Somewhere around Lubbock , Texas, on my way from Austin, I climbed onto the Llano Estacado, a broad expanse of grassland plains that spreads across Texas, New Mexico and Oklahoma’s panhandle. It is a place where Comanches used to roam, and long before them, wooly mammoth and giant sloths. The matates and the bones remain to prove their passing. Jim Weaver finds them on his ranch, which I’m on my way to.

I know I’m on the right road — the red sand muddy from recent rain and thick enough in spots to make my car dance from side to side — because I start to see kestrels. First one lifts off the telephone wire, then another, then a third. I stop among the flat fields ripe with wild sunflowers and Indian grass and big blue stem to look closer, one of the small falcons hovering fifty feet over the ground like a suspended comma in the air, until it drops down to take a small creature, flashing its distinct blue and ruddy red back markings in my direction. It misses, and flies on.

I continue as well, arriving at the Weaver Ranch on the western edge of the estacado, where Jim Weaver and Willard Heck raise grass-fed Mashona cattle while managing 24,000 acres to restore the native high-elevation grasslands, their “A-number-one priority” to create prime habitat for the prairie chicken, a large grouse with an elaborate mating dance that was once abundant across the Plains but now is extremely rare. The grasslands they depend on have vanished. On the Weaver Ranch, they are trying to save what’s left.

Jim and Willard go way back. I’m here because they were two of the people working at Cornell University in upstate New York in the early 1970s, living in a large barn and breeding peregrine falcons to reintroduce into the wild. They took showers with a garden hose and cooked meals on a small burner. They worked out of a windowless room and slept in a hidden space behind a false wall to fool the fire marshals. They weren’t allowed to live in what became known as the Hawk Barn, working with the project that soon evolved into the Peregrine Fund. But they had to be there. How else to monitor 40 pairs of falcons, encourage them to copulate, with each other, or with the special semen-collecting hats they wore upon their heads once the birds had imprinted upon their human caregivers? How else to watch over the eggs during incubation or feed the young until they were ready to be hacked, the months-long process of adjusting them into life in the wild? It was a grand experiment, with many advances and almost as many setbacks, but it was a success.

The falcons I have been following around New York City for three years, the ones I’m looking for over your shoulder as you talk to me, my face turned to the sky, are the descendants of those releases thirty years ago. They are thriving in the metropolis, as though there were no other place they’d like to be.

Up here on the estacado, riding with Jim Weaver in his pickup across his land, I’m thinking the same thing. Our tires find their way in the hidden ruts as large grasshoppers land on the windshield, hitch a ride for a moment and then leap off in a great bound. We pass dogtowns, a dozen prairie dogs sitting upright and attentive like miniature versions of the statues on Easter Island, until they scurry into their holes. We pass burrowing owls, diurnal birds standing on their long legs among the sage as the truck passes by, watching us.

There was once soil here, a thick layer of topsoil bound to the earth with the roots of grasses that grew taller than a tall man. When Spanish conquistador Francisco Coronado came here in 1541, he described a “sea of grass” lacking trees, mountains, or any distinctive mark by which a traveler could mark his passage. This was a place where large creatures ruled the Pleistocene, where buffalo crossed, land that Indians lived upon, all the while the soil building upon itself, inch by inch, eon after eon.

The plough is a simple enough device. Metal and ropes and a beast of burden is all you need. The Homestead Act of 1862 and decrees from newly formed states telling you the land is yours if you make your mark upon it — “improved it” — encouraged the liberal use of the tool. This was a common story here in New Mexico, as in Texas, in Kansas, in the Dakotas, across the Great Plains. The grass was cut. The roots tilled under. Crops were planted. It didn’t last but a generation or two. The 1930s brought the Dust Bowl and the exposed earth blew east right off into the Atlantic Ocean, carrying with it settlers’ dreams.  They headed west.

“They sold the mineral rights for enough money to get them out of here,” Weaver says, and I have seen the oil wells pumping, the web of roads leading to natural gas wells, between the tilled fields eeking out their product.

In another millennium, the soil will return. Especially if what Jim Weaver is doing on his ranch catches on. [Read more here] Maybe, then, there will also be prairie chickens hiding amid the tall grass, fleeing from the shadows of falcons flying overhead. 

It’s true what they say about Austin, that it’s a “cool town.” Despite the temperature. My brother and I needed a few laughs after the trauma of the Snake Farm and other not-so-fun family adventures during a side trip to San Antonio. The Alamo Drafthouse Cinema fixed us good. In the spirit of Mystery Science Theater, the Alamo showed Jurassic Park as three comedians sat in the front row with microphones providing a running commentary that made me choke on my pizza and beer. As the cup of water reverberates with each distant-yet-getting-closer thud, and the tension builds in true Spielberg form, the camera pans to the goat that had been tethered to a post to feed the Tyrannosaurus Rex. It’s gone! “The goat is loose!” Laughter is good and necessary.

The Spider House Cafe was a good staging ground for some work we needed to do on a sunny Saturday afternoon. As the rest of the world went to cheer on the UT football team, we hunkered down with our computers and coffee with the other misfits in the large courtyard. Space, delicious space, the one thing New York does not have going for it, spread out around us.

Sunday was a Labor Day barbeque, a delicious Texas meat-fest with home-brewed beer to boot. An eclectic mix of ballistics engineers and musicians. We stayed up too late and had too much fun. Wait, is there such a thing?

One more day in San Antonio and then, unfortunately, I had to leave. There is a city ordinance about having tatoos, and i have yet to ink my body. And so, with mixed feelings, I climbed into the car and headed northwest to New Mexico. I realize, as the trip progresses, that the anticipation of all the places to come soon gets replaced with the memories of what has happened once I got there. That each arrival necessitates a departure. This is elemental. This shouldn’t be a new realization, but it sits with me anew as I move across the landscape, thoughts tumbling in my head.

blessed be the cafes. blessed be the coffee, cold-pressed and iced. blessed be my brother, who stays and does what needs to be done. blessed be the small towns with their freaks and fancies. blessed be the road.

…suck.

They’ve come here, to Sushi Zushi in San Antonio, and to the other super-sized sushi restaurant I went to in Birmingham. After years of sushi being the food of elite New Yorkers and swank Los Angelitos, sushi has reached the masses. Children are acquiring a taste for it at a tender young age, and across America — apparently — these strip mall sushi restaurants are the place to take a date, or visitors from out of town, or just to go to for no particular reason at all other than a nice meal.

How will this effect the already stresed underwater world of fish populations, steadily depleted as harest methods advance and demand grows? Just like the developing world’s (legitimate) argument that we First Worlders had our day of wild abandon, so now it’s their turn, how are we to deny middle America the joy of sweet vinegared rice, the salt sea taste of seaweed, the fresh energy of a pink slab of salmon?  We can’t. So let’s enjoy, until we scrape the the ocean’s floor for the last bit of life. Itadakimasu!

New Braunfels lies midway between Austin and San Antonio in the south central part of Texas. It’s along this stretch that my great-great grandfather scouted the land and escaped an Indian attack a hundred and fifty years ago, one of the cartographers who were drawing the lines of the new state of Texas. Putting pen to paper, these men created worlds, erasing the history of those who had lived on the land for generations before without benefit of boundaries and titles.

No uncharted land remains, anymore, just…

“Snake Farm!” I yell out loud as we drive by, a habit that seems to run in my family to constantly comment on the things we observe, even if in the middle of a conversation.

“Want to stop?” my brother asks. We’re on our way to attend to family matters in San Antonio that won’t be easy. We’re easily lured by distraction. We figure we can spare thirty minutes for some cheap reptilian entertainment. We thought it’d be fun.

There are chickens roaming around the parking lot as we stop the car under the giant billboard, but as soon as we’ve paid for our tickets and walked into the dark room lined with large snakes in tiny aquariums (aquarii?), I come to my senses. Boa constrictors, massive pythons coiled together, cobras lying flaccid in empty glass boxes lined with old newspapers. The floor is concrete; the light a faded fluorescent; the smell dank and deathlike.

We pass through quickly to the outside where the man who sold us our tickets promised “three acres of animals.” A Mandrill baboon sits on his haunches staring at us from his cage. A descriptive sign tells us he’s endangered in his homeland of west Africa, that he is a social creature in which the male lives with several females and their young. He sits alone on the concrete, his fingers and toes grasping the chain link fence, looking out at us. His fur is an exquisitely kinked grey in striking contrast to his blue and pink face. Is he happier than the arctic wolves in the pen around the corner, panting in the high heat and humidity? Is he saner than the macaque that is spinning in circles right next to him? Is he healthier than the rare type of piglet that is limping along, only a fence separating the little guy from a stagnant pond filled with alligators?

We escape through the gift shop without stopping to browse at rubber snakes and shot glasses. Back in the parking lot, we see a day-old chick alone at the edge of some shrubbery. It stands, then falls, then stands again. I shoo it towards her mother, a great big black and white Barred Rock hen, who is ten feet away with a handful of other chicks. The mama hen comes to meet me, her feathers ruffled out. I imagine she is mad about my bothering her baby until she meets the tiny creature, picks it up with her beak and shakes her head back and forth to throttle it. She lets it fall to the ground and then proceeds to peck it to death in front of us.

My brother counsels kids at a shelter for abused women on Tuesday nights. He doesn’t tell them that the world is an inherently peaceful place in which they have unwittingly stumbled upon a tiny corner of violence. He is honest and I believe the kids appreciate it. He listens to them when they explain to him that they have seen the nature programs on television. They know what animals, human and otherwise, can do to each other.

As we pull back out onto the highway, back towards our destination and familial duties, my brother says, “Gives a whole new meaning to henpecked, eh?”

Fourteen-hour day behind the wheel, watching the weather transform before my eyes. From the early misty morning in Birmingham, clearing to a bright blue day as I rolled over the hills of Alabama listening to William Faulkner stories from my iPod. Bruce Springsteen sang to me through the flatlands of Mississippi, where it’s still green, except for the spent cornfields, and over the Chunky River. I decided that Rosalita is the best song. Ever. Then, when the sun was high, Casey Neill carried me over the bayous of Louisiana, through Ouachita Parish and into east Texas, ablaze with white wildflowers. Hawks ignored me from the trees as vultures circled high, cascading out of their swirling kettles to glide through the skies.

And ten-cent coffee? I ain’t in new york, anymore

~Dorothy

When I pull out of Birmingham at first light, the land is misted over, glowing in pastel hues, and the local public radio station, WBHM, is recapping last night’s events at the Democratic National Convention in Denver. Tonight, Barack Obama will be accepting the nomination for President of the United State of America, forty-five years ago to the day since Martin Luther King’s I Have a Dream speech. The radio announcer is talking with people who were there at the Mall in Washington that day, as they remember that DC whites battened down the city, preparing for a violent foreign invasion that never came. They’re reminding us of the details of the day, telling us that Mahalia Jackson was backstage, urging Martin on as he walked to the podium. “Tell ‘em about the Dream, Martin,” she called after him. “Tell ‘em about the Dream!”

The last time I was in Birmingham I was also passing through briefly. It was my last big cross-country trip, circa 1995, back when I had time to disappear for six months. It involved a VW bus, mustard yellow, and a young man, tall and handsome – both long gone. We reached Birmingham late afternoon, on our way to Atlanta, today’s trip in reverse, and we had one destination: the Civil Rights Museum. Built in 1993, the exhibits were embracing the use of new multimedia and interactive displays. We were led through time, from the capturing of slaves to Mammy salt and pepper shakers to a segregated bus, filling the room, and finally, to the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights.

On that same trip, a month or so later, we were passing through DC and went to the newly-christened Holocaust Museum. My memory is of long lines and a lottery to get in, winning (if that’s the right word), and then entering the cold metal structure. If the architects were trying to create a mood, they did, but by the time I walked out, I felt like I had passed through a really miserable experience that had happened in an isolated moment of terrible time. Like I could pass through the exit and breath a sigh of relief in the Washington air that that was over. Let’s go get a latte!

In Birmingham, it was clear the work that still needed to be done, as well as all that had already been accomplished. The Human Rights Declaration was the document equivalent of I Have a Dream. It was the expression of hope and aspirations, a belief in possibility and change. I remember having chills as I left the Birmingham museum. They returned when the man on the radio recalled Mahalia’s words. “Tell ‘em about the Dream, Martin. Tell ‘em about the Dream!”

Go Barack!

PS – thanks to A’s dad, the charming doctor, and his sweet dog Champ for hosting me in Birmingham!

Blogs are, at least in part, about connecting you, as an unsuspecting reader, to something you might not have heard about otherwise. So for those of you with children out there – c’mon, you know who you are – or for those who recognize that some of the best literature can come disguised as (just) a children’s book, you should check out Laurel Snyder’s new release, Up and Down the Scratchy Mountains. Laurel is a great and funny writer and former Killing the Buddha editor who just happens to live in Atlanta, so we got to meet in person, and now, instead of nothing but her voice in ariel font, I have an image of her in my mind that involves movement and voice and hot dogs and wine. Check her out.

Brooklyn is behind me, at least for the next five…six…seven weeks. OK, eight weeks. I’m still in denial about how long this cross-country adventure actually will be. First stop: the green, leafy edge of Atlanta, in a silent neighborhood of no sidewalks, from where I stage the theft of my parents’ car (they’ve fled the country, leaving behind their worldly goods, for now. A bit like rapture, but i can still talk to them via Skype). Here, no one is grilling jerk chicken out front of their house, filling the air with smoke and scents to make you salivate. No gang of ten-year-olds has taken over the streets with their skateboards, kicking yellow cabs as they cruise by. There is no man standing silently on his front stoop from the early hours to the late hours, lording over the street.

But as I walked into one of the many, many shopping center complexes that get routinely carved into what was once lush southern forest, a sound made me look up. The screech of a gull, perhaps, but not quite. I lifted my sunglasses and looked up to see a hawk, wings spread wide, as it soared by not thirty feet above my head. The birds are leading this journey. The peregrines that nest atop the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, which links my borough of Brooklyn to its forgotten stepsister of Staten Island, and the other falcons throughout NYC are there by the grace of not God, but a gaggle of mad scientists and falconers who believed they could recreate a species decimated by DDT. Like the birds themselves, the men have scattered. I am heading west to find them, and visit a whole heap of long-lost friends who live along the way. Wanna come along for the ride?