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35 Articles

The Age of Floods

LIKE JUAN PONCE DE LEÓN five hundred years before us, we arrived on the coast of Florida weary with thirst and age. Once named by its European captor for the lush foliage rising from its wet soil, the state now offered us heaps of gray sand, 800,000 cubic yards dredged from the ebb-tidal shoal and piled along St. Augustine Beach. Designed to put back what the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers refers to as “lost sand” in areas where the encroaching tides wear at the shoreline, these ashy mail-order dunes serve as stopgap flood mitigation—a desperate scheme to avoid the discomforts of retreating from the floods—and we walked gingerly up and down them that weekend on our way to visit the Fountain of Youth. Perhaps you were taught in grade school…

The Age of Floods

The Greatest Shortcut

I FRAMED A FLASH OF CHARTREUSE in my binoculars. Followed the feathers through the blue for a few bright seconds. Then lost sight as wings blended into the feathery fronds of a palm, the flock in raucous chatter as it foraged fruit. When the parrots took flight minutes later, again my gaze alit on green wings; when the birds landed in the next leafy tangle, my gaze flitted away. It drifted farther, toward the horizon. From the ridge where the house was perched, I could see a length of the canal. A ship’s prow emerged from the trees. The hulk of its hull grew slowly more hulking on the water’s smooth surface. It was the third that morning, now an hour after the sun had lifted. The first that had slid…

The Greatest Shortcut

When the Dam Breaks

THE WAITER SETS DOWN a plain white bowl with a meticulously engineered wall of rice down the middle. On one side, vegetables and meat float on top of a still pool of honey brown curry, which presses against the wall, threatening a deluge. On the other side, emptiness. I pick up my spoon. Slowly, I begin to dig. My attack steadily weakens the wall, grain by grain. Finally, the dam breaks. Curry pours through the rice to the other side. Free at last. Damukare (dam curry)—a dish that encourages the eater to interact with a small replica of a nearby dam—has popped up all over Japan in recent years. The Japan Dam Curry Association has mapped 190 variations served across the country. Hundreds of dams also offer special handheld trading cards to…

When the Dam Breaks

Lost Landscapes

WHEN I WAS A BOY GROWING UP on the south shore of Long Island, my father and I would sometimes haul the family’s kayak down to the water and set off for the salt marsh on the far side of the bay. There, in the veining creeks and waterways, we would collect our harvest: golf balls, shanked from a nearby golf course, set like pearls in the mud. With a swipe of our thumb, we’d wipe off the muck and algae to survey our haul, shouting their names—Titleist, Callaway, Srixon—before tossing the balls into a bucket. Occasionally, we’d pause to watch a heron stalk the shallows or listen to cordgrass shimmer in the breeze. Around us, you could see the hem of suburbs, and looking back, it’s hard to imagine how…

Zeno’s Paradox

MICHIGAN. A TANNINY CREEK. Brown water, greenest grasses. Me in a kayak with my son, not yet two years old. A few weeks earlier, someone asked, “What is the audio world you want to live in?” (I work in radio, so maybe that’s a normal question?) Suddenly, I’m thinking I have the answer. Right here, the purrrrling of the paddle in dark water, the steampunk flickering of dragonfly wings. But then I get greedy. I start thinking of other sounds I’d like to curl up in. My only constraint, they must be real—the splendor and psychedelia of what’s actually here: Raindrops falling off a gutter after the rain has stopped. The moans, beneath the crackle, of a fire. The basily sound of dusk. The purrrling of the paddle stops abruptly. I try to be…

Holding the Line

THE CRACKS HELD MY ATTENTION. Not the weathered French doors that still beckoned to the Pacific. Not the wave-battered wicker chair still airing out from the last storm. The cracks. I couldn’t take my eyes off the cracks that fractured the concrete patio like an ice sheet on the verge of collapse. This blue-shingled home, plopped right on the beach, had once overlooked a Southern California wonderland that shimmered under immaculate skies. Rolling dunes, bursting with saltbush and beach evening primrose, had unfurled for miles along the wide and sandy shore. But the ocean kept moving in, subtly at first, then more forcefully as our planet continued to burn. The dunes washed away and never came back. The beach started to vanish at high tide. After a big swell barreled in…

Holding the Line

WITH PADDLE TAILS and semi-opposable thumbs, orange teeth reinforced with iron, and pelts laced with oil, the beavers moved onto our property. Their lodge stuck up from the pond’s bank like a messy bun tied up quickly. We had more questions than we knew what to do with, and so we stood and stared at their newly constructed home, an air of curiosity wrapped about us like bathrobes. My parents live on the forty acres where I grew up. Where we’ve tended to horses, chickens, ducks, and dogs, and made way for the animals that moved in and out and through—coyotes and deer, opossums and owls. We were used to the sudden appearance of wildlife. One year, guinea hens loudly harassed the other chickens in the pen. One year, an exhausted…

LONG BEFORE you encounter one clambering across the trail, before you’re tempted to catch it with both hands and gently trace that thin, pale line down their knobbly back, you might meet a boreal toad (Anaxyrus boreas) in a different form, in a fleeting place. Head for a low bench or valley bottom in spring. Aim for the trees and look for a clearing. Peering into the shallows between starwort and sedge, you may find long slick strings of tiny black toad eggs decorating the rim of a vernal pool. Ephemeral wetlands like these are a welcome breeding ground for amphibians, essential incubators for their developing eggs and larvae, safe from the mouths of hungry fish. A few weeks later, if you’re lucky, you’ll be greeted by a riot of tadpoles. Smaller…

About the Artist

JILL PELTO is a climate artist based in Washington state whose work focuses on communicating human-environment connections. She incorporates scientific data into watercolor paintings to share the emotion behind these stories of change, whether overwhelming or hopeful. Jill is inspired by her fieldwork in places like Washington’s alpine glaciers and Antarctica, and by communities around the world that are dedicated to mitigating climate change. She has worked with over 150 K–12 classrooms to bring her data-art curriculum to students. Visit jillpelto.com to learn more.…

About the Artist

Reaching the Light of Day

Because eventually the river rises here. It overflows to claim it all and to show us what we lost, like it always had.—Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous A FRIEND ONCE TOLD ME about the experience, both hilarious and heartbreaking, of watching her son realize that, where there are buildings now, there once were plants. “Were there plants where our house is?” he asked, wide-eyed, a little horrified. “Were there plants everywhere?” Years ago, growing up on a perpetually soggy plot of land, in a town named for a brook I had never seen, I asked my parents a version of the same question. Had there been water where our house was? Their straightforward, adult answer—yes, it was wetlands—was still enchanting, hinting at the hidden paths of water in my own…

Reaching the Light of Day

Magnificent Frigate Bird

Not often, but sometimes, out of nowhere,high up, sliding along a thermalabove the Gulf, one will appear overhead,tilting its deeply forked tail, and circlingthe pink and white high-rises—as now, its eight-foot wings making it seemas if the bird could remain aloft forever,defying gravity, a dark versionof Coleridge’s albatross drifting above,as if it’s here to look over this coastal spanof beach rearranged by Hurricane Ian. Gulf Shore Road, under fifteen feetof water this past September—Mercedesand Range Rovers bobbing like boats—is already repaired and replantedwith bougainvillea islands. It’s February,and realtors are out in full selling the viewsrising floor by floor on a day torched by sun.Storms and heat—what everyone callsthe “new normal,” a language of fearor, more precisely, a way of managing the fear that comes, like the frigate bird,when we least expect it.…

The Invention of Floods

Concrete Causes Floods NOT LONG AGO, I VISITED SORONG, a city growing in concrete. Sorong’s infrastructure boom makes the consequences of building with concrete clear: concrete causes floods. Water rolls along horizontal concrete (including asphalt) and splashes off vertical concrete. Where both kinds of surfaces abound, surface inundation—that is, flooding—is bound to happen. The fact that no one dares to mention this in cities across the world has everything to do with the ubiquitousness of concrete in the modern imagination. Of course, Sorong has its own particularities, but these only highlight the general problem by showing it in exaggeration. Sorong was founded for oil in the 1930s under Dutch colonial rule. In the 1960s, U.S. Cold War politics transferred Papua to Indonesia. Since then, and especially since the turn of this century,…

The Invention of Floods

Something preyed on the fish before this,a bright red bite out its back withoutthe claw marks of an osprey—an otter, perhaps, a fish larger thanI’ve seen in this river, a fox or badgergot lucky fishing from the bank, unlucky,leaving with just one taste. He-Dog was the father of Coyote beforeCoyote trotted this land with its taillike a flag. He-Dog was lonely, thoughhe could talk to the rocks and trees,and the animals spoke to him. There was noShe-Dog at this time. He-Dog asked Riverto be his mate, but River said, I’m alreadymarried to Sky. Look, I carry his cloudson my skin. He-Dog became angry,and to punish River, hunted her fishes,and to hurt Sky, drowned his half-moon. I release the fish and hope it survives. Easyto imagine a story, much more difficult to knowthe…

ON THE THIRD NIGHT OF FLOODING, we learned that the reservoirs upstream had begun to fail. Water had started to flow around their edges, flooding streets, neighborhoods, empty schools. It had been raining for four days. More water is coming, the officials told us at a press conference. The floodgates would have to be opened to prevent “uncontrolled release.” We put our children to sleep that night on an air mattress in our bedroom, next to the sliding glass door, thinking that if the dams did fail and a tidal wave of floodwater arrived in the middle of the night, we could open the door and push them outside, where, floating on the air mattress, they might survive. I kept one foot on the floor all night so the water would…

River Now Called Cape Fear

Not our house, safe outside the floodplain,but even after weeks, when we returned,and weeks after that, the world said rotting—dead fish and hog farm waste and unknown mud.Mosquitoes, big enough to carry knives,came swarming in the unrelenting air.We were lucky. The river lapped the otherside of the road, our neighbors, stayers, said.Thirty steps from our front steps to wherethe ground turned gray. Up the bluff and pastfelled trees to find, on the forest floor, shrimp,washed miles inland, cooked there in the swelter,brilliant pink. Fifteen feet abovethe usual waterline, a foot-and-a-half-longfish, its wide mouth wide and full of maggots.We had to look. We put our cameras away.In the papers, several days, they showed our road—weeks onward, river, the whole dead end of it.Get out, I wanted to say, get your thrillfrom…

Echo of a Cataclysm

We must begin by remembering beyond history.—Paul Shepard, Coming Home to the Pleistocene THE TOWN of Missoula, Montana, begins when a steep fifty-mile corridor of pine, fir, and tamarack ends, at the site where the Clark Fork River exits Hellgate Canyon. French fur-trapping voyageurs called this confluence Port d’Enfer, or Port of Hell. In their own language, the Salish called the area “the river of ambush/surprise” or “place of rushing water,” stitched together by white settlers into Nemissoolatakoo, which is how we think Missoula found its name. In the early 1800s, the Lewis and Clark expedition passed through the area heading west. On their return near Pine Creek, Idaho, along modern-day I-90, Meriwether Lewis named the Clark Fork “in honour of my worthy friend and fellow traveller,” giving the ancient river…

Echo of a Cataclysm

What I Learned in Greenland

I thought I understood summer for example—the season of fruit and firefly glow—but I neverknew it with the midnight sun on my face. NowI know summer as polka dots of sunburst lichen— like ellipses across big folds of gneiss and granitehills. And summer now will always mean iceto me, because if the ice sheet were to meltand flow into the ocean, the sea level would rise over twenty feet. And the Earth would spinmore slowly—the length of the halibut daygrowing longer by about two milliseconds.And though I always want more time with you, I’ll gladly give those up so I can realizesummer from the flip and hook-twist of a spottedwolffish gnashing at the line. I hope summerwill always pop and crack from icebergs’ breath and stretch on the horizon in pink sunlight, like doorsslammed…

Sea Grape Consciousness

aFTER THE FLOOD she consulted with her taproot, who said, Not yet, we will continue to hold the land. And she sent thinner roots out shallow. Spread wider so she wouldn’t fall. She gave the fungus their message to carry. Reddened her veins to accept the salt. After the flood. Between floods. Between floods her hands became sunshades and fans, green and cool. Better than flags, they beckoned thirstful pilgrims. She knew what every tree knows from staying still and studying the sun. The refuge of her shade was of the moment, ever changing. And so she welcomed every erstwhile refugee with what she had. Her arms grew variably wider or narrower through the days. But she always kept them open. No one could mistake them for guns. And maybe this was how…

Sea Grape Consciousness

Who could cling to the myth of accretion when arrived, like we have, at thisprecipice? Where cypress once flanked makeshift steps now tumbled unto sea, we have to keep back to see the system break, wild spray kick up& anoint the rock as it takes Purísima with. Sandstone sanded down to sand, only half what it was—the remainder shoring roots that will alsogo—: where what it is is its undoing. We understood, with time; not only would the outcrop cleave, sea pink drop off the shoulder, verge un-shoreitself from street; but that we would lose all standing. All that remains of ours, & the stint when it seemed dominion & redoubt could coexist, hasretreated—: quarter mile back, the Bliss Point lighthouse blinks, pointless, into the blinding day. As though its pulse might lure ships in,…

Chionophilia: a longing for snow. Sirensshatter through my windows, blueand red, the color of a headache. Frontogenesis: zones of air pressure and temperaturesstrengthening. An hour ago,I drove by the lake, waved past by police. I’m not telling you anythingyou can’t find out yourself. I live closeto what produces its own weather, warmth desalinated into crystalsthat melt the packed ice of our streets.We use 20,000 pounds of lake salt to clear them, scree and gravel; during storms,my neighborhood gets constantly patrolled.“I guess I’ll have to wait for snow,” is the next- to-last-thing James, my neighbor, said,manic, before the cop shot him.It has not snowed in weeks. Ski resorts make their own storms now, machinesgroaning out thin flurries, though metalcannot duplicate how lake water thickens the crystals,gives snow its “body.”Body is business. I’m not telling you anything, James told the…

In 1941, Harold Fisk was hired by the Mississippi River Commission to embark on a yearslong study of the river’s movements, a project that would entail the procurement of over sixteen thousand sediment core samples to reveal the presence of soil deposits over time. The map was published in 1944 as a series of fifteen panels, each showing a time-lapse history of the river’s undulations in recent centuries. Seen together, the panels capture a restless body whose breadth may surprise those who only ever see it fixed in one place, wherever that is. Harold Fisk was a professor of geology at Louisiana State University, chief of the geologic research section of the Humble Oil and Refining Company, and a cartographer for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.…

A SHORT STORY They said the seas were rising, but we didn’t believe them. Or we kind of did, but we had other things to do. Like pick up sourdough bread for dinner. And play pickleball with Amy T. from across the street. And sell photos of our feet online to pay for the bread and pickleball court membership. We were very busy. They said we should move out of the floodplain, but our whole city sat on a floodplain, less than an hour from the watery gulp of the Gulf. Marshlands, wetlands, and a whole bayou watershed had been studded with skyscrapers, blinkered with neon, lassoed by thickly coiling highways. So really they were saying we should move out of the city. But moving is very expensive these days. Even if…

The Movement of Water

IN EARLY FEBRUARY, when Minnesota is typically buried beneath a foot or two of snow, my house was instead surrounded by stiff, brown grass after an unprecedented string of warm and dry days. Across the rolling field of ten acres where I live, an hour north of the Twin Cities, a tamarack bog and small ephemeral wetlands awaited their expected winter moisture, relying as we all do on annual snowmelt and rains that also replenish the aquifers, lakes, and rivers so abundant in Minnesota. Because we all know—from the peeper frogs who call so lustily in spring, to the snapping turtles who lay eggs on my gravel driveway, to the migrating birds following the St. Croix River home—that we depend on the movement of water, the way she speaks to…

The Movement of Water

A community gathers to perform a bodily ritual, lowering themselves into life-threatening circumstances and gasping in synchrony. They are swimmers, individuals on the periphery of the walking world who arrive at the pool having left behind whatever struggles weigh down their navigation through everyday life; the moment they slip into the water, they move, suddenly, uninhibited and with grace. Their story begins in first-person plural, because water is disinterested in what separates you from me. “For a brief interlude,” they reflect, “we are at home in the world.” The book is, as with the author’s other works, an exercise in rhythm, at least until a crack appears at the bottom of the pool, a Rorschach test to provoke responses and associations that distinguish our characters for the first time, revealing…

Swimmy, the classic 1963 children’s book written and illustrated by Leo Lionni, is proof that good things come in small packages. In this story, a small fish named Swimmy, who is different from his school, lives somewhere in some corner of the ocean. The other fish are red while Swimmy is black. Unfortunately, after a tragic encounter with a tuna, Swimmy is the school’s sole survivor. Through exploring the ocean around him and basking in the beauty of the natural world, he heals from his grief and finds happiness again. During his journey of discovery, he finds a new school of little red fish to join. Though this school wants to see the beautiful ocean around them, they are so afraid of being eaten they do not leave their hiding…

The Sea Around Us (3rd edition)

With a foreword by famed marine biologist Sylvia Earle, Carson’s impeccably researched 1951 classic is yet tinged with the very salt and freshness of the sea. Carson begins her vast and elegant primer some two billion years ago amid the “shadowy” beginnings of “that great mother of life.” Each chapter delves into topography, currents, pressure, and temperature to establish the reader’s layered understanding of the bewildering life and dynamic forces (delicate and powerful) shaping our watery world. From the deep’s stars, to delicate, glasslike surface plankton, kelp to fish, jellies, squid, seals, and whales, Carson reminds us that we all came from and are sustained by water—and we need only look to our own internal chemistry to remember humans are but one stream of interlocking life pouring from the sea.…

The Sea Around Us (3rd edition)

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

Few science fiction novels of the 1800s remain probable to a modern audience. We’ve explored space, probed deep underground, and have yet to be overrun by Martians. But only 5 percent of the ocean has been explored. This is what makes Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea fascinating. Professor Pierre Aronnax and his servant Conseil join an expedition to find a mysterious underwater entity, only to become unwilling passengers when their ship encounters it off the coast of Japan. The Nautilus, an electrically powered submarine, is constructed and captained by Nemo. While Nemo is an amiable host, Aronnax eventually begins to fear his darker side. Nemo is a complex figure, and his painful backstory instills in him a fierce hatred of imperialism and those who enable it. Through…

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

How Far the Light Reaches

In their essay collection, How Far the Light Reaches, Sabrina Imbler takes us on a deep dive to visit the bottom of the ocean. Starting with a childhood story of protest in a Petco that bleeds into a study of feral goldfish, Imbler weaves their own narrative with those of ten different sea creatures, entwining memoir with marine biology. Another essay recounts young Imbler’s relationship with their mother, paralleled to a mother octopus brooding her eggs, starving for years to keep watch. From pet goldfish to sperm whales, this memoir explores the depths for answers, finding kinship in scales and fins. Scientific and yet deeply personal, How Far the Light Reaches speaks to the lessons taught from the life histories of other species, urging us to look into the waters…

How Far the Light Reaches

Lighthouse, Shipwreck

I track what’s absent—faint apparitionof landing poleswhere cormorantscongregate. Low tide. Sidewheel steamers,a century ago,docked off this spitof sand, taking shelterat Pilots Landing. Newcomers climbedthe burnt coppercliffs to the far-offlighthouse, muslin skirtsspilling like cream. Pale honey-sucklesentinels flankthe sloping road.Inhaling summersweet, I recall boulders of islandsand the myth of whalesbashed against rocks,staining the claya blood-red dusk. All that we’ve lost,those deserting us,the flame once coaxed,stark Indian markers,that lighthouse beam. Elise Paschen is the author of six poetry collections, most recently Tallchief, and her forthcoming book, Blood Wolf Moon (2025). She teaches in the MFA Writing Program at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.…

Cleo from A to Z

1.The first film I ever recall watching is Joseph Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra. I must’ve been four or five at the time, and they are the first images I remember, painted on the walls of the back rooms of my mind: sitting in front of the TV with my grandmother in Chiba, eating mandarins in the rainy season. “How do you know it was your first?” you asked me so long ago, but I couldn’t explain it, just that I recall it all, the feeling of the storm that accompanies a first time—the rain pouring on the gummy persimmon trees outside, the three-hour cinematic spectacle inside, the slow roll with which Elizabeth Taylor clad in orange entered my life, tumbling out of a red carpet. I must have watched movies before it,…

Cleo from A to Z

The Fugees/Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Often when I am heading to my mother’s place in central Pennsylvania, I dip into a sweet little coffee shop called Little Amps. Their mascot is the amp, and the decor, some of it anyway, includes LPs on shelves high enough that you have to ask for help reaching them. They also have some milk crates of records, which I always flip through, and from time to time, I buy one. Simple wooden bench seats abut big windows, so that on a sunny day, sitting there reading or writing or visiting, it feels somewhat like a greenhouse. (Am I the only one who dreams of a small indoor basketball court [perfect for full-court 3v3], one side made entirely of windows, a greenhouse fervent with monstera, jasmine, etc., with a corner…

The Fugees/Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

THE PORT OF BALI: A small town curved around a bright blue bay. Pale terraced buildings latticed down the cliffs. A bull’s-eye on the back of a parasail boat. An old man in a Speedo picking his way across the rocks down by the sea. The beaches they call “organized,” which means tight, cramped rows of lounge chairs and umbrellas. A tattoo parlor high on a hill. A spindly white lighthouse at the end of a long outcropping, stray cats seeking shelter in its shade. From the window, I can see east, toward the port: a woman in a bikini fishing just under the shadow of the lighthouse; ocher fishing nets draped over the seawall. And west, toward the flat blue expanse of the Aegean. Endless blue water is supposed to…

DRY AND THIRSTY, a paintbrush pokes its nose into water, then ground inkstone, and swells with the abundance of expressive potential. It hesitates above the eager surface of the blank (even thirstier) page until the sooty liquid suffuses the fibers, spreading wantonly. Neither paper nor brush, let alone the human hands that hold them, can halt the advance once it has begun, for the boundaries of the flood tide are up to the discretion of the inky fluid itself. Ink wash on paper is ancient, basic, and incredibly demanding. The mark that is made is the mark that will stay. In the context of Chinese art, there is value in restraint, as the historical aim of the artist-scholar was not to reproduce forms in nature but to convey the essence of…

MYTHS TRAVEL LIKE SEEDS on the wind, on clouds of radiation from a test site. They travel like zebra mussels in the bilge of an ocean liner, smothering native mussels, devouring the food supply, clogging engines and power plants. This could be an analogy to the invasive force of the Abrahamic Flood myth, details of which (the ark, animal pairs, the bird as scout, the name Noah) show up in or entirely supplant the flood myths of conquered and colonized peoples around the world—an excellent analogy except that the zebra mussel is reviled. I have never seen a zebra mussel plushie. But I have seen a plush ark with squishy sheep, lions, and giraffes you can pop inside. I have seen ark puzzles, mobiles, sticker books, hooked rugs, quilts, backpacks,…

la madrugada [La madru-gada]

FOR TWO YEARS I’ve lived in a river valley, and I suppose I’m likely to live here for twenty more, or at least I want to, for as long as the ancient rookery remains. The birds could have nested here for well over a hundred years. Each morning and evening, at the beginning and end of la madrugada—the period between midnight and earliest morning in both Spanish and Portuguese—perhaps a thousand or more birds croak and dance in half-light, mystical, ignored or unseen by most. It is silencing to watch—their unexplainable rhythms, the seemingly arbitrary but dramatic changes in altitude, and the way they decide in the split of a second to sink down into the trees and land, as if being vacuumed by the forest. Even if you cannot see…

la madrugada [La madru-gada]

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