The Book of Hope: A Survival Guide for Trying Times(28)

“When I am in a hotel and looking out over a city, I think, ‘Underneath all this concrete, there’s good earth. We could be growing things. There could be trees and birds and flowers.’ Then I think of the push to green cities with urban trees, which not only reduces temperatures by several degrees, reduces air pollution, and improves water quality but also improves our sense of well-being. Even in cities, like Singapore, there are projects now that link small areas of habitat with green corridors of trees so that animals can move from place to place as they look for food and mates. Whenever you give her a chance, nature returns. Every tree planted makes a difference.”

I knew Jane had been involved in an initiative that was launched at the Davos World Economic Forum to plant a trillion trees to counteract the global deforestation that humans have been responsible for.

“The trees may save us,” I said.

“Planting trees is very important,” Jane said. “Protecting forests is even more important—it will take time for saplings to grow big enough to absorb enough CO2. And, of course, they must be looked after. And, of course, we must clean up the ocean, too—and obviously we must reduce greenhouse gas emissions.”

“Where do you go to restore yourself in nature when you are not at Gombe?”

“Each year I try to go to Nebraska, to the cabin of my friend Tom Mangelsen, who is a wildlife photographer. It is on the Platte River, and I go during the migration of the sandhill cranes and snow geese and many other species of waterbird.”

“Why do you go there?” I asked, knowing that she could go anywhere in the world on her endless travels.

“Because it is a dramatic reminder of the resilience we have been discussing. Because despite the fact that we have polluted the river, despite the fact that the prairie has been converted for growing genetically modified corn, despite the fact that the irrigation is depleting the great Ogallala Aquifer, despite the fact that most of the wetlands have been drained—the birds still come every year, in the millions, to fatten up on the grain left after the harvest. I just love to sit on the riverbank and watch the cranes fly in, wave after wave against a glorious sunset, to hear their ancient wild calls—it is something quite special. It reminds me of the power of nature. And as the red sun sinks below the trees on the opposite bank, a gray, feathered blanket gradually spreads over the whole surface of the shallow river as the birds land for the night, and their ancient voices are silenced. And we walk back to the cabin in the dark.”

Jane’s eyes were closed and her face was glowing, no doubt reliving and being renewed by recalling those magical evenings.

As I sipped my whisky, I felt the warmth in my chest. “I must tell you about an unforgettable experience I had in nature that gives me hope,” I said.

“Tell me,” Jane said, eager for another story to add to her collection.

“The Pacific gray whales that were almost hunted to extinction and are now not only bouncing back but also coming to interact with humans, their former mortal enemies. These whales are called the friendly gray whales.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of them. It’s quite amazing.”

“I had an experience in the whale nursery in Baja, Mexico, that moved me deeply. I noticed that one whale was extremely white, which our guide explained occurs with these whales as they get older. Its body and tail had numerous scratches and gouges, which usually come from years of defending babies from orcas that try to eat the young on their annual migration from Alaska to Baja. As the whale came closer, we could see many barnacles on its skin and a deep indentation in the back of the blowhole, which also were signs of an elder whale. Our guide said it was almost certainly a grandmother whale.

“The grandmother whale’s head popped up next to our boat as the swirling, bubbling water spilled away. She raised her chin toward the rail of our boat, and we began to stroke her silvery skin. Aside from the barnacles, her skin was smooth and spongy, as we could feel the soft blubber beneath. As we stroked her she rolled to her side, opening her mouth and showing us her baleen, a sign of relaxation. And then she looked at us with one of her beautiful eyes. What she could see of us as we stared down at her from the boat, smiling and laughing, I had no idea, but it was clear she felt safe and wanted to connect in these bays, where possibly during her lifetime we had almost exterminated her kind. I felt so moved that tears were rolling down my cheeks.

“Our guide was in the background saying, ‘This whale has forgiven us. She has forgiven us for who we were and is seeing who we are today.’”

“It’s extraordinary when we recognize our connection to the natural world,” Jane said, nodding.

“Can you tell me more about the places where you feel this connection most strongly?” I encouraged.

“Well, of course I go to Gombe each year. I sit on the peak where I once sat as a young woman and look out over Lake Tanganyika toward the distant mountains of the Congo. And at the edge of that vast lake, the longest and second deepest in the world, the sun sinks below the mountains and the sky turns the palest pink and then crimson. Or the black rain clouds build and the thunder growls and the lightning flashes, and it is night.

“And there are times when I lie on my back in some quiet place and look up and up and up into the heavens as the stars gradually emerge from the fading of day’s light. And I see myself, a tiny speck of consciousness in the enormity of the universe.”