Horror as swarm of feral beasts dig up loved ones' graves in local cemetery
Rawlins Cemetery has been plagued by a group of prairie dogs who have been digging in and around graves as locals are furious over the disturbance of their loved ones graves.
Janice Martinez and her husband, who visit the cemetery every day, shared their anger over the dog holes across the grounds, Cowboy State Daily reported.
In a Rawlins based Facebook group, Martinez wrote: 'I cannot believe the damage "ground squirrels" are causing to our cemetery. Maybe whoever's in charge of this should take a drive through the cemetery and take a look at the daily destruction these animals are doing.'
In response to the issue, the City of Rawlins Government wrote in a Facebook post that its Park Division would be 'increasing efforts to control the ground squirrels.'
'Our priority is to create an environment where our loved ones' resting place is treated with respect. These animals have caused major damage to our cemetery,' the post said.
'Their burrows and tunnels create unstable ground, which then damages gravestones and irrigation. They are also very destructive to turf.'
Some of the combative efforts that the city has said they plan to implement include tripling the number of T-trap bait stations for their annual placement of Rozol, which can be used to combat prairie dogs, rats and gophers.
'Rozol will be placed in the stations this spring and again in late summer,' the post added. The city furthered that risk toward 'non-target' species is being monitored.
But the issue has stirred the local community and is a struggle known to many cemeteries.
Darin Edmonds, superintendent of the Campbell County cemetery district, told the Cowboy State Daily: 'People get squirrely about anything digging underground where their loved ones are.
'Prairie dogs are a nuisance and their holes are unsightly, but it's one of those things that can happen in rural Wyoming.'
Edmonds said that cemeteries in 'the middle of nowhere' often run into problems with persistent prairie dog digging.
'Prairie dogs probably do the most damage, visibly and physically, of any critter I've encountered,' he added. 'But in Wyoming, you're subject to the natural tendencies of wildlife.'
After trials and failures to flood the dogs out, Edmonds said the most effective way to rid cemeteries of the issue is poison.
'Poisoning is probably the best remedy, fortunately or unfortunately,' he said. 'We went out to the extent of that environment, applied poison, and it seemed to work.'
'Prairie dogs are a nuisance and their holes are unsightly, but it's one of those things that can happen in rural Wyoming,' said Darin Edmonds
'You could try live trapping them, but the quickest, shortest and most effective remedy is to poison them.'
The damage, however, remains a sore point for those with loved ones buried at Rawlins.
Martinez told the outlet: 'I read the post about the new poisoning system. It breaks my heart to see graves being dug up, stones covered in dirt and new holes dug on a daily basis.'
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
The Independent
an hour ago
- The Independent
Library book returned 82 years after being borrowed with plea for no late fee: ‘Grandma won't be able to pay for it anymore'
A book has been returned to the San Antonio Public Library almost 82 years after it was loaned out, according to a new report. The book — a copy of "Your Child, His Family, and Friends" by marriage and family counselor Frances Bruce Strain, was returned with a note saying "I hope there is no late fee for it because Grandma won't be able to pay for it anymore." The book was checked out in July 1943 and was returned in June from someone living in Oregon, according to the library. The person who returned the book noted in their letter that they obtained the book after their father died. 'After the recent death of my father, I inherited a few boxes of books he left behind,' the individual wrote. The book gives parents advice for helping their children navigate relationships. The individual's father would have been approximately 11 years old when "grandma" checked the book out in 1943. 'The book must have been borrowed by my Grandmother, Maria del Socorro Aldrete Flores (Cortez),' the person who returned the book reasoned. 'In that year, she transferred to Mexico City to work at the US Embassy. She must have taken the book with her, and some 82 years later, it ended up in my possession.' The book's interior bears a stamp warning borrowers that the overdue fine was three cents a day. Without inflation, that would put the overdue fine at around $900, and with inflation it would be approximately $16,000. Thankfully for the returner, the library stopped charging overdue fines in 2021. The library said that the book was in "good condition" and plans to put it on display in the city's central library through the end of August. After that, the book will be donated to the Friends of San Antonio Public Library and sold to help benefit the library. While 82 years is certainly a long time to wait to return an overdue book, it's not even close to the record for library book returns. According to Guinness World Records, that record was set by a book that was returned to Sidney Sussex College at England's University of Cambridge in 1956. That book was reportedly borrowed from the university in 1668, meaning it was out for approximately 288 years and was overdue for longer than the U.S. has existed as a nation.
The Guardian
an hour ago
- The Guardian
Julie was smart and competent, yet her less qualified colleagues surpassed her. Imposter syndrome held her back
'I wish I could carry myself with the confidence of a politician. Especially a male one. They're always so confident. Never rattled, completely immune to others' opinions.' Julie's* intelligence and quick wit seemed to belie the very reason for attending therapy – despite reams of qualifications and years of professional experience, she felt dissatisfied with her work achievements. Having never put herself forth for a promotion, Julie had spent the better part of two decades being surpassed in position and remuneration by younger, less qualified (and mostly male) colleagues. Deflated and discouraged, Julie's avoidance of career advancement only sought to reinforce negative self-beliefs about her intelligence and competence. 'I know I could do a higher role. Sometimes, I think I could do it with my eyes closed. But what if I can't, and then I'm found out to be a fake?' Julie was exhibiting hallmark characteristics of impostor syndrome. This phenomenon is defined by consistent doubt of one's own accomplishments, feeling undeserving of success or achievement, and fear of being exposed as a fraud, despite evidence to the contrary. While not a clinical diagnosis, this 'therapy speak' term is now very much entrenched in everyday language. I empathised with Julie's position. As a psychology student and trainee therapist, I also experienced feelings of imposition. Competitive selection criteria and demanding training requirements make psychology studies an ideal breeding ground for impostor syndrome. Convinced that my admission to postgraduate training had been a clerical error, I'd spent a long summer fretting that I would be found to be a 'phoney' on the first day of semester. First identified and investigated in the 1970s, research into impostor syndrome focused on the self-doubt commonly experienced by high-achieving professional women. Men were observed to experience less impostor syndrome than women, even in instances where they had less professional experience or objectively inferior qualifications. Like many pseudo-diagnostic terms, concept creep means that 'impostor syndrome' is now used beyond its original definition. Psychological discomfort in a work or social setting is not necessarily impostor syndrome; most people feel nervous in situations such as starting a new job, going on a first date, speaking in public, or attending a social event where they are expecting to know few other guests. Rather, impostor syndrome is defined by thoughts and feelings about one's intellectual parity and deservedness of success or achievement. The comparison to an individual or group of people must also be unfair or unrealistic. An amateur footballer is not expected to play at the same level as a professional; feelings of inferiority or envy that arise from this comparison are a reflection of reality, rather than indicative of impostor syndrome. Understandably, we often seek to push away or suppress psychological discomfort or distress associated with impostor syndrome. Many people convinced they are impostors seek consolation from others about their skills or the unfairness of a situation (such as a colleague being promoted). This provides temporary reassurance but does little to ameliorate the underlying causes of impostor syndrome. As impostor syndrome is not a clinical diagnosis, no recognised or standardised treatment exists. Instead, therapeutic work can focus on specific aspects of impostor syndrome, such as self-esteem, identity and anxiety. Assertiveness training can also be helpful. Exploring these underpinning characteristics can be effective in shifting mindset and behaviour around deservedness. For Julie, valuable insight was gained by viewing impostor syndrome as a defence mechanism: in never seeking a promotion, Julie never risked rejection, thus defending herself against disappointment or failure. Understanding the origins of Julie's impostor syndrome was an important step, but a practical element was also needed. Together, we devised a whimsical approach. Rather than 'fake it until you make it', we termed the approach 'making it, not faking it'. In moments of self-doubt, Julie adopted the internal voice of a well known male politician. How would he answer questions about qualifications and work experience? What would he say in a job interview or meeting with colleagues? What would be the tone of his voice, the cadence of his speech? This challenged Julie's thinking and temporarily quelled thoughts of being an impostor. Julie's personality and temperament would never transform into that of the politician being channelled, nor would we wish her to become someone or something she is not. But gaining a glimpse into that alternate persona allowed Julie to stop apologising for her success – and move towards celebrating it. * Julie is a fictitious amalgam to exemplify similar cases Dr Bianca Denny is a clinical psychologist based in Melbourne. She is the author of Talk To Me: Lessons from Patients and their Therapist
The Guardian
an hour ago
- The Guardian
Fire in the hole: the Indigenous crews blasting the Alaskan rainforest to save it
The morning begins with a sense of anticipation – the calm before 1,200lbs of explosives detonate a stream culvert buried 10ft in Alaska's Tongass national forest. Jamie Daniels, 53, and his crew of Tlingit forestry workers take cover in a glade of alders. A few minutes earlier, together with the US Forest Service and a Southeast Alaska Watershed Coalition (SAWC) watershed scientist, they fed high-grade explosives into the galvanized aluminum culvert on a 40ft sled made of spruce trees. The goal now is to vaporize it, along with the rocks on top. Crouched 1,000ft away from the blast site, Jack Greenhalgh, the US Forest Service master blaster veteran, shouts: 'Fire in the hole!' He presses a remote detonator. Seconds later, four 50lb bags of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil (Anfo) go off. A boom echoes across the valley, and the air goes liquid as a shockwave sweeps over the group, causing workers to grip hard hats. Football-sized splinters of granite shoot into the sky. Leaves flutter to the ground. A cloud of acrid smoke blows over. 'Stand by until we clear the area,' Greenhalgh mumbles, climbing out from behind his berm to inspect the damage – or success, depending on how one looks at it. The area where the group works is called Cube Cove, a 22,000-acre (8,900-hectare) addition to the 1m-acre Kootznoowoo wilderness on Admiralty Island, where the Tlingit people have lived, hunted and fished for at least 10,000 years. The wilderness makes up a chunk of the 17m-acre Tongass – by far the largest national forest in the United States. The Tlingit have long considered Admiralty Island, or Kootznoowoo, as sacred ground – a place of spiritual significance, ancestral knowledge and connection to a traditional subsistence lifestyle. Chartreuse-colored leaves of the spiny devil's club, mustard-colored seaweed on the rocks and citrus-scented spruce tips create a distinct rainforest aroma. Kootznoowoo means 'fortress of the bear', a fitting name for a landscape home to the highest density of brown bears in North America. The landscape carries the marks of centuries of stewardship – from strips of yellow cedar used for ceremonial baskets to totem poles reflecting intricate clan histories. Eagles soar high above, chalky heads on pivot as they watch for herring or juvenile salmon. This morning, Daniels wears a bright orange safety helmet, his hands calloused from carving a 12in (30cm) block of Sitka spruce into a brown bear's head. He lives in Angoon, 15 miles (24km) south of Cube Cove along the coast of the island, population 341. His clan house is shd'een hit, the Steel house, and he comes from Deisheetaan Naahaachuneidii, the original Raven Beaver clan of the Edge of the Nation people. Daniels emerges onto the old logging road, and gestures across the valley. 'All of this, it's not just land to us. It's our ancestors' land. We're here doing more than just fixing roads or removing culverts – we're reconnecting with our history, our identity and our future. Every culvert we remove, that's a promise to our children that the land will heal.' In the 1970s, Daniels's relatives along with others from Angoon fought to protect the island from clearcutting, holding bake sales, bingo games and raffles to fund trips to Washington DC. In 1978, elders met with Jimmy Carter. In 1980, the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act (Anilca) formalized protections for the Kootznoowoo wilderness, now part of the Admiralty Island national monument. However, that designation came with an asterisk: the sale of 22,890 acres of ancestral Tlingit hunting and fishing grounds to the Shee Atiká Corporation, one of the 13 Native corporations created during the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act in 1971. Over the next three decades, more than 80% of that land was clearcut. Culverts, like the one the team is blowing up today, were inserted, blocking the passage of baby salmon upriver. In 2020, the forest service purchased the Cube Cove land from Shee Atiká for $18m. The agency, alongside Kootznoowoo Inc, the Indigenous corporation based in Angoon, and SAWC, embarked on a five-year project to restore ecological functions, reconnect streams and support the traditional practices of the Tlingit people. The addition of Cube Cove signified the largest transfer of land into formal wilderness designation in the forest service's history. 'The purchase of this land opened a door,' Daniels reflects. 'It gave us the chance to reconnect with these lands in a way that honors our ancestors and what they knew – how to live in harmony with nature, not dominate it.' When he was growing up in Angoon, Daniels recalls, his uncles and cousins talked about hunting and fishing in the area before the clearcutting. 'My grandmother spoke of a 'small sockeye run' from here. I always thought she was talking about just a few fish. But actually, it's thousands of fish – just kokanee salmon, which look like small sockeye.' Since 2022, Daniels and his crew – including his 24-year-old son Justin; 33-year-old Roger Williams; and 41-year-old Walt Washington – have been working to undo decades of damage. 'We're trying to get this forest back on its feet,' Daniels explains. 'But it's not just the trees. We're restoring the entire ecosystem: the fish, the wildlife and the cultural traditions connected to this land.' Following the all-clear from Greenhalgh, SAWC watershed scientist Kelsey Dean slings a forest service Pulaski – part ax and part adze – over her shoulder and follows the old logging road to the blast site. She describes dense thickets of spruce as 'dog hair trees' where deer can't forage, and bears can't hunt deer. This six-day hitch we're participating in is just the second blasting session in a much larger effort. At the end of five years, the team will have removed 80 of the 89 culverts left by loggers, and three bridges, Dean says. 'We're restoring habitat, improving hydrologic function and strengthening the land's resilience. After that, it's hands off,' she says, releasing the Pulaski to underline the point. Up ahead, a reddish-brown haze settles over the blast site. The crew gathers along the banks and stares into a triangular trench where the culvert once ran. Sean Rielly, a former wilderness ranger and forest service recreation specialist, slaloms down the mud and begins removing shards of the shattered culvert. Daniels and his crew follow, pushing boulders out of the new streambed. Suddenly, the goop of mud and alder leaves releases, flooding downhill. After an hour of work, a small mountain stream flows freely. 'Now,' Dean says, 'we watch for fish.' The fish are anadromous, she explains – a fancy word that means they spawn and then die. Their decaying bodies provide food for the carnivorous spruce, hemlock and cedar trees in a healthy stand of old growth. The salmon also sustain the brown bears prowling the island, their coats glossy with salmon oil, their humps shifting as they patrol the rivers, waiting for the salmon to arrive. The Cube Cove project reaches its midpoint at a moment when the Trump administration renews logging efforts in the Tongass. In June, the US Department of Agriculture announced plans to remove the Roadless Rule protections, exposing 7m acres of the Tongass to extensive clearcuts. Ecologists warn that cutting much of the old growth could release massive amounts of carbon stored in the trees. In fact, Dean says, when federal funding dried up, Cube Cove progress stalled. Luckily, SAWC was able to use wetlands mitigation money from the state of Alaska to account for the shortfall. 'It's unfortunate, what's happening. The region is just now starting to recover from the violence of clearcutting,' says Rob Cadmus, director of SAWC. 'At Cube Cove, what we're doing essentially is cleaning up the mess left from logging. Going back to those timber bonanza days would be unconscionable, from an economic, environmental and psychic standpoint.' Federal subsidies have long made old-growth logging in the Tongass artificially profitable. By selling timber below market value and covering high costs like road building and transportation, the government incentivizes larger logging companies from the lower 48 to cut down trees, despite the fact that south-east Alaska's economy is shifting toward eco-tourism and fishing – industries that depend on preserving the Tongass intact, rather than transforming the mountains into a moonscape, with no habitat left for salmon to spawn. As the crew works with hand tools, Dean inspects the flow of water, while Greenhalgh examines the composition of dirt. The two assess whether a second 'cleanup shot' of explosives might be necessary before abandoning the site. Hand tools can take care of the rest, they decide. As the sun sets over the mouth of the valley, the group begins a 3.5-mile hike along the logging road back to the ATVs and forest service truck. Along the way, Daniels nods toward an alternating series of oven-mitt-shaped prints in the ground – evidence of the island's apex predators. 'Bear have survived here for thousands of years,' he says. 'And so have we. All of that makes what's happening today feel really personal.' Rielly catches up and talks about all the time he spent behind a desk justifying the need for mechanized equipment and explosives and the minimum tool necessary to help the region's recovery. In 2024, a youth group from Angoon removed a culvert barely beneath the ground using only standard forest service hand tools: Pulaskis, shovels, mattocks and rakes. The effort took seven days. 'If we don't do this work, the land will continue to degrade. Culverts clog, landslides are triggered, watersheds are blocked,' Rielly says. 'This is the only way to get the job done quickly, especially in such remote terrain.' Through the scrim of spruce saplings, stumps of ancient old-growth loom: cedar, hemlock and spruce recorded at more than 1,000 years old. The group crosses the Ward Creek bridge, held in place by steel girders 8ft wide covered by creosote timbers. These will be removed at the end of the project, when the crew erases their footprints. On the other side of the bridge, Daniels, Washington and Williams hop on the ATVs, while the rest of the group pile into the truck for the 12-mile trip back to camp. After showers in the ocean, the group congregates around a driftwood bonfire on the beach, where thousands of logs were once dumped and rafted together, on the way to the mill. Dean sips from a can of lime sparkling water – a treat in the remote area. Dressed now in flannel pajamas, Washington perches on a rock. He describes his work in the forest as engaging in a cycle of 'destruction and renewal'. 'The land will heal itself if left alone,' he says. 'But sometimes you have to set a bone before it can heal properly. I know that this hard work we're doing out here is for my children, and for their children down the line.' 'What you're seeing here is a version of the next generation of conservation – partnerships that connect people, place and purpose,' Cadmus of SAWC says. 'When we're out here working side by side, we build a bond that's stronger than words. At the end of the day, that's what heals us. We're all in service to the land.'
