Greetings! The following is a rewrite of samples
23, 24, and 25, which were originally posted way back in 2019, when I was young
and innocent. The revised version is
shorter, clearer, and adds new factoids.
I hope that as my editing process moves into newer sections, fewer
tweaks will be needed, and the blessed finish line will arrive before the sun
burns out.
MOTHER
GRASSLAND
The family of life is solar powered. Incoming solar energy is received by green plants,
who use it to produce sugar. This
process is photosynthesis. It converts solar
energy into a form of chemical energy that plants and animals must
have to survive. Animals acquire this
energy by eating plant material, or by dining on plant-eating animals.
Photosynthesis splits water molecules (H2O) into
hydrogen and oxygen atoms. Then, in a
fancy magic act, hydrogen is stirred together with CO2 to make a sugar
called glucose (C6H12O6). The process results in some leftover oxygen
atoms, which are released to the atmosphere.
Notice that animals exhale the CO2 needed by plants, and
plants exhale the oxygen needed by animals, a sacred circle dance. Plants use the sugar to fuel their daily life,
or they can convert it to starch, and save it for later. Plants can also make fat, protein, and
vitamins. They’re much smarter than they
look.
The act of snatching carbon from the air, and incorporating
it into living plant tissues, is called carbon fixation, or carbon
sequestration. As more carbon gets sequestered
into the plants and surrounding topsoil, then less of it remains in the
atmosphere. This is great, because too
much carbon in the atmosphere can lead to catastrophic climate juju, like the
freaky changes that are beginning to bludgeon the family of life right now.
There are four primary terrestrial biomes: grassland, forest,
desert, and tundra. Grasslands are
communities of different plants — primarily grasses, mixed with a wide variety
of sedges and leafy forbs (wild flowers and herbs). These mixed communities maximize the capture
of solar energy, make better use of soil resources, and create rich humus. Humus boosts soil fertility, and helps retain
moisture. Some plants also convert
atmospheric nitrogen into a form that is essential for all living things. Others are good at retrieving essential
mineral nutrients.
There are maybe 12,000 species of grass, and they grow in
many tropical and temperate regions. Some
are able to survive extended droughts, or long winters. Grasslands have two modes, productive and
dormant. In warm climates, they are
dormant during the dry season, and recover when the rains return. In temperate climates, they are dormant
during the frosty months, and green when the soil thaws.
Following an intense disturbance, grasslands can recover in 5
to 10 years — far faster than a wrecked forest.
Evolution has done a remarkable job of fine-tuning grasslands for rugged
durability. They can recover more easily
after wildfires because only a third of grassland biomass is above ground, and most
vulnerable to flames. Plants send roots
far underground, to acquire moisture and nutrients. Some roots grow as deep as 32 feet (10 m). The seeds of many grassland species can
remain dormant for an extended period, postponing germination until appropriate
conditions return. Some seeds can
survive a hot and slippery ride through an herbivore’s gut and remain fertile,
enabling the colonization of new locations.
Grass
and Herbivores
Grassland communities run on carb energy that moves from
species to species, up and down the food chain, and enables the existence of
the family of life. Large grass eating
herbivores were a favorite source of nutrients for our prehistoric
ancestors. For the effort invested in
hunting, they provided the biggest jackpots of meat. Our strong desire for these animals, and our
ongoing dependence on them, eventually resulted in some hominins evolving into Homo sapiens, the
last surviving hominin species.
It’s important to understand that herds of large herbivores
do not usually reside in forests or jungles.
Large body size can be an important advantage on grasslands, but a
disadvantage in dense woodlands. In
terms of vegetation, forests contain much more plant biomass than grasslands,
but most of it is elevated out of the reach of hungry herbivores. On the other hand, grasslands annually produce
much more new biomass per acre than forests, and it’s conveniently located
close to the ground.
To herd critters, grassland looks like a candy store where
all the goodies are free and delicious.
Grasslands are the best place to dine on high quality greenery, hang out
with friends and relatives, produce cute offspring, and enjoy a wonderful life
of fresh air, travel, and adventure.
Consequently, grasslands are home to far more large animals. I would expect that most land-dwelling
megafauna species originated in grasslands.
Grass
and Hominins
The Miocene Epoch spanned from 23 to 5.3 million years
ago. It seems that the early Miocene was
wet and warm, and many ecosystems were forests.
Much of Antarctica was covered with temperate forest 20 million years
ago. Later, maybe six to eight million
years ago, it got cooler and dryer, and a different type of ecosystem evolved
and expanded — grasslands. Compared to
forests, grasslands generally need less precipitation to survive. Today, the Earth’s forest area is 80 percent
smaller than it was in the Miocene’s golden age of trees.
This transition had a significant impact on the human
saga. As forests shrank, there was less
habitat for our tree-dwelling ancestors.
A number of forest species tumbled off the stage forever. Some primates moved onto the savannah, and
figured out how to survive as ground-dwelling primates, in open country. They included the ancestors of baboons and
humans. Humans are hominins, primates
that walk on two legs. About four
million years ago, hominins originated on the savannah grasslands of tropical
Mother Africa.
Our tree-dwelling ancestors were primarily frugivores, fruit
eaters. They ate stuff that grew or lived
in trees. When they became
ground-dwelling critters, they needed a new diet. Large herbivores became a popular choice. Hunting was the path to success, and grassland
was the place to be. Consequently, as
humans migrated out of Africa, and colonized the world, they preferred to
select routes that majored in grasslands.
Their journey took them to grasslands in the Middle East, and then
Europe.
Barry Cunliffe noted that a vast steppe grassland began in Hungary
and ended in Manchuria, providing a grassy highway that was 5,600 miles (9,000
km) long. As an added bonus, the steppe
was largely carpeted with vegetation that was drought-resistant and
frost-tolerant. Once established in northern
Asia, intrepid pioneers were eventually able to wander from Siberia, over the
Beringia land bridge, and then explore the incredible Serengetis of the
Americas.
In 1872, Kansas senator John James Ingalls
celebrated the power of grass. He wrote:
“Grass is the forgiveness of nature — her constant benediction. …Streets abandoned by traffic become
grass-grown like rural lanes, and are obliterated. Forests decay, harvests perish, flowers
vanish, but grass is immortal. …The
primary form of food is grass. Grass
feeds the ox: the ox nourishes man: man dies and goes to grass again; and so
the tide of life with everlasting repetition, in continuous circles, moves
endlessly on and upward, and in more senses than one, all flesh is grass.”
Super
Grass
And now, the plot thickens.
There are several ways that photosynthesis fixes carbon in plants. The conventional process is called C3. It produces a compound that has three carbon
atoms. The turbocharged process is C4,
and it produces a compound that has four carbon atoms. Maybe 85 percent of the plant species on
Earth are C3. Their method of
carbon fixation is simpler and less efficient than C4. Both types are very old, but when climate
change favored the expansion of grassland, C4 species got an
important boost.
Elizabeth
Kellogg studied C4 plants.
In one experiment she found that, under ideal conditions, C3
plants could theoretically capture and store up to 4.6 percent of the solar
energy they received, while C4 plants could get up to 6 percent (30
percent more). In other words, provided
with the same inputs of sunlight and water, C4 produces more
calories than C3 — carbs that fuel the family of life. They also produce more root biomass, which
increases their tolerance for drought and fire.
Kellogg calls the C4 process a turbocharger. While only 3 percent of flowering plant
species are C4, they account for 23 percent of all carbon fixation
in the world. Of the 12,000 grass
species, 46 percent of them are C4, and they include corn (maize),
sugar cane, millet, and sorghum. (Mad
scientists are now trying to alter DNA to make rice C4 too.)
There are four conditions under which C4 plants
have a big advantage — high temperature, high light, low moisture, and low nutrients. Because they need less water, C4
plants better conserve soil moisture, so their growing season is longer in arid
regions. Kellogg wrote, “In the last 8
million years, C4 grasses have come to dominate much of the earth’s
land surface.”
C3 grasses are better adapted to moist forest
floors and limited sunlight. They are
less able to thrive in arid grasslands.
Out on the savannah, C4 grasses enjoy some important advantages. When conditions are right, they are able to
manufacture generous amounts of chemical energy (sugar), and this increases
their odds for survival.
[Important!] The big
picture here is that climate change radically altered the family of life. It encouraged the substantial expansion of
grassland, which boosted the expansion of C4 grasses, which
propelled the evolution and expansion of large grazers and carnivores, which
boosted the global tonnage of living meat, which set the stage for the arrival
of our hominin ancestors. Today’s
climate crisis seems likely to unleash far bigger changes in something more like
the blink of an eye.
Grasslands can support more large animals than forests. Grassland megafauna migrated and settled on
five continents (not Australasia). Around
the world we find varieties of horses, bison, elephants, antelope, deer, hyenas,
wolves, bears, and so on. Grasslands
support far less biodiversity than rainforests, which are home to fantastic
numbers of different species.
Graham
Harvey, a grass worshipping wordsmith, noted that growth is actually
stimulated by grazing and fire. In a
brilliant design, new blades of grass emerge from growing points located close
to the ground, where they are less likely to be damaged by hungry teeth or
passing flames. The faster that grasses
can send up new blades, the more sunlight they can capture, the more sugar they
can make, and the happier the whole ecosystem becomes. Joy!
Another benefit of grazing is that herbivores often nip off the
rising shoots of woody vegetation. If
trees and brush were allowed to grow and spread, they would compete for sunlight
with the grasses. Then, the herds of
hungry herbivores would have less to eat, and so would the carnivores that
adore red meat. Herds religiously
offered their deep gratitude to the grass people by lovingly depositing
nutrient rich manure and urine all over the place.
Grass eaters are called grazers. Browsers are critters that eat leaves, woody
shoots, bark, and saplings. Some species
are both. The elephant family loves to
dine on young green leaves, and they sometimes knock trees down to get
them. Each day, elephants eat 550 pounds
(250 kg) of grass and leaves, and then turn it into magnificent
fertilizer. Giraffes are top feeders
that specialize in leafy vegetation that elephants and rhinos are too short to
snatch.
Browsers can limit the expansion of trees and woody brush,
but they aren’t fanatical mass murdering exterminators. Savannah ecosystems are grasslands dotted
here and there with trees and shrubs.
Grass provides food for the grazing herds, and woody vegetation
nourishes the browsers — and it provides shade and hiding places. Home sweet home!
Harvey concluded that, in many ways, humans are creatures of
grass country, like the bison, hyenas, and vultures. We still are.
We take immense pride in the brilliant triumph of humankind, but if we
turn off the spotlights and loudspeakers, and pull back the curtains, we see
that the Green Mother of this grand and goofy misadventure is our intimate and
enduring dependence on grassland ecosystems.
Grass is Superman’s momma.
Manmade
Grassland
All flesh is grass, but grass is not limitless. In the old days, there were no hunting
licenses, rules, bag limits, or game wardens.
The hunting fad was able to grow until it eventually smashed into rock
solid limits. Flesh is not
limitless. Folks began missing dinners,
and going to bed with growling tummies. Overshoot
is never sustainable. Too many hominins
spoil the party. The 100% guaranteed,
always effective, least popular cure for overshoot is die-off.
Another cure is migration, pack up and move. This medicine worked for thousands of years, as
folks colonized the regions uninhabited by humans. Eventually, the happy hunters learned a
painful new lesson: Earth is not limitless.
Shit! What now? Cultural taboos that limited reproduction
could provide some pressure relief. So
could perpetual inter-tribal warfare, bloody the competition whenever possible. Cleverness is the persistent gift and curse
of humankind. It conjured another idea,
a magic wand call the firestick.
Shortgrass prairie grassland needs between 10 and 30 inches
(25 to 76 cm) of annual precipitation.
Most of its plants are less than one foot (30 cm) tall. Tallgrass prairie needs more than 30 inches
(76 cm) of annual precipitation. In
tallgrass, prairie plants can sometimes grow up to 13 feet (4 m) high — tall
enough to hide a horse. Tallgrass can
produce far more food for grazing animals, which enables larger herds. However, the precipitation needed by
tallgrass is also adequate for the survival of forest. While browsing and grazing helps to maintain
open grassland, it’s not enough to fully prevent the existence and spread of
forest.
When Big Mama Nature gets in a stormy mood, she sometimes
ignites wildfires with lightning bolts. Fire
can be a good tonic for the health of grass.
It burns up accumulated dead foliage and debris, allowing more solar
energy to empower the grass people. Also,
with the dead junk burned away, the exposed ground warms up faster when the
snows melt, enabling the growing season to begin earlier. Soon after fires end, tender green shoots
emerge from the ashes. Fresh greenery
looks heavenly to the grazing critters, and hunters love grazing critters.
Jill
Haukos noted that fire happily stimulates the growth of fresh new grass, but
it has zero concern for the health and safety of trees and shrubs. Grass productivity is 20 to 40 percent higher
on burned land, compared to unburned. When
tallgrass prairie is deliberately burned every few years, it will not
transition to forest, because the seeds, sprouts, and saplings can’t survive the
cruel abuse. Natural wildfire doesn’t
faithfully follow regular burn schedules, but regular manmade fire is able to
trump the tree people.
Wild folks clearly understood that maintaining extensive
grasslands improved their hunting. By
deliberately controlling nature, they could eat better, and feed more
bambinos. So they did. For hunters, fire was a powerful beneficial servant. For the rodents, birds, and insects of the
grassland, fire could be a viciously powerful master. Shepard Krech mentioned that when the first
humans settled Hawaii and New Zealand, they cleared the land with fire, driving
many bird species extinct. Is it OK to
rubbish a thriving ecosystem for selfish reasons? Only human desires matter?
Haukos wrote about bison grazing in tallgrass prairie. Hungry herds have little interest in seeking
un-grazed locations that are covered with lots of old and skanky low calorie
grass. They much prefer fresh new grass,
and they pay close attention to recently burned landscapes. “Bison maintain large grazing lawns. They return again and again to the same
‘lawns’ to eat the new growth of grass, which is highly nutritious. These areas may look overgrazed but actually have
new growth continually, providing the nutritious grass bison need, even if only
one inch high (2.5 cm).”
The practice of using periodic burns to maintain and expand
superb grazing land is often called firestick farming, because it uses burning
to increase the harvest of life-giving meat.
It is a powerful, easy, low tech way to benefit large game. Alfred
Crosby noted that firestick farming had transformed much of six continents
long before the first field was planted.
Let’s look at a few examples.
North America
The chilly Pleistocene ended about 11,700 years ago, with the
arrival of the warmer and gentler Holocene era that we currently enjoy. Ice sheets melted and retreated, creating
space for tundra. As the climate further
warmed, expanding prairies displaced regions of tundra. Prairie ecosystems can support more complex biodiversity,
as different communities of species adapt to different mixes of soil types,
moisture, and climate. Where changing
conditions favored the existence of trees, forest expanded. Forests tend to trump grassland, because they
allow less sunlight to reach the ground.
Once established, a forest can thrive for thousands of years, if not
molested by murderous terrorists.
One way or another, Native Americans learned the benefits of
grass burning. They understood that
regular burning could inhibit forest regeneration. As centuries passed, tallgrass regions
expanded, much to the delight of large herbivores, and hungry hunters.
Stephen
Pyne wrote that when white colonists were settling in the eastern U.S., the
western portion of the Great Plains was shortgrass prairie, too dry to support
forest. But much of the eastern portion
was tallgrass prairie. It had rainfall
and soils suitable for forest, but over the centuries, Native Americans had
gradually pushed back forest territory to greatly expand the prairie. They maintained this highly productive prairie
by burning it every few years, to kill young saplings. It provided excellent habitat for bison and
other delicacies.
Burning was a common practice in many regions of North
America. By A.D. 1000, the expansion of
manmade tallgrass prairie had enabled bison to migrate east of the Mississippi
River watershed for the first time. By
the 1600s, several million bison lived in a region spanning from Massachusetts
to Florida.
Shepard Krech wrote that along the east coast, there were oak
openings (meadows with scattered trees) as large as 1,000 acres (404 ha). Manmade grasslands in the Shenandoah Valley
covered a thousand square miles (2,590 km2). He noted that Indian fires sometimes had
unintended consequences, when they exploded into raging infernos that burned
for days, sometimes killing entire bison herds, up to a thousand
animals.
Lamar
Marshall described the relationship between the Cherokee people and the
bison. The tribe resided east of the
Mississippi River, and lived by farming and hunting. Legends suggested that bison did not live
there until sometime around A.D. 1400.
By then, the natives had significantly expanded grassland for hunting,
and cleared forest for farming. Game was
especially attracted to rivercane pastures (canebrakes) that were burned every
7 to 10 years. Marshall provided a map
showing how huge North America’s bison range was in 1500. [Look]
Michael
Williams noted that as the diseases of civilization spread westward,
Indians died in great numbers. They had
zero immunity to deadly and highly contagious Old World pathogens. Diseases spread westward far faster than the
expansion of settlers. Consequently, the
traditional burning was sharply reduced, and forests were returning. In 1750, they may have been bigger and denser
than they had been in the previous thousand years. When whites eventually arrived to create
permanent agricultural communities, the happy regrown forests had to be
savagely euthanized.
Arlie
Schorger wrote about the vast manmade tallgrass prairies of southern and
western Wisconsin, and the last bison killed there in 1832. Some prairies spanned 50 miles. Prairie was almost continuous from Lake
Winnebago to the Illinois border.
Natives had been expanding and maintaining grassland for a very long
time. In 1767, white visitors observed
“large droves of buffalos” on the fine meadows along the Buffalo River.
By and by, devastating epidemics hammered the indigenous
people who had maintained the grassland and hunted the bison. Regular burning sputtered out. The last bison seen crossing the Mississippi River,
and entering Wisconsin, was in 1820. By
1854, dense groves of 25 year old trees were joyfully reclaiming their
ancestral homeland. Unfortunately, these
recovering forests had a bleak future, because they stood directly in the path
of a rapidly approaching mob of merciless pale-faced axe murderers. Shit!
Over the passage of centuries, the tallgrass prairies created
topsoil that was deep and remarkably fertile.
Then came the settlers, with their plows and ambitions. Plows are magnificent tools for destroying
soil, and creating permanent irreparable damage. Walter
Youngquist wrote, “In the United States, half the topsoil of Iowa is now in
the Mississippi River delta.” Today,
tallgrass prairie ecosystems are in danger of extinction, maybe one percent of
them still survive. Exotic freak show grasses
like corn and wheat are far more popular and profitable than the indigenous
tallgrass.
In his book Collapse,
Jared Diamond mentioned his visit to a wee remnant of the ancient prairie that
had somehow survived the plowman invasion, an old churchyard in Iowa. It was surrounded by land that had been
farmed for more than 100 years. He
wrote, “As a result of soil being eroded much more rapidly from fields than
from the churchyard, the yard now stands like a little island raised 10 feet (3
m) above the surrounding sea of farmland.”
Australia
Bill
Gammage described the Australia that British colonists observed in 1788,
when they first washed up on shore. That
landscape was radically different from what it is today. Early white eyewitnesses frequently commented
that large regions looked like parks. In
those days, all English parks were the private estates of the super-rich. Oddly, the Aborigines who inhabited the
beautiful park-like Australian countryside were penniless illiterate bare-naked
Stone Age antifascist anarchist heathens.
Their wealth was their time-proven knowledge.
In 1788, large areas of Australia had been actively managed
by firestick farming, which greatly promoted habitat for the delicious critters
that the natives loved to have lunch with.
The Aborigines used both hot fires and cool fires to encourage
vegetation that was fire intolerant, fire tolerant, fire dependent, or fire
promoting. Different fires were used to
promote specific herbs, tubers, bulbs, or grasses. When starting a fire, the time and location
was carefully calculated to encourage the desired result. According to Gammage, most of Australia was
burnt about every one to five years. On
any day of the year, a fire was likely burning somewhere.
The natives generally enjoyed an affluent lifestyle. They had learned how to live through hundred-year
droughts and giant floods. No region was
too harsh for people to inhabit. Their
culture had taboos that set limits on reproduction and hunting. During the breeding seasons of important
animals, hunting was prohibited near their gathering places. Lots of food resources were left untouched
most of the time, a vital safety net.
The Dreaming had two rules: obey the Law, and leave the world as you
found it.
The white colonists were clueless space aliens. Their glorious vision was to transfer a British
way of life to a continent that was highly unsuited for it. Australia’s soils were ancient and minimally
fertile, and the climate was bipolar — extreme multi-year droughts could be
washed away by sudden deluges. But, they
brought their livestock and plows and gave it a whirl. They believed that hard work was a
virtue. The Aborigines were astonished
to observe how much time and effort the silly newcomers invested in producing
the weird stuff they ate.
The new settlers wanted to live like proper rural Brits —
permanent homes, built on fenced private property. They freaked out when the natives set fires
to maintain the grassland. Before long,
districts began banning these burns.
This led to the return of saplings and brush. So, in just 40 years, the site of a tidy
dairy farm could be replaced by dense rainforest.
Without burning, insect numbers exploded. Without burning, fuels built up, leading to
new catastrophes, called bushfires. The
Black Thursday fire hit on February 6, 1851.
It burned 12 million acres (5 million ha), killed a million sheep,
thousands of cattle, and countless everything else.
Mark Brazil shared a story that was full of crap. In Britain, cow manure was promptly and
properly composted by patriotic dung beetles, which returned essential
nutrients to the soil. In Australia,
none of the native dung beetles could get the least bit interested in cow
shit. It was too wet, and too out in the
open. Cow pies could patiently sit on
the grass unmolested for four years, because nobody loved them. This deeply hurt their feelings. Adding insult to injury, Brook Jarvis noted
that fussy cattle refused to graze in the vicinity of neglected pies, so the
herd needed access to far more grazing land than normal.
Australian flies, on the other hand, discovered that cow pies
made fabulous nurseries for their children.
Each pat could feed 3,000 maggots, which turned into flies — dense
clouds of billions and billions of flies — which the hard working Christians
did not in any way fancy. Being outdoors
was hellish. In the 1960s, folks
imported British dung beetles, which loved the taste and aroma of cow
pies. Oddly, this is one example where
an introduced exotic species apparently didn’t create unintended
consequences. When they ran out of pies
to eat, the beetles simply died.
Anyway, a continent inhabited by Stone Age people was
substantially altered by firestick farming and hunting. The Australia of 1788 was radically different
from when the first humans arrived.
We’ll never know if continued firestick farming would have eventually
led to severely degraded ecosystems.
Some serious imbalances can take a long time to fully develop. Many attempts to deliberately control and
exploit ecosystems have spawned huge unintended consequences over time. The ultra-conservative indigenous kangaroos
and wallabies were not control freaks, they simply adapted.
Gammage was fond of the Aborigines, because they were highly
successful at surviving for a long time in a challenging ecosystem. He was much less fond of the British
colonists who, with good intentions, combined with no wisdom, were highly
successful at rubbishing it.
Baz Edmeades
viewed the entire Australian experience through ecological glasses. Fire reshaped the continent. When humans first arrived, the north coast
was home to dry forests that majored in araucaria trees. Before long, they were displaced by
fire-promoting forests that majored in eucalypts. The original dry forests went up in
smoke. Extremely low-tech Stone Age
people substantially altered the ecosystem.
We may never have a clear understanding of the early extinctions of the vertebrate
megafauna and giant reptiles.
1 comment:
Excellent, Rick! I just AUDIO RECORDED and posted it to Soundcloud..
Direct url: https://soundcloud.com/michael-dowd-grace-limits/rr-grassland-rewrite
"Wild, Free, and Happy" playlist: https://soundcloud.com/michael-dowd-grace-limits/sets/richard-adrian-reese-wild-free-happy
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