My Green Manifesto by David Gessner Read Free Book Online Page B

hope spiced, of course, with a dash or two of vitriol. A fine cocktail. It occurs to me to write a manifesto, but one quite different from Nordhaus and Shellenberger’s. My agenda is simple: To describe the ways that my own life, and the lives of some people I admire, are connected to the natural world, and the benefits that come from that connection, benefits that are not always obvious. To provide a way for those of us who would blanch at calling ourselves environmentalists to begin to at least think of ourselves as fighters , in the way that citizens suddenly think of themselves as soldiers during times of war. Finally, by both argument and example, to provide a new language for those of us who care about nature.

II. A LIMITED WILD

ENVIRONMENTAL EXTREMISTS
    Rags of mist drift above the river. Despite the usual hassle of breaking camp, and sore arms from the day before, I feel good this morning. Part of that is the simple pleasure of being on the river, and part is the “phew” element that accompanies any morning after a night of solo camping. As in, “Phew, I wasn’t killed by bears,” or, in this case, joggers or coyotes. I stuff my clothes and gear into their appropriate bags, pack the kayak, and I am back on the water. The sun greets me around the first bend, burning off the mist, and around the next I look back at the chalky outline of a nearly full moon.
    Though my cell phone is dead, I trust Dan has figured that out, and I assume that we will meet, as planned, just a quarter mile downstream at Bridge Street in the town of Dover. I look forward to seeing Dan, and to turning this solo journey into a group adventure, but moreover I look forward to something that Dan’s wife Donna has promised to bring: coffee.
    I met Donna, and the Driscolls’ son Dylan, in Wellfleet when I picked up the kayaks. Dylan was a delightfully rambunctious two-year-old who instantly made me homesick for my four-year-old daughter, Hadley. Donna I was less sure about at first.
    â€œI’m here to make a hero of your husband!” I said to break the ice. I expected something either supportive or sardonic in return but instead she said simply, “Well, someone
should do it.” She seemed similarly distant as Dan and I sat on his porch poring over maps to plan our trip. I guess I understood that while I was offering Dan adventure, all I was offering her was a couple of days as a single parent. The only moment she perked up was when I mentioned that I was enlisting a friend of mine, a kayak guide, to be our “Sherpa,” making sure the kayaks and cars were all in the right place, and helping supply us with food and drink along the way. It turned out that this was something that she would be interested in doing—for a price. Wanting to please Dan, and his family, I instantly said yes, not really thinking through the possible challenges of a wife serving as a husband’s gofer. When I handed her the “Sherpa list” with her duties on it, the word COFFEE had been printed neatly at the top in all capitals.
    There are no signs of the Driscolls at the launch, but my cell phone was also my only clock, so I’m not sure if it’s yet close to the eight-thirty meeting time we agreed upon. I paddle a half-mile downstream between heavily wooded banks to the Broadmoor Wildlife Sanctuary, searching the branches for birds. I see a tanager blaze by, its chest the color of blood, and add it to an already impressive list of species I’ve noted over the previous twenty-four hours. This is no accident: The river is a magnet for both residential and migrating birds. As suburbs cover more and more previously undeveloped space, the few remaining islands of undisturbed land, like the Broadmoor with its lands patched together by Massachusetts Audubon from purchases of private land beginning in 1962, become even more vital—not just as year-round habitat but also as reliable pit stops during