As I sat beside the Cache la Poudre River one day last week watching the snow melt rush by and crash over the boulders in its way, it seemed endless and eternal, as though the flow at its late spring peak would just go on untempered forever.
The air was warm and fragrant with the scent of evergreen and moist earth, not like the city air to the south, soiled by the smoke of power generation and motorized travel. Deep beneath other waterways and fertile lands lie the minerals that seem always to be there for the taking — the coal and oil and gas formed in earlier ages from the remains of the living things of that time, a never-ending supply.
A sudden skittering movement by the bank, a deer come down to drink, a bird hopping up the branches of the aspen, high above a raptor riding on the rising air far beyond the canyon walls — all these reminded me we share this world with more than our own kind and always will. Or is that so?
Living by the rhythm of the seasons as I do, and not by days checked off a calendar, I know the river will not flow so strong forever. As spring melts into summer, the flood will diminish as surely as a day ends, until what finally trickles into the South Platte will not be enough for the summer crops on the plains or the cranes that will visit the following spring. The snows which feed it fade, and what we use of this resource is more than they can provide.
Nothing on this planet lasts forever. The only thing unchanging, undiminished, is the eternal spirit we cling to. Material things — the water we drink, the carbon we burn, the trees we rest beneath, the animals and plants that feed us and beautify our world — can be consumed and be no more.
So we would be wise to conserve what we can, to save something for those who come after us, to remember that the earth has limits, to find ways to consume less and live within those limits, in other words, to live a sustainable life. We would stop a child from eating all the candy in the trick-or-treat bag at once and suffering a tummy ache and having no treats for tomorrow. We have every reason to exercise restraint ourselves with the things essential to our life.
Living in a sustainable manner means finding better ways to create the power we need, ones that do not foul our air and water and land, that save the limited carbonized fuels for use where we really need them. Sun and wind can last, practically speaking, forever; coal and oil, uranium and natural gas will not.
Our forests generate oxygen and provide many other useful products; we need to harvest them wisely, taking only what we truly need. Each species has a place in the web of creation. If one disappears, it leaves a gap and is gone forever; and we do not yet know our world well enough to know what the loss may produce.
“Sustainability” has become a hateful word to some of late, like “liberal.” Even “conservative,” which shares a root meaning with “conservation,” has become a less desirable descriptor than it once was. “Libertarian,” which has come to mean something dangerously close to “anarchic,” seems to be in favor among some segments of the population. I find all this hard to comprehend. Sustainability is living in such a way that we preserve adequate resources to provide for our children’s children. How can there be anything wrong with that?
Rosemary Bergstrom lives in Fort Collins. EDITOR’S NOTE: This is an online-only column and has not been edited.
