A bus ride through texas

By T.A. Akimoff

Walking through the canyons of downtown Dallas on a cold-for-spring morning, I splash through obvious streams of runoff from the newly watered flower boxes, while dodging obviously yellow runoff from the guy in the hoody and camo pants who leans up against the wall like he has a migraine. The grackles mimic sirens as the besuited men are led into high towers to finance their dreams as the restaurants lie dormant mere hours after bustling with late-night crowds, the detritus of which is now blown away by an army of men with leaf blowers so the city sounds like a suburban neighborhood on a Saturday morning in June.

A security guard notices me and falls in beside me.

The “Eye” in downtown Dallas
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Ode to the retired dictator

Kremlin.ru, CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons PresidenciaMX 2012-2018, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons Kremlin.ru, CC BY 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

By T.A. Akimoff

To the despots out there, the Jinpings, the Putins and the Lukashenkos

For the betterment of millions, you tread on to stay in your new clothes

And for your own piece of mind in a world where wealth is limitless yet vague.

An invitation to retire, to enjoy the spoils of your regimes, the money, the yachts.

Or do you fear the court of human opinion? In your dreams do you see the Hague?

What if we, the world, left you to your lavish lives, to live a little before your body rots?

What if we, the world, absolved you of the death and misery you inflict on us?

I hear Mariupol is nice this time of year, in spring, when the flowers bloom over graves

you opened in the frozen ground in winter, softening the earth with a bloody fuss

from your artillery and subjugated soldier fed not with food but lies and the blood he thinks he craves.

Oh, but I’m off the track here. What about you and your wealth and power and need

for control, for recognition; your empirical delusions that keep you awake at night in a solitary state of existence without the benefit of the big picture concealed by your Orthodox creed?

Hiding out in your Führerbunker watching shadows on the wall playing reruns of your downfall.

Is it hell you fear? Why? You’re just another in a long line of hellish outbursts come to crawl

through this world extracting death to keep your ego well-fed and plump as you feast on souls

who bear you up on bones and ashes of cultures, now limp flags, perforated with bullet holes.

Take some time away from the doorstep of oblivion and enjoy a sunny day at the beach.

Genocide is tough on the spineless, maybe buy yourself a bright, red car and set out on the road.

Or read a book or two instead of rewriting history and gaslighting the world with every speech.

Maybe take a few classes, re-education is all the rage these days, just take a light load

at the Xinjiang internment camps where you hold a million people against their will

to try to stamp out cultural differences for the good of the Communist party you bill

as socialism with Chinese characteristics. But which China are you referring to?

Because we can’t see over the great wall of misinformation and economic manipulation.

Maybe hang it up and go for a round of golf together and dinner and drinks for two

in the clubhouse in the intoxicating company of other despots without a worry, a care or a nation.

Books: “The Ministry for the Future”

It’s the middle of February, and we haven’t had much rain – four dry weeks across January and February, in fact. There’s a high-pressure system that builds up across the North Pacific sometimes in the winter. This is two winters in a row we’ve had it, but it’s hard to pin this down in your memory, because this weekend last year a terrible ice storm broke trees up and down the Willamette Valley.

Climate change is tough to buttonhole, because it looks just a little worse than last year. Maybe it’s a 60-degree day in February but hitting a warm day now and then is just the frog in the warming water pot.

I just finished Kim Stanley Robinson’s “The Ministry for the Future,” which outlines an astonishingly pseudo-bureaucratic response to the human-caused climate changes of today with a storming Normandy approach to reshaping the planet’s economy around carbon reduction with a hint of terrorism for good measure.

Most folks struggle to see climate change as anything other than a set of obscure consequences someone way down the road will have to deal with. I’m guilty of that myself when I celebrate these warm, February days where I can ride my bike in short sleeves well before the summer riding season begins.

After reading Robinson’s book, I tend to get a pit in my stomach on these nice days, knowing that the blue skies are anything but sunny. They are a dark omen of what a planet without defenses becomes in the light of a merciless star.

I try to stay grounded around climate change, because I grew up in the Evangelical church, where I was taught that the world is going to burn away, and God will create a new heaven and a new earth.

Nothing about that ever sat right with me from the first time I heard it. It sounded like a selling point more than a spiritual promise. It sounded like an excuse for capitalism and coal mining and human-caused extinction.

It didn’t pass the smell test and was one of many issues that ground my religion down to a fine, powdery nothing over the years.

But here I am, a former journalist working in conservation communication who believes in science as a process and the process of documenting climate change, and there they are, the millions of people who believe in the inevitability of the world burning away in fire.

How do you reconcile any of this? It’s like screaming into the void or explaining why a mask or a vaccine individually doesn’t help but they do when everyone participates.

And that’s the point of “The Ministry for the Future.” It plays around with the concept of convincing the winners and losers to work together, until millions of people are dead as consequences of a warming planet. Then it’s down to brass tacks, the horrific violence, the massive economic ruin and rebuilding and the total shift in society necessary bring the threat level back down to Defcon 1.

What sucks is standing here looking at the future and knowing just how much people are going to have to suffer, because the people standing next to me don’t believe the future exists.

All in the name of a probable mistranslation of one Holy text.

It’s maddening.

I won’t give the end of the book away but suffice it to say there it’s an exploration of probable solutions that grow more probable the more desperate we become. They’re too expensive now, and you still have millions of people who believe the world is going to burn away anyway, so you’d never convince them to pay for it. The hope that I took away from the book is that there are solutions out there we could be doing. And we will likely get there at some point, and all my wishing we could end the culture wars and get on with the business of saving the planet is just the reality of many people dying over the course of the next decades of climate change until that cost outweighs the costs of the solutions to slowing it down.



Here we are in 2022 still talking about banning books. Sometimes I shake my head at the backward motion of humanity as it strives to move, I’m not going to say foreword, because that implies that there is an actual direction we’re moving in, but perhaps we’re striving to move beyond ourselves.

We’re inherently conservative as a species with just enough progressiveness to push us along beyond our last milestones but not enough to rip the connective tissues that tends to bind us all together.

How reluctant am I to write that last line?


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When decades fall like glaciers

An Alaskan glacier
Alaskan glacier

I felt optimistic when I turned 40. My partner and I drove down to New Orleans and spent a glorious few days enjoying that party of a city, which may have contributed to my optimism. Fifty seemed a decade away, and at 40, decades are still slowly crawling downhill. At 45, I started to think about what 48 would look like, gazing down the cannon barrel at 50, and I’ll admit, it sent shivers down my spine.

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Winter as a monthless Period

If you’ve read this blog much, you know I hate January. It’s my least favorite of the 12 months Julius Caesar’s astronomers gave us. Not even Pope Gregory XIII, in all his wisdom, saw fit to rid us of the month named after the god of beginnings and transitions. Before the Gregorian and Julian calendars, you had a blissful monthless period in winter.

Bleak and rainy January
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2021 Audio/Book List


I started 2021 off with the usual plan to read more. Read, as in my eyes scanning the words printed on paper. God knows I do enough scanning of text on a screen for my job. Of course, that did not happen. Instead, I road my bike more than 4,000 miles this year, something like 291 hours in the saddle with Apple ear pods in my ears listening to audio books. It’s not for lack of trying. I’m desperately trying to complete one paperback in the next two weeks so I can say I read a book from start to finish rather than listened to it. But I’ve found that audio books work for me. They just do. Here’s what I listened to this year.

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Vaccinated: A plain, old view

I don’t remember getting my first vaccinations. I was a baby, and we traveled a lot, which meant that vaccinations were the norm and not the exception.

My partner Cheryl gets her first Covid-19 vaccine dose

I do remember asking my dad why he had a big, puckered scar on his upper arm whenever I’d see him in a tank top. He told dad jokes to explain it, as most men do. But eventually I learned it was caused by the skin’s natural healing process after recieving the smallpox vaccine.

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One last Hunt in the North Malheur

Three years ago, my friend David Lane and I decided to do our own elk camp. The idea was to hunt for cow elk to put some meat in our freezers and limit our reliance on store-bought meat.

Evening of the first day. Just about the time the coyote chorus begins.

That first year we borrowed a friend’s wall tent and set up camp in the absolute worst spot a person (me) could possibly pick. The spot was in the bottom of a canyon that saw just a bit of sunlight each day and seemed to concentrate the cold each night. We didn’t see a single elk that year.

We stayed in a hotel in Burns the second year. My two boys joined us for that hunt. We’d get up early, drag our gear to David’s truck and head for the hills with some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in our packs and some beer in the coolers. The weather was far more conducive to camping that second year, with temperatures in 60 and clear, sunny views for days. My son Cole managed to surprise a cow elk, or vice versa, and she ran away unscathed. The rest of us saw no elk that year.

This year we stayed in an Air B&B. Mostly because I wanted to support the local economy in these rough times but also because our hunt was shortened by everyone’s work schedules. This year was an in-between year, with cool, mostly clear weather but a lot of snow left on the ground from a big fall storm a few weeks previous. We saw no elk this year.

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High Attitude

The Wallowa Mountains

After working a 15-hour day on Wednesday, I decided to spend Thursday morning taking a gondola to the top of Mt. Howard to get a better look at the Wallowa Mountains.

I usually see the range from my hotel room in Enterprise, and the jagged peaks known as the Oregon Alps always remind me of growing up in the little East-Austrian town of Richenau an der Rax.

Having been raised in an alpine town, I’m always intrigued by them. People living life at unforgiving altitudes yet surrounded by immense beauty that constantly makes you lift your head up to behold.

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