From: malQRMassimilation@gmail.com   
      
   The anguish of living in a burn scar takes a toll.   
      
   By Jane Braxton Little   
      
   Half a mile south of what's left of the old Gold Rush-era town of   
   Greenville, California, Highway 89 climbs steeply in a series of   
   S-turns as familiar to me as my own backyard. From the top of that   
   grade, I've sometimes seen bald eagles soaring over the valley that   
   stretches to the base of Keddie Peak, the northernmost mountain in   
   California's Sierra Nevada range.   
      
   Today, stuck at the bottom thanks to endless road work, I try to   
   remember what these hillsides looked like before the Dixie fire   
   torched them in a furious 104-day climate-change-charged rampage   
   across nearly one million acres, an area larger than the state of   
   Delaware. They were so green then, pines, cedars, and graceful Douglas   
   firs mixed with oaks pushing through the thick conifer foliage in a   
   quest for light and life. Today, I see only slopes studded with   
   charred stumps and burnt trees jackstrawed across the land like so   
   many giant pick-up-sticks.   
      
   https://www.earthisland.org/journal/index.php/articles/entry/cli   
   ate-change-up-close-personal/   
      
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    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)