Whenever I do any reporting I rely on extremely busy people—with much more important things to do—to carve out the time to give me a personalized education. I offer very little in return—I can’t promise that I’ll fully flesh out their stories, come to conclusions that they will agree with, or even present them in a positive light. So I’m grateful first and foremost to the many sources who let me into their lives, to all the scientists who indulged, advised, and corrected me even when my topic only touched tangentially on their areas of interest. Their names appear in the notes.
When I first started working as a writer I had this crazy idea that my editors would be artistic collaborators who would read with the care of a generous critic, help me grapple with the creative process, and—in the end—sprinkle a little magic fairy dust over the work to make it come alive. In reality, of course, most editors don’t have the time, let alone the fairy dust. But my editor Alex Postman made the time, incisively locating problems, gently breaking the news to me, then stepping back to let me find solutions.
My agent David Kuhn patiently coached me through the process of turning a vague sense of something out there into a book. Colin Dickerman saw the potential in this strange mix of essayistic memoir and science writing from an unknown writer.
I profited from the generosity of the Mesa Refuge, which gave me 2 weeks of my most productive work in a place completely free of distractions, except for the raptors, sea birds, and the breathtaking view. I also owe something to Porteños in general, and the cafés of Buenos Aires where I spent 3 months writing.
I’m thankful to Josh Berezin and Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock, who read early versions of the manuscript and offered trenchant literary direction. I also owe thanks to Catherine Price, Jennifer Kahn, Bill Wasik, and Jennifer Block who read portions of this and kept me sane by hashing out my picayune concerns.
My debt to Michael Pollan is impossible to quantify. His instruction at the UC Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism, his continuing mentorship, and more than anything else, the example of his work, has been absolutely fundamental in showing me what sort of writer, and what sort of human being, I’d like to be.
Other editors helped me with pieces of this book that were previously published elsewhere. Roger Hodge and Ben Austen sharpened my writing for the greater part of the chapters on hogs and raw milk respectively when those pieces were published in Harper’s. David Bunnell helped guide me to write about Dr. Francis by publishing a story on assisted death in Eldr, and Filip Zalewski gave me the opportunity to shape my ideas about modern birth by buying an early version of Michelle Niska’s story for Assembly. Gail Rudd Entrekin published a version of my Lake Vera story in the collection Sierra Songs and Descants.
Most of all, I’m thankful to my wife, Beth Goldstein, who brings me food when I forget to eat and lets me take up the entire couch when I write at night, who keeps me honest, brings me down to earth, shows me by example how to laugh at myself, and reminds me constantly of what’s important in life.