| Excerpt from Ferns: A chart of fern families, @David Rydeheard; available for personal or educational use. (Click to view; arrow and note added.) |
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 24, 2024
Wishing Happiness to All!
Sunday, November 3, 2024
Does Dog Exist? A tail of philosophy, AI, and the pursuit of happiness.
| Dog? |
However not far into the article I was sidetracked from my pursuit of happiness when I learned that "Does Dog exist?" is an eternal question among philosophers, debated at least since 400 BC. Was Plato right? Is there an unchanging ideal that is the true essence of Dog? Or was Aristotle right? Are our diverse too-short-lived dogs all that we have?
| September 2014, Uinta Mountains. |
| September 2024, Canyonlands—our 10th anniversary :) |
"The question of whether a dog truly exists can be explored through philosophical discussions about particulars and universals. A dog, as a particular animal, is undeniably real and can be seen and touched, while the concept of "dog" as a category represents a set of characteristics that define what it means to be a dog."That's it?! You would think that after nearly two millennia there would be a better answer. Maybe the problem lies with DuckAssist; after all this is a Beta release. So I continued to the two websites it recommended.
The first—Is a Dog Really a Dog? at Philosophy is Not a Luxury—was similar to DuckAssist's answer but much longer. It may have been the main or only source of content. Not convinced that "philosophy is not a luxury", I went to the second recommended site: I wag, therefore I am in The Guardian.
At this site there was nothing about whether Dog exists. Instead, author Mark Rowland discussed dog philosophy in an excerpt from his book, The Happiness of Dogs. Apparently DuckAssist missed the mark by making a common AI error, specifically "Too Eager to Please". But it was a nice coincidence, as my dog does this too.
Emmie is half Basenji and therefore bred to kill small animals. This she does eagerly, even those that never lived. Likewise, an AI is driven by its breeding:
| Philosopher in front, student (Mark Rowland) behind; promo photo from The Guardian. |
| Just trying to help! |
"Generative AI needs to create a response to your query, even if it isn’t capable of giving you one ... If the AI doesn’t have enough actual information in its knowledge base, it fills in gaps with stuff that sounds like it could be correct ..." (more here).
But is this really an error? After all, DuckAssist brought me back to the pursuit of happiness. Maybe it read my mind!
Rowland, a philosopher himself, considers dogs "natural philosophers"—they understand "what is important in [life], and how to live it. Philosophers have done their best to address these questions, with limited success. But dogs answer them effortlessly and decisively. Humans think about these questions, but dogs live them."
| So much joy in life! |
This certainly is true of Emmie. All it takes is these five words—"Let's go check the mail"—for her to explode with joy. She spins round and round, her small compact body making tight circles along the path all the way to the end of the fence, where she then barks and races off to get any rabbits hiding under the junipers (she has yet to catch one but no matter).
Rowland asks whether humans can ever experience this kind of joy. I too wonder. He says that because we have two lives—"the life that we live and the life that we think about, scrutinise, evaluate and judge"—we can never love life as a dog does. For one thing, a dog doesn't struggle to find meaning in life, while we too often do.
But there's hope. Both Rowland and I are sure that our dogs can help in our pursuit of happiness. We just have to pay attention.
| Stay warm. |
| Maybe yoga will help (Upside-down Dog pose). |
| What's your purpose in life? To keep your dog happy, of course! |
| My role model? |
NOTE
The article about philosophy and happiness is by Arthur C. Brooks, a regular contributor to The Atlantic. He argues that Platonists emphasize what they are, which can interfere with happiness, while Aristotelians have greater potential for happiness because they define themselves mainly as works in progress. But he adds, "Neither being nor becoming is exclusively true or exists to the exclusion of the other." I can't say I was persuaded; maybe I didn't fully understand. If you want to give it a try, read the article here.
Friday, June 30, 2023
Goodbye, Jan Conn—legendary rock climber, caver, musician & much more
| Jan Conn (center) with her woodworking group. |
| It was while I was working as a ranger at Devils Tower that I first learned of the Conns. |
| Jan Conn and Jane Showacre after the first manless ascent of Devils Tower, 1952. |
| Jan and Herb in their converted panel truck, 1957 (source). |
| Camping at Devils Tower, 1956 (source). |
By the early 1980s, they had "retired" from caving and returned to climbing. That's what they were doing when I had the good fortune to share a bit of their lives.
One day Jan invited me to an ascent of the 3BT massif (a classic Conn name meaning 3 Billion Tons). Should I, of intermediate skill, join two world-renown climbers? Sure, why not? After all, these were white-haired elf-like characters in their early 80s.
We followed a secret winding trail marked by subtly arranged pine branches to the base of the massif and into a deep rock-walled gully, which soon narrowed. Here I observed a conn-flict, a rare event. "Herbie, I think we go this way." Herb smiled, "No, we go up the gully a bit further." Jan wasn't conn-vinced, "But I remember that tree." "We need to head for that chockstone" Herb said, pointing up the gully. This conn-tinued for another minute or so until I interjected dramatically, "Quit fighting!!" We all burst out laughing.
Herb was right of course (he was the mapper in the family), and so we scrambled up the gully, wriggled around beneath the chockstone, roped up for a short section of easy climbing, and then strolled to the summit.
| Getting close to the top! |
| Headed home after a successful ascent of 3BT. |
Oh dear. I was untrained and played only for my own enjoyment. Yet like all things Conn, it turned out to be fun. Performances ranged from a boy's poem about his frog (in his hand) to a phone company employee demonstrating how to hook up a new phone line. We fit right in. I would go on to play and perform with the French Creek Folk (Jan and any locals that were available) until I left the Black Hills.
And there was more. Jan told me about an odd fern they had found on one of their climbs. Since I was a botanist, she was sure I would know it. The three of us went to investigate, with a rope. Herb led the climb, Jan and I followed. There they were—two different ferns, one of which I did NOT recognize. After consulting with an expert who confirmed that it was a significant range extension, we published our discovery in the American Fern Journal.
| French Creek Folk c. 20 years ago. Jan on bass next to Hollis on fiddle. |
| Jan was (in)famous for her yodeling, including underwater (watch here). |
| Botanizing by rope; Jan pointing to fern habitat. |
Having shared some of my stories, I will finish with links to others. The Conns were special to many people in many ways. The final sentence of the first article below says it all: "It has been a wonderfully satisfying life for the Conns, just doing what appealed to them, and they are grateful if their fun has brought things of value to others." Indeed it has!!
Legacy Jan Conn, induction into the South Dakota Hall of Fame in 2011.
Explorers of an Unseen World by Paul Higbee, South Dakota Magazine, revised & republished in early 2012 after Herb's passing.
Jan Conn: Always Improving (or, The Oldest Living Dirtbag) by Elliott Becker. 11/7/2017. Includes links to audio.
The Ups and Downs of Herb and Jan Conn by South Dakota Public Broadcasting. 05/03/23
For much more, see Wikipedia's Jan and Herb Conn article.
| Herb and Jan at home in the Black Hills. |
Saturday, March 2, 2019
Where does the dust come from?
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all we are is dust in the wind… By Laszlo Bartha, CC BY 2.0.
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Sometimes we find wisdom in dust. As metaphor, it hints at how we might best live. Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind. Dust returns to the earth as it was. Ahhh … make the most of what we yet may spend, before we too into the dust descend; dust into dust, and under dust, to lie sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and … sans End! (1)
But this time of year it can be hard to appreciate the philosophical side of dust. The wind blows and blows and blows, the snow melts exposing bare soil, and dust takes to the air—landing on windshields, in eyes, up the nose, and throughout the house. So I felt fortunate to stumble upon a short tale that turns this annoyance into something a bit magical.
From Where does the dust come from? by Ermilo Abreu Gรณmez (2):
The dust that sticks on the windows, on the statues, on the books and on the canvas of paintings, doesn’t come from the earth. It comes from the wind. It is the wind itself, dying of exhaustion and thirst in the nooks and crannies of our possessions.
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Lifeless remains of the wind (house dust up close, from PRI).
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Notes
(1) From Kerry Livgren and Kansas, Dust in the Wind; the Hebrew Bible, Ecclesiastes 12; and Edward FitzGerald, The Rubรกiyรกt of Omar Khayyรกm (XXIII).
(2) My translation from Spanish, here's the original (suggestions welcome):
El polvo que se pega en las ventanas, en las imรกgenes, en los libros y en la tela de los retratos, no viene de la tierra. Viene del viento. Es el viento mismo que muere de cansancio y de sed en el rincรณn de las cosas รญntimas. ¿De dรณnde viene el polvo? – Ermilo Abreu Gรณmez
Read the full story here (it’s short).
Sunday, December 9, 2018
“Trees know when history begins”
| Late afternoon. These days no direct light reaches the boxelder in the nook; the sun sets too far south. |
Years ago—long before I moved to the West Side—heavy-equipment operators, concrete masons, carpenters, and laborers of all sorts constructed a large building between my house and the river. They cleared and leveled the site, poured slabs, framed structures, attached sheathing and roof, and installed doors. But the ground at the base was left bare. That’s how history begins.
Today another history: a tall inside corner, a nook unkempt and likely unnoticed, a boxelder standing in the perfect right angle above thistles, tumbleweeds and trash. Trees know when history begins, always sprouting up fresh
Shoots sucker along concrete, leaves spread green across corrugated metal, a tree now just taller than the door will reach beyond the roof.
This boxelder is adventive, well-established on a site that was barren not that long ago (1). It’s not so much of a stretch to link it to Advent, which started just last week on the fourth Sunday before Christmas. Adventive and advent both come from Latin advenire, to arrive. But here the similarity ends. Though the nook appears harsh and unforgiving, living there is hardly a form of penance. That boxelder seed landed in a sanctuary—shade, runoff, no competition. Whatever we leave empty will be filled.
I came across “Up a Gulch” in one of King’s chapbooks, In the Empty Mountains. I was only a few lines into the poem when it dawned on me—this is about the boxelder I’m following! Thanks to Lithic Press for permission to include it here (2).
Bob King was well known and appreciated by Colorado poets. He started the Colorado Poets Center, a richly annotated directory of published poets living in or with strong ties to the state. His own works include seven chapbooks, two full volumes of poetry, essays, articles, short fiction, creative non-fiction and more. King passed away in April 2017, shortly after In the Empty Mountains was published. For more about him, see this tribute.
Notes
(1) Botanists disagree on the definition of adventive. Some say only non-native species qualify as adventive. Others use the term for native or non-native species that are new to a site and do no harm. I use it similarly, but without the do-no-harm criterion (too hard to judge!).
(2) Robert King’s In the Empty Mountains is available from Lithic Press, an independent small press in Fruita, Colorado:
“… these poems reveal the joys, pains, and insights of a man long on the wisdom road. He sees daily occurrences from a very broad perspective, that leads to humility that cannot hide.”
Friday, March 30, 2018
Happy Birthday, Emmie! (a Dog’s Tale)
During my 40 years of botanizing, I’ve had four canine assistants. The only traits they've shared are mixed-breed and extreme enthusiasm for field work. Otherwise, they’ve been quite different—each one very much its own dog.
The first three just showed up—dogs needing a home. But when four months passed after losing the third, and still no dog had applied for the job, I went looking.
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Emmie the Clown
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| Selfie |
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Four generations of her favorite toy, ©AdventureAnimal snail.
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I’m glad I went through BDAR. Obviously they know what they're doing, we're a great match. Em loves to hike, likes everyone she meets, explores non-stop.
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Examining frost polygons below the summit of Medicine Bow Peak.
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Checking out topographic inversion at Pawnee Buttes.
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I have fond memories of all my canine companions—dogs are just that way. If you're looking for that kind of joy, consider adopting a shelter/rescue pet. Save a life and make an animal's world wonderful … as well as your own!
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Emmie with neighbor Ollie, two rescue dogs now living the good life.
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Black Dog Animal Rescue in Cheyenne provides guaranteed safe and secure placement to homeless animals across Wyoming, promotes life-saving programs in communities, and advocates for animal welfare. The adoption program is foster-home based, meaning adoptable animals live with volunteer foster families.
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
Seeing Red Cloud
Can you see them? those spectral wagons winding down, ruffling the grass?
Can you hear them? those murmurs and whispers, sounding like the wind?
They’re coming, singing the old songs.
In May of 1908, an old man and his entourage again traveled by wagon over 95 miles of rough dirt roads to a ranch on the Niobrara River in northwest Nebraska, as they had done many times. This time he delivered to his good friend of 30 years a formal written request bearing five signatures and three witnesses:
“… I will soon go to join my oId friends and now on my last visit to you my friend I want to say through my nephew and interpreter Mr. Phillip Romero that in you I think my people will always find a true friend and I want them to listen to your words of council.”
Red Cloud was 85 or 86 years old, almost dead—which he knew to be the case because his mother and father often came and spoke to him. That last trip was his final effort to preserve something of the old times, of people and a culture that would soon be gone. He made very clear what he expected of James Cook:
“I want you to always own and keep that picture—as long as you live, and then let your oldest son have it to keep. Then I am sure my children and their children can always go and look at the face of one of the last of the old Chiefs that lived before the white men came to take our lands and turn us from the old trails we had followed for so many hundreds of years.”
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Red Cloud sat for artist Bessie Butler (1) at James Cook’s ranch in 1902 (from NPS exhibit).
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Red Cloud died less than a year later. It was the end of a long life spanning a sweeping difficult transition. As a young man Red Cloud was a powerful warrior, first in battles with other tribes and then against the US Army (2). But when he saw the inevitability of defeat, he turned to negotiation. He actively advocated for his people into even old age, and in spite of repeated betrayal and disappointment. Perhaps it’s a testament to the strength of his determination that his 1908 directive to Cook was executed as specified—and then far beyond anything even Red Cloud could have envisioned.
Red Cloud and James Cook first met in 1874, at the Red Cloud Agency in western Nebraska. Red Cloud was 53 and chief of the local Oglala Lakota band (not chief of the Sioux Nation as is often said). Cook was only 17 but already well-respected as a hunter and guide. They were introduced by Baptiste “Little Bat” Garnier, a resident of the agency and friend of Cook. Something clicked, launching a friendship highly unusual for the times, between two men most would expect to be archenemies.
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James Cook, age 29 (NPS 2011).
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By 1887, Red Cloud and the Oglala Lakota had been moved to the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, and James Cook had married and taken over his father-in-law’s place on the Niobrara River, which he renamed the Agate Springs Ranch. For some thirty years, he obtained the requisite passes so his Indian friends could leave the reservation. After three to five days or a week of travel (95-150 miles one way, accounts vary), they wound down the hill to the Niobrara River bottom, singing songs, especially one about Cook whom they called Wambli Cigala.
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En route from Pine Ridge Reservation to Agate Springs Ranch, 1915 (from NPS exhibit).
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Once on the ranch, they were able to return to the old ways. After setting up tipis, they hunted pronghorn antelope, tanned hides, held traditional dances and ceremonies, and—joined by Cook—spend hours recounting stories of the old days. Cook provided fresh vegetables and freshly-killed beef.
The Indians always brought gifts—in appreciation, but also to preserve them and their stories by leaving them with Cook. Some were newly-made specifically for the Cook family—intricately beaded moccasins, beautifully decorated buckskin clothing of exquisite suppleness, and three tipis, including a half-size one for the children. Other items were utilitarian, documenting the old ways—ladles, hide scrapers, a porcupine hairbrush and mirror, saddlebags and parfleches (rawhide boxes). The most valuable gifts were personal belongings “no longer in use but with great meaning” such as pipe bags, shields, charms, and Red Cloud’s shirt.
The Indians always brought gifts—in appreciation, but also to preserve them and their stories by leaving them with Cook. Some were newly-made specifically for the Cook family—intricately beaded moccasins, beautifully decorated buckskin clothing of exquisite suppleness, and three tipis, including a half-size one for the children. Other items were utilitarian, documenting the old ways—ladles, hide scrapers, a porcupine hairbrush and mirror, saddlebags and parfleches (rawhide boxes). The most valuable gifts were personal belongings “no longer in use but with great meaning” such as pipe bags, shields, charms, and Red Cloud’s shirt.
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Beaded moccasins made for James Cook (these five photos are from NPS photo galleries).
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Nameplate for tipi.
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Leather saddle bag with beads and metal tassels.
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Three pipe bags belonging to Red Cloud (center), his father (left) and his son Jack (right).
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Red Cloud’s shirt of supple deerskin, with purple and gold porcupine quillwork.
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It was all so improbable … a white rancher in rural Nebraska encouraging and preserving traditional Indian culture at the same time that the US government was explicitly eradicating it, through destruction and assimilation. And Cook didn't just preserve artifacts and stories. He created a public museum at the ranch, reaching out to promote Indian culture, and counter the many misconceptions. (It also included fossils from the amazing quarries nearby.) By 1910, there were so many visitors that son Harold, his wife, and his children were recruited to help James with tours (Dorothy Cook Meade tells stories of being a child museum guide in her book, see Sources below).
After James Cook’s death, son Harold maintained the collection at the ranch. After his death, it was given to the National Park Service. The visitor center at Agate Fossil Beds National Monument has two rooms dedicated to the Cook Collection. Now Red Cloud’s portrait is viewed by “children and their children” from far and wide. What goes through their minds when they “look at the face of one of the last of the old Chiefs,” and view the gifts and old photos, and read the stories?
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Cook Collection exhibit (NPS 2011).
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In September, I made a second trip to Agate Fossil Beds National Monument, specifically to view the Cook Collection (on my first visit I got caught up in the spectacular paleontology and ran out of time). The Red Cloud – Cook display occupies a darkened room, with gifts, old photos and stories illuminated. It felt other-worldly, which I liked (3). Of course I would have preferred hearing the stories from James Cook himself, in the den of his ranch house. Best would have been to visit when the old people were there—hunting, dancing and singing. But those days are gone forever. So after viewing the exhibit, I walked along one of the prairie trails, looking and listening, trying to imagine the old ways.
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Can you see them?
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Notes
(1) The Red Cloud portrait was painted by Bessie Sandes Butler, a classmate of Kate Cook (wife of James) who “happened to be” visiting. She was a graduate of the Chicago Art Institute (Meade 1994).
(2) Red Cloud led one of the few Indian victories against the US Army, in his defeat of Fetterman’s column in December 1866. The fear he instilled in local garrisons led to the Fort Laramie Treaty, an amazing achievement at the time, but broken just two years later (source).
(3) My one criticism of the exhibit is that the drumming and chanting playing much of the time was too loud. It took away from the other-worldly feeling … from communing with spirits. Next time I'll use inconspicuous ear protectors.
Sources
Baird, MF, and Knudson, R. 2008. In the spirit of old friends: reflections on repatriation at Agate Fossil Beds National Monument. Heritage of the Great Plains XLI–2.
Meade, DC. 1994. Heart bags & hand shakes; the story of the Cook Collection. National Woodlands Publ. Co. [Dorothy Cook Meade is a granddaughter of James Cook]
PBS.org. 2001. Red Cloud, in New perspectives on the West. https://www.pbs.org/weta/thewest/people/i_r/redcloud.htm (accessed January 2018).
National Park Service (NPS). 2011. Agate Fossil Beds National Monument Long-Range Interpretive Plan. PDF
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