Better Living Through Nano-Aggression

Wild Mustard on the Long Canyon Trail

Last year, I became aware that certain botanical aliens are in our midst. One day it suddenly dawned on me that foreign interlopers had infiltrated our indigenous ecosystem and were hard at work displacing the natural flora that makes Southern California, well, Southern California. These trespassers had always been with us, hiding in plain sight, but I had never noticed. I was completely blind to their presence. And then something changed and I inexplicably became “woke” to the reality that these invading migrants, these foreign belligerents, were among us and were a serious problem that needed to be addressed. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I knew that it didn’t mean sitting around doing nothing. For as Ed Abbey once said, “sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul.” So I ran out and bought a pick-axe at the local hardware store and launched a personal eradication campaign. The object of my ire was Russian Thistle (Salsola tragus), and I began enthusiastically ripping out the obnoxious weed by its roots whenever I encountered it. This was, of course, a fool’s errand, but I embraced it with zeal anyway, and before the winter rains began, I had managed to single-handedly clear my local trail of the offending bush from top to bottom.

After the rainy season was over, Southern California experienced a so-called “Superbloom.” This is when native wildflowers which have lain dormant during the long, brown months of fire and drought, suddenly germinate and explode in a technicolor orgy of orange, purple, blue, and red. And we all stampeded into the hills to appropriately “ooh and aah” at the wonderful spectacle of it all. In the process, we managed to trample under foot, leg, arm, and ass a good deal of the delicate wonders we all rushed out to admire. Then the dying time arrived and the warm spring sun bleached the hills from green to gray to straw yellow.

As that transformation was happening, a second “Superbloom” was under way. Unlike the first bloom, this one was not sugar and spice and everything nice. Instead, this bloom heralded the arrival of Black Mustard (Brassica nigra), a pleasant-looking but pernicious organism that metastasizes like a stage 4 cancer cell. No one ran to the hills to gape and gasp at this bloom even if they wanted to. The Black Mustard infestation became so thick that entire trail networks disappeared under a heavy blanket of yellow flowers and tall, woody stocks.

Black Mustard is a nasty plant that grows aggressively in disturbed and burned areas. It’s an early-germinating water hog with a deep tap root that releases allelopathic chemicals into the soil which prevent native plants from developing. It is not native to California and there are various competing explanations as to how it got here. One theory is that it was introduced by Franciscan padres who deliberately scattered its seeds along the El Camino Real to mark the way as they trudged northward between missions. Another story postulates that the plant was brought to California by Spanish colonizers as a spice crop which then quickly got out of control and spread like wildfire. Still another theory is that Spanish Rancheros introduced the species to support cattle grazing. The fast-growing mustard, the story goes, was deliberately planted to compensate for diminishing native grasses that were being rapidly consumed by the four-hoofed locusts we call cows. I don’t know which theory is the most accurate. They all sound plausible to me. But I think it safe to assume that indigenous Californians are not the ones responsible for this pest. It was brought here by colonizers and settlers and we have them to thank for it. 

One look at the mustard-covered hills and you immediately know it is with us to stay. Given the sheer scope and magnitude of the infestation, it is pure folly to believe that it can be eliminated from the environment either now or in the future. I know and accept that truth. Nevertheless, I started randomly pulling mustard trailside here and there while I hiked as a cathartic exercise. They come up surprisingly easily if the soil is not compacted. I wasn’t really making a dent in the problem, but I figured getting rid of a plant here and there was a small contribution that I could make. Then I hit upon something. I could never win the war. I couldn’t even win a battle. I was far too outnumbered for that. But I could win small skirmishes. If I focused my attention microscopically on one small plot or one choked-out native, I actually could rack up some victories.

Before

After

So I commenced my insurgency against Brassica nigra in earnest. I’ve added gardening gloves to my day-pack as the “11^th essential,” and now each time I go out, I pick a small area to clear and start yanking. I don’t focus on the walls of mustard that flank every fire road. That’s a useless endeavor. Instead, I’m focusing my attention on small sections of hillside or individual native plants that are being crowded out.

The looks I get from passer-bys are hilarious. They’re not sure what to make of me. They’ve all got this “what in the actual fuck is this lunatic doing?” look on their faces. I’ve seen some of them shaking their heads to themselves. My family understands me by now. They fortunately tolerate my idiosyncrasies.

So there you have it. Me and Sisyphus both rolling our boulders uphill. It’s an endless and impossible task, but it’s oddly gratifying. And it is effective, albeit on a micro level. I’m fine with that even if the task will never be complete. It's what I call better living through nano-aggression.

Before

After

Chamise, the Woolsey Fire, Fucked-Up Priorities, and Gratitude

As you may know from my last blog-post, I’ve effectively adopted a little Chamise plant that lives in a fissure atop a sandstone outcropping in the hills overlooking my neighborhood. For the past year or so, I’ve fawned over this little guy like a doting parent, showering him with attention and water and protecting him against foreign invaders intent on claiming and occupying his homey crack. While other nearby plants have either withered or retreated into dormancy during what seems like perpetual drought, mi chamisa has flourished. He bloomed late into the season this year and is looking quite robust despite his rather harsh and austere surroundings.

So when the Woolsey Fire raced through the area and ravaged the local hillsides, I thought of mi chamisa and was immediately sick with worry. I realize how quirky and perhaps douchey it may sound to be worried about a single fucking plant while entire neighborhoods and biomes are burning. But I’ve invested a lot of emotional capital in this single plant, and rightly or wrongly, I was concerned about him.  If that makes me sound like a crackpot with misplaced priorities, I suppose that’s only because I’m a crackpot with misplaced priorities. I accept that.

So last Friday night, I raced home after work and scampered up the familiar trail in the fading light to do a welfare check on my friend. As I climbed the trail, a heaviness fell upon me. Both sides of the trail were charred black and the odor of smoke still hung heavy in the air. Most of the vegetation, including the despised Russian Thistle, had been completely obliterated by the flames. The landscape was deathly still and devoid of life. I wondered about the Western Toads I had inexplicably seen trailside before all hell broke loose. I was astonished they were there in the first place. What could possibly be their fate now?

Lost in thought and feeling a bit melancholy, I crested the ridge to discover that the trail sign and wooden bench were still there and intact. Stunned, I stood there for a brief moment trying to process what I was seeing. Everything around the bench and trail sign was completely gone, but they were still there. I hurried to the top of the hill where the sandstone outcropping sits, approaching it reverentially and with some hesitancy. Now that I was there, I wasn’t really sure whether I wanted to see what I had come to look at. But I quickly noticed that the rounded top of this hillock seemed to have avoided the worst of the flames. It was hard to tell for certain in the dusky darkness, but I thought I could detect living, breathing plants as I made my way up the spur to the summit.

At the base of the sandstone outcropping, I readied my flashlight and scurried to the top. Hesitating for a moment, I surveyed the cliff edge before turning on the light. I could see something in the darkness, but I couldn’t tell if it was alive or dead. I asked the universe for a miracle and then switched on the light. And there he was, mi chamisa, sitting there stoically in the sandstone crack as he always had, untouched by the flames.

I was overwhelmed by emotion. Tears began to well up but I held them back. Nobody was around to see, but I still felt a bit embarrassed about getting weepy over a solitary plant. I texted my daughter 400 miles away to tell her that mi chamisa had survived. She responded immediately with relief telling me that she had seen the destruction in the burn areas and had been thinking about my Chamise. She is her father’s daughter. She has inherited my idiosyncrasies.

I quickly pulled some water from my pack and offered some to my friend. He gratefully accepted. I then sat alone in the inky stillness sipping a beer and feeling content. Sometimes, the universe delivers.