The woodchucks disappear. It happens gradually, the family of “Woodys,” as my kids call them, no longer sunning themselves on the boulders that ring our backyard. It’s not until a week of unconsciously scanning the lawn from our stairwell window that we realize they’re gone—and we know they are. By early fall they’re blobs the size of obese housecats, ready for suspended sleep.
December 2016
Stony Creek Inn
By 5:30 p.m. on a foggy Sunday in December, the Stony Creek Inn was already half-full, the hot dishes crowding the covered pool table and Dot Bartell flitting from one knot of friends to another, eyes and smile radiating more warmth than the woodstove.
Aaron Mair
Aaron Mair smiles when he tells the story of his first meeting with the Sierra Club, in 1994. But the smile does not quite reach his eyes.









