to anyone in the areas impacted by the wildfire smoke, my #1 biggest piece of advice as someone whos been dealing with wildfire smoke in the NW united states for years, is build yourself a Corsi-Rosenthal Cube
they perform as well as expensive HEPA air cleaners, and are comparatively VERY inexpensive. all you need is a box fan, 4 air filters, a piece of cardboard, and some duct tape!!!!
i think it took us maybe a half hour to put ours together, if that, and we replace the filters every 3 months. it's really made a HUGE difference, both when the air quality is bad, but also with our allergies
Also just a handy, DIY air filter in general, if a bit bulky. For a less bulky and cheaper (but also less effective) solution, you can simply tape one filter to the fan, cut a shroud if you'd like.
just FYI, this is quite literally what the climate scientists at my work who specialized in wildfire smoke impacts recommend. it works great, it's cheap to make, and it will make a noticeable impact on your air quality.
i have asthma & keep one of these running in my room perpetually. after I set it up the difference in my sleep quality was pretty much night and day. Dont waste your time on proprietary air filters; SIMPLY bust out the duct tape
in this post: footage of Ryan Gosling unintentionally auditioning for the role of Dr. Ryland "you are all completely mad" Grace. all he's missing are the slutty little glasses.
ā¦..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.Ā
LikeĀ āI realized that I was in the wrong and now I will work hard to atoneā is good and all, butĀ āhow dare you infect me with moralsā will always be so much more entertaining
Ghost insists adamantly, passionately, and with the conviction of a man whoās sustained multiple traumatic brain injuries that he fell in love with you at first sight.
Because Ghost had eyes on you for approximately ten seconds before you broke his nose and he fell in love.
It happens outside a cafe on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day where nothing interesting is supposed to occur, where the universe is contractually obligated to be boring. Youāve got your headphones in, keys jangling in one hand, iced coffee in the other, walking home in that autopilot mode where your body knows the route but your brain is thinking about literally anything else.
Thatās when your wallet slips from your pocket. Honestly, you donāt even notice, because youāre deep into a true crimeās podcast and fully dissociated from reality.
Ghost spots it, picks it up, and jogs after you.
He says something. You donāt hear it. He says it again, louder. Still nothing.
So he taps your shoulder.
Big. Mistake.
You spin around like a woman possessed, adrenaline spiking, fight or flight activating, and throw the most righteous, unholy, devastatingly perfect punch of your entire life. Itās the kind of punch that would make your self defense instructor weep with pride. The kind of punch that deserves a plaque. A statue. A national holiday.
The sound is wet. The crunch is immediate. The impact is biblical.
Ghost drops like a felled oak tree and a bag of bricks. He goes down hard wallet still clutched in one hand, skull mask knocked crooked, eyes blinking slowly up at the sky like heās trying to remember what dimension heās in.
You stand there frozen. Horrified. Keys still dangling. Headphones half out. Coffee somehow still intact.
The rest of Task Force 141 who have been standing several feet away, look like they just watched God Himself get smacked into next week.
For a moment, thereās only silence.
Then Soap breaks.
He howls. Heās doubled over, hands on his knees, tears streaming down his face, making noises that arenāt even human anymore. Heās gone. Transcended. Ascended to a plane of pure, chaotic joy.
āSHE DECKED HIM!ā he wheezes, gasping for air. āShe- she knocked the GHOST out! FULL CONTACT! FULL KO! IāM- I CANāT- ā
Gaz follows immediately, wheezing, clutching his ribs. āMate- mate- she dropped him like a sack of potatoes! One punch! ONE!ā
Price just sighs. Long. Deep. The sigh of a man whoās too old for this, too tired for this, but also, somewhere deep down, a little bit impressed.
āBloody beautiful form,ā he mutters, shaking his head. āTextbook right hook. Couldāve been in the ring.ā
Youāre panicking. Youāre hovering over Ghost, babbling apologies, hands fluttering uselessly. āOh my god- oh my god- Iām so sorry! I didnāt know- I thought you were- are you okay? Do you know what year it is? How many fingers am I holding up? Should I call someone? Do you need a hospital? A lawyer?! Please donāt sue me.ā
Ghost doesnāt answer. He just groans. Long. Low. Like a haunted house sound effect.
Then, through the blood and the daze and the clearly scrambled neural pathways, he mutters āā¦angels.ā
āWhat?ā you squeak.
āI see angels,ā he slurs, eyes glassy and vaguely pointing in your direction. āPretty ones.ā
Soap loses it again. Heās on the ground now. Literally collapsed. Gaz has to step over him.
By the time the ambulance arrives (called by Price) Ghost is propped up against the curb like a discarded mannequin. His nose is absolutely destroyed. His mask is half off. Thereās blood on his jacket. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.
But heās smiling.
And heās staring at you like you personally hung the moon, invented oxygen, and solved world peace in one punch.
āYou hit like a tank,ā he says faintly, dreamily, voice slow and thick with what is definitely a concussion. āBloody beautiful. Strong. Could probably crush a manās skull. Lovely hands. Great form. You single?ā
āYou are concussed,ā you reply, voice shrill, face burning. āYou need a hospital.ā
āMaybe,ā he agrees, nodding slowly, then wincing because nodding hurts. āBut Iām also in love.ā
Soap is dead. Flatlined. Gaz is leaning against a lamppost for support, tears streaming. Price is- oh god- Price is taking a video.
āIncident documentation,ā he says flatly when you stare at him in betrayal like he isnāt planning on immediately sending it to Laswell.
āDELETE THAT!ā
āCanāt. Evidence.ā
When the paramedics finally load Ghost onto the gurney- still loopy, still bleeding, still smiling like a man whoās discovered enlightenment- he reaches out and grabs Soap by the shirt with surprising strength for someone whoās been recently KOād.
āJohnny,ā he slurs, deadly serious. āJohnny. Listen tāme.ā
āAye, LT?ā
āGet her number.ā
āā¦Ghost, you need medical-ā
āSwear it.ā His grip tightens. His eyes are wild. Desperate. āSwear it on your life, Johnny. On your mum. On your beloved hair gel. Get. Her. Number.ā
Soap, choking back laughter, wipes his eyes and salutes. āAye, big man. Iāll get it. Scoutās honor. Right after I get the CCTV footage and frame it for the barracks.ā
āYouāre a good man, Johnny.ā
āIām really not.ā
Ghost gives you a dazed, lopsided thumbs up from the gurney as they wheel him away, and youāre left standing on the sidewalk- wallet finally back in hand, face the color of a tomato, dignity in shambles- wondering how in the hell you managed to accidentally concuss a six-foot-four man into romance.
Soap sidles up next to you, grinning like the devil himself.
āSo,ā he says, pulling out his phone. āCan I get that number? For medical purposes. And also because heāll actually haunt me if I donāt.ā
You stare at him.
He waggles his eyebrows.
āā¦Fine.ā
Somewhere in the ambulance, Ghost smiles.āāāāāāāāāāāāāāāā
The fun thing about COD is that everyone who calls the 141 and every other operator their precious little mew mew skrunkly is fully aware that Soap once used an enemy soldier as a meat shield, Price responded to a barricade by attempting vehicular manslaughter, Gaz saw one terrorist attack and decided going feral was an option that should be on the table, and Ghost is, well, Ghost.
They know their little mew mews are war criminals and they do not care.
Boys may be boys but hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Or, another Reader crash-out fic
The cake was on the floor.
You stared at it. Chocolate and cream splattered across the linoleum. Your fingers were still curled around the empty plate.
Someone was talking. You couldnāt hear them. There was a ringing in your ears, high pitched and constant, like tinnitus mixed with a tea kettle mixed with the sound your sanity made as it finally, finally gave up and died.
A tear rolled down your cheek.
Then another.
The mess hall had gone quiet. You could feel eyes on you. Sergeant MacTavish was saying something; apologizing, probably. His mouth was moving. You watched it move, disconnected, like you were underwater and he was on the surface.
The men probably thought they understood. Poor thing. Sheās crying over cake. Women and their emotions, right? It came out of nowhere. She just snapped. Over cake.
You know what they say about adrenaline? How it makes you stronger?
Your head came up slowly. The tears stopped. Something in your expression must have changed because MacTavish took a step back.
āMaāam- ā he tried.
You looked at him. Really looked at him. Six feet of muscle and mohawk and nervous energy.
Then you reached out, grabbed him by the front of his tactical vest, and lifted.
MacTavish made a sound like a squeaky toy.
You were five foot seven. MacTavish was six foot two and probably weighed two twenty soaking wet.
You held him in the air with one hand.
It was never about the cake.
It started at 0530- thirty minutes before your alarm- when the fire alarm went off because Private Jenkins had tried to make toast. Toast. The most basic form of cooking known to mankind. Bread. Heat. Thatās it. But somehow, somehow, Jenkins had managed to not only burn the toast but actually catch the toaster on fire. Youād stood in the predawn cold in your pajamas for forty five minutes while the fire department cleared the building.
When youād asked Jenkins, trying to understand the thought process on how heād managed it, heād said, āI dunno, maāam, I just pushed it down and walked away.ā
Walked away.
From a toaster.
This was a man was trusted with a firearm.
By 0615, youād discovered that no one had bothered to replace the fire extinguishers after last weekās āincidentā (someone had tried to deep fry something in the common room and had nearly burned down the building). The Fire Chief had shown up during the Toast Incident and had lost his absolute mind. Youād spent forty five minutes getting screamed at- actually screamed at, with the vein in his forehead pulsing and everything- about negligence and fire code violations and āwhat kind of chickenshit operation are you running here?ā
You werenāt even in charge of fire safety. That was Morrisonās job. Morrison, who was conspicuously absent. Morrison, whoād somehow had a ādentist appointmentā at 6 AM. But Captain Price had looked at you and said, āHandle it,ā and then walked away, leaving you to take the fall for someone elseās incompetence. Again.
The Fire Chief had threatened to report the base. Youād had to grovel and promise it would never happen again and personally saw to it that they were all replaced.āāāāāāāāāāāāāāāā
0700: Someone- you has suspects but couldnāt prove it- had made you the next victim in the base wide prank war that had been ongoing for weeks and replaced your shampoo with Nair. No doubt they thought they were pranking someone else and hadnāt bothered to confirm they had the right locker first. Youād caught it just in time, but only because youād been paranoid enough to smell it first. Youād had to use dish soap to wash your hair. Dish soap.
0730: Youād found out that the weekly intelligence reports youād specifically asked Corporal Davis to file were not, in fact, filed. When youād asked why, heād said- and you could not make this up even if you tried- āOh, I thought you said youād do it.ā Youād literally watched him write it down in his little notebook. Youād watched him underline it. The reports were now late. Your ass was on the line. But sure, Davis thought you were doing it.
0800 briefing: Youād watched Lieutenant Riley drink tea through his mask. Not lift it. Not move it. Straight through the fabric like some kind of logic defying cryptid. When youād stared at him in horrified confusion, heād just stared back with those dead eyes. Youād had to continue the briefing while experiencing what could only be described as a dissociative episode. No one else seemed to think this was weird. You were surrounded by lunatics.
0845: The visiting Lieutenant Colonel called you āsweetheartā and asked if youād āmind terriblyā grabbing coffee for the room. You were running the briefing. You were running it. Heād then spent the next fifteen minutes explaining your own intelligence report back to you, incorrectly, while nodding like he was doing you a favor.
0900: Youād discovered that your meticulously prepared presentation for the brass- six hours of work- had been deleted. Just gone. Youād asked the IT specialist what happened. Heād said, āOh yeah, I was cleaning up the shared drive and it looked like old stuff, so I deleted it.ā It was dated from yesterday. It was very clearly labeled āBRIEF FOR VISITING BRASS - DO NOT DELETE.ā Heād apparently not read that part. Youād recreated it from memory in forty five minutes while having what you were pretty sure was an aneurysm.
1000: Sergeant Garrick had crashed a drone- your personal drone, the one youād bought with your own money- into the side of the barracks because he āwanted to see if he could do a barrel roll.ā When youād asked him why heād used your drone instead of one of the fifty military grade drones on base, heād said, āYours was closer.ā It was now in seven pieces. Heād apologized with those big sincere eyes like that somehow unsmashed your $800 drone.
1030: Youād had to break up a fight between two privates who were arguing about whether a hot dog was a sandwich. It had escalated to shoving. Grown men. Pushing each other. Over a hot dog. Youād had to file an incident report. Youād had to waste official military paperwork on the hot dog sandwich debate.
1100: The intelligence reports you needed for the 1300 meeting were being held up because the courier had accepted a dare to eat a carolina reaper and was now in medical āexperiencing profound regret.ā Your reports were locked in his bag. In his locked office. He was too busy ācontemplating his mortalityā to tell anyone the code. Youād had to get maintenance to literally drill the lock off.
1200: Youād confiscated a makeshift flamethrower that two privates had constructed from an aerosol can and a lighter because they āwanted to see if they could cook lunch faster.ā There were scorch marks on the ceiling. When youād asked them what they thought was going to happen, theyād both shrugged. No thoughts. Heads empty. Just vibes and arson.
1300 meeting: Youād had to present your recreated brief to the brass while the Lieutenant Colonel interrupted you every thirty seconds to add āvaluable inputā that was justā¦ wrong. Factually incorrect. But you couldnāt correct him because he outranked you, despite being dumber than a bag of rocks.
1400: Youād returned to your office to find the door locked. Your office. Locked from the inside. Youād knocked. No answer. Youād used your key. It didnāt work- someone had engaged the interior lock. Youād had to get maintenance. Again. When they finally opened the door, youād found Captain Price in there with Susan from admin. Susanās lipstick was smeared. Captain Priceās hat was on your desk. Theyād been using your office- your office- to fuck. On your desk. Your desk. Captain Price had the audacity to wink at you and say, āThanks for the space, love,ā as he walked out, adjusting his belt.
1430: Youād had to clean lipstick off your desk. And other things. You didnāt want to think about the other things. Youād used an entire container of disinfecting wipes. You were going to need therapy.
1445: Sergeant MacTavish had set off a smoke grenade in the womenās bathroom. Youād been in there. Youād been in a stall. Heād just opened the door, tossed it in without looking- because why would you look, apparently thatās too much to ask- and shut the door. Youād had to evacuate through a window. Second floor. Youād twisted your ankle. MacTavish had found you limping across the parking lot and had the absolute balls to ask if you were okay. Youād nearly murdered him with your bare hands.
1500: Youād discovered that someone had used your car- your personal vehicle- to make a beer run. Your car. Theyād taken your keys from your desk (the desk that had been defiled) while you were in the building. There was a dent in the bumper now. No one would admit to it. When youād asked around, everyone suddenly had amnesia. Thirty grown men and not one of them saw anything.
1530: Jenkins- fucking Jenkins- had been promoted to armory supervisor. The man whoād nearly burned down the building making toast. The man whoād assembled a rifle backwards last month. That Jenkins. Youād asked Captain Price if he was serious. Heād said, āHeās got initiative.ā Initiative. Jenkins had initiative. Youād laughed. It was not a sane laugh.
1600: Someone had started a rumor that you and Ghost were dating. Three people had congratulated you. One had asked when the wedding was. Another had asked if Ghost was āgood in bedā because āhe seems like heād be intense.ā Youād had to stand there and explain that you were not, in fact, romantically involved with the baseās human shadow demon.
1630: The coffee maker in the officersā lounge had finally, completely died. Youād gone to use the backup coffee maker. Also broken. The vending machine? Out of order. There was no coffee anywhere on this godforsaken base except for the instant coffee in the supply closet, which tasted like it had been brewed in the fires of hell using Satanās bathwater.
1700: Youād found Garrick in the medical bay doing parkour. Parkour. Off the examination tables. There were muddy footprints on the ceiling. The ceiling. When youād asked him what the hell he was doing, heād said with a straight face āConditioning, maāam.ā The medic had just shrugged like this was normal.
1745: Youād finally made it back to your office to find Ghost sitting at your desk. In the dark. When youād turned on the light, heād said, āYou left these on the printer,ā and held up a pack of paper like that explained any of this while you tried to make your heart rate return to a normal rate and rhythm. It did not explain why he was in the dark. It did not explain how heād gotten into your office. It did not explain anything.
1800: Youād made it to the mess hall. You were running on four hours of sleep, no coffee, crunchy hair, a twisted ankle, and your will to live that was hanging on by a thread made of spite and denial.
And then youād seen it.
The last piece of chocolate lava cake.
Your light. Your beacon. Your reason for continuing to exist.
Youād made it through the line in a daze. Mystery meat. Suspicious vegetables. Powdered mashed potatoes that had the consistency of paste.
But you had the cake.
Youād had the cake.
Past tense.
Because MacTavish, the man whoād already made your day a living hell, had come barreling through the mess hall like a drunk moose and knocked it out of your hands.
Youād watched it flip through the air.
Watched it land.
Face down.
And now you were here.
āDo you know- ā you snarled shaking MacTavish like a maraca, ā- what kind of day Iāve had?ā
The mess hall was dead silent except for your voice, which had gone somewhere between a scream and a primal roar.
āYouāre supposed to be elite. Special forces. The best of the best. Do you know what thatās supposed to mean, MacTavish?ā
MacTavishās feet were dangling. Youād been holding him for a full minute now. Your arm wasnāt even shaking.
āItās supposed to mean competence. Basic. Fucking. Competence.ā
You shook him again.
āBut you, all of you- youāre the stupidest bastards Iāve ever worked with. And Iāve worked with Marines. Iāve worked with Rangers. Iāve worked with private security contractors who showed more common sense than this entire unit combined.ā
Your voice was rising, getting more unhinged with every word.
āYou canāt make toast- ā you glanced at Jenkins, whoād gone pale, ā- without committing arson. You canāt file a simple report. You canāt read a file name that says ādo not deleteā in clear fucking English. You canāt look before you throw explosives into enclosed spaces.ā
You turned your attention back to MacTavish.
āYou threw a smoke grenade into the womenās bathroom. While I was in it. Didnāt check. Didnāt look. Just tossed it in like you were feeding ducks at a pond.ā
āI didnae ken- ā
āYou didnāt think!ā Your voice cracked. āNone of you think! Thatās the problem! You just do things! Stupid, destructive, idiotic things! And then you look surprised when there are consequences!ā
You started pacing, still holding MacTavish like he weighed nothing.
āI have a masterās degree. I speak four languages. I have eight years of experience and a spotless record. And what do I do with all that training and education?ā
You looked around at the crowd.
āI clean up after you. I fix your mistakes. I file your paperwork. I take the fall for your incompetence because apparently Iām the only person on this base who can be trusted to actually do their fucking job.ā
Your hands were shaking now. MacTavish had gone very still.
āPrice- ā you found him in the crowd, ā- you promoted Jenkins to the armory. Jenkins. The man who set a toaster on fire this morning is now in charge of weapons. Do you understand how insane that is? Do you?ā
Price opened his mouth.
āThatās rhetorical, Captain. I donāt actually want to hear you try to justify it.ā
Someone in the back made a nervous sound.
āAnd the rest of you- ā you looked around at the crowd, ā- youāre no better. You fight about whether hot dogs are sandwiches. You make flamethrowers in your spare time. You use my car without permission. You put Nair in peopleās shampoo bottles. You act like this is summer camp instead of a military base.ā
Your voice had reached a pitch that was probably only audible to dogs.
āHow- ā you could feel your face getting hot, ā- how do they trust you with missions? With classified intelligence? With guns? You canāt even walk through a mess hall without destroying someoneās property!ā
You stopped. Looked down at MacTavish, still dangling from your hand.
āAll I wanted was one piece of cake. One. After spending the entire day keeping this operation from falling apart. After playing mother to a bunch of grown men who canāt be trusted with basic tasks. After being the only competent person in a building full of idiots who are supposed to be elite soldiers.ā
Your voice dropped. Went quiet. Dangerous.
āAnd you took that from me.ā
The silence was deafening.
You looked around at all of them. āYou donāt even understand what you do. You donāt see it. You bumblefuck your way through every single day causing chaos and destruction and you think itās fine because someone- because me- is always there to fix it. To smooth it over. To make excuses. To take the blame.ā
You could feel something breaking. Some final thread of professionalism snapping.
You looked at MacTavish one more time.
Then you dropped him.
He hit the ground hard, stumbled backward, gasping.
āOutside,ā you said quietly. Too quietly.
No one moved.
You looked at them. Your expression had gone completely flat. Empty.
āGet outside. By the count of zero.ā
āMaāam- āPrice started, taking a step forward, hands up in that universal āletās all calm downā gesture. āLetās just take a breath and- ā
You started taking off your earrings.
Price stopped talking.
You placed them carefully on the nearest table. Started on your watch.
āTen,ā you said calmly.
āNow hang on- ā Morrison tried.
āNine.ā
You unclasped your watch. Set it down next to the earrings.
āMaāam, I really think we should all just- ā Garrick attempted.
āEight.ā
You shrugged off your jacket. Folded it. Placed it neatly on the table.
The mess hall had gone dead silent. Everyone was watching you with increasing horror.
āSeven.ā
You bent down. Slipped off one heel. Then the other. Lined them up neatly.
āListen, we can talk about this- ā Price tried again, but his voice had gone uncertain.
āSix.ā
You rolled up your sleeves. Methodically. First the right. Then the left.
Ghostās hand was definitely on his sidearm now.
āPlease- ā someone in the back squeaked.
āFive.ā
You tied your hair back. Smooth, practiced movements.
āOkay, everyone just stay calm- ā The visiting Lieutenant Colonel was backing toward the door.
āFour.ā
You looked at the nearest table. Four people were sitting at it, frozen like deer in headlights.
āMaāam- ā MacTavishās voice was strangled.
āThree.ā
You walked over to the table. Calmly. Slowly.
The four people scrambled away from it.
You grabbed the edge.
āWait- ā Price started forward.
You ripped the table out of the floor.
The sound was catastrophic. Metal shrieking. Bolts shearing. Floor tiles cracking. The table came up like you were pulling a weed from soft earth. Several people shouted.
You held it above your head.
The mess hall had gone beyond silent into some kind of vacuum where sound didnāt exist anymore. Everyone had gone pale. Actually pale. Like theyād seen a ghost.
Someone whispered, āArenāt those bolted to the ground?ā
āā¦Yeah,ā someone else breathed.
You looked at them. Made eye contact with as many as possible while holding a table over your head.
āTwo.ā
That broke the spell.
They moved.
Chairs screeched. Trays went flying. Someone definitely trampled someone else. There was shouting. Pushing. A full on stampede for the exits.
āMove move move- ā
āGo go go- ā
āOut of my way- ā
You stood there, still holding the table, and watched them flee like rats from a sinking ship.
When the last person had scrambled out- Jenkins, naturally, bringing up the rear- you set the table down carefully.
Then you walked out after them.
They were clustered on the grounds outside, a hundred and fifty people pressed together like a herd of prey animals, all watching the door youād just exited.
You looked at them.
They looked at you.
The evening air was cool. Quiet. Peaceful.
āRun,ā you said. It came out as a growl. Something primal and furious.
Nobody moved.
āRun. Laps. Now.ā
They started moving, but not fast enough.
āI said run.ā
They ran.
āHow long, maāam?ā someone called out.
You smiled. It was not a kind smile.
āUntil you die,ā you said sweetly. āOr until I feel better. Whichever comes first.ā
wish more people knew of I Am Dragon (2015) because Iām mostly alone in thinking itās one of the best love story movies about a princess and a dragon
We've becoming very, very good on restoring them. Natural environments, when given space and time to heal, can return to that they were. And after all, all natural enviroments are managed by human societies. It is up to us to implement a good management, un buen gobierno.
I firmly believe our children and grandchildren will see a restoration of Earth like never before.
Millions of people are working on this. You can learn about it, perhaps even become one of them. Or be a pointless doomer in my ask box. Your choice.
if there are people who care, it's never a lost cause. at one point, kÄkÄpÅ, a nocturnal flightless parrot species from aotearoa, were thought to be entirely extinct for decades. until 1977, where booming calls from males were heard on the small island of whenua hou. now, thanks to people who care so much they dedicated their lives to caring, kÄkÄpÅ numbers are close to 300. despite the setbacks. despite the small gene pool causing infertility and health problems. people cared so fucking much that they survived. this is one of COUNTLESS, countless similar stories. I'm studying ecology so that I can go into conservation and all around me, every day, I see people who care enough to put years of their lives into learning about and solving environmental problems. I don't know man. hope isn't just some nebulous thing. it's tangible if you do something with it.
Tim Wong saw the decline of the pipeline swallowtail butterfly, and dedicated himself to providing habitat and raising babies, and it worked.
Spix's Macaws were extinct in the wild for 70 years, and now captive breeding and conservation groups have reintroduced a small population (with more on the way) and there are babies being successfully raised in the wild again.
And what else is there, but hope? We exist for the grace of hope. Those who have lost all hope don't stay here. If you are here to send an ask like this, it is not because you have given up, it's that you are hoping someone will show you that that hope is worth having.
It is!! It always is!!
There will be good things and if you cannot find them, make them! The time will pass anyway, you can choose what to do with it, and so many, many people are choosing to try to help.
The Lord Howe Island rodent eradication project never fails to make me cry, itās so beautiful.
The population of an entire island working together to eradicate every last rat and mouse to save the native bird populations. They had to trap a bunch of the birds and keep them in captivity so they wouldnāt be hurt by the rodenticides, and released them after the rodents were gone. Normal residents helped by phoning in tips whenever they saw rodents. And they did it. Lord Howe Island, last I read, remains rodent free, and the native bird populations are rebounding!
Acid rain and the hole in the ozone layer, both of which were terrifying specters of my childhood, have been largely dealt with. Ecosystems devastated by acid rain are also recovering.
In 1979, an audacious, expensive conservation project was begun to try and breed california condors in captivity toward being released into the wild again. This was considered useless and hopeless by many people, but many more people said we had to at least TRY.
In 1991, the first captive-raised condors were re-introduced to Big Sur, Pinnacles, and Bitter Creek.
In 2006, three months before I turned eighteen, the first wild pair of condors was seen nesting in Big Sur in over a hundred years. A hundred years.
We did that. We fixed it.
How about another example.
When my mom was small, in the 1960s, there were many, many days of the year she was not allowed outside. Days and days they had recess indoors, because the air was so poisonous to breathe. Here's an article about it, with some good pictures.
My mom was 13 in the picture on the left. She was 50 in the picture on the right.
In 1987, there were 27 California Condors in the world, all captive.
In 2024, there were 566.
369 of them fly free.
That happened within my lifetime, and I'm not even 40 yet.
When you lose hope, think of our stories we're telling you. Recount them to yourself like a prayer. That's what I do.
There are 369 California Condors flying free in the sky right now.
Black footed ferrets were considered completely extinct in 1979. Then we found a single den in Wyoming in 1981. In 1996 it was classified as extinct in the wild.
By 2013, there were approximately 1,200 living wild, across 18 dens. Their numbers increase regularly, and while the face challenges due to habitat loss, climate change, and their limited genetic diversity, they're in a much better place than they were.
Because people cared, and they worked, and they fought to make things better.
The other night husband and I were watching a documentary about the yeti where they were doing DNA analysis of samples of supposed yeti fur, and every one of them came back as bears.
Anyway, the next night we watched a thing about some pig man who is supposed to live in Vermont. People said it had claws and a pig nose but walked upright like a man. Now, I happen to know that sideshows used to shave bears and present them as pig men. So every piece of evidence they gave of this monster sounds to me like a bear with mange.
So now the running joke in our house is that everything is bears. Aliens? Bears. Loch Ness monster? Bear. Every cryptozoological mystery is just a very crafty bear.
Bears. Theyāre everywhere. Be wary. Anyone or anything could be a bear.
As the OP of this post, Iām going to threaten that if this gets to one million notes by the 10 year anniversary on 1 June 2026, one year from today, I will get a lower back tattoo of the loch ness bear monster.
