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Editorial Reviews
Amazon.com
The deserts of the world are the birthplaces of great religions, the inspirations for sublime expressions of art and feeling, the treasure houses of exotic beauty and remarkable forms of life. They are also the junkyards of industrial civilization, the resting place for abandoned cars, scrapped airplanes--and a vast array of toxic wastes, nuclear and chemical.
The deserts of the world are the birthplaces of great religions, the inspirations for sublime expressions of art and feeling, the treasure houses of exotic beauty and remarkable forms of life. They are also the junkyards of industrial civilization, the resting place for abandoned cars, scrapped airplanes--and a vast array of toxic wastes, nuclear and chemical.
Chip Ward came to one of the planet's most unforgiving deserts, the flat salt pans west of Salt Lake City, Utah, to drive a bookmobile. He has emerged from it, years later, as a spokesman for that forbidding landscape, the repository of decaying plutonium, retired biochemical weapons, and other manifestations of what he calls the "ecocidal schemes" of big business and government. Ward, working with other concerned Utah citizens, has been fighting an uphill battle not only to remove such threatening substances from desert dumps, but also to prevent new lethal trash from being hauled in from other parts of the country. That struggle has not been universally popular among his fellow desert dwellers: while across the country voters have rejected plans for proposed toxic-waste incinerators for toxic wastes, in that part of Utah, he writes, "we had a tradition of trading environmental quality for jobs and revenue"--and there is, he acknowledges, money to be made in lethal detritus, from which substantial fortunes have been born.
Ward documents his group's efforts to clean up their corner of the American desert, a quest that took him into the halls of Congress and before voters across the country. The struggle is ongoing, with no end in sight. He pleads his cause in the pages of Canaries on the Rim to good effect. Above all, he emphasizes that the desert should no longer be seen as a wasteland fit only for hiding our mess. "It is not desolate at all," he insists. "Desolation is what we have carried to it." --Gregory McNamee
From Publishers Weekly
In his ardent memoir, Ward, who has fought for the health of the Great Basin Desert, tells the story of his awakening as an environmentalist. He had been living a quiet family life in Grantsville, Utah, in the late 1970s when he began to suspect that the various industries in the region, including a magnesium refinery that expelled the rancid smell of chlorine and an army depot that demolished old weapons, were polluting the region. His community, he realized, risked becoming a new generation of downwinders (named after those who became ill after living downwind of nuclear testing). "We knew that the more you look for something, the more you see it, until it looms large in your perspective," he writes. "But when you realize that there is cancer in every third house you pass, the evidence becomes compelling." Once he recognized the relationship between environmental and human health (which he refers to as "the gospel of eco-human-health"), he had no choice but to act. Ward's ode to the intricate desert and the planet's interconnectedness, following writers like Edward Abbey and Terry Tempest Williams, sets up a fast-paced account of Utah's betrayal by the military, the turn-the-other-cheek attitude of state regulators, the blind eye of corporate hardball and the steadfast labor of whistleblowers and citizens forced to step up and take action. Though Ward attempts to put himself on a middle ground, his sometimes bitter attacks on the people and systems he's worked with can come off as a bit wild-eyed. Nonetheless, this call to clipboards for local activism is both hopeful and damning: a gift to the next generation and a warning that, in the end, there is no upwind. (Jan.)
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.
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