Of Horse and Man

Posted on by Peter Deneen 1 Comment

The story of how Rocinante and I got together is a good one, if you like serendipity.

3-minute read

Last fall I needed an escape-from-NYC option. I wasn’t in the market for a truck, I was looking for a van. But a Craigslist ad for a 1994 Toyota pickup with a quarter-million miles on it that had been driven to Brooklyn from Ojai less than two months earlier was too wild a coincidence not to investigate (I am from Ojai).

After the test drive, the owner, Jesse, and I spent the afternoon in his ceramics studio in Red Hook. I learned his partner’s cousin had wayfared across the country in the truck less than two months earlier—that is, a cousin in the family that lived on the very same sliver of land I grew up on in Upper Ojai decades before my parents moved there in 1989.

I paid in cash the next day.

In December, I saddled Ro with my belongings and stashed her at my aunt and uncle’s house on Long Island. I flew to San Francisco to report from the last big earth sciences conference and from there hitch-hiked my way to Ojai. I had intended to return for Rocinante in spring and spend the 2020 summer rambling westward, but three seasons would pass before I could get back to New York to retrieve her.

Resuscitating Rocinante’s vital organs took six hundred dollars and a mechanic named John (along the way a tow truck company misplaced her—along with all my worldly possessions—for a full 24 hours). Rocinante and I covered 1,000 miles visiting loved ones in the northeast before making any westward progress. That was when I named her.

One of my favorite writers, John Steinbeck, drove a camper around America in 1960. He called his Rocinante, after Don Quixote’s little horse, who is awkward, past her prime, and engaged in a task beyond her capacities. Rocín in Spanish means a workhorse or low-quality horse but can also mean an illiterate or rough man, the perfect double entendre for us.  

Ro and I have slept in Wal-Mart parking lots and trucker rest stops. We’ve climbed the Whites, the Greens, and the Adirondacks, the Catskills, the Poconos, and the San Juan’s. We’ve run out of gas in Maine and racked up parking tickets in Manhattan. We average 55 on the highway and holding her clutch in has stressed my hamstring. We stick to the slow lane and add 10 percent to any travel time estimate.

Each time I turn her on I feel her pistons press miles into carbon dioxide molecules, which get excited and dance around when the Earth’s beams of long-wave light hit them, warming the air. I imagine the little triangles of condensed atoms joining the other waste gases of our society, settling in for a multi-thousand-year residence time in our atmosphere.

I’ve exhausted more than one metric ton of carbon so far just on this trip (by comparison, my carbon footprint was calcul-estimated to be six metric tons for all of 2019), the impact of which we’ll feel about three decades from now—warming the Earth is experiencing today is primarily from our 1990’s emissions. I rationalize my driving a combustion engine in different ways—aside from fuel and food, my current carbon footprint is close to negligible. Still, selfishly, this trip feels something like last chance journeyism. She’ll likely be my last fossil fuel-powered vehicle.

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Real Men Care For Their Mother

Posted on by Peter Deneen

How redefining masculinity can help heal Santa Paula Canyon and our natural world

6-minute read

When Tyler Whitcomb arrived at the water’s edge, he set down his overstuffed bags of trash and backpack on a rock and undressed. Each of the 30 mostly male youths congregated along the canyon wall locked their eyes on this young man, only slightly their elder, who had emerged from downstream carrying large sacks of garbage slung over his shoulders. They watched the musculature of his torso ripple as he lowered himself into the water and maintained respectful silence as he made his way toward the opposite side. The crowd remained attentive as he carefully scaled the cliff face, perched himself on the ledge 25-feet above the water, and turned his back to them.

A collective gasp of disbelief and primal reverence was still echoing off the canyon walls when Tyler resurfaced after launching a standing backflip. With all eyes still affixed, he exited the water looking like Achilles, joined me in an area of strewn bottles and wrappers on the edge of the waterhole, and began picking them up and putting them in my bag.

Without yet fully knowing what he had done, he sensed he had achieved it— Tyler had earned their attention⁠, and now he was going to deliver his message: real men care for their mother.

Santa Paula Canyon is a natural wonder in distress. The canyon’s proximity to larger population centers and relative ease of access⁠—a seven-mile round trip hike⁠—has led to environmental degradation orders of magnitude greater than other trails in the area. According to Los Padres Forest Watch, an estimated 100,000 people visit the canyon each year⁠—a figure on par with some US national parks. The main draw is a series of waterfalls, which cascade through the narrow canyon, each spilling into its own turquoise swimming hole, collectively known as The Punchbowls. They are popular beyond capacity.

Though I live just down the road, I don’t regularly hike to The Punchbowls anymore⁠—they make me sad. The magnificent rock cathedrals are adorned with the misplaced toughness of young men. Spray-painted graffiti tags violate the canyon walls in the most impossible-to-reach locations. At Jackson Hole, the most remote of the pools, one tag that reads “women aren’t property.” Someone inserted the ‘n apostrophe t’ to invert the tag’s original mysogynistic meaning.

The trails and swimming holes are strewn with the waste wrought by ignorance⁠—heaps of empty cans of cheap beer, water bottles, discarded wet and soiled clothing, and feces-covered wet wipes. Today you can find single-use surgical masks, artifacts of the coronavirus era, littered on the trail. Underprepared hordes enter the canyon each day, with little knowledge of the distance or location of the Punchbowls, and perhaps unaware of the ‘pack it in pack it out’ ethos of backcountry adventurers. Music from portable speakers drowns out the birdsongs and the splendor of the landscape is dulled by inebriated voices. After this article was published, volunteers with Upper Ojai Search and Rescue reported more than 1,000 hikers on the trail in one afternoon, including some in need of medical attention.

Visitors to the canyon aren’t entirely to blame. A confluence of factors has enabled the desecration of The Punchbowls. Oil pumpjacks at the mouth of the canyon, once the permanent home of a Chumash village, are the first signal to hikers that the canyon is a resource for plunder. Signage found at most other trailheads in the county is absent, announcing an abdication of stewardship. Though the canyon is within Ojai Ranger District jurisdiction, in all my years, I have never seen law enforcement on patrol there. From the moment visitors park, the trail is an unmitigated free-for-all, resulting in frequent dispatches of rescue teams into the canyon. Volunteer aircrews are frequently sent on the risky helicopter search and rescue missions, often at night. The Santa Paula Times reported 13 hikers rescued in a 15-day period last December. As of writing, a rescue has occurred in the canyon each of the past three consecutive days.

Governance aside, the principal cause of Santa Paula Canyon’s sad state is a collective unconsciousness, led and reinforced by young men chasing a distorted ideal of what it means to be a man. It wasn’t hard for me to reach this conclusion⁠—it is written on the walls in spray paint and shattered on the rocks in broken glass.  

Generally, young adult males care little to engage in environmentally-conscious behavior. At that age there are simply too many other competing interests and too few role models. Studies have actually shown that males find pro-environmental behavior to be emasculating. Common sense practices like carrying a reusable bag, for example, are perceived as effeminate—a dangerous smirch, as the downtrodden Santa Paula Canyon can attest.

In order to buck the stigma associated with pro-environmental behavior that makes men fearful of being perceived as weak, masculinity must be redefined. It is incumbent upon male leaders to demonstrate and promote a reimagined version of what it means to be a masculine man. Men with the ability to see past their ego, who understand that caring for their mother⁠—the planet which gives us all life⁠—is the very essence of what it means to be a man, a provider, and a protector, must decide these ideals are worth living up to and model them.

Tyler Whitcomb had awoken that Monday morning looking for a mission. Recalling my Instagram post from a day earlier, where I noted the more than 400 vehicles lining miles of highway near the Santa Paula Canyon trailhead, he messaged me just before ten o’clock in the morning. “Hey dude, wanna go pick up trash at The Punchbowls at 11 with us?”  As a longtime complainer of the state of the trail who had never done much about it, this was my chance.

When Tyler said ‘us’ I figured he had a crew, so I invited Natasha, who I had planned to hike with that day, and she agreed to the change of itinerary. I was glad she came, because when Tyler arrived with it was just him and Libbey, his ten-year-old chocolate lab.  

I was already upset by the time we left the parking area. My despair rose as we filled two bags full of trash within the first two miles. Troupes of humans marched up-canyon carrying plastic bags full of soon-to-be trail waste⁠—hard seltzers, popsicles and meat sticks in plastic sleeves, sugary drinks, and fast food. As we picked up the trash, even more was arriving. The mission felt futile.

A group of about ten students on coronavirus-forced vacation from St. Bonaventure high school, who were wandering the various trails that vein the creekbed, latched onto us and we guided them on the quickest route to the pools. Along the way we indicated natural points of interest and plant species. I told them about the nanoplastics swimming in their bottled water and how our single-use plastic addiction is becoming an environmental catastrophe. After some time listening and observing, some of the football players in the group had decided we were up to something that could potentially boost their own esteem among their peers. “Hey, there’s some trash right there,” he pointed out to me. “A Gatorade bottle!” I smiled to myself and retrieved it. Their awareness was growing. 

The gratitude and admiration of trail-goers began to undermine my stubborn anger about the garbage. “You guys are legends,” one group of young adults said to us as they trooped past. “Thank you guys for doing this!” My judgment began to dissipate. People aren’t intentionally neglectful or entitled, I thought, they just haven’t been made aware. How are young folk to know how to behave if the behavior we are looking for hasn’t been modeled for them?

After watching Tyler’s backflip and subsequent humble gathering of trash, the young men surrounding the water hole began milling about collecting cans and caps and depositing them in our bags. They suddenly seemed to notice the refuse that surrounded them in the canyon. My spirits rose with their recognizance. Tyler’s message was resonating and he hadn’t even said a word.

Emboldened to interact with us, one of the young guys borrowed a lighter from Tyler to spark up a blunt. Another young man, Kevon, who said he regularly makes the trip from Compton, delivered some garbage he collected and his respect for what we were doing. He said the world needs more people like us. Kevon, who is 22, said he often comes up solo to find his peace. Back in Los Angeles, he said he is going to do the same thing we were doing here.

On the way back down the canyon each of us was saddled with several burgeoning bags of garbage. Not a group passed us without adulation and an unsolicited promise to pack out all of their trash and said they would bring bags next time and pick up trash too. 

All people want, especially young people, is acceptance. Whether it is a person defacing a cliff with graffiti or a good samaritan packing out trash, we all seek validation from our peers. We get to decide which kinds of behaviors earn our bona fides and it is up to us to signal what those behaviors are. 

The more than 100 pounds of trash we hauled out of Santa Paula Canyon was impactful. It made us each feel good about ourselves and helped to lessen the human footprint in one small, beautiful place. But the real impact will be borne out in the years ahead as each of the young adults, especially the boys, come of age. The decisions they make will be done with awareness⁠—and that can make a difference beyond measure.

Buoyed with fulfillment and hope, I thought of the football player from St. Bonaventure. That young man will never see trash on a trail again and not at least be conscious of it. Next time he does, that awareness, encouraged by Tyler’s example, will allow him to at least decide whether to do something about it. His peers will see him do it, those who are attracted to him will decide that is a desirable trait, and the youths who look up to him will emulate him. And that’s something.

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Selected Works

Posted on by Peter Deneen

Ojai Magazine: A Decade of Climate Whiplash in Ojai

Fire in Upper Ojai Fuel Break Ignited by Apparent Rockfall

Ultrarunning Magazine: The Arrival of Rachel Entrekin

Outdoor Life Magazine: My Buddy and I charged the mountain lion that was trying to kill his dog

Ojai Magazine: Demystifying the ‘Hurriquake‘

My Solstice Coyotes and Attempted Mercy

How a small fire in the Sespe led to a Clean Water Act Violation in federal court in Montana

Magdalena Magazine: Ancient Futures in Awha’y

Fire Retardant Pollutes Sespe Creek as Howard Fire Extinguished

Ojai Quarterly: Michael Milano: Film Director for the People

Soule Park Tree Tragedy Offers Opportunity

Undeveloped Land is Not ‘Vacant’

It’s Time to Drain Lake Powell

Coast Guard’s 12th Man on the Field

The Sourdough Instructions

Of Horse and Man

On Cannabis and Justice

Real Men Care For Their Mother

For Water in This Climate, We Must Change

Coronavirus Shutdown Brings Clean Air, Clear Mountain Views

Are US Glacier Counties Complying With Social Distancing?

The Drygalski Ice Tongue

There’s ‘Several Orders of Magnitude’ More Plastic in Rivers Than Oceans, Study Finds

Climate Justice Advocates at UN: ‘Come with plans not speeches’

The People of the Glacier Lands Taken to Create the US National Parks

The Idiotic Reason That Egg Companies Are Turning to Plastic Packaging

What Moody’s Recent Acquisition Means for Assessing the Costs of the Climate Crisis

Will the World’s Militaries Decarbonize With the Rest of Us?

New Mountain Bike Trails Highlight Long Island’s Glacier Remnants

Ancient Humans of Glaciated Western China Consumed High-Potency Cannabis

Ecuador Prepares for Eruption of Glacier-Covered Volcano

How Dust From Receding Glaciers Is Affecting the Climate

Glaciers Account for More Sea Level Rise Than Previously Thought

Trump’s Interior Pick Wants to Heighten California Dam

Mongolia’s Cashmere Goats Graze a Precarious Steppe

What Glacier State Congressmembers Think of a Green New Deal

COP24 President Highlights Risk of Political Instability During NYC Visit

Massive Impact Crater Discovered Beneath Greenland Glacier

On Carbon, AGU President Robin Bell Walks the Walk

Inside the Gut of the Patagonian Dragon

Where the Yala Glacier’s Ice is Going

What the Yak Herders of Northern Bhutan Are Saying About Global Warming

For Water in This Climate, We Must Change

Posted on by Peter Deneen

By Peter Deneen

4-minute read

This op-ed appeared in print in the Ojai Valley News on April 17, 2020 for the paper’s Earth Day 50th Anniversary edition.

Despite significant spring storms, it looks increasingly like Ojai will fall short of its average rainfall this year. This is to be expected. Since the beginning of the industrial era, we’ve reached our average just a third of the time. Over that same period, Ventura County warmed more than any other county in the continental United States—a feverish 4.7 degrees Fahrenheit. As demand for more water continues to increase, less water is available. Drought-driven wildfire and the accumulation of fire-related debris have complicated reservoir storage and groundwater recharge, while decisions by last century’s water managers—like the construction of the Matilija Dam—have only exacerbated these impacts. This combination of climate, human systems, and politics has forced a moment of reckoning.

In the Ventura River watershed, there is a water problem—and a momentous opportunity to reimagine our relationship with water. Here’s how:

We must remind ourselves of the scarcity of fresh water on Earth—barely one percent of the planet’s fresh water is readily accessible. In a dry climate like Ojai’s, water is even more rare. Summers here are long and hot and winters are mild. Rain arrives fast and hard in Ojai, or hardly at all, and drains from the landscape quickly. The same steep slopes that create orographic lift—squeezing rain out of the clouds—also cause runoff to shed rapidly, draining to from over six thousand feet to the Pacific ocean in just 34 short miles.

Projections indicate wetter wet periods and longer, drier droughts in Ojai’s future climate. The accumulation of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere has increased climate volatility in recent decades. Studies suggest we will see more days with extreme fire weather in the fall, due to warmer temperatures coupled with a decrease in autumn precipitation. A warming climate leads to more variable rainfall, enhanced drought, wildfire, and in turn, less available water for humans and ecosystems. This is the backdrop of the ongoing water dilemma that has been characterized as a ‘water war’ between two communities with deep ties to one another who are wholly dependent on the same local water source. 

We must understand and courageously embrace that Ojai and Ventura are inextricably connected—by family, by economy, and by common resource. We cannot allow fear to distract us from the interdependence of our communities. There is no water war. The ongoing litigation is unfortunate, but it is unsurprising that our lack of courage to collectively confront our overconsumption of water has resulted in litigation. This must change and it will. But it should happen through an integrated water resources management process, which will ensure water-sharing agreements that work for every water user and properly recognizes the water needs of the environment we depend upon. With a bottom-up approach, we can find ways to build resilience, have a lively economy, and enough water through being creative together. The water problem is our collective issue. It is not an ‘us versus them’ battle that humans tend to make of resource conflict and that has so far characterized the rhetoric of our current dilemma.

We must re-situate ourselves in the water hierarchy—from one which places human use above ecosystem needs, to one that is part of an ecosystem. We should use only what is necessary. When humans began intervening in the flow of the Ventura River in the middle of the 20th century, the priorities were flood control and ensuring sufficient water for human development. Ecosystem services for the more than one hundred special status plant and animal species were hardly even a consideration—we know better now. An agreement for how and how much water should be reserved for human use is overdue. But to define that need, we must determine how much we actually need. Let’s define our need and not take more than is necessary. 

Ojai’s collective response to the last drought, a sustained reduction of water consumption to far below required levels, was inspirational.  After the Stage 3 drought declaration in September 2016, Casitas water customers were astonishingly efficient. Users reduced consumption down to Stage 4 levels and sustained it for more than three years. Ojaians have proven that our water security lies not in seeking additional supply of water, but in our ability to drastically reduce our use with minimal impacts to quality of life. I have a modest proposal: let’s take that conservation culture and apply it not just during times of drought—but all the time. Solutions for water recycling are being studied and implemented around the valley. Lawns are being replaced by drought-tolerant vegetation and incentivized by rebates. Recycled greywater is replacing drinking-grade water for irrigation. Zones for groundwater infiltration are being identified and runoff is being guided to those areas using swales. Drip technology is being applied to our agriculture and regenerative farming principles are taking root. While Ojai residents’ commitment to the water issue is evident, we are a tourism-based economy, so we must address the use of our visitors as well. 

We must make Ojai a place where it’s not just residents who are water-conscious—but our guests too. When non-residents enter the valley, they must do so with the knowledge that they are being welcomed to share in a finite resource pool. We must facilitate their understanding that they are here as part of a collective—not as plunderers of resources. This culture can be instilled through social nudges. We can signal our community values through citywide policies that steer people toward heightened consciousness of their environmental impact, like the banning of single-use plastics. Policies like this can be a pathway toward increased awareness of personal consumption that can then leak into other areas of consumer consciousness, like our water use. Ojai’s hotels and resorts should orient guests to a mindful stay upon check-in, including useful information about the local climate and water culture. More than anything, people crave integration into community and want to be seen and recognized for their participation—to feel part of an authentic experience higher than self-indulgence. Through water conservation, non-residents can be made to feel as though they too are stewards of a delicate balance between humans and nature in a special place. If that culture can’t be cultivated here in Ojai—then where can it?

We must decide that we want to set the bar for other communities—they are looking to us to lead the way. The very factors that have led this watershed to its current predicament are developing elsewhere. Ojai is batting first—here’s why: The Ventura River watershed is simple—located entirely within one county of one state, passing through just two primary communities of water users. Yet the agricultural, industrial, and residential demands for water resemble that of larger, more complex watersheds, making it the ideal proving ground for novel water-sharing ideas. That makeup—combined with the climate warming that has led to our rapid warming and aridification—make Ojai and the greater watershed a forward-looking telescope for state water managers. As carbon concentrations from humankind’s activities increase, the warming of other regions’ climates will follow, and so too will water scarcity issues. State water managers are watching the situation in Ojai closely. The hope is that stakeholders in this basin will come up with a model that can be replicated in watersheds across the West.

Finally, we must understand that the health of our community cannot be divorced from the health of our watershed. We must remove the Matilija Dam and rewild the Ventura River. Thanks to a collection of activists and community non-profits, a comprehensive plan to remove the dam is in place. Removal of the dam requires significant funding, multiple phases of work, and most importantly—the awareness and support of a community which recognizes the need and musters the political will to take it down. Ojai and Ventura were designed around a heavily engineered and modified river. In the plan to rewild the river, we must avoid the engineering follies that led to the Matilija Dam in the first place. We must invest in the sustainability education of our people—both in school curriculums and our adult citizens. We can offer knowledge to our neighbors and empathetically recognize unawareness when we see it. Our community can then evangelize its success to others.

We are in this together. If we open our minds and hearts to one another we can see we all are connected, to one another, and to nature. What’s good for the river is good for us. The challenge is for each of us to learn new and innovative approaches and collaborations that we didn’t know were possible, with respect to our personal use, that of others, and how our consumption fits into the greater system. We must ask our leaders to commit to this ethos with us by prioritizing resilience-building for our future climate. Cumulatively, we can have an outsized impact. For this climate and the warmer climate coming, we need to reimagine our relationship with our water.

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Peter Deneen is an Ojai native, climate journalist, former Coast Guard officer, and holds a Masters in Climate and Society from Columbia University.