I am working on a new book called The Desert Dreams of Flying to the Moon. You might call this a resurrection, of a particular kind of joyfulness and courage, in a particular time and place. Wars and science play their part as I follow the lives of three men: Glen Edwards, Milburn Grant Apt, and Neil Armstrong. My childhood threads their stories, although this is less my memoir than my father’s, those halcyon years of the 1940s and 1950s, cloudscapes and rocket planes. I wrote this out of something that happened to me which I have long thought unusual but which I now see as wonderfully common, manifested in many forms.
People live inside us. Sometimes they live in the darkness of the body with its opaque interior, synapses and nerves, and their emergence is from that darkness. Sometimes they appear in hallucinatory color, as if on another planet or dimension, walking under a cerulean sky. For as long as I can remember, my father has lived inside me, a short man, slight, bald, with a shy smile. We have never spoken to each other, except for once when I was middle-aged—and that proved to be a misunderstanding. For most of my life, he has been a presence more than a personality. I am writing now out of that presence and, if you are willing to get a little deeper into the mythologies each of us shape into a life, I am writing this out of the dreams of the desert, where I was born and where I live today, out of the curiosity we have for the world and the world for us.
See below for Chapter One.
Last summer I sent to my editor at Pantheon Publishing Company the manuscript for the tentatively-titled Within our Grasp: Feeding the World’s Children for a Better and Greener Future (forthcoming Fall 2019). A quarter of the world’s children are stunted physically and mentally due to a lack of food or nutrients. This book is about successful approaches to ending childhood malnutrition, with the emphasis that this is an environmental as well as a humanitarian concern.
A related Letter to America in terrain.org series….
My most recent book is a Paleoterrific eco-sci-fi called Knocking on Heaven’s Door, which won the 2016 New Mexico/Arizona Book Award in the category of science fiction, as well as the 2016 Arizona Authors Association Award in Fiction. Early reviewers have been generous, including this reviewer at Geeks of Doom, which makes me smile. Not many people know me as a geek of doom. I embrace the complexity of my personality. The book is also an audiobook. I can offer a few free copies of the audio. Email me!
Another recent fiction is Teresa of the New World, a Young Adult novel selected as a finalist in the May Sarton Awards (Story Circle Network) and the 2016 WILLA Awards (Women Writing the West). Teresa of the New World also won the 2015 Arizona Authors Association’s Award for Best Children’s Literature and was a 2015 Finalist for the New Mexico/Arizona Book Awards.
I remain so pleased that Diary of a Citizen Scientist (Oregon State University Press, 2014) was given the 2016 John Burroughs Medal for Distinguished Nature Writing.
From the announcement: “The John Burroughs Medal was created in 1924 to recognize the best in nature writing and to honor the literary legacy of naturalist John Burroughs. The Medal has been awarded annually to a distinguished book of nature writing that combines scientific accuracy, firsthand fieldwork, and excellent natural history writing. This year’s winner was selected by a review committee of Medal recipients. Past Burroughs Medalists include Rachel Carson, Aldo Leopold, Joseph Wood Krutch, Loren Eiseley, Roger Tory Peterson, John Hay, Peter Matthiessen, John McPhee, Ann Zwinger, Barry Lopez, Gary Nabhan, Robert Michael Pyle, Richard Nelson, Robin Wall Kimmerer, Franklin Burroughs, Edward Hoagland, Kathleen Jamie, and Sherry Simpson.”
Well, to be in such a list.
New word for writers: vlogging. Before I went on the YouTube SciShow, I didn’t know that my host was a famously successful vlogger. I hadn’t even heard that term before. But Hank Green is the brother of well-known author John Green (The Fault is in Our Stars), with whom he partners for various media events. Hank is also an environmental entrepreneur who graduated from the Environmental Studies Program, where I was teaching in Missoula, Montana in the winter of 2016. There in lovely Missoula, Hank oversees his vlog empire, which sounds evil but actually employs over 40 people doing good work telling people about science and the environment. In this episode, I talk about citizen science and then we are joined by a biologist with a tarantula named Fluffy.
It’s fair to wonder why I range so widely in my writerly interests. I think of John Muir’s quote that everything in the universe is hitched to everything else. Finding some of those connections is a pleasure and deep satisfaction. I think of that alpha state achieved in a good jigsaw puzzle.
Excerpt from Diary of a Citizen Scientist
“I have always wanted to be a field biologist. I imagine Zen-like moments watching a leaf, hours and days that pass like a dream, sun-kissed, plant-besotted. I imagine, like so many others before me, a kind of rapture in nature and loss of ego. John Burroughs, an early American naturalist, wrote that he went to the woods “to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in tune.” In my own walks through the rural West, this echoes my experience exactly. I enlarge in nature. I calm down. The beauty of the world is a tangible solace—that such harmony exists, such elegance, the changing colors of sky, the lift and roll of land, a riverbank, and now a beetle flashing in the sun, an entrance into its perfect world. I am soothed, I am thrilled, and at the same time, eventually I get bored. Eventually I go home because my work (my writing, my students, my laundry) is elsewhere.
But what if that employment, my engagement with the world, was right there, in the largeness and calm of nature itself? ‘Blessed is the man,” Burroughs continued, “who has some congenial occupation in which he can put his whole heart, and which affords a complete outlet to all the forces there are in him.'”
And what if the opportunity to become a field biologist or a lepidopterist or a geologist was right now and quite real? The world of citizen science is one in which hundreds of thousands of people are following their bliss counting stars for NASA, tracking the migration of birds, cataloging galaxies, and excavating mastodons. Renaissance and transformation! A revolution in how research gets done and in what kind of research gets done.
In the 23rd century, humans live in utopia, hunting and gathering in tribal bands, reunited with old (cloned) friends like the mammoth, connected by solar-powered laptops, buoyed by the belief in a panpsychic universe in which consciousness pervades matter. A 150 years after the supervirus that killed off most of humanity, our return to a Paleoterrific lifestyle seems to be our last, greatest achievement. But in this new Garden of Eden, one man and one woman—as well as a smarter-than-average dire-wolf—are faced with a decision that could literally transform the planet. Again. Will we repeat the cycle of curiosity and hubris? Or is our destiny even stranger than that?
People live inside us. Sometimes we talk to these people, and sometimes they answer back. Sometimes they are four hundred years old, sun-blistered, whip-thin, speaking the Spanish dialect of sixteenth-century Seville—which would be the case with the real-life conquistador Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca, a man who has intrigued me for decades, whose story I have read over and over, whom I have written about again and again, and who finally set up camp in my frontal lobe, roasting fish and roots, sketching maps in the sand, praying, scheming, surviving—as indomitable as a gust of wind, sea, and salt.
Teresa of the New World is a historical fantasy set in the dreamscape of the sixteenth-century American Southwest. The daughter of Cabeza de Vaca and a Capoque mother, Teresa is betrayed by her hero-father, sent to live as a kitchen servant in the household of a Spanish official, and alienated from the magic she knew as a child when she could listen to plants and animals and sink into the trickster earth. Plague stalks the land. Measles decimates native villages. And Teresa goes on her own journey, befriending a Spanish war horse and were-jaguar as she struggles to reclaim her power and sense of self. It has taken me twenty years to write this book. Now I think of it as my autobiography.
And Chapter One, from The Desert Dreams of Flying to the Moon
I am watching a YouTube of my father’s death. The film was made by the United States Air Force in 1956 and declassified over fifty years later so that I can see it now on my computer at home. The heavy B-50 plane flies alone through the gray-toned sky before releasing the smaller experimental X-2, designed to glide until its rocket engine powers, explodes, and pushes the jet forward. Silently, without music or narration, the X-2 flashes into the distance, sleek with pointed nose and swept-back wings, faster, faster, over three times the speed of sound, faster than any human being has flown before. At the end of this test flight, the X-2 is meant to glide again, landing on a dry lake bed at Edwards Air Force Base in southern California. My father is the pilot. I stare at the vanishing plane with a frisson of knowledge, holding on to the moment before loss, and wanting to warn: Don’t go so fast today. I play with time, wanting to change time and knowing that I would be changing myself, something I cannot really imagine. What would I be without a dead father?
Abruptly, the YouTube is showing footage from inside the cockpit, a camera there positioned on the instrument panel. Here is the back of my father’s head. He is wearing a helmet, which moves jerkily across the screen as the X-2 becomes unstable, dips, rolls, and goes into an inverted spin. No one knew this would happen. That’s why someone had to test the plane. Part of the screen, now half the screen, is a bright white light, irregular shapes of light fraught with meaning like an abstract piece of art. Everything on that canvas is significant, emotional, ineluctable. My father is being thrown about this tiny space filled with light. In seconds, he is jettisoning the cone of the plane which also serves as an escape capsule.
That’s the last I see of him. Rectangles, bright light, the back of a head. For the next twenty minutes, the Air Force forensic team examines the debris on the ground. There are slow pans over pieces of metal, a broken wing, the parachute that wasn’t released, the capsule hitting the dry lake bed. We see its dim interior. Thankfully, we don’t see much. Men take photographs. They put their hands inside the wreckage and pull out wires. They stand around in groups of three, four, eight. These men are everywhere, some wearing white shirts and ties, some in uniforms, some carrying guns. They all seem somber, puzzled, peering at crumpled metal, examining a sandy arroyo. A great boxy helicopter arrives, kicking up dust. Other helicopters come and go. The film records the departure of an ambulance-sized vehicle. Perhaps my father’s remains are being taken away. More men trudge through sand, stare, murmur, pick up something.
The Mojave Desert dwarfs this scene of busy, hapless men. The film-makers seemed to want to show that, too, these undulations of hills and mountains, layers of cinnamon-brown and chocolate-brown, sweeps of monotonous light-green creosote. This is the beauty of absence. The unadorned lift of granite and basalt. The empty sky, the empty desert. Only you and I know better. We know how the sky fills with high cirrus clouds, the virga of moisture evaporating as it falls, the great anvils of cumulonimbus. We can hear the scorpion rustle and the grasshopper mouse, the Gila monster, the white-winged dove, the burrowing owl. We know better because we are in love with this sky and this land. Even now, from the distance of another century, I can feel the sun’s heat on my arm. I can smell creosote, a sharp mix of turpentine and lemon. I was two years old when my father crashed in the Mojave Desert in the escape capsule of the X-2. I am sixty-four years old today. That span of time is nothing. A rustle of leaves behind you. A flash of light in the corner of your eye.
My father didn’t really love the desert. He was a Kansas farm boy, and the desert must have seemed as different to him as the moon. He did love the sky. In home movies of family vacations, he stops briefly at the figures of his wife and two little girls, the wife looking so happy, the little girls like all little girls. Then he moves on to those billowing clouds over the Grand Canyon, a thunderstorm over Yellowstone National Park. That patch of sky looks empty to us but not to him.
We see him most clearly in these choices. We see him climbing into the cockpit of the X-2. There are instructions, a check list, years of training. There is the possibility that all those years of training will end today. Test pilots died at the rate of one a week in the heyday 1950s. The motto of those test pilots was Ad explorata, into the unknown, and under the demands of preparing the X-2 for flight— check pump number eleven, open drain switch, retract air scoops—humming along with the precision and professionalism of the crew, there was always that drumbeat. The pursuit of revelation. Into the unknown.
As for the people my father left behind, we would fashion our own beauty and meaning from those accumulated moments: kiss your wife goodbye, climb into the cockpit, glide over the Earth—briefly the fastest man on Earth—eject the escape capsule, hit the ground. My sister dreamed that he returns to her a few days later. Sitting on her bed that night, he tells her everything will be okay. Okay is what the five-year-old hears. In my crib nearby, I am dreaming, too. Outside our window, the desert is dreaming. In the small trim houses and in the dormitories and hospital at Edwards Air Force Base, the soldiers and pilots and mechanics and administrators and doctors and nurses and their families are dreaming. All of us, flying and dreaming.