We roll into camp at Lassen
Volcanic National Park in California around 4 p.m., tumble from the
car eager to stretch our legs, and are soon scrambling to dig
winter clothing out of the heap of gear and garb that swamped the
back seat somewhere in Oregon. The weather ought to be at least
warm, but a biting wind is driving hard pellets of rain through the
trees and the thermometer clipped to my pack says it’s 40 degrees.
Having traded shorts and sandals for fleece jackets,
boots and gloves, my son and I set up camp and are soon trying to
build a fire using damp wood. After repeated attempts, we succeed
in coaxing flame from resinous bits of Ponderosa pine. Then, as
darkness falls, so does the temperature, and soon we retreat to our
sleeping bags.
The next morning, we awake to snow,
insubstantial flakes driven by the brisk wind. We set out on a
hike, following a well-worn trail to the foot of a cinder cone. The
miniature volcano rises 800 feet above a surreal landscape of
jumbled lava flows and ash dunes, and we climb to the summit
through flurries, which drape a mantle of white over the black and
red rock. The sun soon breaks through the clouds, and as it warms
the dark ground, the snow turns almost instantly into vapor,
engulfing the barren plain in a mist that swirls and dances in the
wind like something alive.
Regardless of what the
calendar says, meteorologically it’s April here in the mountains of
Northern California. It’s not uncommon to encounter unsettled
conditions in the Cascades and Sierra Nevada in early summer, but
our trip south from Portland has provided ample evidence of a
season more unsettled than usual.
After a topsy-turvy
winter, in which a vagrant jet stream funneled moisture-heavy
storms directly into Central and Southern California rather than
along their usual course through Oregon and Washington, the West
Coast finds itself greeting an unusual summer: no snowpack in the
Pacific Northwest, twice the usual snowpack along California’s
mountainous spine.
Short-term weather patterns should not
be confused with long-term climate trends. Yet it’s worth thinking
about the odd pattern of precipitation that marked this past winter
and spring along the West Coast, for it is a reminder of how even a
technologically sophisticated civilization relies on nature for
essential resources. It’s a reminder, as well, of how fickle nature
can be, with potentially far-reaching consequences for those
dependent upon its gifts.
The wacky weather pattern last
winter created winners and losers. If you ran a ski resort in
California, you were anticipating snowboarding into July; if you
ran a similar enterprise in Washington state, you were trying to
figure out in February whether you could persuade mountain bikers
to use your abandoned lifts and barren runs. If you enjoy river
rafting, this was a rare year on the west slope of the Sierra, as
rivers swollen with snowmelt promised big water well into the dry
season.
In a similar way, the process of climate change
— the effects of which are already being felt in the western
United States — will create winners and losers, although the
economic effects will extend well beyond the ranks of ski resort
owners and water-sports enthusiasts.
In a preview of the
future throughout the west, the stingy snowpack exacerbated bitter
conflicts in the Pacific Northwest among river constituencies:
hydroelectricity executives and cheap-power addicts seeking to hold
back water until demand peaks in the long, hot dry season; growers
and shippers pressing for sufficient flows to float grain barges
down the Snake and Columbia rivers; environmental advocates pushing
to have water spilled over dams to aid the migration of beleaguered
salmon from the Rockies to the Pacific. Irrigators in high-desert
Idaho, Oregon and Washington wonder whether there will be anything
left later in the summer to bring their crops to maturity.
And if you run or rely upon a water agency in California,
particularly one that delivers snowmelt from the northern Sierra to
the semi-arid southland, you can look at the Pacific Northwest and
see your likely future, as a warming climate causes the snowline to
retreat ever higher and deprives foothill reservoirs of late-season
runoff.
As we head south from Lassen, the weather grows
warmer and drier, and starting a fire becomes absurdly easy.
There’s a lesson for the West in that, too, for those who
care to listen.
John Krist is a contributor to
Writers on the Range, a service of High Country
News in Paonia, Colorado (hcn.org). He is a columnist for
the Ventura County Star in California.
Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.
