I was writing a thing in which I tried to explain how I spent Earth Day, or at least partially how I spent Earth Day, since I don’t think the part about pineapple-coconut tiki drinks would be all that enlightening, and then I caught myself describing urban rivers as “the mightiest, throbbiest vein in any metropolis” and I decided to stop for obvious reasons.

Let’s have a do-over, eh?

On Earth Day morn, I met up with some friends to help with a cleanup organized by Friends of the LA River. We donned gloves, grabbed garbage bags, and wandered a narrow riverside corridor, scooping up binder clips and hypodermic needles and broken tiles and dead rats. After filling my bag with the sullied spoils of capitalism and the residue of broken dreams, I wandered over to the river itself, thought to hell with it, and waded in, my tennis shoes squelching against the concrete bottom.

For the most part, the Los Angeles River does not a river seem; if you’ve lived here or you’ve seen Chinatown or Grease, you know its certain lack of aesthetic appeal. The river was once wild, but as the city grew dense and flooding became an issue, it was converted to an unattractive concrete funnel, shuttling water along a nearly fifty-mile Slip-n-Slide between the San Fernando Valley and the Pacific Ocean.

Still, we urban-outdoorsy types fawn over this thing as if it carried our very lifeblood, and I think we’re kind of on to something. It may not boast the grassy banks, vibrant parks, or farmer’s markets you’d find along other urban rivers (although that is slowly changing), but it does serve as one of the many threads that weave together our city’s history – and its people.

I’m excited, then, to begin a new project with my friend Brooke (she of Year of the Scout fame), exploring the length of the L.A. River from north to south. Like good stewards, we plan to pick up litter along the way, and like good urbanites, we hope to learn a bit more about our city (and the others it flows through) during our little expedition. Tips and insights on your own L.A. River experiences are welcome!

***

In other Earth Day-related news, I was honored to profile the six winners of this year’s Goldman Environmental Prize for Outside Online. Considering the current state of…affairs…it was really nice to write about people who not only value the environment and their communities, but who are also doing concrete work to fight for the protection of both; a bit of salve for my own soul, as it were.

On a similar note, I continue to write the new “Trailblazers” series for Modern Hiker, shining a light on people who are making an impact in the outdoor world on both a national and local level. My next subject is the incredible Nick Hummingbird of the Hahamonga Native Plant Nursery, an indigenous Californian who works to educate the public on cultural history, the importance of embracing native plants, and the necessity of forging a connection with the natural world. He’s a master storyteller and I was absolutely transfixed while listening to him drop knowledge. I might have cried.

Ok, I definitely cried.

***

To close this new letter-ish thing I’m trying out, here are a few pieces I’ve read lately that lounged around in my head after the fact:

• Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About The Antiquities Act But Didn’t Know Who To Ask (Casey Schreiner for Modern Hiker)
• Going It Alone (Rahawa Haile for Outside Online)
• The Heart of Whiteness: Ijeoma Oluo Interviews Rachel Dolezal, the White Woman Who Identifies as Black (Ijeoma Oluo for The Stranger)
• Tough Love (Blair Braverman’s new column for Outside Online)

Adiós!

- Shawnté

No mind, then. Instead, I thought back to a sunrise I experienced last week while in Death Valley National Park. My friend Brooke and I rose in the early morning dark, a brisk wind beating us awake through the walls of the tent. We communicated in sleepy mumbles while tying on shoes and zipping up coats, then headed out to Zabriskie Point, an overlook above an impressive stretch of deeply folded badlands. We’d hiked a loop just below the day before, between Golden Canyon and neighboring Gower Gulch, marveling at the mineral striations decorating the canyon walls, the lavender rocks underfoot, the mark of wind and water all around. This particular morning, the colors glowed softly at first, then with more vibrancy as the dusky pre-dawn became illuminated. It was stunning and peaceful all at once.

If you’re not careful, Death Valley is the kind of place you’ll fall in love with before you realize it, maybe without even wanting it to happen. You’ll be drawn in by the otherworldly geometry, the shocking array of colors, and how in contrast to its name, the place pulses with life in unexpected ways. You’ll stand at an overlook to gain sweeping views to the salt flat below and snow-capped peaks above, only to realize the massive viewshed is nothing more than a fraction of these boundless lands. You’ll scamper along on sand dunes, cresting one ridge only to discover a feeling of infinity beyond. You’ll find yourself a tiny speck in relation, experiencing a graceful humility beyond all else.

Brooke had never been to Death Valley before, and she spent those three days on a continual wonder trip, her exclamations careening on a loop between describing the place as “vast” and “beautiful,” both things so very true. It was a gift to share this magical place with her, and it’s a gift to all of us that it is protected as a national park.

Most people probably don’t know the history of Death Valley – or any of our national parks, for that matter – and most probably don’t realize that a large chunk of our public lands exist because of the Antiquities Act of 1906, passed by Theodore Roosevelt to allow presidential oversight in protecting places with important cultural, historic, and scientific significance. During his time in office, he made eighteen designations, including Devils Tower in Wyoming, Lassen Peak in California, and a little something called the Grand Canyon.

Death Valley was designated by Herbert Hoover as a National Monument in 1933, one of nineteen places he protected during his term in office. Hoover grew up with a deep love of and respect for the land, along with a belief in the healing power of nature. He communicated that during his term: these places were not set aside for gas, mineral, or oil extraction, but for the greater good, to preserve not just their cultural and natural resources, but also their effect on humanity. On our very humanness.

The monument became Death Valley National Park in 1994, part of the preservations set forth under the Clinton-endorsed Desert Protection Act, which also saw the establishment of Joshua Tree National Park and Mojave National Preserve. Because of the foresight of Presidents Roosevelt, Hoover, and Clinton, and because of the commitment of California Senators Alan Cranston and Dianne Feinstein, multiple regional organizations, and concerned citizens, we can escape to these protected places to find wonder and joy, seek solace and space, and experience a pure relationship with the land.

However, I think every outdoorsperson – from hiker to hunter, cyclist to boater, takes for granted that other people share the same enthusiasm for unspoiled spaces, and that our government representatives will continue to think beyond the here and now to protect and preserve for generations to come. We can no longer assume this. Certainly, Republican members of Congress and the incoming administration have already promised an assault on not only the Antiquities Act, but also on the continued preservation of public lands. In fact, the new administration has already teased plans on Day One to derail policies like the Climate Action Plan in favor of pursuing more aggressive resource extraction: “We must take advantage of the estimated $50 trillion in untapped shale, oil, and natural gas reserves, especially those on federal lands that the American people own.”

Well, they said it – WE own these lands.

It’s important for all of us who love our national parks, monuments, and other public lands to not only get out there and enjoy them, but also prepare to defend them. Learn about your local and state officials’ stance on land management, natural resource management, renewable energy, and climate change (try here or here) – and let them know how you feel about it. Get involved with local organizations and community efforts related to public lands and other environmental issues. Donate to national organizations like the Trust for Public Land and the Sierra Club, who are actively working on these fronts.

Most importantly, perhaps, take other people outside and let them find the magic and build their own connection to these special places, so that they, too, may become stewards of the land.

I enjoyed a strenuous, but beautiful 14.5 mile hike yesterday, and like I do on all hikes, got into some serious discussions with my trail companion about how I feel tethered to the land, but how so many people are disconnected. How do we expect people to take stewardship and develop respect for something they feel so far removed from?

We can’t all go to Patagonia, but we can find the wild places in our own backyard and share them with others. Get outside, my friends, and take people with you!

Watch the 180° South trailer here:

(photo at the top courtesy of the film’s website.)

This may seem obvious to you, I know, but to be fair, humans don’t know how to use them, either. Thing is, the odds are really stacked in our favor here, what with the opposable thumbs and complex brain functions and all, but still we absentmindedly paw away at the dispensers like petulant tabbies, leaving a trail of shredded destruction strewn throughout public restrooms all across America.

I started thinking about this paper towel business the other day after watching a TED talk where, in summary, a man demonstrates that all you need is one paper towel (of any variety! any size! any shape! any color!) and a deceptively simple Shake, Fold, Wipe technique in order to adequately dry your hands: WATCH IT HERE, since I have no idea how to embed video in this post.

I bow to your greatness, Reverend Paper O’Towel!

In the name of experimentation, I tried it – and it worked. Buzzing from my pseudo-scientific high, I suggested the Great Paper Towel Challenge to some friends of mine at dinner the next evening. Calloused hands were displayed and doubt was expressed, but the TED towel talk proved victorious, winning two waste-reducing converts along the way!

This is where I let you in on a little secret: it’s not magic. It’s not really about being an anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, fantatical Shake/Fold/Wipe adherent – it’s about being MINDFUL. In other words, it’s about thinking about what you’re doing before you do it.

Shocking, I know.

The great thing is, that even though this simple technique gives us one awesome, small step towards reducing paper waste on our pretty little planet, this concept also applies to things that aren’t made out of paper…like, basically EVERYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD. For instance:

- Excited about potato chips, but always eat a disgustingly inappropriate amount of them? Try mindfulness! Taste the chips, eat one at a time, stop when you’re satisfied! WHOOPEE!

- Love the bargain-stuffed aisles of Target, but hate the fact that you drop at least a Benjamin every time you shop there? Try mindfulness! Do you need it? Will it improve your life? ZOMG!

- Have to drive one million miles to work in hateful traffic, and find yourself alternating between wanting to cry yourself into the office and wanting to ram every car in sight? Try mindfulness! Breathe before you beep! Sing before you yell! Find one single thing to appreciate about your drive and go ahead and appreciate the living daylights out of it! YOUR LIFE IS TOTALLY CHANGING!

Phew.
[Retreats from soapbox]

Can you tell I just started learning how to meditate?