Matchbox
A slight breeze behind my back, I walk along the trail on the hills. The day is balmy and bright, the sky a deep blue, and the hills exceptionally quiet, save the chirp of birds, the rustle of oak trees, and the click of crickets. In many ways, there’s no better weather in spring — warm gusts of air are a welcome respite from the clouds and rain that typify this season in Northern California. From the back of my mind, I remember the old nursery rhyme “April showers bring May flowers” and then realize that, this year, the buds have bloomed early. Grasses are already in desperate competition for sunlight.
Later, the plants are more subdued — week after week of warmth and rays have tempered their enthusiasm. In the wake of the growth, I notice a premature yellowing, more characteristic of July than April. The subtle dryness adds volume to the wind, and the sun stares down, unblinking, with a glare reminiscent of summer. Panting and sweaty, I reach the summit of the trail, and look down onto my home neighborhood of Marinwood, Marin county. From above, I see trees and shrubs lining every yard, and the divide between suburb and open-space seems surprisingly tenuous.
I’m not the only one who’s noticed the spell of good weather. I hear a pack of kids biking behind me, enjoying the unexpected windfall and making the best of a week-end which would have been spent indoors. They laugh with an unconcerned levity, and though I break a smile, I feel a hesitance they too might experience in the following years. Because in the unusual patches of browned grass, and potent sun, and powerful wind, I sense a presence of which they’re unaware: kindling. Surrounded by vegetation, it’s hard not to feel as though we live in a box of matches, waiting for one to light.
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The connection between drought and wildfire in a forested area like here cannot be understated: the warmer the weather and the less the rainfall, the dryer the brush and the bigger the blaze. This logic was made painfully clear last fall, when our utility cut power for a week, citing strong wind events and aging transmission towers. A high school senior, the sudden lull in daily activity occurred while I was applying to colleges — a particularly busy, emotional, and important time. Though scary for everyone, the black-outs were personally significant because they marked the first time I could viscerally grasp the consequences of a new environmental reality.
In fact, my whole life has corresponded with emergency and extreme weather events. The late years of my childhood (2011–2014) saw the driest period in California’s recorded history. My sophomore year, whole neighborhoods of nearby Santa Rosa were consumed in flames, and images of the newly homeless proliferated the local news. The year after that, the Bay Area was inundated with smoke from the burning around the town of Paradise — the sky turned orange, then pink, then gray, depending on the time of day. In each case, support was offered, relief delivered, and rebuilding begun. Yet after these calamities, one question went consistently unanswered: what next?
We’ve never been immune to natural disasters — drought, flood, and fire are as characteristic of our landscape as the California Poppy. But as more and more people call our state home, we’re unprepared to tackle the threat posed by climate change.
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Much can be said on the science behind climate change, but the gist is that certain gases in the atmosphere absorb solar energy reflected off the surface of the Earth, which would otherwise bounce back into space. This trapped heat is referred to as the greenhouse effect because it slowly increases atmospheric temperatures.
Now, it’s considered anthropogenic — or human-caused — mostly because of emissions from the combustion of oil, coal, and other carbon-rich fuels in the past 200 or so years. The hallmark of the Industrial Revolution, these fuels have generated the electricity and vehicular motion which powered our economy and increased our standard of living. However, their consequence is releasing more gases (like carbon dioxide and methane) with a molecular affinity for heat.
In California, warmer air temperatures dry out plant life, which prolong drought conditions in our forests and fields. On the Atlantic, warmer air absorbs more sea water, intensifying seasonal floods and hurricanes. And in every state with a coastline, ice melt from glaciers could submerge low-lying buildings, homes, and beaches underwater.
Unlike war or famine, climate change is a rolling issue, without defined dates or boundaries. Slow-moving and sporadic, it feels convenient to forget or get distracted. Yet during crises, my county has demonstrated a powerful capacity for action and generosity. If we can apply this same ethic to preventative measures, we stand a real chance at protecting our future.
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Fortunately, there are many individual choices, which, though small in nature, add up and make a difference. For example, installing more efficient home appliances, such as light bulbs, saves both carbon-fuel derived energy and money. Once a novel technology, LED’s (light emitting diodes) are now competitive with their traditional incandescent and spiral-shaped fluorescent counterparts, which are hot to the touch after an hour. Unlike the old-style bulbs, LED’s lose less energy to heat and stay functional for much longer.
Similarly, diverting organic waste from the garbage to the green can reduces greenhouse emissions, but from a little-known source: the landfill. When food scraps and plant remnants are buried under layers of trash, they lack oxygen and decompose in a reaction that produces methane. With nearly 30 times the atmospheric warming potential of carbon dioxide, landfill methane is a substantial and damaging byproduct of yard and kitchen waste which could otherwise be converted to compost. It’s easy to toss left-overs, stale bread, and coffee grounds in the trash, but something as simple as a green pail next to the stove can serve as a reminder to sort before throwing away.
We can also revise our approach towards transportation, which accounts for more than half of our county’s greenhouse gas emissions. Last March, Marin residents accepted a new parcel tax for firefighters, but rejected Measure I to fund our local railway, a key method of reducing automobile traffic and tailpipe gases. This ballot initiative will resurface in the coming years, where we’ll have another chance to support the SMART train and increase a daily ridership already numbering in the thousands.
As important as these changes are, the most permanent solution for climate change is found within us, in our relationship with nature. Our recognition of the special places that shape and enhance our lives — beaches, forests, open-space — determines our feeling of connection to land and our willingness to preserve it. Re-examining behaviors with this lens, we can more fully understand our impact on the planet, appreciate its balance, and adopt habits aligned with our values.
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Once again, I’m on my trail on the hills. The sun is setting behind me, and the bay reflects the colors of the sky. In the distance, I hear the coo, coo, coo, of a dove, and notice a family of deer emerge from bushes to dine on grass. As the evening slowly fades away, the lights of Marinwood turn on, echoing the stars above.
Tomorrow, the sun will rise. Life will resume. The concerns of the day will return, but the hills will remain, drying, slowly, waiting for when we come back.
