Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

DESIGN FLAW

September 21, 2015

I reached across the canoe to the opposite gunwale, ready to hoist, flip it upside down and put it on my head.  Suddenly, I felt a sharp, quick, not-real-painful-but-you-know-it’s-going-to-bleed-like-stink sensation, as my finger encountered a razor sharp aluminum strip.  With a big OW, I managed to get the canoe up and started walking from Meadows Lake to Agnes, a 160 rod, (1/2 mile) portage on rocky trail, annoyed at the pain, the blood, and wondering what happened.  I forgot at least two other times later, had several fingers bandaged at the end of the trip, when I told the outfitter that the strip was a design error and needed to be fixed.  These things happen; if nobody speaks up, they continue to happen, and others get hurt.

Volkswagen, in Wolfsburg, Germany, north of the Deutsche Bahn tracks, got in serious trouble on my side of the Atlantic. It began when their cars’ emissions were a lot worse than the lab tests showed.  A small clean air group here, led by an individual, ironically named John German, asked to have tests done in the US, where we have the world’s strictest emission standards.  A car was driven from San Diego to Seattle, and the emissions were 30-40 times higher than the standards set by the Clean Air Act.  German, who believed that diesel was a clean fuel, was stunned. VW put a software patch on the cars, and they passed our emission tests, but open road tests still showed discrepancies. Only then, did VW admit they designed the software patch to turn on emission controls during testing but turn them off afterwards.  How can somebody work for a company when they know they are deliberately falsifying emissions data?  Money.  VW only polluted air.  GM killed people.

For that same week, GM got hit with big fines— only fines, no jail time—for a faulty ignition switch which shut off the engine and critical systems, like air bags, killing 124 and injuring nearly 1000 others.  One death was not counted by GM, because the airbag in the back seat worked, although the young woman still died as a result of the crash caused by the faulty switch. A root cause analysis leads straight back to the ignition switch, which was known in 2002 not to produce enough torque. GM had held meetings about this problem since 2005, and the investigation has continued since then, hindered by GM’s hiding key papers, making it difficult to find out which accidents were due to cars’ having a faulty switch.  Yes, hiding papers.  For that, 15 people lost their jobs (not lives) and 5 others were disciplined.  At the Senate hearing, the CEO, who had worked at GM for 33 years, claimed not to know anything about a defective switch.  As my late father would have said, “She was either stupid or lying.”  GM knew they had a faulty device, and they took the chance that a recall of the cars would be more expensive than having to pay lawsuits, $575 million now in a contingency fund, run by Kenneth Feinberg (the man who doled out 9/11 compensation), fix twenty-nine million recalled cars, and pay a $900 million fine.

By the way, had it not been for a Georgia plaintiff attorney, we might never have known about this problem.  Not only do we appear to have a Congressional culture against regulation, we need better regulators in those instances where there is supposed to be regulation.

Congress makes laws, like the Clean Air Act, back in the days when Congress did the people’s business, and Republican presidents signed environmental laws. Congress has failed since 2003 to compensate illnesses among the 70,000 who cleaned up the wreckage at the Twin Towers.  We know the air they breathed was toxic (1000 tons of asbestos, 200,000 pounds of jet fuel, mercury from computers to name three), yet the people involved were told the air was safe.  We don’t know how many of the 874 who have died did so from the cleanup; many others have chronic illnesses. My God, is the country so desperate for money that we can’t cover medical costs for these people?  Why, because somebody might cheat? These people cleaned up hallowed ground. We call poor people who get something for nothing cheaters (the few that cheat on Food Stamps, half that of Medicare); we call businesses that get something for nothing “blue chip.”

Systems are complex and imperfect.  Sometimes, products don’t work the way they are designed to, like metal strips on a canoe, and need to be fixed.  Product recalls are annoying when one sits in an auto showroom waiting for a vehicle to be fixed.  But when the product is known to be defective, put on the market anyway, and a financial choice is made as to whether this should be recalled or deal with the consequences, I become irate.  I’m uncertain what the cost of a life is, although Mr. Feinberg might know.

That brings me sadly back to Congress.  The same people who swear on their Saint Ayn Rand don’t get it.  I’ve read her books, which presuppose a perfect world, where businessmen don’t cheat, do insider training, accept the wrong ignition switch, deliberately program software to do the wrong thing, or have poorly designed gas tanks.  These “self made” people didn’t make it just because they worked hard; no, they made it because of genetics and an infrastructure and educational system paid for by others, connections, and sometimes dumb luck.  The notion that hard work succeeds, and failure is just the absence of hard work, is wrong.  Go to the Olympic Trials sometime, and look at the athletes that didn’t quite make the Team.  They worked just as hard, maybe harder, were very skilled, but not third best, only fourth.

What is this hard work?  Some is truly genius and a lifelong devotion.  No question.  Some were deliberately creating financial instruments people didn’t understand, like CDOs with NINJA mortgages (No Income No Job Applicant), and market them as AAA securities.  This isn’t capitalism.  It’s cheating.  Ayn Rand knew a lot about cheating, too, although few publicize her biography.

We have certain realities in this country: any of us is a virus, an aneurysm, a mutation, a blood clot, a head-on away from a disaster that isn’t our fault.  Does America have compassion or is it survival of the fittest?.

As I write this, I am going into the wilderness, created by law in 1964 to protect land and allow man to visit it but not live there.  This country was almost dammed 80 years ago and had aircraft flyovers restricted 65 years ago to preserve solitude. Now, the current risk is sulfide mining, one of the most polluting industries there is.  Yes, we need to mine, but there are places where mining is too risky to consider, bad consequences irreparable. The EPA was only the proximate cause of the pollution in the San Juan River, and hydroplaning and crashing was the proximate cause of the women’s deaths.  The bankrupt company that abandoned the mine without cleaning it up was the root cause, without which nothing would have happened, just as the faulty ignition switch stage was the root cause for the women’s deaths.

“I HAD THE BEST OF IT”

September 15, 2015

We woke at 1 a.m., perhaps because it was so quiet on Horse Lake in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA).  When we unzipped the tent and crawled outside on the dewy grass, we saw Orion’s stunning reflection on the water.  I looked overhead, the only time in my life seeing all 7 of the Pleiades visible to the unaided eye.  Oh my, there was absolutely no sound.  Wilderness, dark skies, and quiet:  My outdoor triad.  We had the best of it.

Yeah, we had the best of it one night on the North Tonto Platform down in the Grand Canyon, west of Clear Creek, where we had left the prior afternoon, so we could get part way back to Phantom Ranch rather than doing the whole hike the following day.  We dry camped, maybe where nobody had camped before.  We saw dark skies and heard nothing, not even the Colorado.  We whispered.  The Canyon is noisier today, and I don’t know whether that experience is possible, along with our hearing the echo of a raven’s wings off the Redwall, in a deep southern curve called The Abyss, back in ’86, unforgettable.

We had the best of it just last year in the BWCA, awakening to the sound of wolves not far from our campsite.  We got up, went out and saw an aurora, not just that night but the next, too.  Beavers felled trees in a swamp nearby, not knowing or caring about us as they swam by with leafy branches in their mouths.  A moose walked through the swamp, an hour after the thought had occurred to me the only thing we had missed was a moose.

Beaver swimming back to lodge, BWCA, 2014. Basswood Lake

Beaver swimming back to lodge, BWCA, 2014. Basswood Lake

Moose in swamp, Basswood Lake, 2014.

Moose in swamp, Basswood Lake, 2014.

Oh, the best of it could have been a number of places, one of which was from a small site on Lake Insula, where we saw the Harvest Moon’s rising over the trees at the far east end, trees now burned, but some day, not in my lifetime, will grow back.  We had the best of Insula.  I spent 40 nights there.  Camped twice for 5 nights each on one site and didn’t see a soul. That’s wilderness.  We had sunny days; we had sleet and snow.  We knew the whole lake.

Lake Insula sunset, 2009.

Lake Insula sunset, 2009.

Author standing on

Author standing on “The Rock,” Lake Insula, 2005

Author in tent, 2007, Lake Insula trip where we evaluated all 47 campsites. Snow and cold weather made the job interesting.

Author in tent, 2007, Lake Insula trip where we evaluated all 47 campsites. Snow and cold weather made the job interesting.

We had the best of it the day we hiked the upper Aichilik in Alaska, under heavy packs, where lunch was a sit down affair with Caribou walking right by us, and afternoon was walking below Dall Sheep, who weren’t the least bothered by us.  Doesn’t get much better.

Dall Sheep, upper Aichilik River drainage.

Dall Sheep, upper Aichilik River drainage.

Caribou, upper Aichilik River, Alaska ANWR, 2009. No telephoto.

Caribou, upper Aichilik River, Alaska ANWR, 2009. No telephoto.

We had the best of it in the Gunflint when we finished the 15th portage of the day, and I took the canoe off my head, tired but knowing we had finished the Frost River.  What a great decision to camp early the day before and start the river in the morning.  Saw a moose, too. That day some people asked what lake they were on and the weather forecast.  I told them Cherokee Lake and that it would rain the next day.  Mind you, I hadn’t heard a weather forecast in a week.  New south winds up north, however, mean rain.  Poured the next day, planned day of rest.  Great trip.

I had the best of Crooked Lake the day I soloed in from Mudro Lake.  I had an otter surface next to the canoe and hiss at me, as the south wind pushed me north. I crossed a rough stretch, later watching the Sun set, knowing my tired arms could take me the last mile of 20 to a campsite on the border.  I was awakened the next morning by wolves.  I got up, but it was too dark to see them.  I did see clouds moving up through Orion’s belt.  South wind. I broke camp and launched, and it poured all the way to Fourtown Lake. Didn’t see anybody the whole trip.

It’d be 14 more years before I actually saw a wolf— on Isle Royale— 10 trail miles from the nearest person. Told that to a friend, and he wrote back, “God Damn!  That’s what it’s all about.”  Never heard him swear before or since.  But he nailed it.  So did I.  He has had the best of it, too, in a different style.

Or ’92 in Canada’s Quetico, on Kawnipi Lake, alone, a quiet late spring night, after a hard push through snow and wind up Agnes.  The work involved in canoe travel matters as much as the destination.  Kawnipi is special, difficult to reach, and I went there six times, the last time solo, at 56. Wow, am I blessed.  I go to Kawnipi in my mind sometimes.  I had the best of it.

Last time on Kawnipi, May 2005. Or do I try one more time?

Last time on Kawnipi, May 2005. Or do I try one more time?

I had the best of Alice Lake, mid-October 23 years ago, 6 days without seeing anybody, alone in perhaps 200 square miles, with a morning blizzard and a headwind.  Crazy?  No, it was one of the most memorable days I’ve canoed, and I’ve been lucky to have camped five hundred nights Up North.  Last night out, I fell asleep to rain and then heard it stop, knowing I would wake up to a white landscape.

I’ve been alone at the top of Texas, on Guadalupe Peak, calm, despite gale predictions, looking down on the salt flats and watching the low sun cast the shadow of the mountain miles to the east.  I made it down that evening just as it got dark. Great hike.

Guadalupe Peak, Texas, summit, December 2005.

Guadalupe Peak, Texas, summit, December 2005.

Same in Wind Cave National Park, in South Dakota, on a hike out somewhere where you could see forever except for a few copses of trees, and an elk herd galloped right in front of me, a drop your jaw and stare moment.

Wind Cave, NP, South Dakota, 2007.

Wind Cave, NP, South Dakota, 2007.

I had the best of it on a cold February evening in the viewing blind at Rowe Sanctuary, alone, when a flock of ten thousand Sandhill Cranes displaced a large flock of Snow Geese.  There were birds coming right at me, birds everywhere.  On my video I say, “I have never seen anything like this in my whole life.”

Rowe Sanctuary, Nebraska, Crane Migration, 2012. These are not uncommon sights.

Rowe Sanctuary, Nebraska, Crane Migration, 2012. These are not uncommon sights.

It could have been the best along the Lady Evelyn River in Temagami, up in Canada, fifty-one years ago, when we camped by a long set of rapids on one of the most difficult canoe trips I ever did.  It was marvelous country to see, in my sixteenth year.

Or splashing down the Tim River, pack on my back and canoe on my head, because one of the campers was unable to carry the pack, and as head man, I had to do it.  I still remember on the Bulletin Board at Camp Pathfinder, where they listed trips, the words, “Mike Smith in charge.”  I was eighteen.

Oh, the best close to home might have been back in ’89, hiking up to 9000 feet in rain/snow mix, camping on Baldy Saddle in the Santa Ritas.  Snowed that night, but I was warm, listening to snow gradually accumulate and slide down the tent.

We had the best of the grasslands of Sonoita, before it got crowded, when we slept out under the stars, watched the Milky Way rise, and shortly thereafter the waning gibbous Moon.  A decade ago, I hiked up the Santa Catalinas from my then house, walking three miles to the trailhead and climbing 4000 feet, so I could fulfill a dream I had to spend one night—just one—sleeping up there.  Nearly a million people were below me, but I didn’t hear a sound.  I had the best of the Catalinas that night.

A letter in High Country News prompted these musings.  A prior issue was devoted to the overcrowding, cycling in the wilderness, and the loss of wild country, through privatization and destruction.  The writer, 63, if I remember correctly, wrote simply:  “I had the best of it.”  He did.  And so have I.

It’s still possible to have the best of it, but far more difficult because of more people, less wild country, many years behind me and few ahead.

My hearing is fading, my strength less, but I still hear the call of wild country.  I’ll answer as long as I can.

Young Moose, Isle Royale, May 2006. Too close.

Young Moose, Isle Royale, May 2006. Too close.

The Big Lake, Superior, from Isle Royale. May 2006: 9 Moose, 1 wolf, 1 fox.

The Big Lake, Superior, from Isle Royale. May 2006: 9 Moose, 1 wolf, 1 fox.

NEEDLESS, PREVENTABLE DEATHS

September 3, 2015

“I don’t think it’s about more gun control.  I grew up in the South with guns everywhere and we never shot anyone.  This (shooting) is about people who aren’t taught the value of life.” (Samuel L. Jackson).

I’m not Mr. Jackson, a famous actor.  I’m Mike Smith, a nobody, but I have training in analysis of data Mr. Jackson doesn’t have.  Words like his get read by millions.  My words will be read by a couple of dozen.  Maybe.  But mine are worth more.  Here’s why: Mr. Jackson talks of a time that never existed.  I know, because I am 16 days older than he (fact 1), and we grew up when 7 people per 100,000 died from firearms (fact 2).  Back then, the population was 150 million, not well over 300 million today (fact 3), so there were fewer than half the deaths.  We didn’t have 24 hour a day rehashing of many deaths due to firearms, either.  There were no social media to post information, making it sound some days like we are in a free fire zone.  Teaching “the value of life” is a platitude.  It sounds good; it doesn’t give details exactly what is supposed to happen. Lot of good churchgoing young boys raped girls and did bad things where I grew up, Mr. Jackson. Let’s leave anecdotes and go to a few more facts.  I like facts.

Deaths from firearms per 100,000 peaked in the 1970s and 1980s (fact 4), and have declined significantly since 1993 to a number not much different from the 1950s (fact 5).  Back in the 1950s, there were 3 TV channels.  The news was on at 6 and 10; there was no other TV news.  There was no Internet; we heard about major events on the radio, TV, or newspaper.  Gun violence, incest, priest pedophilia, unwanted pregnancies were hushed up, lynchings were common, people died at more than twice the rate they do now in motor vehicle accidents, children died from acute lymphoblastic leukemia, rather than being cured, poliomyelitis and other infectious diseases were a scourge.

To the anti-gun crowd, gun violence deaths are not increasing per 100,000 people.  Fact.

To the pro-gun crowd, gun violence is a problem.  Fact.

It is a major public health issue, and it was politicized enough to hold up the Surgeon General’s nomination, because he agreed.  When I looked up information about gun deaths, I saw one link that said that “knifes” (sic) cause more deaths than rifles.  Note the misspelling of the first word and the use of the second, rifles.   Yes, for a few years knives killed a few more than rifles.  However, handguns cause 20 times more deaths than both knives and rifles combined. (Fact 6).  Handguns have a bad connotation, which is why we have the National Rifle Association, not the National Handgun Association.

Comment on knives:  Against a knife attack, I have a decent chance to escape without death and maybe without injury.  Knife attackers have to TOUCH their victim, significant.  With firearms, one may inflict death from hundreds of yards, never touching the individual. One might be talked out of using a knife, whereas with a handgun, it is a quick twitch and cessation of existence for the other person.

Shootings with assault weapons get the public’s attention.  Less attention was given that in the last two days, three people in Eugene died from handguns, two murders, one suicide, associated with a murder.  You won’t read about this in upstate New York, but the people are just as dead.  The murder-suicide was over a woman, who at least wasn’t killed herself, although three women die daily due to violence from men they know.

Background checks aren’t perfect.  So?  Neither are seat belts.  That doesn’t mean we don’t wear them.  They improve the probability that if we are in an accident, we will survive.  One less gun where it doesn’t belong and saves one life would seem to me to be worth it.  We need liability insurance to drive a car.  We ought to have it when we own a gun.

Fact 5 is that the death rate from firearms has fallen compared to two decades ago.  Indeed, crime has fallen in every major category (there are 9), not just per 100,000, but ABSOLUTE numbers, in the last two decades.  (fact 7) Here is the link: http://www.disastercenter.com/crime/uscrime.htm In other words, we are safer.  That doesn’t mean people aren’t dying or being robbed; they are.  We need to do better.  But, we are safer than we have been in our history. Yet people still buy guns, believing in a myth that we aren’t safe.

Suicides, however, are a major problem.  Sixty per cent of firearm deaths in the US are suicides, the highest percentage ever (Fact 8).  Why can’t we do research into this issue to try to prevent nearly 20,000 of them annually?  http://www.hsph.harvard.edu/news/magazine/guns-and-suicide/   Depression is treatable.  We can’t cure everybody, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.  Keeping guns out of the hands of those prone to depression is difficult, but rather than use it as an excuse that “they aren’t murders,” we ought to try to address the problem of controlling guns in the hands of seriously depressed people.  Easy? No, but let’s stop saying “fix mental health” and actually deal with it as a country.

A friend commented 390 children drown each year, and the 60 to 100 children who die accidentally shot by another child is a smaller number.  Actually, the number is at least 1100, (fact 9) and the fatality rate in hospitals has fallen from 0.5 per 100,000 to 0.3, a statistically significant drop. (fact 10). It’s easy to look at a link that says something you want to hear, but it is a lot more work to delve into the link to see what it says.  More than a thousand children under 14 die each year in automobile accidents. Should we therefore ignore drownings? Why do we tolerate this carnage?  Drownings are completely preventable and safety mechanisms must be enhanced, not “Be careful”.  TV ads help, but we need a system that makes it impossible for a young child to drown.  Why are guns available for children to accidentally shoot their parents?   One death a year is too many.  We require special car seats for infants and toddlers, and they decreased deaths by 71% and 54% respectively.  Perfect? No, but the 8-14 age group death number fell 50% in the last decade.   What about firearm deaths? Between 2006-2012 the number fell 20%.  Why not 50%….or 100%? Children’s curiosity about guns outweighs their parents telling them “don’t touch them.”   Yeah, it was a convenience sample, but it’s worth reading. http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/11389238

To those who misuse statistics to prove everything they can to that gun violence isn’t bad, I say loudly, ANY unnecessary death is a loss to society.  Suicides are a special case of gun violence.  Can’t both sides agree that maybe this is one area we look at controlling access to firearms? Depressed people with firearms present at home are at high risk for death.  Difficult to control guns here?  Yes.  I thought America was good at dealing with difficult problems.  It used to be.  Want a dollar cost?  For children alone it is $8.4 billion in medical costs from firearms.  I am ignoring the “loss of enjoyment of life” and lost wages, which would increase that number 13-fold, I am told, but I can’t put a dollar cost on it.

Enough is enough.  Children shouldn’t drown, they shouldn’t die in MVAs, they shouldn’t die from leukemia, they shouldn’t die from child abuse, and they and depressed people shouldn’t die from guns.  We have made great progress in all of those areas but only modest progress on guns.  I don’t accept that. Mr. Obama has not taken one gun from one law abiding citizen.  Murder rates are down; let’s keep working to understand why and make them fall further.

To paraphrase Jimmy Carter, I’d like the last child to die from gun violence before I die.

IN THE SHADOW OF AUTZEN

September 2, 2015

I left The Science Factory the other day, a local children’s museum, where 2 days a week in summer I volunteer, giving two shows at the planetarium.  There isn’t much I have to do: start the projector, play two shows for a total of 10-30 people, and shut down the projector.  One show is about summer stars and constellations, the other changes every week.  This week, it was “Two small pieces of glass,” about the first telescope.

As I walked home, I realized that The Science Factory is almost literally in the shadow of Autzen Stadium, where the University of Oregon (UO) plays football.  The Science Factory does some neat things for children.  It has a large indoor playroom, where kids can make things, play with light, optics, a mini-recycler, learn about gravity, optical illusions, ham radio and orbits.  There are summer camps for young and teens, learning about technology and outdoor nature activities, too. It costs $4 to get in, a little more for a planetarium show, a little less if one is a member.  I’ve shown people sunspots outside, plan to build an analemmatic sundial, where one stands on the date and the shadow reads the time.  I like to think I help free up the planetarium director to do other business.  A few months ago, I spoke to 30 about the upcoming 2017 total solar eclipse visible in Oregon.  The staff is small, but many community volunteers help, all of whom believe that introducing children to science is a good idea.  It helps their brains.

Contrast that to introducing children to football, which may in extremely rare instances lead to a lucrative career, and most definitely harms their brains.  It harms them enough that the game, in my opinion as a neurologist, must change. “Stingers” are a nice way to minimize what I think are significant nerve trauma and concussion is the first step on the pathway to dementia.  ACL injuries are a way to say a knee is buggered up, when one is not even 21.

Oregon’s head football coach makes $3.5 million; ten assistant coaches make between $250,000 and $400,000.  They also have 4 graduate assistant coaches, two interns, and “Football Supoort (sic) Staff; Academic Coordinator for Football.”  I thought it ironic that the academic coordinator had a spelling error on the Web page.

I compared those numbers to UO senior administrators: the President makes $440,000, slightly more than a top assistant football coach.  There are 10 other senior staff, although one is Director of, you guessed it, Intercollegiate Athletics. In other words, if we pay what the market commands, since “the market” defines pay in this country, the head football coach is worth eight times that of the President.  Given the recent turnover in the latter, perhaps that is not wrong.

That’s what the market commands.  To paraphrase Dickens’ Mr. Bumble: “If the market supposes that, then the market is an ass.”

For a pittance of the salary for one of the assistant coaches, The Science Factory could obtain a really high quality projector for the planetarium, enlarge its space, and have a top notch technology center, something that might change a lot of young people’s lives.  Some might track near-Earth asteroids or help deal with space junk, increase our albedo or reflectivity to decrease warming, or understand our place in the universe better.  Oh, but high quality facilities don’t lead to children’s becoming better scientists.  Right.  So why do we have high quality facilities for athletics?

Back to football, tickets start at $44 for the cupcake games, triple that for the important ones.  Every game is a major event, and living close to the stadium, my Internet slows on game days.  On game days in Eugene and Corvallis, one needs a super reason to use I-5 in northern Oregon.

Football matters.  Walk into Track Town Pizza, there are pictures of Pre and other track stars from past Pre-Classics; over the Coors beer sign, a clock counts down down from season’s end to opening day kickoff.  Really.  Last countdown clock I saw was for 20 January 2009. I have read dozens of obituaries how somebody was “a big Duck fan.”  I cheer for the home team, and I enjoy sports a great deal, but I’ve written my obituary, and it doesn’t mention what teams I rooted for.

Football matters in America. While only a game, so is roulette, and big money, which is toxic, is involved in both. If one disagrees, I offer big money politics here and abroad as an example. The concept of student-athletes is reasonable in many sports but not college football.  The players should be compensated for what they are do, especially given the damage they incur upon their bodies.  It’s time to end the charade that they are students, at least the majority of them. I consider the staff salaries outrageous, literally on the backs, knees, and brains of 20 year-olds. But the market commands it.

I understand that “glory sports” subsidize athletics, but all very high income earners need a tax, at least 80% on salary over $2 million and 40% over a million.  A coach making $3 million now would be reduced to a paltry $1.8 million under my program. The extra money can go to interest-free loans to students.  That would be adding value to society. I mean value.  Like Steve Jobs or Bill Gates value.  Or FEMA, the Red Cross, National Weather Service, Public Health Service, NIH, CDC, FAA, NTSB. National Interagency Fire Center, FAA, you catch my drift.  Well, sports actually do provide value. They are a great escape from reality. I’d rather watch a dull baseball game on TV than turn on the news and hear about what humanity has done lately to the world or each other.  Sad it should cost so much.

How much? The University had a 7 cases of meningococcal meningitis, a significant cluster, and in the four months after they began vaccination, fewer than half the students were vaccinated.  I pointed out in a letter published in the paper that the school paid $27 million for a consulting group and branding, to bring a center of excellence, yet couldn’t develop a simple vaccination protocol that would have ensured all students at risk quickly got their first of three shots.  That would have been excellence. And branding.

The Science Factory has one big advantage being in the shadow of Autzen.  It has room for tailgaters on its property, and the organization gets a significant portion of their income from it.  The money won’t buy a new planetarium projector, but trickle down economics never really worked either.  Wish Mythbusters had attacked that trickle down economics along with “voter fraud.”

I’ll donate time and money to The Science Factory.  Both are well used, better than those donors, $900,000 of their donations was to buy out the last president’s contract; he had a major campus rape scandal on his watch.

Overshadowed by being national runner up in football.

BOORISHNESS 3.0

August 26, 2015

My recent observation of Donald Trump’s presidential candidacy isn’t as much about the man, who has been in the public eye for years, but that his behavior has caught fire with a significant minority, some say 20%, who like it.

Trump is rich, powerful, charismatic, says what he thinks, all virtues to many.  To those who have felt “sold out” by politicians, having somebody like Mr. Trump voice their thoughts in public must be refreshing.  At last, somebody can speak the words they so want to speak.  I’d rather a politician tell the truth about our problems with infrastructure, too many unwanted children, decline in public education funding and outcomes, too much culturally ingrained poverty, climate change, health care reform, the changed role of America in the world, but nobody wants to listen to detailed explanations, not in this “give me the bottom line” society.  The public craves simple answers, not measured thought, use of best science, and stating doubts where they exist. Presidents need to embrace complexity, a good definition of which is to keep two diametrically opposite approaches in your mind and still be able to decide what to do.

These 20% have been heard in the public for too long now, thanks to the anonymity and the accessibility of the Internet, which was Boorishness 1.0.  On the Internet one can spew hatred and then leave.  Nobody knows who you are. On the Internet, one doesn’t have to know how to spell or use proper grammar to voice an opinion.  Newspapers have explicit rules for decency and for grammar.  One need not write perfectly to publish a letter to the editor in the paper, but it helps.  Oh, and you have to sign your name, too.  Bluehealer2 doesn’t work.

The Tea Party was Boorishness 2.0; when they took over Congress, rules about civility went out the window, like lack of civility on the Internet.  A member shouted “You lie” when Mr. Obama spoke to Congress.  This sort of rudeness is not how we have behaved or should ever conduct political discussion in Washington.  We negotiate deals, not “my way of the highway”  and shut down the government, hurting people and our credit rating, when we want something.

Boorishness 3.0 is upon us:  use of simple solutions to exceedingly complex problems where decent people may have widely differing opinions.  The idea of sending illegal immigrants back to Mexico or other countries (although I haven’t heard Mr. Trump mention Chinese, Iranians, Cambodians, or Sudanese) makes many on the southern border cheer.  The problem, of course, is in the details.  How are they found? Rounded up? Kept? Deal with laws that we currently have about deportations?  Building a fence and charging Mexico to do so sounds great, but if Mexico says no?  We can “militarize the border,” three simple words, but who is going to pay for it?  Remember the “sequester”?

We might do well to perhaps listen to Mr. Howard Buffett, not Warren, who recently commented about the border.  Buffett, a rancher whose property adjoins the border, separates the issues of immigration and border security, an approach that could bring both sides together.  He sees drug and gun runners crossing the border, cutting holes in the fence with battery powered saws.  These are the real bad guys, and we wouldn’t tolerate them at Niagara Falls, Pembina, or Grand Portage, so why do we tolerate them here?  We need a discussion on border security that deals with the bad guys, separating that discussion from general immigration. If we did that, there would be a healthier discussion and more buy-in.

We additionally have to deal with the reality of labor shortages in California and other places where our food is grown and safely regulated.  We have no laws that state the origin of food, and some of it comes from places not well regulated, meaning there could be biological or chemical toxicity present.  There are not enough Americans willing to do the work that migrants do.  If we separate that discussion from the criminals, we might, just might allow more people in safely, put the coyotes out of business, preventing deaths in the desert and overloaded auto crashes that swamp our medical system.  Perfect?  Nope.  Not one bit.  But Trump missed a huge opportunity to offer positive solutions that address the real need for border security and the real need for a guest worker program, because both are in the national interest.

I haven’t heard many details about Mr. Trump’s foreign policy, although his supporters love the idea of sending troops to  trouble spots—Iran, ISIS-held land, North Korea, Iraq, Afghanistan or Pakistan.  How will we pay for it?  Will we finally have the guts to institute a draft and a war tax? What about future real POWs?  Think that is minor?  Then why the decades of black and white flags with no solid evidence we have any?  Saying one will talk tough to Mr. Putin is easy, but backing it up is a hazard I don’t want to risk.  Given the Army is having trouble filling enlistment quotas, given Congress has decided that we must cut government spending, my concerns are valid.  Who takes care of yet more casualties, keeping them from becoming homeless, which has been a national disgrace, and who deals with the influx of yet more refugees from a war?

I am frankly annoyed that while a few countries in the world—the US, Russia, and Germany—take in so many immigrants, other countries, through culture, religion, and thuggery, cause upheavals and people to leave. I ask why Muslims are fleeing in droves to Europe, Australia, and North America, when the third major tenet of their religion is charity, Zakat. The countries involved have the money to care for those who have nothing, yet we support them with money and educational opportunities here.  I speak as a North American man, not a believer.  To say foreign policy must carefully be thought out goes against many people’s wishes, but not having invaded Syria, Iran, or North Korea has been a plus in my opinion, not a minus.

The boors believe that America runs or should run the world.  We don’t and can’t.  The boors make fun of women. Trump’s lack of an apology to a female anchor and curtly ordering a reporter to sit down speaks volumes about his compassion, not a requirement for the presidency but necessary for one who wishes to be a decent human being. Trump is what the Republicans should have expected: a person who despises government, yet used the loopholes for the rich that the government created.

I don’t want a jerk or a boor in the White House. I want a someone smart, a lot smarter than I, who thinks before acting.  I’d like somebody who changes his or her mind when evidence suggests it, apologizing when an error is committed.  It’s easy to be a boor; it’s dangerous when one leads this nation.

KINSHIP

August 20, 2015

“Mike, could you do me a favor?”

Rosemary, a few years my senior, is a good friend and works with me as a volunteer at Rowe Sanctuary in Nebraska during the Crane migration.  She and her husband are remarkable people, and we see each other for a week or two every spring.

“Sure, what?”

“Could you clean the toilets in the men’s room?  I simply cannot bring myself to do that any longer.”

“Sure.  I’ll do it.”  At Rowe, I do anything I am asked if I am capable of doing it.  I can clean toilets.

Since that day, five years ago, there isn’t any public restroom I have used without scanning the urinals or the toilets for cleanliness.  If I see a man cleaning one, usually a person of color, I feel some kinship.  The man will never know that I’ve done his job.  I don’t like the unnecessary junk thrown into urinals, the misses, the stains on the floor, and the paper that misses the garbage can.  It’s gross, and the job doesn’t pay well.  I did daily cleaning as a volunteer, but morning and night I guided people to see one of the world’s great migrations, and I don’t use “world” lightly,  It’s on Jane Goodall’s top 10 list and my top three.

Cleaning toilets was third in a line of cleaning up poop. I learned it as a fourth year medical student working in the NICU and general pediatrics.  If one examined a newborn, and found the diaper soiled, one changed it and cleaned the baby.  Period.  No exceptions. It’s cruel and unprofessional to knowingly let anybody sit in their own urine or feces.

I cleaned up after adult patients when I examined them, if they had soiled themselves.  It took time, I gagged more than once, but it was relaxing to do something I knew was good.

It’s not always fun being a tour guide, dealing with the public in a visitor’s center.  I don’t walk into one today without knowing exactly what it is like to be behind the desk, to have to clean the place, and answer questions. Perhaps that is why I had I thought my experience interesting, on successive days, with two tour guides in Alaska.

The first tour was to Crescent Lake in Lake Clark National Park.  Our boat guide to see the bears was a man our age, a stone mason for 42 years, with one knee replaced and needing the other done, too.  I wonder why those in Congress who want to raise the age for Social Security can’t understand that that most can’t do difficult manual labor until 70.  I’m not far from 70, and I would have trouble.  Then again, when one is in his 40s, with good health, money and connections, he doesn’t think about the day when his body starts betraying him, as mine has.  I don’t think I must end my hiking and camping, but I’d be foolish to discount the possibility in the near future.  Ted, Rand, Rick, and Donald don’t think in those terms.

Bear viewing that day was poor.  We went immediately to where there was a single sow, the only brown bear we would see, but saw great bear behavior for an hour.

Brown bear, Lake Clark NP, Alaska

Brown bear, Lake Clark NP, Alaska

I have seen 18 bears in the Brooks Range, but I saw more behavior from this one in an hour than all of my sightings combined, often from a safe 800 meters, rather than from 50, if that.  I knew the guide was unhappy with the paucity of bears, but the large numbers of fisherman, many with noisy motors, made it impossible.  As a tour guide, I know the pressure guides feel to “deliver,” when nature calls the shots. That afternoon, I spotted a black bear and two cubs from 800 meters, and we had a delightful half hour of viewing when they came closer.  Further away, where the guide hoped to find bears, all we saw was an unseen bear making trees move, the movement gradually uphill.  My wife and I were excited, and I think the guide was glad.

Black bear, Lake Clark, NP, Alaska

Black bear, Lake Clark, NP, Alaska

Sow with one of her two cubs.

Sow with one of her two cubs.

Crescent Lake was beautiful, the mountains clear, the weather perfect.  I still felt sorry for the guide, but this is Alaska, not a zoo, which too many people expect when they go on wildlife viewing tours.  Seeing wildlife is a gift. For the first time, I had seen black and brown bears the same day, interesting bear behavior, and spotted another at great distance.  I helped.

Crescent Lake, Alaska

Crescent Lake, Alaska

The second tour was a flight/see over the Chugach Mountains to Prince William Sound.  The tour was supposed to start at 10; we learned it would be 20 minutes late, because somebody missed the shuttle.  While not in a hurry, it is annoying to make the effort to be on time when others don’t.  The lady who appeared took pictures by the plane, then decided she really needed to use the restroom.  Forty minutes late now, the group still chatting with the pilot, I sat by the plane.  My wife wondered aloud what was going on, adding her husband was a bit grumpier.  The pilot called, “How are you doing?”  I answered, “Waiting.”

The pilot then did something wrong.  He told me in front of everybody that this was fun, his philosophy was to have fun, and if he weren’t having fun, he would quit doing it.  One never, and I mean never, berates a client in front of others.  I have flown in remote parts of Alaska, landing in 15 different lakes or sandbars.  I learned early that nobody who depends upon a plane in Alaska must ever be late.  I should have said that.  His job was to ensure people had a safe tour and hope they had a good time. That’s what I tell clients when I guide.

The pilot was knowledgable, although I could have done without a discussion of his personal life. Later, he played music, neither my kind nor appropriate.  I stayed quiet, not about to get chastised again.  My wife, however, did have a discussion with him about turning off the music.  Note to music lovers: if others complain, don’t ask “you don’t like it?”  They don’t.  That’s what headphones are for.

Glaciers in the Chugach.

Glaciers in the Chugach.

Nose of glacier.

Nose of glacier.

At a stop on a lake to briefly deplane, the pilot neither said how long we would stay nor counted heads over and over, as I would have.  This was bear country, and few tourists knew not to wander far.  Indeed, wildlife was hardly mentioned until near the tour’s end, although I did see fifteen mountain goats.

Pattern on glacier from the air.

Pattern on glacier from the air.

I learned about Alaska’s glaciers. But the other things I learned were a far more important.  They will make me both a better tour guide and a better person, even if I don’t have 25,000 flight hours, haven’t flown for Exxon or rich folks, and have a different take on what is fun.  I’ve missed a lot, but I’ve been around.

I tipped both guides well, including the pilot.  Once a year, somebody tries to tip me at Rowe.  I tell them to please put it in the container in the visitor’s center.

With luck, I’ll see it when I go clean the toilets.

One small reason why I lead tours to the viewing blinds. Rowe Sanctuary, 2013.

Two small reasons why I lead tours to the viewing blinds. Rowe Sanctuary, 2013.

A FEW TIPS

August 11, 2015

The converted boat on the Alsea River, upstream from Waldport, Oregon, looked like an ideal place to dine.  The Alsea is wide there, tidewater country, and my widowed father, the man he was sharing a beach rental with, and I had decided to try the place.

It took 20 minutes to get seated, and the place was empty.  That was a bad start.  The time from ordering to being served made me wonder whether the owners had called over to Waldport, got the dinner there and brought it back.  The vegetables were cold, most of the entree had to be sent back, and when they asked if we wanted dessert it was oh no thank you give us the check please we are leaving sooooo quickly.  Even so, I would have left a tip.  My father did not, saying it was only the second time in his life he hadn’t tipped.

He was 89.  I didn’t think it wise to ask him about the other time.

Fast forward a decade to a Denny’s in Bakersfield, right by Cal 99, where getting seated was slow, in part because some guy had to break a $100 bill to pay for his dinner, and the manager needed to be called.  Another guy didn’t speak much English, and after laboriously going through the entire bill, he was asked about a tip.

“Zero”, he said.  I cringed.  Not even a quarter.

Forward another year, to the PDX Park and Fly driver, taking me over to the airport.  I was alone, but then a group of seven lightly dressed people, young, beautiful, and probably rich, heavily loaded with bags, going some place nice, got on, with a lot of heavy lifting done by the driver.  They got dropped off first, with the driver’s lifting everything again, and nobody left a tip.

As we went to the next concourse, the driver was so angry he drove right by it and we had to loop around.  I had to hear him rant for another 5 minutes and had less time to catch my plane.  Had he a gun, given the current climate, he might have been on national news.  But I understood his anger.  I didn’t know what kind of day he had.  He might have been a bad diabetic, he might have lost a job and found this one, told that “the tips are good, so we won’t be paying you much per hour.”  I don’t know.  I had crappy service, and I hauled my own bag, but I still tipped him.

Because you do that, unless you yourself are pretty badly off.

Several years ago, which these days is the number I think plus 8, Dear Prudence had a column about tipping.  A lawyer from DC commented that he tipped on the basis of service; if the service were bad, he didn’t leave a tip.

Prudence let him have it with both barrels blazing, using terms like “Buster,” “arrogant,” and “little boy,” telling him in no uncertain terms that tips are what allow a lot of people to “sort of get by,” rather than to be on the street.  “Sort of get by” means living in a car, a big step up.  With tax breaks for real estate, oil, new companies to relocate, agriculture, the IRS makes sure it cracks down on tips, bringing a whole new meaning to “regressive taxation.”

Dear Prudence changed my behavior.  I’ve seen my share of bad service over the years, and while a lot of it is the employee, I bet more of it is system flaws and short staffing, for which upper management is responsible.  You know, “Your call is important to us” becoming visual, rather than auditory.  Many employees are single parents, on their feet for hours, most of them probably don’t feel well, which affects mood.  Don’t believe me? Imagine how well you would deal with the public if you had hypertension, diabetes, chronic back pain, or a major medical bill on a kid.  I bet their personal life is a lot worse and more complicated than the stuff I whine about.

After that Dear Prudence column, I became a better tipper.  There is a little bit of an art to it, because too much can be construed as arrogant, although these days “too much” has a high bar.  I’ve tried to learn along the way who should be tipped, like guides, which for years incredibly I didn’t tip.  I learned when a guide borrowed (permanently) my Steri-Pen and another client said “take it out of his tip.”  Big oops moment. I’ve been good since 2009.

The people I try to tip well are the drivers, the waiters and waitresses, and people at kiosks selling food.  These people are minimum wage. In Anchorage, the waiter had just moved there from LA.  He had a girl friend, so he was likely to stay.  Life is good in early August, but in three months, business won’t be.  The tourists will be gone, and it’s dark.  He was personable the service good, and I tipped him well.  The next night there, we again got good service from him.  That might be the best tip of all, coming back.

I carry a lot of singles with me when I travel.  I either leave one or two on the driver’s seat when he is lifting my stuff off or I just give it to him. Whatever works.  He will find it.  If I can’t afford this, I shouldn’t be traveling.

I’ve gone to a straight 20% at restaurants, rather than 20% for good service, 10% for bad.  People need to live.  I am trying to leave cash separately and pay for dinner with a credit card, because card charges and employers both may deduct something.  These people need the money: some are refugees trying to get a break, others students, trying to survive, and the guy at Sea-Tac, my age, who was dealing with bagels as professionally as I dealt with patients deserved a couple of bucks left in the jar, where they all are split up. Got extra change?  Dump it.  If you can afford an organic chemistry experiment on your coffee, you can afford a fair tip.

The guy who drove the boat at the bear viewing deserved a good tip.  True, the viewing was terrible, but it wasn’t his fault that bears don’t like to come to a lake on days when jerks are buzzing around in high powered john boats.  He was doing his job, he knew how to drive the boat, and he was pleasant.  I couldn’t have asked for more.

Know what?  If after a trip you can’t count what the tips cost, it was a good trip.

I have my limits.  I guide at Rowe Sanctuary in Nebraska every spring.  At least once, somebody tries to slip me a $20 after a tour.  Mind you, the tour itself is $25, and some of the tours are worth 50 times that for what we get to see in the morning or evening.

I tell him thanks but please put it in the big tower collector in the Visitor’s Center.  A $20 that is visible is a good reminder to others.

ALASKA THOUGHTS FROM 2015 VISIT

August 6, 2015

I have had good fortune to have traveled to Alaska 12 times.  I’ve had deeply satisfying hikes and backpacking trips in the Southeast, the South Central, and the North.  There is a mystique about the name “Alaska,” the bush pilots, who take one to where moose, wolverine, grizzlies, arctic foxes, caribou, and Dall Sheep may be seen.  There are places one can imagine that no person has stood in the past several thousand years, if ever.

Place where I once sat and wondered if anybody ever had been here. It is the rock lower center. Aichilik River 2009.

With that backdrop, my wife and I visited Alaska so I could show her some of the beauty of the land,  Beginning in Kotzebue, we saw musk oxen close up, a bear hunting a caribou, ate blueberries and stared at wide open spaces for miles.  On our return to Anchorage, we planned a drive to Homer, one of those “You should see” places.

Musk Oxen, Cape Kreusenstern, Alaska. July 2015.

Musk Oxen, Cape Kreusenstern, Alaska. July 2015.

Unfortunately, it was a Saturday.

Route 1 was nearly a solid line of cars, similar to the Oregon Coast in summer, or the Minnesota northland on a Friday.  Construction was a given; roads take abuse in the Alaskan climate.  I neither expect nor want four lane roads in Alaska, but I was amazed, which I shouldn’t have been, by the traffic.  This is the height of the tourist season, although small Kotzebue didn’t show it.

The 220 mile (350 km) drive to Homer took nearly six hours.  The city itself is situated on the southwestern corner of the Kenai Peninsula with a spit jutting several miles into Kachemak Bay.  The spit was jammed with RVs, more than the nearby dealership had in stock, scores of shack-stores, what some would call rustic, others garish.  The beach was fine, the views of the mountains great, the protected wetlands well done.  I didn’t like the spit, but that’s my judgment. Many would disagree, which is why the place was jammed.  It’s why I don’t like “You should see” recommendations and why I don’t give them myself.

Homer is a beautiful town, and its reputation as such is deserved. The spit is center left. The road here is described as the most beautiful drive in America. One would be advised not to do the drive on a summer weekend.

On our return, through Soldotna, we noted again the sameness, the chain stores, “this could be anywhere in America.” True, the Kenai River runs through the city, and the green, glacial water is beautiful.  People were nice, but it was anywhere USA.

Skilak Lake, Kenai Peninsula. A beautiful lake, but it gets a lot of use.

We detoured south from busy Hwy 1 to the Skilak Lake area, where the lakes and trails looked interesting.  What we found was a moderate amount of traffic on a dirt road, trucks hauling big boats.  The launch points had several cars parked with people out on the water.  One might find a place to camp, but there would be many people nearby and considerable noise. Back on Hwy 1, along the Kenai River, we saw scores of people fishing and rafting.  A store that served food had no toilet, except a half mile away at a campground.  Wow, I thought that was illegal. This was a different Kenai from the one I visited in 2009.  Returning to Anchorage, traffic increased.  It became so heavy that if one pulled off, it took a minute or two to find a gap in which to merge.  At Bird Creek, I counted 13 fishing on a 50 yard stretch near Turnagain Arm and about 40 on a 400 yard stretch further upstream.  Many caught fish, but it wasn’t success or failure at fishing that bothered me.

It was that the place was jammed with people. Southern Alaska is jammed in summer.  Why should I be surprised?  I was contributing to it.

Fishing, Bird Creek, Sunday afternoon.

Fishing, Bird Creek, Sunday afternoon.

Once back in Anchorage, we went to a shopping mall that my wife commented was one of the ugliest she had ever seen.  Alaska has a mystique I think it should use, and good architects ought to be able to create it, not repeat architecture of the Lower.  Or do it worse.  We viewed bears on Crescent Lake, over in Lake Clark National Park, but the river out of the lake where we had hoped to view bears, had a plane by the shore, people fishing, and several loud John boats blasting by.  No bears there.

Brown bear at Crescent Lake, Lake Clark NP. Katmai has more bears, but they are viewed with many other people at a platform. This is a more intimate experience with far fewer bears but much more natural bear behavior.

Black bear sow with one of her two cubs, Crescent Lake. This was the first time I saw both black and brown bears the same day.

I’m spoiled; I admit it.  I’ve been above the Arctic Circle where there are few roads and one can hike for miles without hearing any unnatural sound.  There is a move afoot to build a road along the entire Brooks Range, from perhaps the Dalton through Bettles to Ambler, ostensibly so Native Americans can easily get to town to buy supplies.  There may be a village in support of this; the others are adamantly against it.  They’ve done fine without a road and know what it will bring:  hunters, to hunt their game, upon which the natives have subsisted for thousands of years.  The roads will bring Wal-Marts, liquor, gas stations, casinos, and people.  Yeah, they’ll bring people like me who want to see this country, although I come by plane, leave nothing except footprints in places seen by the dozen or so people who pass in a year.  The Haul Road to Ambler will become another Dalton Highway.  It’s not just acres of pavement that detract, noise and fragmentation destroy wilderness.

More pernicious is that roads will bring access to mines, several of which are proposed in the western half of the Brooks.  Red Dog Mine is already there, with 737-200 service out of Anchorage.  Who is going to say no in a solid Republican state and country?  We need jobs, although nobody says maybe having fewer kids would decrease pressure to create jobs.  Defunding Planned Parenthood makes birth control and women’s health difficult, but hey, Iran and Saudi treat women badly, too.  Mining jobs pay well, except when there are strikes, but new mines won’t be unionized if Mr. Walker gets into office.  The jobs will last until the ore isn’t needed, like one of the rare earth mines in California, leaving not only be a land scar but a permanent impact on the water supply, in places where there are wild and scenic rivers like the Noatak and Kobuk.  Yes, we need elements.  We also have learned to do without those that were once considered “essential.”

I worry about Alaska from the southeast Tongass to the Refuge in the north, and offshore.  I worry that the next eruption of Redoubt Mountain may flood the berms protecting four large oil tanks and foul Cook Inlet.  The mountain is steaming.  Whose idea was it to put the tanks near a river by an active, glacier covered volcano?  Sure, nothing may happen.  The last eruption was in 2009, and the berms barely held. We’re playing roulette with a huge unspoiled ecosystem.

Redoubt Mountain steaming, plug at upper left center. If the glaciers melt, the flow will run right by a bank with a low berm with four large oil tanks.

Fortunately or not, climate change will be a game changer; nature will win this game.  Virtually every glacier in the Chugach is retreating.  One, after being stable for more than a century, has retreated 12 miles in the last 40 years.  If Mr. Inhofe’s dropping a snowball on the Senate floor is evidence against global warming, how does he explain glacier retreat, why the caribou migration was a month later than usual in 2013, and the water of the rivers they crossed not nearly as cold as formerly?  The Elders in the Native Villages know there is change; the Senate would do well to have true Elders, not young, charismatic, angry, anti-science ideologues (who love their phones and private jets) and old diehards, who won’t believe compelling evidence contrary to their beliefs.

I started to write that Alaska disappointed me.  No, Alaska is wonderful.  I hope we don’t love it to death.  Or forget that wilderness has worth than cannot be measured in dollars.

AN HONEST TO GOD GRIZ

August 1, 2015

It had been a good morning outing: we saw 18 Musk Oxen from 200 meters, a pair of Sandhill Cranes, which had possibly been on the Platte River last April, when I was there as a tour guide, and found a few blueberries to boot.  We had flown across the Kobuk Delta from Kotzebue, Alaska, where we had arrived the day before.  I wanted to show my wife some of the places in “The Great Land” I have seen during my seven backpack trips.  The last one was a year ago in the Wulik Mountains, 150 km north of Kotzebue.  It was a good trip, but what made it special were neither the rivers, as nice as they were, nor the peaks that few people ever see, let alone hike in, up and around. No, it was seeing Musk Oxen on Cape Kreusenstern after the trip, and I had to make it happen.

Wulik Peaks backpack, August 2014

Wulik Peaks backpack, August 2014

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River in the Wuliks

While backpacking, I had heard there were Musk Ox out there, and the pilots would take us by them on the return flight.  That had me excited, for I have wanted to see Musk Ox for many years.  I knew if I didn’t see them on this hike, I might never.  However, we didn’t detour to see them on the trip back.  Pilots are busy, summer is when they make a living. Disappointed, I wasn’t about to quit.

After landing and unloading, I went to the office and asked about flights to see Musk Ox.  “Sure, they’re right over on Kreusenstern. When do you want to go?”  I got one woman on the trip to split the cost with me, and we flew over that afternoon.  We were on the ground briefly, not too close, but close enough.  I saw them. That mattered.

My wife and I planned a short Alaska trip to see Musk Ox and bears, starting at Kotzebue for the former, then down to Homer and over to Lake Clark for the latter.  In Kotzeube, we had a chance to see bears down the coast, but the absence of any whale carcasses meant no bears. That happens. I’m impatient and often complain, but I accept Alaska for what it is.  I deal with the weather better up there, stating “it’s Alaska.” My default expectation is to treat any wildlife sighting as a gift.  I expect little, yet I have seen a couple of wolverine, a couple dozen Griz, a couple thousand Dall sheep, and a couple tens of thousands of caribou.  I’ve been lucky.  But I’ve made my luck, not waiting until I was too old to carry 60 pounds needed to backpack Alaska.

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Musk Ox hair, with scat present.

We landed out on the tundra in overcast 50 degree weather, with 20 mph winds.  My wife and I started to walk towards the musk oxen, dots a mile away.  It was beautiful out there; I found blueberries, musk oxen hair, and flowers on the tundra.  Suddenly, I heard a sound behind me that I identified even as I turned my head:  two Lesser Sandhill Cranes.  It was the furthest north and west I had ever seen cranes, half again more latitude and a sixth of the way around the world from Nebraska.  That was special.  So were the musk ox.  We got within 200 yards without disturbing them.  With binoculars and a 50 x camera lens, we viewed 18, including several young. We were thrilled.

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Lesser Sandhill Crane.

Musk Ox

Musk Ox

Sometimes, out of focus shots capture things that make the picture.  The eyes were remarkable.

Sometimes, out of focus shots capture things that make the picture. The eyes were remarkable.

Young one with mother

Young one with mother

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Pair of Musk ox. The one on the left kept pushing at the larger one to her (presumably) left.

Part of the herd.

Part of the herd.

Returning to the plane, I looked across at Cape Kreusenstern, beautiful rock that for 6000 years Alaskan natives had seen as they travelled up and down the coast, finding seals in the winter, other game and berries in the summer.  The pilot asked us what we wanted to do next, and well, I wanted to fly by Cape Kreusenstern, but….nah, we would flying back. There wasn’t anything else out here to see.  Chartering a plane and pilot isn’t cheap, but the time on the ground wasn’t as expensive, and a half hour of it was outright free.  Besides, I was already out here, and I would likely never come here again.  Maybe I might, but my body had recently had other intentions, and I’m not placing any bets.  I looked at the Cape again, as the plane started to taxi on the tundra, and then I tapped the pilot on the shoulder:  “Could we fly by Cape Kreusenstern?”

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Cape Kreusenstern.

He nodded.

We flew north a few miles then east across the water to land.  As we flew inland holding the same altitude, the land came up to meet us.  I realized we weren’t going to fly along the Cape but rather towards it and inland.  Well, no matter.  I was enjoying the tundra below me.  I looked out the port window and saw a single caribou.  It was small, even with the distance factored in.  I told the pilot and my wife, who was in the co-pilot’s seat.  I’m not a good spotter of wildlife, but Jared, the pilot, was looking, and he hadn’t seen it.  I pointed behind us.

Jared banked steeply to starboard, swinging around, so my wife could see the caribou.  I remembered the first time I saw Caribou from a plane, back in 2008 in ANWR, and I was thrilled.  I’ve seen thousands since; I’ve had them walk right by me.  I wanted this memory for my wife.  But there was something else out there, too, and when I first saw it, I couldn’t believe it. I tried convincing myself it wasn’t.  But it was.

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Caribou, Aichilik River, ANWR; June 2009. No telephoto.

A bear.  An honest to God griz.  Hunting the caribou.

We circled again, saw the bear, who promptly headed towards some bushes.  Jared hadn’t intended to disturb him; he had just granted an old guy’s wish to fly by Cape Kreusenstern.  Wow.  First the Cranes, then Musk Ox, a caribou for my wife to see, just one, being hunted by a bear!  When an Alaskan bush pilot is excited about a spotting, you can be sure you’ve seen something special, in case you haven’t ever seen a bear go after a caribou.  I hadn’t, and I’ve seen plenty of both up here.

I still don’t know why I asked to go to see Cape Kreusenstern.  While we slowly taxied along the tundra, I told myself twice it didn’t matter, but some feeling inside told me to go, now.  In Alaska, one flies when the weather is favorable, because it may not be favorable tomorrow. In Alaska, I took backpacking trips when my health was fine, because it might not be fine next year.  I had wanted to see the Cape, for whatever reason, and the feeling inside me finally got my attention and said, YES, THIS IS THE TIME. IT MAY NEVER BE THE RIGHT TIME AGAIN.

Ironically, I never did fly along the rock face of Cape Kreusenstern, but in my mind, the rock face I saw from the distance will always remind me of a special day, one that three of us will always remember:

“Mike made a suggestion we fly by the Cape.  We did it and went inland when suddenly he saw a lone caribou,  As we turned, damned if there wasn’t a bear, hunting him.  Right by Kreusenstern.”

DIGITAL DISTRACTIONS  AND THE KID WITH A SNOW COASTER

July 25, 2015

Thirty years ago, my wife and I camped out under the stars in Sonoita, Arizona, far from Tucson, Sierra Vista, and Nogales, when the nights were incredibly dark.  At 10 p.m., a large cloud appeared in the east.  At least, that is what it looked like, until we realized it was a different type of cloud, one of stars.  We were watching the Milky Way rise, and I never forgot that sight or the rest of that special night, wakening a few times, seeing the Milky Way further across the sky.

Just the other day, I received an email from a friend asking me to check out a picture she had posted on Instagram.  I usually don’t like these requests, believing that going into nature as I do gives me far better appreciation of the world.  The picture from a National Geographic photographer showed the southern Milky Way, from the Southern Hemisphere, with a time lapsed wind turbine in the foreground.

There were many of comments praising the picture.  I wrote, before erasing, “The wind turbine ruined it.” It did, by greatly detracting from the beauty of the Milky Way.  No picture can show the Milky Way as well as I have seen it, from the high grasslands of Arizona, deep in the Grand Canyon, or from the wilderness of the the borderland canoe country.  I didn’t have Instagram then, only a working occipital lobe and hippocampus, so those sights became part of me in a way that a picture cannot.  The beauty of The Great Rift, Vega, Altair, and Sagittarius is sufficient, not enhanced by a wind turbine in the foreground.

While I don’t look at many videos on social media, one about how different generations viewed free time was enlightening.  A man my age said he once used a stop sign for a toboggan.  I can relate to that.  Using a snow coaster as a sail, I once blasted alone on skates down the middle of frozen Honeoye Lake in upstate New York, doing 25.  That’s being a kid.  Parents nearby?  Nah.

Today?  A 6 year-old says she doesn’t know what she would do without her iPad.  Another kid bragged about watching 23 episodes of a TV show in 4 days. I wasn’t surprised.  One wouldn’t eat wild blueberries, because they weren’t wrapped in plastic.  Amazing. I love blueberries, and it reminds me some summer I’ve got to go back to Minnesota just to pick them.

I once posted a picture from northern California’s Redwood National Park,

I didn't lift this from the Internet. Redwood National Park, June 2012

I didn’t lift this from the Internet. Redwood National Park, June 2012

and saw a comment, “Where did you find that on the Internet?”  It never occurred to the writer that there are average folks like me who actually go to these places, where we can point a lens at a tree 120 meters tall and take a picture of its dwarfing a car.  The canopy of a redwood contains an ecosystem with plants and animals found nowhere else. I read it in The New Yorker; nobody sent me a link to “educate” me.  Sahalie Falls, Oregon, got a “Wow, who took that photo?” I replied, “I DID.”

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Sahalie Falls, Oregon, near Santiam Junction.

In the days of posting and sharing, I post rarely, usually views of special places in nature that I have seen, often having had to work hard to get there, an essential part of the picture. It is disheartening to me that so many see nature from a screen, rather than immersing themselves in it.  While I have had good fortune to see these lovely places, I made it happen, too.

I changed the picture on my profile today to show a 2005 view of Kawnipi Lake in Canada’s Quetico Provincial Park,

"Bowling Alley," Kawnipi Lake, 2005.

“Bowling Alley,” Kawnipi Lake, 2005.

my last trip there.  Some like these pictures, amazed that such places not only exist but can only be reached by canoe, not by car, sailboat, or even hiking.  I was originally going to do that trip with a good friend from Ottawa, who introduced me to Sig Olson’s “Pays d’en haut,” in the Far North, 30 years ago.  We hiked the Chilkoot Trail (Klondike fame) together twice, and paddled the Nahanni, Liard, and Yukon Rivers.  We’ve portaged around Virginia Falls, twice as high as Niagara, and canoe sailed on Lake Laberge.

We had planned to see Kawnipi one last time.  Unfortunately, he had an animal emergency and had to cancel.  He was apologetic but knew I would understand. I did, deciding to do the trip solo.  It was difficult, even though I was a lot younger then, 56. I wanted to go further than 10 miles the first day, but my arms were dead.  The next day, I paddled to the north end of huge Agnes Lake, which was like glass.

Agnes Lake, Quetico Provincial Park, 2005.

Agnes Lake, Quetico Provincial Park, 2005.

On the portage out of it, where I hadn’t been for several years, I met two men, telling them I remembered the carry as a mess, with water and blowdowns. Good memory; there were fallen trees everywhere. It’s canoe tripping.

I spent the night on Kawnipi, content sitting on the ledge rock called the Canadian Shield, then the next morning, under threatening skies, headed south, taking the picture I posted today.  As I left Kawnipi, I turned around one last time and looked. In the back of my mind I thought maybe I could return, but I knew realistically I wouldn’t.  I don’t have to.  I’ve been there six times.  I’ve been on all the major bays of the lake. I’ve caught fish, found trails that cut through narrow peninsulas, had a cow moose charge into the water to protect her calf from me, and camped in lovely places.  That’s not on Instagram.  But wow, it’s in my brain.

I was lucky to have calm water back on Agnes.  I’ve paddled tandem on it in pouring rain and a headwind.  I soloed Agnes to Kawnipi in early ’92, when it snowed, and dealt with headwinds alone.  Nobody was out there.  It was great.  I’ve got print pictures somewhere, but no matter.  The memories are in my brain, where it matters, not on Instagram, where somebody might ask what Web site I found them.

There are many special places in wild country.  Getting there only by pack or paddle is a key ingredient.  I seldom give advice, because people neither want mine nor follow it.  I will simply state that for me the physical effort to go to these beautiful places beats looking on Instagram any day of the week.

Then again, it helped to have been raised a kid, free to rocket down the middle of a lake in mid-winter, using a snow coaster as a sail.  Or to be out in the middle of Agnes, on a beautiful day, looking at the huge sweep to the north.  Or doing the work needed to get to Kawnipi, blowdowns and all.

Because it was Kawnipi.

Heading to the campsite, Kawnipi Lake

Heading to the campsite, Kawnipi Lake

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Kawnipi Lake on the map. It is big enough to be seen on road maps, although there is no road within 40 miles of it.

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One of the last pictures I took of Kawnipi, 2005.