5 Hills I Am Willing to Die On

Before I fell in love with my wife, I thought it was okay, noble even, if I died while rock climbing. At least that's what I thought when climbers and alpinists I admired lost their lives in the mountains. "They died doing something they loved," or some nonsense like that. Nowadays, I'd really rather not die doing something so silly. And rock climbing is silly. There are, however, still some hills I am willing to die on.

Though technically a mountain, Lookout is not only a hill I am willing do die on, I'd actually prefer to die there. Not in a "my belayer and I miscommunicated about how I was going to lower from the top of a rock climb" kind of death. Lord, no. I'm thinking more of a, "I have one hour to live so I am going to the top of my favorite mountain in the world to say my final goodbyes" kind of way. Is that morbid? I don't think so. Spread my ashes from these sandstone cliffs, okay? (And pour some out at the Wacissa River back home). 

Don't tell my employer that the coach of their rock climbing team doesn't think so, but it's not. I mean, it definitely is. Rock climbing is in the olympics now. But it shouldn't be. Why? Because rock climbing, at its best, is a mystical union between human and stone; "the freedom of the hills," if you will. It is, at least, an act of rebellion, an eschewing of societal norms and constructs to retreat to the mountains or woods, doing something that has absolutely zero productive value. Grades and points and comps ruin all that. There's a reason John Sherman, who developed bouldering's V-Scale, later lamented grades as "the excrement of rock climbing." I want the kids on my team to fall in love with the activity and, more importantly, the outdoors. That's it. Seeing former students getting out there, sleeping in the dirt, eating Vienna sausages like a dirtbag, and sending the gnar, whatever "the gnar" is for them, is one of the things I'm most proud of. I don't care about winning competitions or "making the playoffs;" I've never even looked at our scores. Leave points and scores to the meat-headed, thick-necked jocks. Go rock climbing for the sake of climbing a rock. 

Relax, e-commuters. I'm talking about six-figure salaried, able-bodied goonies taking the easy way to the top of the MTB trails so they can blast back down. The only acceptable reason to ride an E-bike on trails is if you're eligible to receive Medicare and Social Security from the federal government. Otherwise, learn how to pedal uphill. Or get off and push it, like me. 

Refusing to leash your dog on public trails is anti-social behavior. You are a trail-runner. I am a mountain biker. It is our common interest to be outside. We are responsible to one another. That responsibility is our freedom. To avoid it is to lose our freedom. (Yes, I'm plagiarizing Ursula K. Le Guin's The Dispossessed.) We should build a giant crane big enough to hurl all the people who don't leash their dog into the ocean. Simple as that. Keep the dogs. Fling their owners into a deep watery grave. 

Politics and religion. The best burger in town. Hurling selfish dog owners into the sea. "I reserve the right to be wrong about everything." The highlight of my teaching career is a graduating student using this as her senior quote in the yearbook and attributing it to me (I heard it from Will D. Campbell). 

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5 Honest Strava Achievements

I love Strava. It's a fitness app that's equal parts training log and social media platform. Users can track their performance on routes and compare their efforts to other users on segments. Like Instagram and Twitter, users can give "kudos," leave comments, and be "rewarded" for their achievements. These rewards are great motivators, I just wish they'd be a bit more honest about them. Below are what I imagine would be honest Strava achievements.

1. Kudos

And mommy's baby is ready for his yum-yums. 

2. Top 10 Finish

I recently scored a Top Ten trophy on a local loop, which is really an embarrassment for the entire Chattanooga trail running community. I shouldn't have a top ten finish in anything. My high school basketball coach told me I ran like a 40-year-old man was fifteen. By that math, today I run like I'm 88.  

3. Local Legend

The Local Legend is a recent(ish) addition to Strava that rewards athletes who log the most attempts on a segment over a rolling 90-day period. TBH, I love it. It is the achievement I covet the most. To be a Local Legend, you don't have to be fast, you just have to be persistent. Or, you just have to be the only person on Strava ripping through that obscure back alley segment. 

4. KOM

Coming in hot with a side of bacon! We all have seen that guy (always a guy) blasting down the trail heat-seeking the much-sought-after "King of the Mountain" crown. Often, these bozos are so trophy hungry they forget they're not the only ones on the trail. 

5. No Bathroom Breaks

The data scientists and app developers at Strava Inc. need to make this achievement a thing. The only thing worse than a sloppy poo-poo sliding out your sweaty buttcheeks on a muggy summer day is an unplanned sloppy poo-poo sliding out your sweaty buttcheeks surrounded by poison ivy and mosquitos midway through your long run. Its avoidance should be celebrated. 

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Have You Hydrated Enough Today?

"Excuse me, sir! do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior depicted in the Piss Christ?" Immersion, more commonly known as Piss Christ, by Andres Serrano, is a 1987 photograph of a white crucifix submerged in an aquarium of the artist's own urine. Although it won several awards, its merit was criticized by both art critics and people of faith. But the artistic and theological value of the piece, and I think it has both, is irrelevant. What I find truly problematic about Serrano's Piss Christ is that the artist's urine has the same coloration as a bowl of Spaghetti-O's. 

Based on urine color analysis, I live and move and have my being in a constant state of dehydration. I seem to fancy myself part camel with an ability to go super long periods without consuming water. But as my latest blood work revealed, I am, in fact, only human and my kidney function is what the doctor calls, "below average." I need to drink more water. 

Drinking water is excellent. It's good for us in like a gazillion different ways. Notably, when I drink enough, my urine doesn't come ripping out of my urethra as a flaming, stinking, marigold-colored mess. That, and my recent doctor's visit, is why I decided to drink more of it. And while I don't think I'm ready to post on the hydrohomies subreddit yet, I have made changes in the last couple of months that keep me peeing clear. 

SIDEBAR: upon actual research, it is possible to overhydrate before and during endurance activities. Despite the dictum of "clear and copious," the ideal color of your urine is straw-yellow. See chart above.

I try to maintain a 1:4 coffee-to-water ratio. That means for every 8 oz of coffee, I try to drink 32 oz of water. This is absolutely arbitrary and not backed by science in any way. Maybe it is, I don't know. I could Google it but I won't because it works for me. 

I started substituting apres-ride/climb/work beer for seltzer water. Post your favorite LaCroix flavors in the comments below. I like it plain and Key Lime if I'm feeling like mommy's little fancy boy. And if I'm hitting harder stuff, mango-flavored White Claw is the nectar of the gods.  

But these aren't things you couldn't learn from any self-help and wellness influencers on TikTok. That is to say that these aren't things you didn't know already. And this isn't a blog about home and work. It's a blog about [insert human-powered endurance activity here].

WARNING: It's about to get real techy up in here. TL;DR for the non-gear junkies, the triumvirate of backcountry hydration is this: (1) Katadyn Steripen, (2) Nalgene Ultralite, and (3) Arundel Looney Bin.

When it comes to hydrating in the backcountry, nothing beats the Katadyn Steripen Ultra UV Water Purifier. I bought mine with a pro deal back in 2013 and have used it on every backpacking trip. Every bikepacking adventure. Every rock climbing road trip. Cost-per-use, this baby has paid for itself multiple times. I don't know why I never considered it for shorter day hikes, bike rides, or days at the crag until now. Yet here we are, and it rules. The Steripen is light (4.9 oz) and uses ultraviolet light to purify 32 oz of water every 90 seconds. That means you'll be guzzling the good stuff while your rube friends are still pumping and squeezing and sucking through whatever archaic water purification system they still use. I have safely and successfully purified water from the clearest high country creeks to murky, stagnant ponds. Giardia free since twenty-thirteen. I try not to overcommit myself to any brand or product, but this is a hill I am willing to die on. If you go places outside that require drinking more water than what you bring with you, then you need a Steripen. 

My favorite water-carrying vessel is the Nalgene. Everyone has a Nalgene. I prefer the Ultralite (48 oz or 32 oz) not because I'm an ounce-counter, but because I like the bland non-color and the plastic is a little softer and more malleable for fitting into a bicycle bottle cage. What's that you say? "A bottle cage that fits a Nalgene?!" 

Yes, the Arundel Looney Bin and it's my new favorite piece of gear. A bottle cage big enough for a Nalgene that does not rely on Voile straps, what's not to love? The Looney Bin has enough room even for a big ol' wine bottle (though that might offset your hydration gains). The turn knob ratchet strap keeps my Nalgene secure on even the loosest, baby head-sized, rough stuff descents. The Looney Bin will be on all my bike builds from now on. 

With this holy trinity of hydration, I will never go thirsty again. Glory be to the Steripen, and to the Nalgene Ultralite, and to the Arundel Looney Bin, as it should have been in the beginning, is now, and will be forever, a world without dark yellow pee-pee. Amen.  

Have you hydrated enough today?

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Not My Words: On Staying Warm

There's something special about imbibing around a campfire with your friends on a cold winter night. After the conversation lulls and woodpile dwindles, it's time to get in your sleeping bag. The key to sleeping outside in the winter is that it is easier to stay warm than it is to get warm. Layering clothes, stacking sleeping pads, and putting a Nalgene of boiled water in your sleeping bag are all tricks of the trade. Eventually, however, you'll have to pee. Herein lies the problem: dehydration strains the body's ability to stay warm, but your body also expends energy to store urine in the bladder. Valuable energy that could otherwise be used to keep you warm. Timing is everything. See chart above. Here's a scene from one of my favorite episodes of The Simpsons. I thought about it a lot while making this chart. 

-- The Simpsons, "Homer the Heretic" (Season 4; Episode 3)

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The Future of Climbing

You've seen it. The local university outdoor club leaders going to bolt-to-bolt on the cliff's only moderate routes. The conga line of colorfully clothed gumbies waiting impatiently to top rope for the next several hours. The hammocks all flapping about like the sails of a hippie pirate ship. The "Mother of God! It's all toilet sounds!" music blasting from Bluetooth speakers. We've all seen it. Heard it. Heck, we've probably been a part of it. 

Last December, the Access Fund distributed an email with a picture of a similar scene at the Orange Oswald Wall near the New River Gorge. It asked, "Is this the future of climbing?" You probably remember the now-viral traffic jam of over 300 climbers on the Hillary Step of Mount Everest (if you don't, watch 14 Peaks on Netflix). Whether Ten Sleep, Wyoming, Sand Rock, Alabama, or the highest peak on earth, the problem of overcrowded crags isn't the future of climbing, it is the present reality. 

Climbing advocacy groups like the Access Fund and local climbing coalitions have two competing goals. On the one hand, they seek to increase access to an activity that is relatively exclusive. On the other, these groups seek to decrease the negative impact rock climbers have on the environment. These effects are infinitesimal compared to, say, a coal-fired powered plant but with rock climbing in the Olympics, Alex Honnold at the Oscars, and the proliferation of big business climbing gyms, more people are at the crag than ever before. The effects are noticeable. To be clear, I think these goals are inherently good. Diversity, inclusion, and the longevity of cliff base vegetation matter. But, like a good toprope anchor, these goals are opposite and opposed. It doesn't take a nihilistic alcoholic rocket scientist to know that more people climbing means more impact on the environment. Morty, meet pickle. 

It's a dilemma, but it isn't one without solutions, even if I personally do not know what those solutions are. Thankfully the fine people over on the Mountain Project forums do. 

Mountain Project posters with predictable profile pictures have taken it upon themselves to determine who does and does not have access to America's rock climbing, i.e., "gatekeeping." And it is almost always those who started climbing after the gatekeepers that do not deserve access. It's an ingenious idea that certainly would, if implemented, have positive results on our climbing areas. No new climbers! The implementation is the tricky part. Who's let in the gate? What year does one have to have started climbing? How established in the scene does one need to be? Are people who climb above a certain grade grandfathered in?  

Instead, I would like to propose an alternative to these Mountain Project posters, an alternative far easier to implement and far more effective for protecting wild spaces. Just stop climbing. Quit it. Walk out of that gate you made and leave it behind. I mean, when you took the photo of the overcrowded crag and complained about it at the bar later, were you not also there, crowding the crag? And when the boulder field parking lot was full, did you go somewhere else or did you park on the shoulder and work on your sick project anyway? It seems to me that the most responsible thing for a climber to do for the future of climbing is to quit climbing. 

There are so many other hobbies to choose from! Have you ever tried meditating? Trail running? Becoming a sommelier but instead of wine, you become an expert in Danimals® Kids Yogurt & Smoothies? Other such "hobbies" may include but are not limited to...

• reading
• baking
• knitting
• competitive duck herding
• watching Lord of the Rings: Return of the King 362 times
• Magic the Gathering
• open water swimming
• semi-professional stone skipping
• weightlifting
• staying more hydrated
• hog calling
• LARPing 
• bird watching
• mowing the yard with a pair of fingernail clippers

Each is as arbitrary and momentarily rewarding as on-sighting 5.12 or finally sending your boulder project. These hobbies are less time-consuming than volunteering with a local climbing coalition to conserve wildlife or working with land managers to preserve access. And each is far easier than mentoring a new climber in the ways of Leave No Trace principles, crag etiquette, and safe climbing practices. Ugh, creating an actual sustainable future for rock climbing is so much work! 

Protect America's climbing. Stop climbing and start being a Danimals® sommelier. 

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This is How God Wants You to Poop (Outside)

I updated THIS chart from LNT to be theologically accurate.

Let’s talk about poop. Pooping is this totally normal thing that we do. I’m no scientist but my understanding is that after we eat food, it turns to moosh in our bodies as the healthy bits (or unhealthy bits) go into our bones and muscles and stuff. The leftover moosh builds up until we can’t take it anymore and we push it out our buttholes. We all do it. You might be doing it right now. 

Working as a backpacking guide in Colorado, I literally got paid to talk about poop. Taking a group of thirteen teenagers on a multi-day trip in the woods means they’re going to poop. It was my job to teach them how to do it responsibly. The normal range for daily pooping is from three times a day to once every three days. So let’s say the average person poops once a day. Thirteen teenagers plus four adults backpacking for five nights equals 85 poops, give or take. 

*insert Jeff Goldblum from Jurassic Park clip*

Nobody likes to talk about poop or pooping because of another science thingy: the psychological impulse of disgust. Once the thing — the poop — has been removed from our bodies it is other. It’s set apart and its set a part-ness makes it foul and icky. Unclean. This makes sense. Human communities are living things that must necessarily make boundaries between clean and unclean. This is good and practical. For example, you shouldn’t eat egg salad made on the back of a toilet in a truck stop bathroom. The impulse of separating clean and unclean is an ancient one. 

(SIDEBAR: This desire for purity is a good one. The danger comes when we start making distinctions between “clean” and “unclean” people. Please don’t do this. In the Gospels, we repeatedly see Jesus blurring the boundaries between clean and unclean through his table fellowship with tax collectors and prostitutes. Please do that.)

One of my favorite weird biblical texts is an obscure commandment made in Deuteronomy 23:12-14. Here, God sets the regulations for the proper method for disposing of the Israelites’ poop during a military campaign. 

"You shall have a designated area outside the camp to which you shall go. With your utensils you shall have a trowel; when you relieve yourself outside, you shall dig a hole with it and then cover up your excrement. Because the Lord your God travels along with your camp, to save you and to hand over your enemies to you, therefore your camp must be holy, so that he may not see anything indecent among you and turn away from you."

These banal and mundane requirements of hygiene cloaked in theological language make practical good sense when large numbers of men are living close together in hastily-built and ill-protected conditions. In fact, modern outdoorsy-types familiar with proper Leave No Trace principles will recognize the most widely accepted LNT practice of waste disposal: the cat hole method (LNT Principle 3). For those taking notes, here’s a side-by-side comparison: 

Two out of three ain't bad. 

Although hygiene is the most obvious objective of proper poop disposal, Gerhard von Rad, Walter Brueggemann, and J.G. McConville all assert that the real underpinning behind the ancient Near Eastern Leave No Trace method is holiness. Holiness is, after all, the proper habitat of God. According to these scholars, the rules outlined in Deuteronomy 23.12-14 are determined by the cultic and ritual assumptions of primitive peoples. The cultic ritual is a precondition for Israel’s military success. 

But I'd argue that the rationale is not entirely cultic, nor is it totally about public health. It's somewhere in between. Actually, the whole reason is rather pedestrian. Let’s take a closer look at v. 14. It reads, “Because the LORD your God travels along with your camp…” Or in Hebrew: מִתְהַלֵּךְ בְקֶרֶב מַחֲנֶךָ or “God paces/walks with your camp.” See? Pedestrian. Israel must go outside the camp, dig a hole, and bury it is because God doesn’t want to step in their poop. 

What’s truly astonishing to me is that throughout the long editorial process of compiling what would become the Hebrew Bible, the ancient Israelites felt compelled to include this in their holy scriptures. The proper disposal of one's poop is enshrined forever in the 613 mitzvot. Perhaps you find it a bit nutty to consider what this ancient text and these pre-scientific people did or thought. Perhaps you fancy yourself a modern man, you're thinking, "I don't derive my ethics from ancient narratives, I get my morality from corporations like Amazon and Netflix." Yes, you're very sophisticated. 

Dismissing ancient wisdom just because you have an iPhone is insane. Instead, maybe do the work of finding principles within the Law and making application in a different setting and context? It adds flexibility to a law and allows it to find meaning when the particular circumstances of a law have changed. You can see how this can be helpful not just for pooping outside but also, for example: debt and loaning on interest, which is the paradigmatic evil in the Old Testament. 

"Literalism is the lowest form of meaning."

Or you can roll your eyes all you want at these ancient “primitives.” But I bet if we had more folks think about what they did with their poop as thoroughly as the ancient Israelites, you wouldn’t wander off into the woods at Foster Falls and find a big ol’ pile of human excrement twenty-feet away from a popular sport climb. Yes, we're very sophisticated these days.  

So next time you're out in the woods and you have to take a dump, ask yourself what would ancient Israel do? God doesn’t want to step in poo and neither should you. So please, for God’s sake, leave no trace.

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On spirit animals and singlespeed bicycles

A few weeks ago, I was standing in a circle of volunteers before an adaptive mountain biking event. We were all introducing ourselves with some first-day-of-summer-camp-type questions: "What's your name?" "How long have you been biking?" And, "what's your spirit animal?" Everyone knows my spirit animal is an alligator. If you didn't, now you do. I'm from Florida. I love swamps. And I'm tremendously introverted so chilling at the bottom of a river or sunbathing on a log while also scaring away like 98% of people by merely existing sounds really nice. This wasn't the first time I've been asked about my spirit animal and I've obviously put a lot of thought into it. However, when it was my turn in the circle to share I freaked out. I forgot all about alligators. "Hi, my name is Chet. I started mountain biking during the pandemic and," I continued, "my spirit animal is... a wiener dog."

A wiener dog. I didn't even say dachshund (the scientific word for a wiener dog). I had one shot and I blew it. 

For context, I used to have a wiener dog. He was gifted to us when I was in first grade. My sister and I named him Wishbone. He was not your ordinary, high-maintenance, miniature dachshund. Wishbone was fearless and thought himself to be about the size of a St. Bernard. Our neighbors had horses and Wishbone would chase after these elegant animals, roughly a quadrillionth of his size, barking and threatening to bite their hooves or ankles if they would just have the common decency to dare him to do so. Wishbone was a menace engaged in a false sense of competition with every animal bigger and better than him. 

Every afternoon Wishbone would run along the fence line, made of hog wire, and antagonize our backdoor neighbor's Chow Chow named Chili. Chow Chows are bellicose and territorial dogs but Chili tolerated Wishbone's war of aggression for years until finally, Chili had enough. One day he stuck his head through the hog wire, pulled Wishbone through by the neck, and proceeded to whirl our beloved pet around the same way an orca throws around a baby seal before she eats it. My Uncle Ray and I bore witness to the melee while playing catch in the backyard. Ray moved into action and tagged Chili with a baseball. I don't remember how far away he made the throw from, but it was impressive. It stunned the dog long enough for me to hop the fence and scoop up our blood and piss-soaked pup. (I learned that while fighting, dogs urinate on the other dog as a way of adding insult to injury. Brutal.)

Wishbone: Grade-A good boy.

Wishbone was fine. He healed up quite nicely with three permanent puncture wounds around his jugular. He lived a remarkably long life pestering animals more than twice his size. Classic Napoleon Complex. 

Napoleon Bonaparte was believed to be an unusually short man (historically inaccurate) whose insecurities propelled him toward aggressive, militaristic authoritarianism (correlation is not causation). Alfred Adler coined the term "Napoleon Complex" to describe people who possessed an aggressive and authoritative attitude to compensate for their short height. GASP! Deeper meaning? I mean I am short but few people would describe me as "aggressive." 

That said, I am not without other inferiorities or insecurities and sometimes these drive me, like my dog Wishbone, toward irrational and irresponsible Napoleonic impulses. For example, riding a singlespeed bicycle makes me behave a little like the French Consulate. 

A few days before my spirit animal blunder at the adaptive MTB event, I arrived at a local trailhead the same time as a fancy Santa Cruz full-suspension bike. I got up the initial climb on my rigid singlespeed first, and I made it a goal to never let him catch up with me the rest of the ride. In other words, I was mentally racing a guy who, for all I know, was just out for a nice, leisurely, after-work ramble. It didn't matter. I showed no mercy, I took no prisoners, and I gave no quarter. Unbeknownst to him, my budget-built all-terrain bicycle and I destroyed him. This was my Battle of Austerlitz. 

My chest swelled with pride! And then collapsed. And then rose and collapsed again. I was gassed and totally out of breath. I ripped my legs off for one lap around the park but for what? To beat an oblivious opponent only to stop long enough to catch my breath and watch this guy come granny-gearing up the hill before dropping in for another spin around the downhill section. My Austerlitz was also my Waterloo. 

There I was the beaten, battered, and pee-pee-soaked wiener dog of Stringers Ridge mountain bike trails. Don't be like me. Enjoy riding your bike for the sake of riding your bike. I hope your trail spirit animal is better than mine. Like a jack rabbit or a mountain lion. Maybe one day I'll get the fat bike I want and my spirit animal can be this seal that flubbers onto shore and farts while looking directly at the camera.

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United States of Apocalypse

Rising emissions, rising temperatures, rising sea levels; if more is a good thing, then you could say we’re killing it. USA #1! Maybe it’s more helpful to say corporations are killing it. Either way, something is dying and, oh, by the way, it’s the earth. The overwhelming majority of scientists who specialize in the earth’s climate (not politicians, political commentators, or stay-at-home moms on Facebook) unequivocally affirm that we’re in a human-created ecological crisis.

There's no more avoiding our climate-induced collapse. Irreversible ecological damage is here and our current political-economic system is incapable of dealing with it. Short of an international mass movement of monkeywrenchers dismantling fossil fuel extraction around the globe, we're going to have to adapt to our new nightmarish hellscape. Look around: California is forever on fire, Florida is annihilated by a hurricane six months a year, and increasing swaths of Louisiana are already underwater.

We are already citizens of a new place: the United States of Apocalypse. To help us prepare for our dystopia, I have divided our new country according to how each region will become a real-life post-apocalyptic film. 

East Coast + Rust Belt: Judge Dredd (1995)

Judge Dredd begins with James Earl Jones' ominous narration, "The Earth transformed into a poisonous, scorched desert, known as 'The Cursed Earth.' Millions of people crowded into a few Megacities... Law, as we know it, collapsed. From the decay rose a new order, a society ruled by a new, elite force." The Judges are fascistic law enforcers who rule the megacities with brute force and little to no due process. For much of the densely populated eastern seaboard and post-industrial "rust belt" this future already exists. Only now you will receive your extrajudicial killings and police brutality with an extra dose of heat and humidity. 

Appalachia: The Road (2009) with a  C.H.U.D. (1984) twist
The rural bits of the southeast, i.e., Lyndon B. Johnson's socio-economic "Appalachia," will be Cormac McCarthy's The Road meets the cult classic, C.H.U.D. The sun will be blotted out by ash, but instead of nuclear holocaust or whatever unnamed event from The Road, it will be caused by the raging forest fires. Roving bands of cannibals (leftover maga chuds) in jacked-up trucks will roam the ashen grey hills in search of fresh flesh, AKA baby meat. These cannibalistic humanoid Appalachian dwellers or "CHADs" won't feel bad about it either because, spoiler alert, they were never really "pro-life" to begin with. 

 

Gulf Coast: Water World (1995)

Rising sea levels will turn the entire states of Florida and Louisiana and much of southern Alabama, Mississippi, and East Texas into Kevin Costner's Water World. Inhabitants who have not already will be forced to pawn their belongings to buy wave runners and become pirates. Sounds nice, actually. Except, something tells me warmer waters will cause alligators to evolve back into full-fledged dinosaurs. I mean, they're already climbing trees. 

 

 

Midwest, Mountain West, and Southwest: Mad Max (1979, 1981, 1985, 2015)

The biggest geographical region deserves the biggest post-apocalyptic film franchise. The majority of the landlocked United States will resemble the Mad Max universe. The Great Plains will be choked dry by drought and industrial farming. Think Great Depression "Dust Bowl" meets marauding gangs of leather-clad, daddy-issues off-roadsters. Most will be forced to move to coastal megacities and the few that remain will scavenge or pillage for limited food and resources to survive. Of course, Americans' market-based health care system already resembles the Thunderdome, so now you will have to duel to the death in a gladiatorial arena for Oklahoma's last can of franks n' beans. 

 

West Coast: Soylent Green (1973)

Imagine a world where climate catastrophe causes severe shortages of food, water, and housing. Okay, you're imagining liberal enclaves, Los Angeles and Seattle. Now imagine a world where society is almost entirely dependent on a singular global corporation, which controls the supply of most of the earth's necessities and brutally exploits its workers. Okay, now you're imagining Amazon. Shortages and supply bottlenecks create daily riots policed by corporate-sponsored armed forces who, unsurprisingly, brutally remove protesters with no due process. Welcome to Portland, Oregon. 

Behold our future and the future is bleak. But lest I be accused of casual nihilism or climate fatalism, I am not without hope. A long time ago I heard someone say that realism without idealism leads to apathy and idealism without realism leads to cynicism. I, personally, tend toward the latter and this post is probably a bit of both. Yet I hope it is, at least, a humorous caricature of the absurd landscape climate fatalism will bring. The truth is we don't have to accept this cursed earth future. Things, drastic or difficult they may be, can still be done to reduce the harm and suffering that our climate crisis is causing and will continue to cause. 

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