The last work party of 2024: We excavated trash, dug Himalayan blackberry roots, pulled ivy, rooted up herb Robert and foxglove. We tucked in baby conifers with blankets of mulch stitched in rings, the Western red cedars in particular need of this tender care under climate change. We felt the wind rush around us, watched a murmuration twist and turn above us. We found a tiny Garry oak pushing out of the ground from an acorn planted on the winter solstice one year ago, put a kite in the air for a fleeting moment, brought a whole vibe. We made space, for the trees and for each other. We arrived as we were and left transformed, still ourselves, but some slightly different version produced by the alchemy of the our own hearts, the elements, and each other.
Light rain. Root balls, knotweed, holly, mulch. Little lime green frog. Bushtits nest in an adolescent fir tree, chickadees make copious announcements. We dig and haul and break for strawberry knotweed pie. Fireworks of green everywhere around us.
A copse of trees hides a stand of holly. The youngest among us recruits help, instructs on tools, leads the way. It is warm, too warm for this time of year, we peel off layers, elderberry and red flowering currant bloom weeks earlier than usual. What do the nesting birds make of the unseasonable warmth? An elder wrenches tangled holly roots from between those of a grown cottonwood, we unearth gnarled blackberry root balls nearby, pull up the carpet of ivy. An old Coke can, shards from a broken pane of glass, tennis balls shorn of fuzz. Everywhere we have touched this landscape. A silent bald eagle and a crying red-tailed hawk circle above.
“Hope is not a lottery ticket you can sit on the sofa and clutch, feeling lucky. It is an axe you break down doors with in an emergency. Hope should shove you out the door, because it will take everything you have to steer the future away from endless war, from the annihilation of the earth’s treasures and the grinding down of the poor and marginal… To hope is to give yourself the future – and that commitment to the future is what makes the present inhabitable.” ―Rebecca Solnit, Hope in the Dark
You help make my present not only inhabitable, but also joyful. Thank you.
New elders, teens known and new to each other, all new to me. You trickle in, each of you right on time, growing us from six to twenty at our peak. We disentangle layers of black plastic sheeting from roots, wrestle blackberry canes from a conifer and elderberry, activate the pungent sent of Herb Robert as we pull it from the ground. Goats arrive, stunning slot-pupilled eyes pulling us from shade to sun. Our happiness increases by 50%. In the end, reed canary grass stands tall, thistles sharp, there is a sea of blackberry before us, but there is only discernment, no discouragement. This is the work before us. We gather to connect before falling away to rest so that we may return again, over and over, for as long as it takes.
“Everybody can be great…because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.”
–Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., speaking before the Ebenezer Baptist Church in 1968
It was an honor to serve alongside you. Thank you with every part of my being.
“The principal point of this book is not that the salmon is a magnificent animal that holds its own compared to anything on the Serengeti–beautiful in its many phases; thrilling in its athleticism; moving in its strength, determination, and courage; poetic in its heroic and tragic life story–and it would be sad if it were to disappear. All that is true, but a more important point is that if the salmon does not survive, there is little hope for the survival of the planet.” –Mark Kurlansky, Salmon: A Fish, the Earth, and the History of their Common Fate
If the forecast this year is correct, 10,165 Cedar River sockeye will pass through the Hiram M. Chittenden Ballard Locks on their way to Lake Washington. If the forecast is correct, 2022 will displace 2020, when 22,950 returned, as the lowest Cedar River sockeye run on record. If the forecast this year is correct, we are in free fall. Salmon are in crisis. So are we.
The knotweed grows more slowly and seems easier to dig now that the soil is drier. My child tells me excitedly that he is no longer shy now that he is double digits and turns his attention toward happily hacking a holly tree. We have a weed wrench, but the holly trunk is too large, so some of us dig and dig, reconnaissance that shows where the roots are small enough to slay. Others of us look at the Himalayan blackberry grow back and wonder who will prevail and are surprised again that in the end it is us. We dig it all. And then we stand in the rectangular hole where the holly once grew, with smiles bright as stars, and we bask in the glow of having done this thing, not an impossible thing, but a new thing for us that showed that with flexibility, curiosity, and perseverance we can do hard, important things.
I drive the surface streets of Seattle on the way to greet my loves. Traffic is heavy, and I will be late but I play with not worrying about it. There is so much to worry about–our collapsing climate, unnecessary parking lots, democracy slipping away, salmon on the brink of extinction–that there is no room for adding lateness to the list. I look at the buildings on either side of me when I am stopped by traffic lights, and I notice how close together they are, how varied in style, how unlike they are to the buildings in my own neighborhood. My own beautiful, comfortable neighborhood, sprawling, spread out, requiring copious use of this car I am in, contributing to the problems about which I worry. I wonder how we will grow in a different way. Will we? If we don’t, what will we lose?
My mind wanders into the past. I think about the year I became a volunteer naturalist with the Seattle Aquarium. That year, I lay on the banks of the Cedar River while we talked about where we might see salmon spawning if we were lucky to see them at all. The listlessness of then pushes its way into now, bringing a swell of love, sadness, and tears. These are my loves, I would not change that if I could, and so I live with the pain of witnessing them struggle for species survival, with the sadness that comes from knowing we might lose them still.
Back in the present, I look out the car window, watching people walking their dogs, walking with reusable bags, waiting at the bus stop. Then The Church is on the radio singing Under the Milky Way, and I am pulled to the past again, this time to the 1980s, before I knew about salmon at all. I am in the home ec room where I am learning to bring the liquid measuring cup to eye level to discern whether I have poured in the desired amount, I am crying in the choir alcove, a note filled with adolescent spite and pettiness on my lap, I am hanging upside down on the monkey bars over hard, cracked asphalt. All the yearning of that age–wanting so badly to belong, to not feel awkward, unsure, and misfit–settles over me, jostling about in my crowded mind. If we felt we truly belonged, would it be easier for us to make space for others, too, including salmon?
Finally I am walking on the promenade along Salmon Bay, coming closer and closer to my final destination, the Hiram M. Chittenden Ballard Locks. I am late, but no matter. There are salmon in the fish ladder, and everyone is glad to see me. I spend the next two and a half hours basking in the joy and giddiness of being in the presence of my loves, beautiful salmon, mostly sockeye right now, returning from a long and arduous journey in the ocean to spawn in their natal rivers and streams. I see a handful of chinook smolt in the fish ladder, too, where they are undergoing complex physiological changes to adapt from fresh water to saltwater living, something we cannot see even as it is happening right before our eyes.
People are visiting the Locks from all over. They are from Seattle, from Iowa, from Saskatchewan, from places unknown, and 62 of them spend some of their time in conversation with me. I talk animatedly about my loves, and they ask questions and tell me about themselves in what feels like a fair and connecting exchange. They are heading to Alger, Washington as part of a quest to visit every town in the country bearing their surname. The other Algers are in Michigan and Ohio. They have come from rural Canada, where people are intimately connected to the land for their livelihoods as farmers and loggers, on a coach bus to cheer for the Toronto Blue Jays against the Mariners that night. They are a landlocked people, yet they understand deeply the importance of caring for these ocean-going fish. They have come with a lifetime of experiences, with hopes and dreams, with adventures yet ahead, and our stories intersect on the concrete walkways around the fish ladder. Salmon have connected us all.
I am kneeling at the hardware store, counting trowels as I place them in the basket next to me on the floor, leaving none hanging on the wall. A couple approaches and stops just short of me, watching. I wonder if they too have come for this tool, so I offer one from my basket. No, they tell me. They are simply noticing that I have taken all the available trowels and wondering, too. I tell them that I am working with a group of children and that I want to make sure everyone has a tool, and this seems to hearten them.
If the forecast this year is correct, 10,165 Cedar River sockeye will pass through the Hiram M. Chittenden Ballard Locks on their way to Lake Washington, the lowest in recorded history. These are my loves.
