draw one's nightmares….

For the latter two of these drawings, the originals are for sale.

In the fire, the fierce joins the cute

2010-02-07T10:05:00.000-08:00

NPS photo, 1968, public domain

The legendary wolverine.

It kills caribou ten times its own size. It battles wolves. It challenges cougars and grizzly bears over kills.

But even the wolverine is not safe from global warming, according a recent story from the BBC. The decline in snowpack is leading to a decline in wolverine populations.

I'll pull a few wolverines from my sketchbook.

Wolverine vs Wolf

Wolverine vs Bear

Crayfish Healthy, Pikas in Peril

2010-01-30T18:06:00.000-08:00

Pika eating grass, photographer unknown, 1964

Ever since the white men arrived on the scene, the giant crayfish beast has not been seen around Crater Lake. Could this be because the white men don't believe in the monster?

However, plenty of ordinary crayfish inhabit the lake. And yet, no crayfish has ever been found in any stream within the park boundaries. How can that be? One might suspect that white man introduced the crayfish. Then again, we must recall that the Klamath people told stories about crayfish (normal-sized as well as giant) that probably predate the white man by centuries. They called the crayfish “the children of Llao.” Llao was the spirit who inhabited the lake.

Whether native or introduced, the crayfish seem to be doing well these days. Not all the wildlife is so lucky. The pika, a mountain-dwelling cousin of rabbits, is threatened by global warming. These cute little fellows can't tolerate heat—78 degrees Fahrenheit can kill them. In recent years, pikas have been ascending higher into the mountains, trying to escape the rising heat. It's like rising floodwaters—or rising flames. I produced this drawing as a tribute to our imperiled furry friend:

I saw pikas from time to time at Crater Lake. More commonly, I heard their loud and high “eenk” call. Big noise for a small critter.

The Elder Crayfish

2010-01-24T05:46:00.001-08:00

Native Americans of Southern Oregon tell ancient legends about a monstrous crayfish, the guardian of the Crater Lake. He was known to snatch unwary intruders from the rim, and drag them to grisly fate in the blue depths. Another artist's impression....

National Park Service drawing, artist unknown (public domain)

The Raven and the Crayfish

2010-01-23T18:31:00.000-08:00

Coming so very soon.... THE RAVEN AND THE CRAYFISH: A HITHERTO UNDISCOVERED LEGEND FROM THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST !

Featuring....

I'll be back

2010-01-15T19:20:00.000-08:00

My computer crashed, but it was backed up, so no big data loss. Even so, I'll have to get reorganized. I'll be back in a week.

Homage to Grandma

2010-01-06T21:03:00.000-08:00

Evelyn Wood Moyle, my grandmother, died on January 3rd, 2010. She was ninety-five years old. My parents and I were visiting Grandma's house in Excelsior, Minnesota, for the holidays. Our stay has been longer than anticipated, with the unexpected turn of events. Now, all four of Evelyn Moyle's offspring are here. She also has nine grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren (and three more that are due later this year). Yesterday, the family members here hosted a commemorative gathering for her friends. We took turns telling stories and sharing memories of the much-loved denizen of Lake Minnetonka. For my part, I shared an open letter to the big man...

Dear President Obama:

I propose that the property of 4690 Lynwood Circle, Excelscior, Minnesota, the former residence of Evelyn Wood Moyle, be designated as Grandma's House National Monument. This designation is well in accordance with The National Park Service mission of protecting “unimpaired... natural and cultural resources ... for the enjoyment, education, and inspiration of this and future generations.” Grandma's house preserves 100 years of culture and its environs are habitat for many wild species. I received enjoyment, education, and inspiration from my visits, in my youth and adulthood. Present and future generations should share the opportunity.

The area of Lake Minnetonka has four distinct seasons, giving us something new to experience, and something to look forward to, at all times of year. When the summer heat blazes, one can swim in the cool waters of the lake. Or sit under the shade of the cottonwood tree, or go to the front porch, where a cool breeze seems always to blow through. There, one can curl in the swing chair and read NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC or NATURAL HISTORY. Or one can go cast a line from the neighbor's dock, and reel in one sunfish after another. One can paddle a canoe to big island, or to Glick's point and back. Or walk down the rail trail and ingest a healthy volume of blackberries. When the autumn chill is in the air, one can sit by the fire and admire the many layers of birthday cards on the mantle and shelves. Winter affords walks to big island across a lake of ice and sparkling snow. The spring brings the bright greetings or anemones and pasqueflowers.

The yard has provided nesting habitat to birds including redheaded and pileated woodpecker, starling, house sparrow, and kestrel. Bald eagles nest nearby, and are known to occasionally drop live turtles onto the roof. Native and edible plants populate the garden, and so do a host of invertebrates, notably ambush bugs, ladybird beetles, and ants. Inside, a cat controls populations of rodents, and assures that soft chairs do not retain their external fabric for long.

The house's historical artifacts include real silver spoons (150 years old, saved for special occasions) and decades of correspondence, some even from Moyle/ Wood ancestors on the front lines of the Civil War. The house also contains a treasury of old and new photos, illustrating how much life has changed since 1914. The house could be a site for historical reenactments of Moyle family events. A concessionaire could arrange for historic meals, modeled after those prepared by Evelyn Moyle, and shared with family and friends. These would include breakfasts of cinnamon bread and orange marmalade and cantaloupe with lime, as well as lunches of toasted english muffins with cheese. Evening meals should feature fresh-made cole slaw, fresh-baked rolls and potatoes, and such high energy dishes as chicken wrapped in bacon, or roasted ham.

Grandma could be commemorated by photos and audio-recordings, with copies for sale by the Natural History Association. Those who knew her recall her cheerful demeanor and positive outlook in the face of all adversity, her devotion to family and to natural history, and her ability to constantly make new friends, across her 95 years of life. It would be wise for future generations to follow her example.

Thank you for considering my proposal, Mr President. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Ross Wood Studlar

*******
Footnote: Evelyn Moyle also leaves behind some notable naturalist writings and photos. Her narrative "The Battle for the Cottonwood" was recently republished in the anthology OUR NECK OF THE WOODS, edited by by Daniel J. Philippon. NORTHLAND WILDFLOWERS, which she co-created with her late husband John B. Moyle, remains a popular and good-selling field guide.

Coming soon to this blog... info on my new comic THE RAVEN AND THE CRAYFISH... !

Commencement

2009-12-23T06:45:00.000-08:00

I might as well commence my blog with some drama and emotion.

I was part of the first-ever class (aka the Pioneers) at The Center for Cartoon Studies. I had the honor of being appointed the student-speaker for the commencement ceremony.

Our iconic class photo from the CCS files.

******

Words of Encouragement for the First Commencement of The Center for Cartoon Studies

by Ross Wood Studlar, May 2007

Although unworthy to lift the enchanted hammer of Thor, I have nonetheless been appointed to speak on this momentous occasion, the first commencement ceremony ever for The Center for Cartoon Studies. Colleagues at this institution have told me that they would elicit my aid in the event of a zombie invasion. In either case, I can only make my best effort to respond to the challenge.

The persons gathered here are on a quest, different yet similar to the quest undertaken by Sam Gaskin's character Pizza Wizard, who searches far and wide for the Magic Pizza. He encounters
the Peace-Shaman of the Pepperoni Village, who tells him:

“The answer is simple, my son! To find anything, one must search within oneself!

THEN AND ONLY THEN WILL YOU FIND THE MAGIC PIZZA!”

Listen to the Peace-Shaman, my friends. Although the cartoon school can teach you craft, your magic pizza can only come from within.

Your life was your true cartoon school; your life has forged your soul; share that soul and its wisdom with your generation and the next. I advise using a nib or brush on bristol of two-ply or thicker. Lettering is best done on a separate layer, with help from an Ames lettering guide; computer fonts compromise expressiveness, but still have their uses. Space will be allowed at the end of this talk for those who wish to rebuke me and explain the superiority of felt-tip pens, or how fonts ruin comics.

Sometimes I wonder if I am truly worthy to wield the nib and brush and copier. Spider-Man, after obtaining his extraordinary powers, learned the hard way that “with great power must come great responsibility.”

And the persons gathered here have great power. Super power. We cannot fly, or lift a battleship, or shrink to the size of an atom, or engage ten ninjas in hand to hand combat simultaneously and win; ours is the power of media—the power of the image and word. And media influences people, affects their perception of reality and their major life decisions.

I advise us all to consider power and responsibility as we proceed to create media, and find a way to share it with the world. Mocca is a good place to start, and so is IKnowJoeKimple.com.

And if that zombie invasion does occur, call me. I am against owning guns, but can contribute my
ever-present backpack full of gear and rations, as well as my first aid and survival skills, and my limited martial arts training. I may recruit Eugene Christophe, who could bicycle to distant havens with a distress-call. Petal could also be a vital asset, for she could distract the zombies by... well, by being Petal. And if Vagner was guilty, imagine if we could get his vicious corpse on OUR team. Meanwhile, the residents of Gates Street are too despondent to even notice that a zombie invasion is occurring. And the stars of Tragic Relief have other... business... to attend to before dealing with zombies becomes pertinent. And Alex and his buddies, feeling the Dead Air, have not yet been able to muster the motivation to do anything about the zombie threat.

Perhaps I am drifting off into my dreamland, which, like yours, is now populated by that which emerged from the pens and minds of my fellow CCSers. You don't need to read about an uprising over Danish cartoons to feel the power of cartooning; I can feel it here, now. Feel it? Perhaps this is all nonsense, perhaps not. You decide. As James Sturm famously said, “at the end of the day, it's all just grist for the mill.”