Panels Versus Plants

Let me be clear. The only true solarpunk is tending plants. It isn't solar panels and electrification. That's simply industrialization of the sun. Mining, smelting, and forging are not solar in any real sense of the term. Neither are they punk.

That said, I'm a big fan of solarpunk.

Why should be readily apparent. I live in the Bitterroot Valley of Montana, which only averages 158 sunny days per year, well below the U.S. average of 205 days. The sun, in addition to improving my mood, powers photosynthesis, which miraculously turns solar energy into mass that can sustain animals both directly and indirectly, as in the grass-fed beef that gets us through the long winter. It drives the evaporation and transpiration that leads to the snow and rainfall that recharges the Bitterroot's water cycle, providing us with drinking water and irrigation for our pasture, orchard, and garden. In other words, the sun is crucial.

My neighbor Todd is a perfect foil. Although we have known him and his family since 2016, he and I really got to be friends during the pandemic, when we would take long walks along the county road on which we live. Todd is a tinkerer, and he is constantly engaged with projects. Whereas I tend to theorize on many subjects, Todd is hands on with them. While I was reading and learning about the societal potential of blockchain and cryptocurrency, Todd was building a mining rig in his crawlspace. He didn't really care what the point of the crypto he was mining was; mining it covered his electric bill and gave him something to tinker with.

Todd's most recent project is a photovoltaic solar system to power his house. I'll try to follow up with some of the specifics on the system he installed but suffice to say he has a smart inverter that is grid tied so that he can access electricity from the grid when necessary and operate independently when the power goes down. It's a wicked cool set-up, if a bit too complicated for my tastes, and I'm truly jealous.

When we started this conversation half a decade ago, Todd asked when I was going to get solar panels. He knows I'm an independent type, keen on self-sufficiency, and into that sort of thing. At the time, our vehicles consisted of a Chevy 4x4, a Honda Civic, and a Volvo XC90, so I explained to him that, having done the math, I was prioritizing an electric car over solar. It was Todd himself who had been first begun looking at EVs, and he was constantly cracking me up with his admitted "range anxiety".

The population of the Pacific Northwest enjoys access to relatively cheap hydroelectric power. Todd and I are served by the Ravalli Electric Co-operative, and our rates are some of the lowest in the nation. Nearly 60% of the electricity he and I use comes from hydroelectric, produced by dams that were built before I was born and are thus, if we exclude the environmental externalities, some of the cleanest energy sources in the United States. This means that buying an electric car would "green up" my transportation footprint while reducing my financial outlay, assuming that the EV was replacing one of our ICE vehicles that would otherwise need a major overhaul, which they all did (as I've noted in this blog before, the cleanest vehicle is the one you already own - drive it till it drops).

Admittedly, Todd bought an EV before his solar system, but I beat him to it. I also wonder whether the things we do on our smallholding - keep goats and chickens, maintain a garden and orchard, constantly plant shrubs and trees - are more solarpunk than Todd's solar panel-powered suburbia. Considering the hydropower we have access to and the limited sun we receive, photovoltaic solar seems more prepper than punk. Not that I won't be getting some of my own, especially now that Todd has done all the work to spec out the ideal system; only that it's down the list from grapes, blueberries, and more bur oak. 

End of an Era

Isis is gone.

She bookends an era. It began with Kona, my first Siberian. 

She was black, with a white diamond where her neck met her shoulders and a white mask that was like a reverse widow's peak. The next one looked almost identical, which is how she came to me - the folks at the doggie daycare thought she was Kona. They were both such great dogs that, after watching an episode of Nova about Russian experiments with foxes, I decided I wanted two intact dogs that would throw more of the same. That is how I came to get Tensaw, and Isis as well. I wanted to recreate Kona.

What I came to understand is that there is never a dog like your first one.

But the postulate that this particular set of markings is indicative of other desirable qualities was absolutely true. The black and white, blue-eyed Siberian Husky is the best of the breed.

Vaya con dios, mi corazon.

What Makes a Husky Soul?

Last night I realized that I may soon be without a husky. Admittedly, we do still have five of them, but Isis is not long for this world, the three remaining Saws will be twelve this year, and Vaxie is more timid lap dog than Siberian. We can leave the gate open and she won't even look to escape.

I've thought about getting another, but nothing will ever replace those first ones. That is something I've learned from all this, at least. We thought about breeding Vaxie and Bucksaw, and that is still on the table if she happens to come into heat before he turns twelve (AKC will not register a litter if the sire is older than 12 years), but I'm losing interest. I'd love a dog out of Bucksaw, but Vaxie has not impressed me. It may say Siberian Husky on her certificate, but she does not exhibit the qualities I treasure in the breed.

These days, I'm inclined toward the Cursinu, a French working dog from the island of Corsica. I am in discussions with a breeder in France, and I am seriously considering adopting one. The breed exhibits many of the same traits I appreciate in the Siberian, along with a degree of obedience and loyalty that the other typically does not have.

Technically, the term "husky" refers not to the Siberian specifically but to any dog bred to work in the northern latitudes. The preeminent Alaskan Husky is really a mutt, with varying degrees of native Alaskan dog ancestry tempered with genes from any number of other breeds, predominantly Eurohounds today. Siberian dogs were first brought to Nome, Alaska by the Russian fur trader William Goosak, but the breed we know today as the Siberian Husky owes its existence to Jafet Lindeberg, one of the founders of Nome. Lindeberg acquired a number of puppies and gave them to Leonard Seppala, who, along with Elizabeth Ricker, a New England musher and afficionado of the Siberian, created the kennel at Poland Spring, Maine that established the line of dogs now recognized by the AKC.

I say this to make the point that perhaps I don't need to own a Siberian Husky to have a Husky soul. Maybe what drew me to the Siberian was that I am a Husky myself. We share similar attributes - vocal, independent, endowed with endurance - so it seems plausible. There is even some science to back it up.

But even if that really is true, I'm in no hurry to see it realized. I would have been perfectly happy had Kona and Blue lived forever.

A Continuously Evolving Paradigm

This is my favorite blog, even if the regularity with which I update it makes it seem otherwise. In contrast to a fine wine, the quality of the writing has declined with age, but like that particular vintner who first revealed to you the enchantment of the grape, I still love it. Even if it is only a cheap merlot.

We've been forced to accept that to try to push back against the tide of ecological irresponsibility is nothing more than an act of self-flagellation. The entire system is aligned against such behavior. It actively discourages it. Doing the right thing equates to punishment, if you're fortunate enough to find a way to the do the right thing in the first place.

I've somewhat adopted the attitude assigned to the so-called Gen Z, that of "nihilistic optimism". I disguise it under the cloak of no longer forcing my family to uphold my values, of allowing them to decide for themselves what they desire their ecological footprint to be. But it is, at least to a certain extent, a giving up on my part. Sans a total commitment, living as the unhoused, for example, or outright rebellion, there is nothing to be gained by green incrementalism. It is merely delaying the inevitable.

Not that I am giving up entirely. We continue to work our smallholding, support the local food system, buy organic cotton clothing, and minimize the throughput of plastic on our account. But I've abandoned the fantasy that such activities are more akin to living as homesteaders than an average middle income household. And it's clear that no degree of incremental mitigation is going to stave off the impending catastrophe.

One facet of green capitalism that I've latched onto with both hands, however, is electrification. It makes sense for those of us living in Nch’i-Wàna, with our abundance of hydropower. The electricity it produces offers the potential for the highest sustainable standard of living, assuming the rest of the thermodynamic equation can be approximately balanced.

Montana residences consume more energy per capita than any other state. That doesn't include transportation, a category in which we still rank in the top 15, owing to the long distances that separate our communities from one other and the manufacturers of the world. Our cold climate does not allow for much to be done to reduce the amount of CO2 produced in heating our homes, as air-source heat pumps only go so far while ground-source, the ideal solution, is prohibitively expensive. But knowing that we are going to continue commuting to work, driving kids to sports practice, and traveling for competitions, the highest return on our mitigation dollar is in obtained by spending it on electrifying our transportation.

This spring, we bought Brandi a new Kia Niro plug-in hybrid. The greenest car is the one you can hold onto the longest, a point my brother Dagan often makes in comparing his oil-burning early 60s Volkswagen to a new Tesla, but Brandi's old car, a 2005 Honda Civic unusual in that its engine only lasted 200k miles, didn't make sense to repair given its age and the cost of replacement. 

The compact plug-in hybrid SUV is the car every household in the rural west should be issued. It serves every need and is incredibly efficient. Brandi is able to complete her commute and get the boys to their extra-curricular engagements on an overnight charge from our Juicebox home charging station. When we have to travel beyond the Niro's 30 mile electric range, the car averages 45 miles per gallon.

I was so taken by the Niro that I bought a second one, this one a used 2020 full EV. While its sub-200 mile real range makes the prospect of it serving as a rural household's only automobile untenable, as a second commuter, if needed, it can't be beat. The 2019-2021 model years are particularly enticing, considering that low mile, one owner examples can still be found for less than the $25000 cutoff to qualify for the federal tax credit and even the lowest EX trim level comes fully equipped. Just be sure to get the optional Cold Weather package if you live north of the 45th parallel.

While the book is yet to be written on whether battery electric vehicles prove less environmentally harmful than their internal combustion powered cousins, they beat them hands down otherwise, for every use case involving distances less than 200 miles. The driving experience is sublime, if arguably not as engaging as an air-cooled Porsche 911 or fire-breathing V8 from Detroit. Combined with a high-speed electric rail system and adequate bicycle infrastructure, electric vehicles have the power to utterly transform the paradigm in personal transportation without sacrificing the North American's continued desire for total mobility.

Tumblewater

I have to admit, I've been struggling.

I had intended this to be an update about where things stand on the smallholding, but I find myself caught in tumblewater and unable to think in such simple terms. Tumblewater is the term for the churn below a falls in a river or in breaking surf, where you get caught and tossed about until you don't which way is up or how to get out. Fight though you might, it just holds you there, no matter how hard you try, rolling you over and over until it saps the life from you and finally, sometimes after a very long while, spits you out.

Still, as I sit here, Isis is lying curled up in the driveway, the rising morning sun on her face, the dew sparkling on the grass in the pasture beyond. Keegan's cat, Russell Wilson, a creature obviously raised by wild boys hell bent on destroying everything in our home (he has a particular affinity for annihilating Brandi's house plants), is crying in the background. Every so often I can hear Tensaw snoring softly. He is the epitome of senile and spends the bulk of his time sleeping under the truck and the rest baying at any of the other dogs that dare come too near him.

It's remarkable how able the dogs are at finding their spots, the place it is they are meant to occupy. Of course, once they have found their spot, one can argue it is simple reinforcement that accounts for why they return there, but this doesn't at all explain why they choose their particular spot to lay in the first place. It brings to mind one of my favorite passages in The Teachings of Don Juan by Carlos Castenada. Don Juan directs Carlos to find his spot, the place in the house where Carlos is supposed to sit, the place where, when Carlos is seated there, all the present forces come into balance. As is typical of his teaching style, Don Juan gives this direction, then promptly leaves without further instruction. Carlos, confused as always as how he is to accomplish this, hits upon the idea of rolling back and forth across the floor. After awhile, he notices that one spot feels more "right" to him than the others. When Don Juan returns some time later, Carlos has found his proper place, which he continues to occupy thereafter.

I've been having a hard time gauging whether or not I'm in the right place. I've been trying to follow the signs, let the path show itself to me, which was a goal of mine for the year, but all I really feel is discombobulated. I've become acutely aware that I've lost touch with the Tao, that I've been chasing things in the material world rather than addressing the spirits of which they are merely artifacts. It happened when the boys came. Some kind of paternal instinct kicked in, and I more or less lost my mind. Now that they are essentially self-sufficient, I have somewhat come to my senses, and I am more confused than ever.

Okanagan, the breeding female we obtained from Mark Nardin, is gone. In her place is a new pup out of Tumnatki Siberians, Vaxie. I've come to realize that, as obnoxious as it may sometimes be, I can probably never live without the howl of a pack of huskies. It is a bridge connecting me with the ways of the past and the spirit world that I otherwise find missing. I often whine to Brandi that I want to move away to some place a bit more like-minded, but I could never do it if it meant giving up the sound of canines howling in the distance.

Fall is here, and winter fast approaching. I am attending classes at the University of Montana, which is a story unto itself, and the lads are running cross-country. From their performance, it is clear they suffer a lack of confidence, an affliction that can surely be lain at my feet. It drives me literally crazy to witness. Despite my despotic efforts, I have largely failed in my attempt to prepare them. For, like my dream of occupying a seat at the Round Table, my energy has been misdirected and applied, counter productively, in all the wrong places.

I am looking to acquire some goats. The coronavirus pandemic has accelerated the pace at which it feels the world is falling apart, and I am doing things aimed at increasing our resilience. It seems as though reducing your footprint and building soil are the only two things we should be doing right now, but they don't appear to be getting much attention. It's a source of consternation in our household, how to resolve what the world needs with what it requires. Most likely, the goats will  be a total disaster. When I fenced the area where I plan to put them, I chose the wrong kind of fencing. I should have strung No-Climb but unwittingly went with field fence instead. It was cheaper, and it seemed to be what everyone else with goats and sheep had. But now that our chickens are freeranging in the neighbor's yard, I have realized my mistake. Every man is an island in this day and age, but, when it comes to the Bitterroot, only fencing separates the Dominican Republic from Haiti.

Mitigation has given way to adaptation, which is something I used to consider myself pretty adept at. Now I just find myself stuck in the tumblewater, caught between the need to adapt and a raging desire to see us intervene on our own behalf. My friends tell me that work begins and ends with ourselves, but I can't be sure they're not merely regurgitating some misconstrued form of American individualism at me. For one, the math doesn't really add up, because some people seem to have an outsized effect on the world, affecting outcomes that I don't believe could be achieved with the attention focused only inward. Still, no matter what the case, one thing is absolutely certain - nothing gets done when you're stuck in the tumblewater.