The science of choice, bovine flatulance edition

© 2010 Joshua Stark

...and I don't mean it like, "The Breakfast of Champions."

Economics is often called the science of choice (which is also why it's called the "dismal science"), because an economist spends her time thinking about everything you could have done with that $1.25 you spent on the King Sized Snickers you bought at the corner liquor store (the Standup Economist has a simply genius take on this when translating Mankiw's Ten Principles of Economics).

It's interesting, because economics looks at the choices we make with an eye toward improving efficiencies, but efficiencies come in many shapes and sizes, and increasing one efficiency may, in fact, create a less efficient outcome for something else.  Take California cow farts, for example.

That's right.  KQED posted a snippet about methane digesters at two huge dairies in the Central Valley, and the problems they are having getting them up and running.  In it, they talk about the farmers' troubles with lowering their pollution.  You see, methane is a greenhouse gas, but burning it causes a local pollutant known as NOx.  It just so happens that the air quality district in which these dairies operate is almost constantly far beyond the legal limit for its local, human-health-destroying pollutants.  For some perspective, note that one in five children in the Central Valley has asthma.

Unfortunately, KQED decided to place this in its "ClimateWatch" series, and not its, "OhMyLordOurIndustriesAreKillingOurChildren" series, where the "efficiencies" argument might be considered in a different light.  However, they did, and they talked about how these farmers, in trying to do a good, unselfish deed, were coming up against the heartless and cold steel wall of bureaucracy.  Why, one poor farmer has had to spend $200k for one pollution control device!

But, what the report does not do is compare the costs of containment to a number of other factors.  For example, how much was saved in medical costs for asthma attacks?  I'm no doctor, but I'm guessing that a couple hundred grand is chump change.  Also, how much of these farmers' energy costs were offset by generating their own power, even after the added pollution-control measures?  How much ag. production from neighboring farms was saved, since pollution is responsible for probably a 15% reduction in plant productivity from dimming the Sun in the Valley? 

And, if they'd saved that money, how many additional cows could they have bought, thus increasing their pollution contribution?

Economics uses money because it is a convenient way to measure relative efficiencies, but it isn't the only way, nor is efficiency the only thing to worry about.  For example, how many children were spared a painful, frightening and life-threatening asthma attack?  How many parents were spared the horror of rushing a child, who simply cannot breathe, to the hospital?  We can put these savings into dollar amounts, but that would cheapen it in a bad way, now wouldn't it?

I will tell you right now that these farmers did not fund methane digesters simply because they believe that global warming is partly their fault, just like we consumers don't all put solar panels up on our houses or run out and buy an electric car just to save the planet.  They ran the numbers, and the energy saving they'll get from doing it in-house pays off.  Plus they may get carbon offsets in the near future.  Plus they help do their part to save the planet.  Plus they have the ability to cover the up-front costs of conversion, and the risk of doing something fairly new.

I commend these farmers for taking a step out unfamiliar territory, and I'm especially glad that John Fiscalini at Fiscalini Farms put in that pollution control device.  That's great work.  I'm also very happy with the work of regulators telling folks that they have to control their NOx pollution in a place with the worst air quality in the entire country.  I'm not so happy with KQED losing the heart of this story by contriving an angle to shoehorn it into their ClimateWatch series.

Economics, in getting us to consider our choices, is a great boon to society.  But remember that these choices go beyond the over-simplified monetary quantities.  Our choices have real impacts.

And, when you click over to the KQED piece, please note the convolutions the editor had to go through to get to use, "cut it", in the title of a piece on cow farts.

Working with what we've got

© 2010 Joshua Stark

Even with the funding near-crisis which we've reached, our land management and land protection agencies still do some pretty fine work.  If you read Outdoor California, for example, you'll notice the great stories of game wardens out catching poachers, drug dealers, and other nefarious sorts - and remember, at every stop of hunters, the warden knows the person is armed.

Also, consider the wonderful job Phillip at the Hog Blog describes being done at a beautiful valley in Northwestern California.  It would appear the Forest Service is rehabilitating a land devastated by a catastrophic wildfire.  That is some hard work, and takes a lot of effort, planning, and achievement.

For those who don't know, a catastrophic wildfire is a largely unnatural event in California ecology.  Due to the high level of forest fuels from too much fire suppression over the past 150 years, coupled with a forest floor full of non-native invasive plants that burn hotter and into the soil, catastrophic fires destroy native plants, seeds, and soil biology, leaving rock and lifeless dirt in its place, to be re-populated by even more non-native, invasive plants.  To bring back these lands, planners and managers must take many factors into consideration, which in California is even more complicated than other places - we have more microclimates, and therefore more plant varieties.  In fact, we have more plant varieties than all other states.  Combined.

So please consider this great work.  Here's my tip of the hat to the wonderful, hard-working men and women of our public lands management.  Thank you.

Funding issues in the environment

© 2010 Joshua Stark

Phillip Loughlin always does a bang-up job of hitting some nacent idea between my brain cells and getting it out.  This time, a commenter on one of the Hog Blogger's condor posts knocked me in the temple, and out popped a notion that had been stewing in my unconscious for quite some time.

The commenter made a common, innocuous claim:  That condor preservation costs about $74k per bird.  He also alluded to the notion that this was extravagant.  I've heard this claim before, and though I don't know it's a fact, I'm willing to believe it is true right now, because condors have had such a small population for so long.

Where it took me was deep in my head, into the realm of funding for our natural resources and habitats.  I've had more than a few dealings with funding, and I've come to two conclusions:  If we don't step up, as a society, and start paying for effective research and management of our natural resources, somebody will... or, won't... but either way, it won't always be good.

I've dealt with land managers who've argued that lower visitation means "fewer boots on the habitat", while still decrying the loss of money for good protections.  I've dealt with it as a visitor, finding garbage cans and pit toilets overflowing and filthy.  I've dealt directly, as a park employee, with trying to make a living in a 3/4 time position in a place where the median price for a house was $425,000.  And I've dealt with it as an advocate in the legislative realm, where many have looked for every possible way to fund our public resources management, only to find themselves having to compete for shrinking dollars with fire, police, health, and education. 

Two very bad things seem to be happening, and both are exacerbated by our current economic crisis.

First, we've just flat-out stopped funding government (or "our" as I like to call it) management of public resources.  We've cut park staff, rangers, and facilities for public use.  California has the lowest number of per capita game wardens:  200 wardens for a population over 38 million, with more than 800 miles of marine coastline in a state 158706 square miles in size, 2407 of those inland waterways (about 500 sq. mi. more than all of Delaware).  And for yet another year, our state will probably furlough 10% of their work hours. 

Second, in their desperation, many advocates are turning to a new form of funding in order to take care of our public places:  Private contributions.  But, private money comes with some serious issues.  When people give huge chunks of money to help purchase lands, there is always the conversation about how the place will be managed.  This is understandable, but the government has always gained some leverage, during those conversations, by saying that it will be paying for management, and therefore it will have to determine management in a public fashion.  But when private money goes into implementing management plans, the pressure to manage for those who provide the funding grows exponentially.

This second move brings with it some sad potential for public management of public lands for private benefit.  I am sure there are many benevolent and wealthy folks out there willing to give up millions of dollars with no desire for getting special treatment when it comes to managing our public lands, but we cannot merely trust in the good nature of these folks.

The bottom line is that, cliche' though it may be, public lands are our lands, and if we are going to keep them well for all of us and for our future, then we cannot shirk our duties to protect them.  Nor can we give over those duties to a small minority of people to manage, in the hopes that they will still think about the public's needs and wishes.

One way to help step up is by buying duck stamps, even if you don't hunt.  Also, involve yourself in the public management process by commenting on proposed rules and rule changes.  The National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA) requires that any federal government action that may impact the environment must go through a public process.  California has a wonderful law like that, too (CEQA) - and other states may have other public-input requirements. 

It's always important to give whatever volunteer time you can, and it's always important to donate to worthy causes.  But don't forget that the United States is special and worth protecting only because of its democratic republican principles of a government of, by, and for the people.

Watch out for radioactive pigs from space! (and truffles)

© 2010 Joshua Stark

Except for the space part, the title is true if you live or plan to visit East Germany (and probably huge parts of Eastern Europe and Russia), and you also plan to eat wild boar or certain mushrooms, then you might be interested in this article in the Spiegel (via the Hog Blog).

25 years after Chernobyl, German hunters are still killing contaminated hogs, and the German Government is required to reimburse them for it, last year to the tune of over a half-million dollars.

The article points out, among other things, that the pigs are probably still being contaminated because they feed on certain mushrooms, including truffles, that still concentrate the contaminants.  And, they are finding some pigs contaminated at rates over 11 times the allowed about of radioactivity.

I also thought this might be interesting for people who are on the fence about subsidizing nuclear as an energy option.

A quick note

I'm still around, just trying to get through life and times.

Some big things have happened that I've just not had the time to post here:

The federal climate legislation died (who'd a thunk it?), & President Obama ponders next steps;

A panel finally gave a number for the amount of flow the California Delta needs for its ecosystem functions (much less than is already flowing), and a State Senate Select Committee is meeting to talk about it next week;

The Western Climate Initiative posted its cap & trade proposal;

& the Center for Biological Diversity and allies have just petitioned the EPA to consider the impacts of lead ammunition on wildlife.

I'm sure I'll post my thoughts on these issues... in a bit.

In the mean time, do any of you have any issues you think I should cover?  Think about the nexus of ethics and the environment.

A Successful Outing - Young 'uns in the field.

© 2010 Joshua Stark

Yesterday afternoon, we came home from a 3 1/2 day camping trip into the Sierra Nevada.

It'd be nice to say that we hiked back 20 miles or so into some roadless area where we lived off the land, picked berries and tubers, killed the great Hart, caught fish, or some such thing.  The truth is, however, that we drove up to the last vacant site in a campground of 80 spots, amid hundreds of people and next to a reservoir.  But I do not apologize.

My plans always start bigger than they wind up (ask any number of my hunting and fishing companions), and this trip proved no exception.  We were expecting upwards of 20 people to join us for a few days of hiking, berry-picking, perhaps crawdadding, and definitely fishing, fishing, and fishing.  But slowly, people backed out, all for very good reasons, of course, and we were down to two days of 5 1/2 of us, and two days with three more folks.

The days were hot, too: I'm sure we broke 100 on at least one of them.  And the neighbors were up pretty late and up pretty early.  And the reservoir was full of motor boats and jet skis.

But not in our neck of the woods.  Where we landed, we had a wonderful little inlet that had a few people, but almost zero encounters with fast boaters.  We launched our kayak and canoe, toted around a blow-up turtle (as opposed to an exploding turtle), and splashed in the water the first day. 

The evening of the second day, my nephew and I took to the woods stumpshooting.  For those of you who aren't lucky enough to use a bow and arrow, stumpshooting is when you walk through the forest, slowly and quietly (or not so slowly and a little bit loud, but not screaming and running), and sneak up on and shoot wily critters like pinecones and sticks.  Stumps can break arrows, so we don't really shoot at those... I'm guessing the term was coined by wealthier folks than we.

We walked, and talked, and watched the stream higher than I'd ever seen it in July.  We vowed we'd return the next day with the whole family.  We also had a run-in with a hawk of some kind (it kills me that I don't know what kind of hawk it was) chasing a baby bird, the momma screaming and right on its heels.  The three of them went careening through the woods, and we had to duck to avoid being hit - the hawk barely banked to its left, the baby bird to its right.  They flew on through the forest, but since we almost instantly heard no more screaming from the momma bird, we figured the baby had gotten away.  While neither of us could help feeling relieved, I also explained to my nephew that the hawk may be trying to feed its own little ones.  He responded, after some thought, that "it's both good and bad."

The next day, we all trekked back to the stream and swam it.  There was a fast current in the middle of a fine pool, and my nephew swam it bravely, (which means with trepidation, but doing it anyway because he felt he should, not because we goaded him - we aren't like that).  Other family arrived, and we had a great time at the pool.  At one point, a niece fell in the water (she was okay), and our 11-year old dog, Irma, jumped in to save her - a remarkable feat, since she absolutely detests swimming, and the water was cold.  If you've never owned a dog, I might venture to say that you've never known pure, unconditional love.

The berries weren't ripe.  We didn't drop a crawdad trap.  We fished maybe ten minutes, tops.  No rabbits for the pot.  Deer season was a month away.  And yet, this was one of the greatest camping trips I've ever had.  Loving family was there, there were adventures aplenty, the food was great, and I got to watch my 3-year old daughter show little fear of anything other than boats and band-aids.  She climbed up and down rocks all day, she watched bugs, she asked about bird calls (a red-breasted nuthatch).

What an amazing time. 

If you ever get a chance to get out with kids into the woods, even if they are a little crowded with other folks, do it - for them, and for you.

And now, I'll leave you with a little video I took on a tree next to our campsite.  I think it's fitting with the theme:

Last weekend's hunt, and thoughts on archery hunting

© 2010 Joshua Stark

I had an absolutely amazing time on my bowhunt with Phillip and Cat.  No game was bagged, but something in me clicked, in a good way.

Archery hunting tends to do that to me.  It makes me calm, it helps me move more deliberately and understand that serenity goes a long way in life.

When a person moves when archery hunting, they are trying to get in close, without being recognized.  Many people automatically anthropomorphize creatures, but when one hunts with a bow, even the most basic human assumption - that sight is the most important sense - has to go out the window.  At least, it does when you hunt pigs or deer.
flx1247rg
When bowhunting, the wind is more important than cover.  Sound, too, becomes very important.

And so, one pokes slowly through the forest, using game trails and old roads, and always checking the wind patterns.  Especially when there is no persistent breeze, winds can be tricky.

I consider myself fairly astute at reading the wind, for which I credit my nearsightedness.  When I was young, I went a few years without knowing I needed glasses.  I was quiet and shy, and I also got good grades, so it just never really came up until I was about to get my driver's license.  However, I walked outdoors constantly, but came to rely more and more upon my understanding of the wind, especially in regards to how it moved sounds, but also smells.  (I also greatly enjoyed tracking, because tracks were close and thus more visible than, say, sunlight through the ear of a cottontail.) 

Luckily for me, then, I've a decent ability to read the wind, a downright invaluable asset when bowhunting.  Rifle hunters need to know the wind, too, but usually only if it is moving big, or if they are still-hunting, or hunting heavy cover; but for a bowhunter, there is much more to it.  My most recent trip provides a prime example:

This last weekend, I had the absolute privilege and joy to stalk wild hogs.  In particular, after stumbling (a little more literally than I'd have liked) upon a wallow on a creek, I decided... well, my calves decided to sit a bit, because I knew it had been used recently (I could smell pigs there - isn't that cool?).  The Sun was setting, and I knew I had maybe 20 minutes of light left.

The creek was nestled between two steep, dry hills that rose a few hundred feet on either side.  They were very steep in some places, impassable in others, and covered in varying degrees of deep, dark wood, oak park habitat, and grassy open spots.  The grass was golden and dry, the ground baked by the California Sun, making bushwhacking too noisy a prospect.  But, a road paralleled the creek.

After "hearing" something up-creek a bit, I slowly walked around a small bend.  I realized almost simultaneously that the noise had come from the water, and that, 100 yards distant, browsing calmly between two oak trees and out in the grass, moseyed a sow, a boar, and six piglets.  I froze.

Now, if this had been a story with a rifle, I would have had the picture of the pig at the end of this story, right?  But with my recurve, I was just beginning a stalk, and I had 70 yards to go.

Thanks to my nearsightedness, when I stopped moving I immediately knew the bad news.  The back of my arms and neck, the exposed parts of my body, were colder than the front.  The wind was slowly wafting from me to my prey.  With little light left, I knew I couldn't hike up the hill and back down to them, so I attempted to close the distance a little quicker than normal.  Using the cover of the creek berm, I moseyed, myself, toward them.

Crap!  I walked up onto another wallow, and I immediately knew that's where they were headed, and if I'd stayed put, they might have walked right up to me.

I made about 30 yards before the boar caught wind of me.  A little snuffling snort, and all of them stood stock still, wound up tight, and ready to run.  Then they did run, back into the deep, dark wood, and into my memories forever.

They never once saw me, of that I'm sure - and the creek's gurgle ensured that they never heard me, either.  All it took was the familiarity of my smell (my wife will laugh at that one) for them to know, as surely as I would know if I'd seen a man with a gun stalking me, that they needed to leave, and fast.

Archery hunting hones a lot of lessons that regular hunting teaches, including the human need to move slowly and deliberately through the wild, the need to understand how you influence the world, and the vital lesson that things happen that you cannot control, and that accepting them and putting yourself out there are more important.

Getting out there also reminded me that I love and thrive on just being there.  I saw a tiny owl, I saw bandtail pigeons ripping through the air.  I saw quail, and had the hooey scared out of my twice by a lovesick grouse and his beautiful, brown mate.  Twice.  I stalked a jackrabbit and was showed equal shock and an instant of stark terror when a horrifying pig-squeal rose up from the canyon below us.  I realized that no successful North American mammal predator has a green coat.  And I spent a great time with two great, new friends - laughing, joking, eating and drinking, recounting tales, and sharing a sad moment (read Phillip's piece on that one).

So, when I got home and started poking around a few sites looking for archery and bowhunting legends and lore, and I stumbled upon this amazing video, I won't feel shame to say it brought tears to my eyes. Please take a couple of minutes to hear the last question of the last interview given by Fred Bear.  You won't be disappointed.