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DROUGHT MONITOR—IRRELEVANT.  FACTS—IRRELEVANT

June 3, 2016

I have been quiet about the depressing primary season.  I kept hoping, starry-eyed, that there would be an honest, thoughtful discussion about the many serious issues that face the country today.  Instead, when I did listen, I heard a litany of racism, xenophobia, simplistic solutions, and inane slogans.  An incredibly boorish, impolite, narcissistic man who doesn’t listen, talks over people, and screams without thinking has a high probability of becoming president, because his boorishness resonates with many.  The House Speaker  can work with Mr. Trump, and the other side is too busy squabbling to deal with the clear and present danger.  The boor is telling crowds what they want to hear, even if 85-95% is not true, according to fact checking.  Facts don’t matter much in America these days.  Repetition of lies wins.  How people look and sound is more important than what they have to say.  Tweets matter.  Nerdy stuff about water on a third-rate blog changes nothing.

The Republicans sowed the wind and the country is now reaping the whirlwind.  The nastiest people in the Party couldn’t stop Trump, and too many Democrats tend to stay home when they don’t get their way.  Or, worse, they decide purity matters and cast their vote for a perfect candidate who has no chance of getting elected.  How did McCarthy work out in 1968, Nader in 2000?

Worse, a third party candidate like Gary Johnson could siphon off enough votes to throw the election into the House, where the Republicans will pick the president.  I wonder how many have thought of that scenario.

If fewer than 540 people in Florida had changed their vote from Nader to Gore in 2000, we wouldn’t have elected Bush.  Had the Democrats united in 1968, Nixon’s secret plan to end the Vietnam War wouldn’t have occurred, I doubt there would have been the Christmas bombing, and we wouldn’t have had Watergate.  I am going to be “taught a lesson” by the purists: they will teach me what happens when the Republicans control the Court, Congress, and the country.  When we are at war, in debt from emergency authorizations, have destroyed public education, sold off the national parks, wildlife refuges, and the wilderness, and gutted safety standards, yes, they will have taught me a lesson.

When Medicare is privatized and Social Security is removed, I will survive.  When Roe vs. Wade is overturned, and birth control is made illegal, I will be asked for money.  I always am.  But few will listen to my ideas or thoughts.  Want my thoughts without reading further?  Unite and work to extend voting hours and days, push vote-by-mail, and get every last voter on our side out.  Every one.

OK, back to Mr. Trump, who said that there was no drought in California.  Oh, some were quick to say that California has to allocate water better and at the proper price.  But California is in drought. Not only is 86% of the state in D1-D4 categories, only 6% of the state is not in drought, and those 9000 sq mi are in the far northwestern part of the state.  A fifth of the state is in D4, exceptional drought.  Drought is about measurement and science, not about what one states.  Trump is dead wrong, but people believe him. He said it, people believe it, and that settles it.  California does have a water allocation problem, but that only exacerbates the 5 year drought that shows no signs of abating, after two other multiyear droughts since 2000.  Two of those years, San Francisco had zero and 0.01 inches rainfall in January, which had never occurred once, let alone two years in a row.

The economists who deal with California’s water problem invoke the market, but they don’t factor in the price of endangered species and are curiously silent about the quarter million homes and businesses in California that lack water meters.  The law mandating water meters doesn’t fully take place until 2025.  Not metering water is about as stupid as charging people $30 a month for gasoline and letting them use all they want.  Incredibly, Bakersfield and Fresno have actively resisted meters.  What century are they living in?

Because of groundwater use, the Central Valley is sinking: near Mendota, 9 meters, 29 feet, from 1925 to 1977.  Many places have sunk a meter between 2006 and 2010. This affects the canals, which must be repaired because of shifting.  Ground water pumping has changed the aquifer from deep to shallow, which gets more irrigation recharge with salts, making the water less useful.

Some crops are more water intensive than others, and as the climate changes, we need to change what is being grown.  Or, people like Tom Selleck may try to get truckloads of water from elsewhere hauled to their property.  Mr. Selleck got off cheaply for his “me first” approach, paying the P.I. (probably not Magnum, I would guess) who caught him $22,000.  He denies ever receiving letters telling him he was out of compliance.  Ignorance of the law is not justifiable, but he’s famous.

Trump is good at telling people what they want to hear, even if it flies in the face of science and common sense.   Sarah Palin at least admitted California needs water: she just thought it could be obtained from the ocean and placed in reservoirs.  Are the voters that dumb? One example.*

Trump could have been presidential:  he could have taken the high road and said  that we are now seeing the “new normal” of climate in the western US—higher temperatures, less rainfall, more extreme events— and offered solutions.  We need to meter water, for money drives use.  We need to harvest rainwater, not let all run into the ocean or evaporate.  We need to have better ability to fix leaks, be they in houses or canals.  We need to change our usage at home and regionally. Neither lawns nor golf courses belong in arid regions.  We need to consider desalination if it can be done safely and with renewable energy.  That is a tall order.  Mr. Trump could have said that climate is going to change what happens in California, and the citizens must start preparing for it.  Instead, he catered to what people want to hear: everything is fine, if only the Democrats, the environmentalists, and “Big Government” would get out of the way.

This is an election where the Democrats, environmentalists, and “Big Government” may all lose.

And this time, I won’t likely live to see the damage from another bad president get repaired.

 

*2006 AP polls showed that a majority of Americans were unable to name more than one of the protections guaranteed in the first Amendment of the Constitution — which include speech, assembly, religion, press and “redress of grievance.” Just 1 in 1000 could name all of these five freedoms. However, 22% were able to come up with the name of every member of the Simpson family.  Author’s note: I never once watched the show.

TRAIL MEMORY

May 28, 2016

We were descending Marys Peak in the Coast Range to the cars, the last part of the hike’s being on a service road used to oversee the Corvallis watershed.  No vehicles were present, and from the blowdowns on the road, none had been there for some time. After about a mile, there was a trail heading off into the roadside brush, with a sign: “Trail Closed due to Operations in Area”.

The person hiking with me said, “Was that the way we went up?”

“No,” I replied.  “We entered about a half mile further.”

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Three Sisters from Marys Peak (April 2014)

I am no longer surprised by these comments.  I was the trip leader, and there is no way I would take a group past a sign saying “Trail Closed.”  The trail we had taken 3 hours earlier ascended immediately in forest and this one stayed low and in brush.  But, as I have learned, what is sometimes obvious to me isn’t obvious to others.

“Where was that hike where I got so exhausted with the pack I was carrying that I fell?”

“Browder Ridge.”  I know where on the trail it occurred, too.

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Browder Ridge Summit with Mt. Jefferson in distance (2014)

“What mountain were we trying to climb last fall when we turned around because of weather?”

“Crescent Mountain.”  I know exactly where we turned around, and I will see it in a week when we go there.

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Crescent Mountain, on a day people did not belong at the top.  We turned around (2015).

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Crescent Mountain in June 2014, with lake of same name below.  It is about 5 miles and 2100′ vertical to the summit, where there was once an lookout.

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Mt. Washington (far left) and The Sisters from upper meadows of Crescent Mountain

Granted, many of these hikes I have done before, but after one time doing them, I have a sense in my mind of the trail.  I’ve only hiked Middle Pyramid once, but I can visualize the bottom of the trail, the open area with the cliffs high overhead, and the gradual climb up through the cliffs to the top.  My memory is good enough to help me as trip leader.  I am not a Jon Krakauer, who saved his life on Mt. Everest during the 1996 disaster, because when the storm hit, he had a sense of where the trail was and how to get back to shelter on the South Col.

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View down from summit of Middle Pyramid, 2014

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Author, summit of Middle Pyramid.  It’s a little more than 2 miles but climbs steeply.

I think trail memory is both natural and observational.  I remember trails without usually thinking about it.  I am not as good at remembering steep ascents or descents, perhaps because I tend to hold my speed constant on them, so they don’t stand out so much.

This isn’t to say I haven’t gotten turned around a few times in my life.  In 1998, on the Appalachian Trail, I rested sitting on a rock, and when I got up, retraced my steps about a mile before I realized the traffic I was hearing was a road I had previously crossed.  There was no road the way I was supposed to be going, and bells were going off in my head that something wasn’t right.  That was deeply embarrassing and likely due to fatigue.

In 2006, on Isle Royale, I was hiking at night back to Windigo after a wolf had visited my campsite.  It was late, but I wasn’t going to stay there with a wolf in the vicinity.  I knew that wolves didn’t attack healthy humans, but knowing that intellectually and being alone ten trail miles from the nearest person were two very different things.  It was time to sleep, not hike, but I was going, sunset or not.

Or what passed for sunset under thick clouds that promised snow.

In any case, with a small light, that I hoped would keep working, I went around a blowdown and continued.  But something didn’t seem right.  I had walked around a lot of the blowdown, maybe too much, and I couldn’t say for sure that the trail I was seeing was similar to where I had just been.  Jon Krakuer might have known.  But I had a sense—an uneasiness—that I was going the wrong way.  I stopped, found my compass, and took a bearing roughly the direction I was headed.  It should have been northeast; it was southwest.  I turned around and walked back to the blowdown, confirming my error, and found the trail sooner on the other side, eventually making it to Windigo.

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Young moose, Isle Royale, taken from the campsite where 2 hours later I would see the wolf.  10 May 2006.

I’ve been cultivating these senses lately.  I’ve been slow to do this, because I am mostly a linear, analytical person who hasn’t much believed in them.  As I have spent more time in the woods as I got older, I started realizing if I weren’t sure where I was, it was wise to admit—out loud—that I was lost and do whatever was necessary to get myself on track again, usually meaning backtracking, sometimes back to the beginning and quitting the trip.  Trail memory is fine, unless I am on a trail that I have not trod.  I did that on Burntside Lake in 1992, when my map didn’t quite show where I entered the lake, but I reasoned the distance was short so that I would soon be navigating by my other maps.  That didn’t work, I was lost, and I backtracked the whole way.  I felt stupid, but at least I didn’t compound my mistake by continuing.

The last time I really messed up was on Mt. Pisgah, practically in Eugene’s city limits.  I hadn’t lived in Eugene at the time, and Pisgah is famous for two things: a large network of trails and even more poison oak.  The first time I climbed it, I thought I found a different route back to the parking lot.  I soon realized that the trail was not going there, or the Sun had moved its position in the sky.  Finally, I realized I was descending to a different parking lot.  Once there, I walked to a road I thought would take me where I wanted to go.  After a mile, I admitted I had no idea where I was, retraced my steps, and took a chance that a trail along the base of the mountain would get me back.  Had it not, I would have backtracked to the summit and down the trail I originally ascended.

Getting lost still embarrasses me, but I learn from it.  With GPS, I am able to know where I am and can try a different route.  Still, GPS is sometimes not enough to counter a sense that one’s direction is wrong.  GPS is also dependent upon not only battery power, but having a good connection with satellites.  Such connections may disappear In deep woods, and especially canyons.

Trail memory is also useful on those winter nights or difficult times in life, when one wants to escape civilization and find solitude in those hundreds—no, thousands—of trails across the continent.  I can go there in my mind: climb, breathe the air, hear the birds, see the flowers, and be alone.  I get great pleasure at looking at maps and saying to myself, “I’ve been out there.  I know what it looks like.”

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High Desert from the top of the canyon overlooking the Owyhee River, 2016.

 

LISTENING TO “NO”

May 23, 2016

For the third time on the trip, I had missed out hearing about something important going on, and I was annoyed.  The latest buzz I heard near my tent was about a hike somewhere up on the ridge behind us.  Who set that up?  Why didn’t I know about it?  I wondered.

A dozen of us from the Obsidian hiking club out of Eugene were rafting the Owyhee River in southeastern Oregon, a remote river few have heard of.  For river guides, the Owyhee is one they want on their resume. The prior four years, winter had not delivered a snowpack sufficient to produce enough meltwater to support rafting, but this year’s winter had been good, the river runnable; indeed, our guides had taken four groups down the Owyhee already. The snowpack, however, disappeared under April temperatures that were again 30 degrees above normal.  We had been told our mid-May trip was in jeopardy, and given the rapid fall in river flow, were certain we wouldn’t be able to do the trip.  Unexpected rain came, however, and the river flow stayed over 1000 CFS (cubic feet per second), slightly more than the 800 CFS  necessary to run the rapids. Not many would follow us in 2016.

The prior night had been the most special of the trip, I thought.  We camped in Green Dragon Canyon, a narrow chasm 1000 feet deep, maybe 50 yards on either side of the river before the cliffs began.  I often stared at the river, the walls, and the narrow patch of sky, saying how lucky I was.  One couldn’t have a better camp, and the next morning’s thunderstorm, echoing off the walls, echoed my thoughts.

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View from my tent, Green Dragon Canyon, Owyhee River

On this, our last full day on the Owyhee, we camped in a gorge with sedimentary rocks and compressed ash forming spires and faces and cats, orange columns below basalt rims on either side.  The upper rim was 1600’ above us, and I had heard the hike was going to the rim.  I came over to a group of 5 that was about to leave and asked to join.  Unfortunately, I didn’t have any other details.  That was a bad oversight on my part, for 1600 feet vertical is a major hike to take in late afternoon.

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The ridge we climbed.  I stopped about two-thirds of the way to the bottom of the upper rock ledge.

The pace at the outset was fast, very fast, too fast, and I fell behind, surprised.  One man dropped out within a minute.  Then I looked down and saw squirming bodies that looked like crushed mice.  And blood.  And intestines. A large Chukar suddenly flew off to my right.  I then realized I was seeing dying young birds that had just been stepped on by the hikers ahead of me.  I called out and they came back, in time to see the young birds struggle one last time before thankfully dying quickly.

One of the hikers, a woman, stood there in shock, her mouth open, totally appalled.  She had been in the lead group.  Another man said, “They are an introduced species,” as if that had anything to do with the fact that fast hikers, bent on speed and little else, had just killed birds in their home in a place we all loved and wanted to protect.  Some protection.

The woman replied, “So am I.”  She had been born in Japan and lived there 12 years.

Normally, I don’t think of omens, but this was not a good one.  The hikers, including the woman, continued as if nothing had happened, a blistering pace up the ridge, barely switching back at all.  I was not on a steep trail, which I can handle, but scree, large rocks, and nothing to hang on.  My walking stick didn’t come with me on the trip.  My stick had been my paddle.

The four regrouped periodically, and I caught up, just in time for them to go higher and faster.  Wow, they were good.  Then again, I had been in the kayak all day and had worked hard. Up I went, now 50 yards behind, well below the fourth hiker, grabbing rocks, bushes, anything I could.  I gained 100 meters elevation, 125, then 150, puffing.  I looked up at the receding group, and suddenly I heard a “NO” come from me.  I spoke the word audibly.

I stopped.  It had been a few weeks since I last vocalized a NO in the woods.  It occurred on a solo scouting trip past Young Rock on my way to Moon Point, outside of Oakridge, Oregon.  I had gone several miles and up nearly 3000 feet, through snow, over some difficult blowdowns, a few streams, until I encountered a trio of fallen giants that I couldn’t go neither up and around nor down and around.   Or through.  I was less than a half mile from my destination, but I said NO and turned around.

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Near where I said “NO” by Young’s Rock

NO sounds bad.  Negativity is not nice.  It means quit, failure, didn’t do it, wasn’t good enough, all those things.

It also can mean one has wisdom.

I did not like where I was, perched on the side of a ridge at a 45 degree angle.  On my own, given enough time, I could probably get to the top.  I didn’t know that the top they were going to was only another 75-100 meters.  I am literal, and the top of the ridge was 500 meters above our camp. Then I had to come down this stuff.  No matter; all I knew was that I was not going further. I listen to my “NO.”

I turned and stared in sudden wonder at the Owyhee, far below me.  I could see the last rapids we had done and the ones we would run the following morning, our last day on the river. That probably would be the last time I would ever see the river, although I am as cautious about saying the last time as I am saying the next time.  I may have extraordinary luck, or I may die. Stuff happens.

But what I saw as a result of my “NO” was a beautiful scene below me.  There are different kinds of orange, and for those who don’t appreciate the distinction, it is worth running the Owyhee, for the river is colored by geologic events that happened millions of years ago and by flowers that happened to bloom in the past week.

I would be careful on the way down, both for my sake and the sake of the locals.

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The Owyhee River from where I stopped.

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Sunset on the Owyhee

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“Cat Rock”, Shiprock at sunset.

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View upstream, where we saw eight Bighorns earlier that day

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One of the Bighorns.  Picture taken from a kayak being moved by the current.

JUXTAPOSITION

May 15, 2016

I found interesting a juxtaposition of articles in the newspaper about excessive classroom size in Eugene, and bonuses paid to Oregon football coaches 3 seasons ago.  The University (UO) paid $688,000 in bonuses, $490,000 for an insurance policy that was supposed to cover their cost, but apparently didn’t, and finally accepted a settlement of $242,000, lawyer fees not stated, meaning it cost UO at least $936,000 that year for football staff bonuses.

They didn’t win a national championship.

I knew Eugene was a big football town, but I underestimated how big. The head coach makes $3.5 million; the rest of the coaching staff altogether makes another $3.5—before bonuses.  The Science Factory, a small children’s museum near Autzen Stadium, gets a significant portion of its income from renting space on their lawn for tailgaters during home games. That’s “trickle down.”  For $7, a child can spend several hours in the exhibit hall with a lot of cool exhibitions.  Plus, there is a planetarium show where kids and parents learn about the night sky. They can find the North Star, which escaped slaves knew 150 years ago, and which very few Americans can find today.  Yet, 40% believe in astrology, and some wonder how Trump might become president.  Education matters.

For “$29 and up” (well into three figures for decent seats), one can see the Ducks play my alma mater Colorado in football this year, stay 3 hours, likely longer, because TV timeouts have lengthened the game considerably.  Parking is a minimum of $10, a mile from the stadium.  I don’t know what food costs. You won’t learn about the night sky, except that we light it up so much, wasting electricity, because we light the sky and the ground, that many have never seen the Milky Way.  Football may be played any night of the week.  The concept of “school night” has disappeared, along with the stars.

The local school district had many complaints about classroom size, a surrogate measure of educational quality.  I find that interesting, because when I was young, our classes had about 30 students.  Research has shown that large classroom size doesn’t mean bad outcomes.  Granted, it is a different world today.  We didn’t have cell phones when I was in school.  The teacher’s rule was law, and if we disobeyed, our parents believed the teacher, not us.  We had standardized tests, but they didn’t count for promotion.  “A”s were given for results, not effort.  We lined up for polio vaccination in school, rather than cite medical or religious reasons not to get it.  We all knew somebody with polio. Science eradicated the disease.

Diversity is prominent today, along with a change in gender dominance.  I grew up when boys were better students.  Schools didn’t push girls as hard.  Today, girls are pushed to excel, and do, but boys in general are falling behind, an unfortunate observation I made where I volunteered.  Parents question exam grades and the difficulty of the material.  I tutored a student in chemistry, whose parents were teachers who felt the material too difficult.  It was analytical chemistry for high school.  We learned how to write, both the action and the content.

Back then, however, we called one black student integration.  We had bullying, fights, and more deaths in motor vehicle accidents.  Gays were quiet.  They must shake their heads today when they hear that being gay is a choice.  Back then, you stayed quiet. Smoking cigarettes in the bathroom was bad; we didn’t know what transgender was.

We liked our sports, too, but we didn’t worship them.  Our football stadium seated maybe 1000, not the 12,000 a town in Texas is going to build for $60 million. Goodness, the whole city of Wilmington couldn’t find a venue that sat 12,000.  It was only football, for heaven’s sake.  We didn’t have a state basketball or football championship.  We didn’t rank our sports teams nationally, and there wasn’t a McDonald’s All-American team, because McDonald’s had barely opened restaurants.

Sports at colleges weren’t big business.  There was a time when freshmen couldn’t play varsity, only on a freshman team.  Athletes didn’t leave early for the pros.  In 1971, Roger Staubach was MVP of the Super Bowl and made $50K a year.  Now, the average salary is twice that per game, called by “Business Insider” magazine as “Poorly paid.”

We can find money for a new stadium, and for the world track and field championships—in Eugene—the whole state is going to have the lodging tax increased.  Thirteen of the $100+ million cost will go for trophies and a gala gathering place, but we don’t have money to house the homeless, get meningitis vaccine for students, or hire more teachers.  Additionally, the UO blew nearly a million buying out the contract of the last president.

Some still say that children are our future, but state of the art stadiums trump state of the art schools. I see license plate frames with “Duck Athletic Fund Supporter.”  I have never seen one with “UO Scholarship Supporter,” or “Eugene Public Schools Donor.”  People have the right to send their money where they wish, of course.  It’s America.  It’s just that football stadiums are used fewer than a dozen times a year and schools 180 days a year, often more.  Furthermore, football is harmful to the brain, and I haven’t heard of any significant changes in the game.  Schools are built to increase the intelligence in the brain.  Our priorities are backward.

Lack of support of public education is part of both the dumbing down of America, an anti-science agenda supporting for profit and religious schools.  The Other Side calls higher education “liberal bastions.”  There are plenty of conservatives in those schools, but liberal arts tends to mean liberal thinking—the search for truth, new ideas, and extolling intelligence.  Instead, the Republican standard bearer is bashing two and not offering anything regarding the third.

I’m perhaps a cantankerous grouch, but one who embraces the changes in the world, questioning changes that I don’t think are improving it.  Those families and groups who support education tend to have children who are successful in life, success being defined by a career that is considered honorable and important.  We all know the stereotypes who succeed; their families believe with education an individual has a strong chance to succeed in life.

Football

72,788 NCAA Players

16,175 Draft Eligible

256      Drafted.

The NCAA says the probability is 1.6%, but when compared to the number of NCAA players, it is 0.35%, and being drafted does not guarantee playing, let alone succeeding. 

We need to pay teachers appropriately, making teaching a profession many aspire to become.  Let’s expect much from our teachers, but give them training, support and respect they deserve.  We should make teaching a profession the best and brightest aspire to become. We’re running out of time to fix the problems that will end humanity in a century or less.  Education may or may not succeed; nothing else comes close, not even a national championship in football.

TRANSIT (OF MERCURY)

May 10, 2016

I have shown many the night and daytime sky. Twenty years ago, I went to a conference in Palm Desert, during which time Saturn’s rings happened to be edge-on, an occurrence every fourteen and a half years.  I was driving, so I took my telescope, set it up in the parking lot the first night and had maybe 5 takers.  The second night, I had 30.  The fourth and final night, I had a continuous line.  People were thrilled.  One woman almost cried when she realized she was looking at Saturn.  Another guy told me about his childhood, when he once knew the planets and stars.  He finished looking and got back in line.  Loved that trip.  It had been nearly 4 years since I last did a telescope-aided “star party,” when I showed maybe 50 people the 2012 transit of Venus across the Sun, an exceedingly rare event that won’t be seen again until 2117.

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TRANSIT OF VENUS, 5 JUNE 2012

Mercury transits the Sun as well as Venus, about 13-14 times a century, but I had never seen one. I looked during the November 1999 transit, when I was a grad student in Las Cruces, New Mexico, but I had no telescope, and binoculars were insufficient.  This time, I was prepared with my telescope, Mylar solar filter designed for it, and camera, with which I would shoot the transit, using a solar filter designed for binoculars that could be held over a camera lens.  I put the event on the Obsidian hike schedule, where it appeared as a “class”.  Where asked, “number of people allowed to join,” I wrote “100.”  Exactly 6 eventually signed up, including me, and one of them cancelled.  I decided to set up just south of Autzen Stadium at 7:30, during which time the transit would be well underway.  From Eugene, the transit started before sunrise.

I knew of two other local sites where people had telescopes, one downtown, the other on Skinner Butte, a wooded hill 300 feet above the city, near the Willamette River.  I hoped I might have several visitors, since my site was near a dog park and a lot of walkers were out, but it was quiet.  I arrived with my wife at 7:30, and one of the Obsidians joined us about 20 minutes later.  It was quiet, except in the celestial arena, where interesting things were happening.

Once I had the telescope focused on the Sun, I saw Mercury immediately.  It was small, but compared to the sunspot near it, the planet was a sharply defined black sphere. I shot pictures of it using high power, letting the camera gradually get the Sun into focus.

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Mercury is below the sunspot in the lower middle of the picture.

 

A few came by, but they were either wearing earphones and couldn’t hear me or not interested.  Four other Obsidians came and kept us company.  I don’t push people to view something in the sky.  I will tell them what I am doing, and if they seem interested, I suggest they take a look.  Some are very interested, some not; a woman with two dogs was more interested in showing her dogs than she was in Mercury.  She never made one move to come over and look.  People have their reasons.

Perhaps it was just as well.  I hadn’t read up on transits.  That’s inexcusable for me, and I’m a bit ashamed that I didn’t prepare my lesson plan.  Kepler predicted the first known transits of Mercury and Venus, incredibly occurring within a month of each other in 1631, but ironically and sadly, he died the year before.  His predictions were not only verified (he said to check a day on either side of the prediction, because he didn’t trust his calculations), but were within 5 hours of the correct time.

Why did it all matter? In the 17th century, we knew the relative distances the planets were from each other but not the Sun-Earth distance. Knowing that distance, known as an astronomical unit (AU), would allow us to know all the distances. The path of a planet’s crossing the Sun is different depending upon one’s location.  In other words, the path will be a different chord on the circle of the Sun for observers in different locations.  By knowing the location and the chords, one can determine the distance from the Earth to the Sun, an astronomical unit (AU).

At 11:30, four hours after arrival, we saw Mercury near the edge of the Sun.  It then became internally tangent to the Sun (third contact).  Finally, there was a slight irregularity, a little hole, on the edge of the Sun.  Mercury was continuing on its orbit, in several days becoming visible in morning twilight.

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Mercury approaching the edge of the Sun.

After I posted my pictures on Facebook, some of which were actually decent, I saw in “trending news” something about the transit, referring to it as an “astrological event.”  Worse, it was accompanied by a NASA picture.  I posted a scathing comment about the inability of so many people to know the difference between astrology and astronomy, and the distressingly large number of Americans who believe in astrology.  I later deleted the comment.

I became disheartened when I heard from a friend that not one classroom he knew of, and he was recently a teacher, had kids go outside and see REAL (caps his) science in the REAL sky.  He continued: “The kids who looked through my scopes today were awestruck at seeing a live event right before their eyes and experiencing the size of the solar system via this transit. Heard lots of ‘wows’ and ‘cools.’ Funny, I never heard that when they were watching a video on a Smartboard.”

I would have loved to have shown the transit at a school.  Had I tried, however, the first thing I would likely have heard would have been, “Who are you?”  (now, one has to be somebody, not just an experienced amateur astronomer).  Then I would have heard how busy teachers are, require fingerprinting and have a background check.  Yet, in 60 minutes of having 100 kids look at Mercury’s crossing the Sun, I bet more of them would remember this day than the day they would have at school.  It would stay with many, just like when I talk about eclipses, people remember days in school where they made pinhole cameras to view a partial eclipse.  I could have made trig, geometry and space exploration come alive.  Instead, I showed this to 10 other people.  Ten.  And I told passersby what I was doing.

Still, the fact that only 10 others saw it with me was immaterial. I made my choice; they made theirs.  We will have to wait until November 2019 for another chance here.  Climatologically, that is a cloudy time in Oregon.  Whether I would go elsewhere to see it is not clear.  I enjoyed this transit more than I thought I would, and if eastern Oregon were clear, it might be worth a trip.

Nah.  Definitely will be worth it.

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Mercury almost at the edge of the Sun.

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Talking to Evelyn N. of the Obsidians about the Transit. Photo courtesy of David Lodeesen.

BAD DECISION

May 3, 2016

I put fourteen people, counting myself, at unnecessary risk the other night.  And I think I am the only one who knows that.

The Obsidian Hiking Club has a monthly full Moon hike to the top of nearby Mt. Pisgah.  Taking the most direct route, one climbs 1000 feet in 1.3 miles.  It is a popular hike near Eugene, the trail good, if a bit too wide, and the views of a moonrise or a sunset are stunning.

The woman who had led the hike for some time still wants to lead the solstice hikes, but she asked me if I would be willing to lead the other ones.  It’s no big deal, really.  The hike is easy to organize, people show up, we collect $1 from members and $2 for non-members, and I decide the route.  We go to the top, look at the sights, and come down.  Anybody who wants to leave early can, and the leader just makes sure everybody gets down without difficulty.

What can go wrong?  There is a saying in bridge when a contract is a sure thing, look for what could possibly go wrong.

People can get hurt by tripping, having heart attacks, heat stroke, hypothermia, and anything that can happen in the outdoors.

Like getting struck by lightning.

Two days before the hike, we had had very warm weather for April, and I suspect most thought the hike would be perfect for viewing an April moonrise.  I had noted the GFS weather model showed a low pressure system moving up from the south.  This was a little unusual, but the model was consistent, and with hot, moderately moist air over us, a low pressure system could trigger thunderstorms.  Thunderstorms are unlikely in Oregon, but they do occur.

Sure enough, the day of the hike, there was a chance of thunderstorms that evening, and I started wondering how this might affect the hike.  At 3 pm, four hours prior to meeting at the trailhead, it was sunny.  Two hours later, it had clouded over; although the clouds didn’t look threatening, the weather was changing.  I drove to the trailhead at 6 and looked at the radar, which showed a narrow line of precipitation 250 miles long, from Redding north to Roseburg, heading our way.  I knew from the NWS discussion that the storms were moving at 35-40 mph.  The wind had picked up, too, but the sky, while cloudy, was not showing any overt signs of thunderstorms.

People began to arrive, and we had all 14 just before 7.  I was concerned about the weather and voiced my concerns.  Nobody seemed concerned, but I didn’t ask, either.  I said I would be looking at the radar and the sky, and at the first clap of thunder, we would turn around.  That’s stupid. We are about to do an unimportant out and back hike, and if there is a significant possibility of thunder, we should not begin.

As we climbed the mountain, I figured an hour for the whole hike, since we wouldn’t see either a moonrise or a sunset, I hoped we would miss the storms coming up from the south, one of which was significant on radar.  I saw rain to our west, the storms appearing to be at least 10 miles away, moving north.  That was good news, and we stayed several minutes on the summit, along with maybe a dozen other people.  The sky to the south did not appear threatening, but on the radar the next storm was closer, still 60 miles away.

As we started down, all was fine until we heard thunder to our northwest.  The clouds to the west had become thunderstorms, and we felt a little rain.  I told people to spread out, which at this stage was perhaps helpful, but we were on an open trail, and there wasn’t a lot we could do other than to keep moving.  We descended to the trailhead in 20 minutes, much to my relief, but nobody else seemed concerned.  Everybody got off the mountain, and I heard no complaints.

Except from my own conscience.  What was I thinking?

I could rationalize.  The storms fired to our northwest, we were not in the path of the main body, and the radar showed that consistently.  But we easily could have been.  And had we been, we would have been rained on for the hike up, before thunder occurred right over the top of us.  The storm in the south could have arrived sooner.  Thirty minutes later, when I got home, it started to rain heavily, and there was some thunder.  We missed the main thunderstorms by about a half hour. That’s too close.

In short, it wasn’t smart hiking Pisgah that night just to do the hike.  I felt an internal pressure to do it, and that was wrong. Had I cancelled the hike, some might have been annoyed or disappointed, having made the effort to get out there, but there would have been zero risk of being struck by lightning.  Telling people that I would have us to turn around were there thunder was not good strategy.  We were on an open trail, and it would take us at least 15 minutes to get back down.  As it turned out, when we did hear thunder, we were on our way down, and not in a good position.

Had anything bad occurred, I had no defense.  I was the leader.  I know weather better than most, both reading the sky and understanding the models, soundings, and forecast discussions.  I knew the situation wasn’t good; I discussed it with the group.  And yet I still went.  It is this concatenation of small events that leads to major disasters.  The fact that we got away with it and people had a good hike was irrelevant.  I took a chance that I didn’t need to take.  We weren’t trying to rescue ourselves from some situation and had to continue, thunder or no.  We were doing a hike to see a full Moon, which we weren’t going to see.  Worse, we were going to one of the higher places around.  It was a bad decision.

I have cancelled trips before because of weather, both on the trail and beforehand.  On the trail, I looked at the distance we had to cover, noted the weather and called the trip.  Nobody complained.  It was a good decision.  Before another trip, I cancelled, because I didn’t like going into the mountains to do a difficult 12 miler with possible snow when it was raining hard in the valley and 45 degrees–hypothermia weather.  That was also a good decision.  This one on Pisgah was not.

Nobody has commented adversely to me, even when I stated my concerns.  Maybe they are being polite.  Politeness is a virtue, but there are times when one needs to stand up and say, “No, I am not doing this hike.  I do not like the weather, and I will not take the risk.”  And leave.

THROWING OFF THE BOWLINES

April 26, 2016

“Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Mark Twain

But be rational about it, remember to pay your debts, carry some form of health insurance, fund your retirement, and give back to society.

I admit it.  I’m jealous.  I’m jealous of the young guy with whom I hiked who had time and money to hike the three main N-S trails in the US: the Appalachian, Continental Divide, and the Pacific Crest Trails.  I’m jealous of those who have the time and money to travel the world, seeing places I will never see, doing things I will never do.  They have caught the trade winds in their sails, and they have explored, dreamed, and discovered.  I just wonder where they got the money and the time, how they are going to pay medical and other bills, how they are going to retire, and whether they are giving back to the world.  I never ask them, however, for it would be impolite. Besides, I might not like the answer.

Two years ago, I backpacked with a group in western Alaska.  One, 32, was a nurse who had been all over the world.  She made good money.  I made more at her age, but I back then didn’t feel then I could afford long trips.  Still, I knew almost nothing about her.  Another was a man who had a two month old back in England, and he was flying around the world alone, stopping at various interesting places.  After the backpacking trip, he was going to canoe in southeast Alaska. I needed to get home.

I didn’t ask where they got the time to throw off the bowlines.  I threw mine off for the first time in 1975 when the Navy ship I was on backed away from the mooring, turned the bow westward, and started steaming across the Pacific.  I saw a lot of things, mostly water, a young doctor—the only one on board—with a lot of responsibility and not nearly enough knowledge.  Back then, we had to serve in the military, and I was one of the fortunate ones who avoided combat duty.  But I still served, making good money, about $11,000 a year.  It wasn’t enough so I could bicycle the Silk Road, hike the Appalachian Trail, camp out on Easter Island, or take a year off to see Europe.  We had to serve, period.  Taking a year off cost money back then.  I think it still does.

Two decades later, a friend of mine was jealous of my traveling to South Africa for the 2001 eclipse.  I was 52, hardly young, and she and her daughter had not traveled much after they both had a month-long trip to Europe when her daughter was 21.  Why be jealous?  When I was 21, I was in college.  It would be eleven years before I saw Europe, and I was then in my first year of private practice.  First year.  At 32. I had debts to pay and a retirement to fund.  I couldn’t afford to stay long, and it would be a quarter century before I went back.

My generation didn’t have the chance to throw off the bow lines, except when the 1MC intercom on board blared, “Underway, Shift Colors.”

I didn’t have the opportunities that so many of the young today have, for I had to save enough, pay off debts, pay a mortgage and buy-in to the practice I had joined.  I was lucky.  I had no student loan debt, and the practice buy-in wasn’t onerous.  I was dealt different cards.

I was fortunate to live long enough to discover that I needed to get back into the outdoors more, so in addition to yearly trips to Zion NP to backpack, I started doing the same at the Grand Canyon.  In 1981, I took my first trip to the Boundary Waters in northern Minnesota, not returning for 5 years, but returning every year thereafter.

Most don’t get the breaks I did.  I took a leave of absence when I was 43 and volunteered for the Forest Service.  I didn’t go until I paid off the house, was debt free and had my retirement under control. After I returned, I slowly added each year to my portfolio of canoe trips in the US and Canada.  Along the way, I started chasing solar eclipses, the phenomenon’s dictating where I was going to visit.  I tried to see as many national parks as I could, one here, one there.  I discovered Alaska.

If you live long enough doing this, you see a lot of places in the world.  But you have to be fortunate.  You need a decent job—at least most of us—so you can have the money.  My philosophy is first things first:   We drove old cars, and our house, with all our cats, was not a place we invited people to visit.  We chose to have animals, but we chose not to have expensive toys.  Memories matter, so while I could have made more sooner,  I waited.  I wonder how many do that today.

Having voluntary military service helps.  Except not the country.  It is disturbing that a few serve multiple deployments and only one in eight of 25-34 year-old men is a veteran.  Half the men my age are.

As I entered into my 50s and 60s, I realized that my legacy to myself might be the places I had seen and camped, but my legacy to society was what I gave back.  Volunteering became important.  Still is.  I do have some skills that are useful at the Community College, so I help with math.  The hiking club needs leaders who organize hikes, the local planetarium occasionally needs somebody to do a show.

Explore.  Dream. Discover.  Yes, do all that, and do it when you can while you can, for there are no guarantees.  But remember that you also have to take care of yourself when you get old.  Many can’t.  I can afford to do this, and I can because I stayed in school a long time, worked long hours at a good job for which I was trained, and saved money.  I had the right genetics, too.  When I had time and sufficient money, I took it and used it.  I did what I could.

Every week, I update the calendar  with how many hours I volunteered.  I don’t know how much is enough, but I do what I think I can.  It’s my job to donate money, too, because I can, although I’d rather donate my time and my mind.  Few want the last.  Only the money, please.

If I live long enough and become crotchety enough, I may ask one of these younger folks how they got the money to travel and how they are going to fund their retirement.  But not now.  It would be impolite.

But I am quite curious.

HOLDING COURT

April 18, 2016

“Excuse me, but this is a library.  Could you please be a little quieter?”  My wife asked two couples who were talking rather loudly in the ship’s library, where the rest of us were reading.  We were close and had looked over twice.  Another lady had looked over, too.  We were on a cruise to see the 2016 eclipse, lucky to go there, but our room number was a lot lower than theirs, I would bet money.  The first deck was for those who paid a lot less for the cruise.

Not only were they loud, the men were bragging.  They were talking about their season tickets to Ohio State football games, being on the Board of something or other, how they had taken “hundreds of cruises,” and all the places they had traveled.  They had seen stuff I never had or will, and I’ve been to fifty different countries. I had seen a few more total solar eclipses than they had, not that I was going comment.

I am not an OSU fan, something that isn’t rational, so hearing the specifics of a loud conversation about the Buckeyes added to the unpleasantness.

The quieter of the two couples were standing, the loudmouth, probably our age, was sitting, leaning back in a chair, as if he were holding court.  My wife and I decided to move, and I left first. I’m not confrontational.  The few times I have been have not turned out well, for I have a very nasty sarcastic streak, which makes me feel badly later, when I have a clearer mind.  If it is easier for me to disengage, I will.  As I left, I turned around to see my wife saying something to the foursome.  She then joined me. My wife isn’t afraid to call people out on boorish behavior and does it well.  Maybe as a woman, she has an advantage, maybe not.  I am afraid I probably will be slugged. Or shot.  This is America, after all, although we had all gone through a metal detector to come aboard ship.  I felt safe from that.

The comment from the guy holding court to her was, “What, did we wake you up?”

That was completely uncalled for.  It was not true; it was rude, boorish, and frankly shocking that a person called out on loud speech in a library, one who has taken so many cruises, obviously rich and powerful, for he was a member of so many boards, would say such a thing.  I’ve served on only two boards my whole life—the local and state medical society ones—and have never once been asked or considered to be put on the board of anything else.  Maybe it is because I’m not a high-powered loud opinionated person.  Or maybe because my knowledge, wisdom, ability to listen, and to stay quiet long enough to put things together at the end of a meeting is not welcome.  I’m an introvert and a slow processor; the loudmouth idea generators, who don’t have time to allow those of us who are system builders to make ideas reality, sit on the boards in the world I live in.  Maybe it is a reason why the world is such a mess.  I often wonder how much potential is lost; that is definitely one reason why the world is such a mess.

Boorishness is in these days.  Donald Trump brought it back and has been very successful with it, at least with a disturbingly large segment of the American electorate.  Worse, apparently it is stressing out teachers and children, too.  Some teachers are not discussing the upcoming election.  Others have abandoned neutrality for the first time.  Anti-bullying work in schools is being stressed to the limit—and failing.  “I want to kill Muslims,” was said by a fifth grader.  “You are going to be sent back to Mexico,” was said to another.  Currently, I’m being flooded by requests for money from organizations to help stop Trump, when frankly, I think that is the Republican Party’s problem now, not mine.  Stopping Trump in favor of Cruz and avoiding a convention floor fight does not do my side any good.  I’m less worried about Trump than I am that Sanders’ supporters won’t support Clinton, should she get the nomination.  I would have thought what happened in 2000 would have been remembered, but our collective memory is short in this country.

I have been called out on my talking too loudly, the last time being when I came out of the woods after a winter camping trip and was having breakfast at The Front Porch, in Ely, Minnesota.  Fresh from camping in snow at 14F (-10 C), I was now warm and eating, and I called home from my corner table to tell my wife how interesting it was to be in the Minnesota woods in winter with nobody else around.  When one comes out of the woods after a solo trip, there is a natural tendency to speak loudly.   After a few minutes, a man sitting near me, who was in a conversation with three to four other people, came over and asked if I could be quieter.  Not a little quieter.  Quieter.

I was deeply embarrassed.  I apologized to him and went outside to continue the conversation.  When I returned, I didn’t say anything to him—or to anybody.  I remained silent.

Look, people make inadvertent errors or do things that they shouldn’t.  Speaking loudly in a quiet room is not unheard of.  We shouldn’t do it, but a lot of us forget.  I did.  The appropriate way to handle it was the way the man did to me and they way I responded.  Blaming the other person is narcissistic.  That’s the narcissistic way, the “I am too important to be bothered with such stuff” way, the “I can’t possibly be wrong” way.  I apologized and left the room to talk.

After we left the foursome, the other couple also left, with what my wife described as “relief” on their faces, as they exited a conversation that had gone on too long for them.  We ran into the guy holding court and his wife as they were walking the opposite direction, away from the library.  I looked through him, treating him as a non-existent being.

We were in the Java Sea, not Columbus.

DRUNK WITHOUT ALCOHOL: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

April 14, 2016

After the second long flight on the trip, from Tokyo to Singapore, we arrived in the Lion City about 1 a.m.  Fortunately, we had booked a hotel at the airport, and all we had to do was find it.

Biologically, it was about 10 a.m. the next day for me, and I had not slept well on the plane.  I seldom do.  Usually, my head flops over and wakes me up, and I couldn’t find a way to rest it elsewhere that worked.  Yet, I felt surprisingly sharp, as we walked through the terminal.  The terminal wasn’t quiet; indeed, the world isn’t quiet, even when it ought to be.

I wasn’t sharp,  although I didn’t realize it.  I had trouble finding the right tram, and the “T2” sign didn’t click with me as meaning “Terminal 2.”  I thought it meant “Tram 2.”  Nevertheless, we got to the hotel and slept a little.

The next morning, I realized how much clearer I was after even 5 hours of sleep.  There was so much I had missed in the airport the prior night.  I didn’t realize the shortness of the tram and the various shops present.  It wasn’t like I was totally stupid the night before, but I thought I had been functioning well, and instead I had acted like I was mildly drunk.

Exactly.

Being sleep deprived for 24 hours is akin to being drunk.

When I learned German online, I was often teaching English to people all over the world.  I was amazed at the hours when they were awake.  No, not the hours in my time zone, but hours in theirs.  People were up at 2,3 or 4 a.m.  I can’t fathom this.  I have often wondered if the one of the big problems in the world is that a good share of humanity is functioning half or fully drunk because they aren’t sleeping enough.  It sure would explain a lot of the world’s problems.

If I am separated from the felines who live with me, like when I take a canoe trip, I find I sleep even more than the 7 hours I usually get, although eventually I return to that number.

I knew sleep deprivation was bad when I was a physician.  I felt awful, the telephone’s ringing jarred me, I occasionally dozed, and I often sat writing a note on a patient, only to realize I was staring at the paper and nothing was appearing on it.  Had I been drinking and practicing medicine, I would have been thrown off the hospital staff.  Instead, they tolerated me for years functioning at a sub-optimal level, called “not enough sleep,” and actually expected it.  My partners did, my colleagues did, my teachers did, for the “giants” of medicine, those who in my view made the mess American medicine is, were purportedly able to function without eating, sleeping, or vacations.  They were held up as paragons of medical virtue.

The only bad evaluation I received as a medical student was when I gave the wrong order at midnight and fell back asleep.  The next day, the patient needed a ventilator.  I felt badly, for good doctors give the right order any time day or night.  I obviously was not good.

Eventually, medical programs recognized the need for doctors in training to get enough sleep.  Pilots have known about sleep deprivation for a lot longer.  The airline disasters in the Marianas and Colombia were in large part due to pilot fatigue.  Pilots take brief naps on long haul flights, for a nap has been shown to improve performance.  I wonder sometimes how many errors I made because I was too tired.  We all gave orders over the phone at night and had in the future to sign off our phone orders.  There were always orders I gave at say 3:27 a.m. that I had no recollection of  giving.  No recollection.  That’s scary.

More than one has teased me for the brief 10 minute afternoon nap I often take and have taken for years.  Because I have animals, I am up at 5.  I am in bed by 9, when most I know go to bed a lot later.  Indeed, I often wonder if they go to bed at all.  There appears to be a gap between 2 and 5 in the afternoon on the US West Coast, when the rest of the world is quieter.  Three hours.  Then in the evening the messages start, and when I awaken at 5, there are often messages sent to me at 1,2,3 a.m. as if I were awake at those hours.

Nope.  I’m not.  I can’t function awake at 24 hours.  Nobody can.  Oh, people can be awake that long, but they are kidding themselves if they think they can function.  They are missing things in life, because we just aren’t able to function normally.

GOOSEBUMPS

April 8, 2016

It’s not every day I get interviewed for Nebraska Life magazine.  Or give the interviewer goosebumps.  Like everything else that had happened in the prior two days, it was a matter of chance.

It was chance that as a Rowe Sanctuary volunteer doing daily cleaning, I decided to take a sweeper over to the viewing blinds, which get sand and small gravel tracked in.  It was chance that led me to stop for a few minutes, delaying my return, because I saw a flicker come out of a cavity nest in a dead cottonwood.  When one is volunteering at a bird sanctuary, things like a flicker’s leaving a nest are important matters.

The delay held me long enough on the trail that I encountered Alan, a little younger than I.  He saw my name tag, recognized me, and introduced himself.  I was a little embarrassed I hadn’t recognized him.  I’m the same way with birds—good auditory memory, terrible visual.  We knew each other from past years, since he also volunteers at Rowe; judging by his shirt, he worked for Nebraska Life magazine as an assistant editor.  I told Alan that I was once an assistant guide with him, and I emulated many of his traits.  Alan smiled, then asked if he could interview me for a story.  Why not?

We talked about why I came to Rowe and what the cranes meant to me.  He then suggested that we go into Jamalee Blind to shoot some pictures of me, while I swept the carpet.  Why not?  And I told him about the story that happened two nights prior, in East Blind.

I didn’t go into all the details, such as my 11 hour trip from Eugene to Kearney, leaving me frazzled when I arrived.  I probably should have gone to bed early and not bothered the public with my mood.  Instead, I went to the viewing blind that evening with Jane, an experienced volunteer ten years my senior.   It is always good to see Jane each year and even better to go out into the blind with her. She’s a solid Nebraskan who knows what’s she’s doing, telling me that while she wanted to talk to the thirty-two visitors first, she thought I should say more, because she learned from me every time I spoke.  I could say the same thing about her.

At that time of day, I wasn’t sure I was capable of meeting her expectations, but said nothing.  We had a good group who asked great questions, and the cranes put on a nice show, flying over several times, as they do in early evening, before they landed on the river.  It was still early, and I quietly strolled back and forth in the blind, making sure people were properly situated.  And then came the the story I related to Alan:

As I reached one end of the blind, a woman asked me, “You said that seeing the cranes were one of your top three sights in nature.  What were the other two?”

I stopped and looked at her: “A total solar eclipse and seeing a wolf in the wild on Isle Royale.”

From behind, I heard, “Did you know there are only two wolves left on Isle Royale?”  I turned around, seeing a tall man with a kind, somewhat concerned face.

“Yes,” I replied.  “I don’t know what is going to happen next.”

“I’m involved in some of that for an environmental group in Minnesota.”

That was interesting.  I told him I was a member of the Friends of the Boundary Waters, a small organization in Minneapolis that leverages a few paid staff members and several thousand members to accomplish good things.

“I was their first liaison to the northern communities.”  That stopped me cold.

“We know each other,” I said, with a little more excitement. “What’s your name?”

“Ian.”

“Mike Smith.”

Ian paused, his eyes briefly questioning, then I saw the sudden change of recognition in his face as he realized who I was and that we indeed had met each other in person in northern Minnesota four years earlier at an annual scholarship banquet for Vermilion Community College.  In 2008, I established a scholarship at Vermilion, splitting the funding with the Friends.  Four years later, the Friends established a liaison for the northern Minnesota communities, Ely especially, and Ian was the person “on the ground.”  We jointly presented the scholarship for two years. We shook each other’s hands, talked for a few minutes, and then it was time for him to look for cranes and for me to walk back down the blind.  As I left, he shook his head in disbelief. I suspect I did the same thing.

Viewing wildlife is a matter of being in the right place at the right time, having all senses open, and being ready for the unexpected.  It’s all about recognizing opportunities when they occur.

I hadn’t ever imagined I would encounter somebody in a viewing blind whom I knew from somewhere else.  Paul Johnsgard, one of the leading writers about cranes, speaks of the conjunction of spring, a river, and a special bird.  Ian and I had supported a special wilderness 1000 miles away.  By chance, we arrived in the same viewing blind at the same time in another special place.  Several unlikely utterances had to occur for each of us to discover the other’s presence.

Underneath my jacket, not visible, was my shirt, which was “Isle Royale National Park.”  I had never worn that shirt before.  Of all the shirts I could have worn, I chose that one.

I had had a long, unpleasant day.  But again, being among the Sandhill Cranes was magic.  My telling the story gave Alan goosebumps.  I saw them myself.

There was more than one conjunction that night on the Platte.

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