Old Man on the Mountain

     There's an old man sitting on the side of the mountain over there with his back to me. He's just sitting and silently looking off into the distance. I know he is alive because he occasionally moves. Sometimes he will look up as though in supplication and other times he will drop his head. 

     I wondered what he is thinking. He is looking out over a beautiful panoramic vista with forests and rivers, a meadow and mountains.  It is beautiful. The mountains are high, rugged and magnificent, with snow capped peaks and large permanent ice fields. The forests are Douglas and Mountain Fir with patches of Aspen up high. Cottonwood can be seen marking the path of the stream along with the occasional Sycamore.  You can always spot the water here in the west. Just look for the Willow, Cottonwood and Sycamore. In more arid areas just look for the green.  But this is a lush valley.  At the far end you can make out a large meadow filled with wildflowers and Huckleberry creating a carpet of bright colors.  The Purple Asters dominate an area around the Aspen groves while Northern Eyebright, False Alphodel and Three-flowered Rush, leftovers from the ice age, are seen closer to the ice-fields.  The bright red of the Indian Paintbrush and the almost florescent yellow of the Arrowleaf Balsamroot, sometimes called Oregon Sunflower, round out the colors.  There is also White Rhododendrom, Pink Heather and close to a thousand other species to overload your pleasure sensory receptors. White water can be seen on the turquoise stream where the water cascades over boulders left by receding glaciers.  It is paradise. 

     But paradise has been invaded.  In what had once been a magnificent sub-alpine meadow right below the old man sat several oil rigs like a giant scar on the landscape. The ground around them had been scraped down to the bare soil and at the edge you could see where the carcasses of the once vibrant wildflowers had been pushed aside. As my gaze moves from the marvelous panorama to the devastation below I become aware of the smell of oil dominating the air rising from the pumping mechanism, the storage tanks and the numerous places where the ground is black.  The smell of oil is mixed with the noxious smell of the the gases which are being burned at the top of tall pipes like giant torches.  A rutted dirt road leads up to the wells. At least twice it fords the stream; the stream which is now a ditch filled with dirty brown-black liquid.  The land around the stream is dead. Piles of dead trees lay along the road.  Aspen, which may well have been 5,000 to 10,000 years old, have been uprooted and burned. The fires still smolders.  The land is dead.  The water is toxic. Ab hominibus morti!  

     The old man stands up.  For a long time he continues to stare at the scene below him.  Slowly he turns toward me and begins to head away from the depressing scene.  His eyes are red.  Tears are running down his face.  I look at him.  Then I look again.  The old man is me.    

     

POSTSCRIPT: 

In late March 2017,  Mr Trump (flagellum Americae) signed his 19th executive order entitled "Promoting Energy Independence and Economic Growth". The order directs the Secretary of the Interior to review rules which regulate oil and gas drilling in national parks and to "repeal, suspend or rescind them if they are found inconsistent with the president's energy goals".  (www.motherjones.com)