Climate battery greenhouse

 See previous post here.

Building the climate battery greenhouse.

Progress as of this weekend.

Compost

Old leaves, kitchen waste, goat manure, straw, and (because we're building a house) a bag of sawdust. Keep it moist, fluffy, and full of oxygen, and in another month or so, it will be an excellent soil amendment. Don't forget a chimney to get oxygen down into the middle of the pile.

 

This spring's irrigation project

Looking south on a north-facing slope

I’ve been considering what I want to do with my ten acres now that our house is nearing completion at the top of the ridge. The house itself has always been a key part of my overall plan, as its hard surfaces will collect snowmelt and whatever rainfall we get during the year and transport it to nearby growing areas. It would have been nice if the gated pipe had been operational early on, bringing water up to the top of the hill, but between leaks in the system and the unreliability of the pump, that has not been a viable option. Besides, I’d rather not use gasoline just to move water — just doesn’t sit right with me.

Instead, at this point, I want to deal with the water I can access by gravity — i.e., water that will seek its level. As calculated from Google Earth, that level would be the box at my neighbor's place on a nearby ridge, before it travels downhill to our junction, and that sits at 5855 feet above sea level.

On my property, that corresponds to marker (B) T1 (upper right hand corner in this picture), approximately 490 feet uphill from my northern property line. It’s on the pink contour line.

The buried irrigation pipe (the vertical red line on the right) jointly owned by me and my neighbor to the west runs up the gully, and there’s a valve that can send water further up to the gated pipe on the central ridge, close to the power pole (PP 5864 ft). However, the pump is required to push the water to that height, so that’s off the table for the time being as well.

The last time I tried to use the gated pipe and pump, there was a leak from damage about three-quarters of the way up the gully, a leak that got repaired with a valve I could open to flood irrigate a swale I’d dug there. That worked fine, but again it required the pump to get the water up to that height.

What I’d like to do this spring is install a similar valve on that main line lower down (5845 feet above sea level, 350 feet from the north boundary) and run a swale (the white line) on contour over to the other side of the property, directing the flow into a pond.

There would be a small collection/settling pool where the water enters the swale on the west, and a much larger dam and pond on the east. The dam would have a level sill on the east to act as an outlet for the pond. From there, if the pond should happen to overflow, the water would travel downhill along the east boundary of both my and my downhill neighbor's properties and eventually empty into the Smith Ditch. I do not anticipate this happening often, but the water needs to have a place to go and a mechanism for getting it there. All of these areas would need to be armored with rocks to prevent erosion.

The object here is to use my shares of the irrigation water to hydrate the soils along this swale and pond in order to plant trees. In theory, those root systems should hold onto much of that water and stabilize the soil there, and I can plant in the shade provided by their canopy once those trees are established. No trees would be planted in front of or on the dam itself to ensure its integrity, only at the back of the pond and along and slightly downhill from the swale itself.

There may also be an opportunity to use a similar technique on the gully area at the northwest corner of my property. By installing a similar valve approximately 140 feet up from the northern property line (tapping into the pipe at 5825 feet above sea level), I could run water through a series of swales slightly off-contour, and plant a small orchard in that section, letting the water subsequently leave the property and enter into my neighbor's small pond. From there on, it would be additional water for my neighbor's landscape.

Obviously this will require coordination and cooperation, as he is downhill from me — and the water needs to be put to beneficial use on both our parts. If it works as it should, it would also benefit my neighbor to the west, should he choose to participate, as the contours could also be continued across his property as well. 

Place

My grandparents, both sets of them, were born, grew up, married, reproduced themselves, grew old, died, and were buried, all within an area of about a thirty mile radius in northeast Ohio. The same could be said for my parents, although my father and his brother fought in World War II which took them far afield — respectively, to India and to Northern Africa and Italy for brief portions of their young adulthoods. 

This was the early half of the twentieth century, and by the time I came along in mid-century, the pattern was starting to alter. Awash in media images of distant lands and exotic but accessible foreign territories (even, by way of science fiction, of other planets or the prospects of exciting unrealized futures), I and many other members of my generation were drawn away if not actually seduced, Pied Piper-like, from territories circumscribed by that radius. Place as a thing that mattered was an insubstantial construct, easily modified, unable to take root when confronted with the charms of elsewhere. 

Some of us were, in fact, still being shipped out to fight in foreign campaigns, but many of us, as we grew into our teens and twenties in the 1960s and 70s within a protective bubble of affluence, began to absorb the tenets of a counterculture that had commenced to grow and nurture generations, that celebrated the virtue of rejecting the place you were from, for reasons that had little to do with what other waves of immigrants had experienced in the past. It was, more than anything else, a kind of cultural diaspora more than a flight from intolerable or desperate conditions. 

That wasn’t always the pattern, of course. My parents had come of age during the period of the stock market crash and the Great Depression, an era that must have seemed like a door being slammed shut, the closing off of economic opportunities, an expanding horizon suddenly shrinking down again to that thirty mile radius. I can feel their ambition for a better life, if not for themselves then for their children. 

Our family has a record of a distant relative who traveled by sail from his home in Scotland in the 1700s to Baltimore, a voyage paid for with indentured servitude. We do not know under what sort of conditions he felt compelled to make such a journey — whether it was a certain bleakness in future prospects for finding a partner, for succeeding in business, for establishing a home and family — or the allure and attraction of a comparatively unknown land, glimpsed through a scrim of wishful thinking. We do know that he was able within a few years to settle on farmland near the current capital of Pennsylvania, that he married, that he and his sons fought in the Revolutionary War, that he continued to farm in the new United States of America free from British rule and raise his family within the confines of an area similar to the one that constrained my grandparents. 

And we know that some of his family eventually moved on, westward. Some of them fought in the Civil War, and at least one of them, my great grandfather, traveled far enough west to enjoy a brief career as a cowboy. He eventually returned to the family occupations of farming and coal mining, neither of which was on my menu of career choices when I graduated from college in 1971. Somehow I had been, in the space of twenty or so years, converted into the ranks of the cultural hunter/gatherers who would roam about, selecting a little of this, a little of that, sampling what was offered wherever we went and transporting it on to the next destination, or leaving it abandoned on the side of the road. I had been taught to reject the conventional pattern and apply a different set of cultural values, less a victim of a targeted advertising campaign than a willing accomplice to a process I gratefully embraced.

I realize, as my parents and their parents could not, that I have lived through a time of great material abundance, engineered with warfare, powered by fossil fuels — a period in which I was encouraged to ignore limits, to take another helping, to buy yet another product — to grow, to travel, to move beyond the imagined boundaries, even the boundaries of the planet itself. The place I have settled at last is over a thousand miles from where I was born and from where my parents and their parents and other members of our family are or will someday be buried. Late to the game, I am trying to lay claim to a place where I can grow old, and where quite possibly I can still set down patterns of living I did not devote myself to during my lifetime, that may offer some support to my offspring in an unknown but likely quite dangerous future. My wandering has brought me here, without knowing who or what exactly acted as my guide. 

It may very well be the case that I have rather been afloat in the movement of a great cultural wave that has deposited me on this distant shore — that lifted me up, pushed me forward and abandoned me here, not at a place but simply at the end of a process. 

Hempcrete House

Heading for the Winter Solstice

Prosocial

Back in the early 2000s, I was very much caught up in the frenzy of concern about Peak Oil, the constellation of ideas around the concept of Hubbert's Peak, the inevitable decline of worldwide petroleum extraction and all that might entail. Looking back, I don't regret it, since it set me on the path of discovery that eventually led me to Permaculture and, beyond that, to this particular piece of land and this particular community. 

Climate Change or Global Warming had not yet achieved its ascendancy in the hierarchy of doom (at least on the Internet) and sites like The Oil Drum (http://theoildrum.com/) were a daily warning that civilization was about to collapse due to shortages of its primary fuel. Writer James Howard Kunstler called the impending period of resource wars and financial chaos "The Long Emergency," and that framing seemed to stick. (For my own quasi-hysteric take on the topic, see https://www.youtube.com/)

One of the principal arguments underlying the Peak Oil theory was the idea of the Tragedy of the Commons, the brainchild of academic ecologist and sometime proponent of eugenics Garrett Hardin. It was so central to Peak Oil commentary that it was regarded as a given, as if it had been delivered from heaven on stone tablets authored by the Lord Himself. 

While Peak Oil no longer occupies its place among topics of overwhelming interest to the Internet, it's still out there, lurking in the background, ready to work its magic on our pro-growth Business As Usual road to ruin - and, frankly, given the melting of the Arctic, rampant and unchecked deforestation, loss of topsoil, rising sea levels, droughts, flooding, and the ongoing sixth mass extinction - we've got bigger fish to fry than trying to locate where we're at along Hubbert's Curve.

But just as people failed to adequately predict the ramifications of increased oil extraction in the second decade of the 21st century (the so-called Shale Revolution), they also failed to grasp the fact that the "Commons" Hardin was supposedly describing wasn't really a commons at all, because a true commons isn't some dog-eat-dog unregulated arena of perpetual competition. In fact, that's a pretty good definition of exactly what a true commons isn't. Regulation (good or bad) is key to how a commons functions, and more importantly, the dynamic interactions of groups attempting to divvy up this or that resource are precisely what determines their success or failure.

Happily, someone was actually studying those group dynamics, and her work on the topic founded a discipline that goes by the name "Prosocial". Her name was Elinor Ostrom, and her work garnered her a Nobel Prize in 2009.

At a recent workshop in which we were introduced to the core design principles of functioning groups, we were asked to consider the characteristics of groups we had participated in, whether or not they'd succeeded or failed, and to try to make a determination as to whether or not they'd aligned with these practices.

For myself, I thought back to the days in which I'd worked with a small group of Peak Oil-aware folks in Los Angeles who had dedicated themselves to follow the pattern of the Transition Town movement, a Permaculture-based endeavor to "power down" in advance of the Peak Oil decline and re-localize basic community services and the production of goods. We didn't so much crash and burn as we just slowly came apart, gliding down into inactivity after an initial burst of energy and enthusiasm. The principles listed below seemed to describe (by implication, in a kind of backhanded way) what we'd tried to do and failed. It was not so much the Tragedy of the Commons as it was the Melodrama of Malfunction. Did I mention that this happened in Los Angeles?

I think as I continue to read through the book (pictured above), I'll probably have more to say about our own local process of trying to establish, activate, and govern a volunteer organization dedicated to redefining our watershed (the North Fork of the Gunnison River) as a bioregion in relation to other watersheds, the stated purpose of the workshop. But for the moment, pinning the principles here will simply serve as a reminder, a handy checklist.     

Prosocial core design principles

1. Strong group identity and understanding of purpose.
2. Fair distribution of costs and benefits.
3. Fair and inclusive decision-making.
4. Monitoring agreed-upon behaviors.
5. Graduated sanctions for misbehaviors.
6. Fast and fair conflict resolution.
7. Authority to self-govern.
8. Appropriate relations with other groups.

 

  

Rainwater Catchment

 

According to my weather station, we not only have just gotten two-tenths of an inch of rain from our overnight stormfront, we've had almost an inch in the past week and a total to date of thirty inches for the year, which is considerably more than our annual average of fifteen. Maybe someone's adding in snowmelt equivalent? 

In advance of the storm, I emptied out both of my government-allowed 55 gallon rain barrels because a frost and freeze warning had been issued, and winter ice had pretty much destroyed a previous filled container. Well, there wasn't that much ice to speak of, and the barrels had, during the night, basically been refilled, which is remarkable to me. I mean, two tenths of an inch fills a 55 gallon barrel?

It got me wondering what the actual catchment capability might be of the new place we're building up the hill. Seems a little late to be doing this kind of calculation, but the idea of the house being located where it is was in part based on a fundamental principle of catching and storing water up at the top of the slope. So this is certainly a guess based on a formula, but here's what the roof looks like in the plan:

And all of that translates into roughly 4000 sq. ft. of catchment surface. If the actual annual rainfall is in fact closer to 15" than thirty, that amount alone might produce 35,380 gallons! It won't all be going into barrels - in fact, most of it will run through pipes buried peripherally around the foundation and directed either towards the garden topsoil or a pond. Given that this area is drying out at an accelerating rate, it would be truly remarkable to be able to hydrate at least this small portion of the field and kickstart a small water cycling process.