Boreal B[l]og

After leading one of my typical, long, difficult hikes, 16 miles with over 4400 feet of total elevation gain, one of the participants posted his pictures and said he hoped Advil and 12 hours of sleep would help him recover.  A club member, not on the hike, posted back that there was evidence Advil might interfere with his recovery, giving a blog reference.  This is not new information: non-steroidals, like Advil, have been implicated in slowing of recovery, slight intestinal compromise (coliforms in the blood), and effect upon renal blood flow which might be detrimental if one were dehydrated.  The blog link was posted with a comment that the writer, a physician, was still riding a bike in his eighties, “so he must know what he is talking about.”

I bristle at this sort of stuff, because I’m a doctor with a blog, too, and while I’m not riding a bike in my eighties, I’m doing a lot of hiking in my late 60s, and that makes me an expert in….maybe math or eclipses, but not much else.  Just because somebody is an MD and rides a bike in his 80s doesn’t make him an expert any more than a guy who speaks 5 languages can teach them.  Or a former neurosurgeon can run housing and urban development.  Doctors tend to think they’re experts in non-medical fields, too, so be careful what is taken away from my writing.  Let’s be clear.  I’m still hiking because I inherited good genes, and along the way I’ve tried to take care of myself.  The genes matter a lot.  The right genes make Olympic athletes, Tour de France riders, Track and Field champions in Eugene, and decent hikers.  Yes, we all have potential, which we reach by eating properly and training properly, eschewing bad things.  But make no mistake: all the training in the world isn’t going to make me into an Olympic athlete.  Miss a few key alleles, and you end up eighth in the Olympic trials—national class, but not on the Olympic stage, even if you trained harder than the winner.  I could no more run or perform at their speed with any amount of training than I could play the piano well with any amount of instruction and practice.  I tried the piano for three years.  I played in a couple of recitals.  It was good to be able to read and to play music.  But you never found me in an orchestra.  All men and women are created. Equal they are not.

I bristled again when I later read the link to the doctor’s blog, which detailed how NSAIDs can lessen recovery of muscle and hardening of bone with resistance.  The cohort was 90 post-menopausal women who for nine months were given resistance training three times a week followed by Advil.  To extrapolate this study to a 65 year-old man who took Advil once after a long hike—a very different sort of exercise—one time only, is inappropriate, because frankly the implication that he wasn’t going to have benefited from the hike was wrong. I commented on the study, left the comment up for all of 10 minutes and then deleted it.  I like the person writing and didn’t want to get into a discussion about inappropriate extrapolation.  I try to do all the right things in life in hopes that by improving the probability of a good outcome, I will live healthier and longer.  In fairness to the doctor, he did say more research was needed.  He’s right.

The fact that someone in the club immediately stepped in with advice not surprising, not only here, but in most instances where I have been doing group activities. I tend not to give advice unless asked, and even then I’m wary.  Most people neither want it nor take it, and these days there is too much to argue about.  I’m disappointed that many club members belittle my vegetarian diet (which thankfully no longer makes me bristle too much), when their consumption of meat is clearly harmful to both them and the environment.  I continue to be asked how I could possibly be getting enough protein, which I obviously do, or why I shouldn’t eat apple seeds (I eat the whole apple, with an occasional seed.)  It’s not arsenic, as I was mistakenly told, but cyans, which aren’t an issue unless one eats thousands. I’ve been asked how I manage my electrolytes (I don’t; that’s my kidney’s job, and I would be well advised to let them do it). I’ve been told my walking stick will make my legs weaker (really!), why I should have this or that energy/protein/carbohydrate drink, and how much and when I should drink water. I’ve been told to read such and such or such and such, enough to make me wonder how I could hike a 26.6 mile trail last year, set a pace for my partner, and get in 2 hours faster than everybody else, not counting the hour on the trail we waited, drive home that night and wake up the next morning feeling fine.  Genetics. Training for it.  Moving along steadily.  Not arguing about what I ate, using my mouth to breathe and not gab.

It’s easier to hike alone, and I’d do more of it, but there are some women and others in the club who want to do long, difficult hikes and also feel safe doing it, so I lead a few hikes for them. I feel alive by going out there and covering ground, getting deep in the back country, seeing what is out there, which is a lot, and coming out the same day.  If it is 20 miles, I don’t waste time.  If it is scenery, I go hard to get to the right place then enjoy it.  I’m grateful I can do these hikes; I don’t know how much longer I can.  In the meantime, there’s a lot of wild country to explore, far more interesting than discussing Advil, electrolytes, and diet.

My reply:

What sports medicine really needs is to get clear answers to a lot of questions like this, nutrition, and various trainings-du-jour or d’année. There are far too many conflicting studies (fat good/bad, carbo(hydrates) good/bad), protein good always, which it isn’t, especially in women, regression analyses of dubious value that people treat as gold standards (e.g. max heart rate that became a competition when I was on the bike). We need to get away from the idea that if some super star does something, it must be right. Most of them are genetically gifted. (To those who doubt me, I would reply that anybody can do mental math if they just work at it hard enough). As Joe Average, I do what seems to work for me. I try not to take Advil afterward any more, and I seem to be less sore, but that’s hardly a study. 

I got another one of those “copy and paste, don’t share” posts on Facebook from somebody who was trying to send a message against cancer.  I was told that “the true friends of mine” would be the ones who did that.

Initially, I felt the urge to do something.  After all, who among us turns down a chance to be a true friend?  Then the feeling turned into annoyance, and I started to wonder how well I knew this person, whom I do see every week.  It is emotional blackmail, and I don’t like it.  I practiced medicine for 20 years, was in the medical field for about 35, and diagnosed and treated many people with cancer.  I allowed many to die without prolonging their pain.  I lost a brother to esophageal cancer, and I treated thousands of people who had various neurological conditions affected by cancer.  That was my contribution.  I won’t be copying and pasting to my profile. The best message we could send would be to protest the billion dollar cut to the NIH, the current budget of which is the net worth of each of four Waltons. Stated another way, if each Walton donated his or her entire net worth, they could fund NIH for a year. Mathematically, that is a $1000 a second for a year.  That would do more to further cancer research than pasting a post.

I don’t do certain things on Facebook, such as to share whatever somebody tells me. I’ve shared three things in the eight years I’ve been on it.  I don’t put likes on pages where somebody wants a certain number of likes.  I don’t contribute money to undoubtedly good charities when asked; I have my own list.  I don’t post certain pictures, even ones of nature, for somebody’s collection.  I comment where I should and try not to comment where I shouldn’t.  I delete a lot of my comments.  The most likes I’ve had came from a comment I almost later deleted, because it sounded too hokey, about being a third generation American whose maternal grandfather came over from Ireland. I wrote that I while I was proud of my heritage, I was prouder that I served America as a shipboard naval officer, even though I didn’t do much more than fill a billet on an amphibious cargo ship in the Western Pacific for twenty-three months.  Sure, I did two appendectomies at sea, one by myself, probably reassured some on board, and maybe because of my presence a few slept better at night, but it wasn’t like I was “In Country,” that being Vietnam, which I was 25 miles off the coast of one night, but not in a combat role.  Anyway, that comment got 285 likes and a lot of thanks for my service, which I neither wished nor frankly deserved, since most of us had to serve back when I was in my 20s.

I’m not going to be a “true friend,” because true friends don’t ask others to do something to show their friendship.  Someone I call a good friend was chewed out at the hiking club’s executive meeting for having organized the first trail clearing we did after the ice storm devastated the city and the trails. Several of us showed up, including club board members, and we all worked together, nobody nominally in charge.  We took safety precautions, with hard hats, didn’t do things we weren’t comfortable doing, and cleared a lot of debris.

The head of the trail maintenance committee chewed my friend out at a board meeting, without involving me or two others who “led” trail clearing hikes.  That wasn’t fair.  My friend, one who did every hike he could, stopped hiking so much and started hiking in the closed area, since we had already knew what the trail condition was like.  The closed area was filled with dog walkers and trail runners, and the signs stating closure were poorly visible with no enforcement.  The club wasn’t hiking there, but one snowy morning, my friend called me and asked if I wanted to do a “rogue hike,” as he called it, up the mountain.  I was game, so I went by bus as far as I could, he picked me up, we went to the trailhead and up the mountain.  Frankly, it was the best hike I’ve ever done there, and I’ve done it well north of 100 times.  He later posted that I was a “true friend,” and I had I guess a warm feeling, but  I was more in it for myself.  I haven’t quite felt the same about the club ever since.  We did nothing wrong, and while I will participate in hikes and continue leading, both will be much fewer in number.  That’s too bad. I don’t look at some of my other friends there in quite the same light after this event.

There are people I know never read my posts.  No reason they should.  I’ve been unfriended twice, both from Germans; I prefer to block offending posts or offending people without unfriending them.  Each to his or her own; life is too short to argue about such matters.

I just got back from Nebraska where I had the honor, privilege and pure joy to take several hundred people over the space of eight days out to the viewing blinds where they could see the arrival of the Sandhill cranes at the Platte River at night and their departure in the morning.  I’m selfish there, too.  I go to Rowe Sanctuary because I want to see Sandhill cranes.  I get a big charge out of watching 25,000 birds lift off the river, or land that night.  If that means I have to staff the gift shop, clean toilets, or run the information desk, so be it. I will. I like doing those jobs, too. I like to teach, and I can tell people in all three places, including the toilets, why the cranes are there, where they came from, how long they will stay, and where they are going.

Yesterday on Facebook one of my friends said that after viewing my pictures and videos, his wife said they ought to go to Nebraska next year.  I replied that I don’t use the word “should” in the second person, for I find that too judgmental.  I simply wrote that I found the place unique and magical.  No volunteer at Rowe would dispute those two words.  Not one.  Most would add several other terms, like spectacular, mind-blowing, jaw-dropping, or once in a lifetime.  I hope he and his wife come there next year, but I won’t push it, any more than I am pushing people to see totality in August.

Good friends offer information and suggestions when asked, show up when they are needed.  Otherwise, they offer support rather than advice, don’t keep score or quote a price.

Sunset on the Platte, March 2017.  Sandhill Crane migration.

My friend tackling a downed tree after the ice storm.

Returning through the woods from the lava fields at Clear Lake, I came upon a lovely seasonal stream that was flowing downhill from a nearby hillside through the thick Douglas fir forest.  I had seen the stream on the way out a few hours earlier and decided I would stop on the way back to look more closely at it.  Had we been doing a loop around the lake, I might have stopped right then, for I’ve decided while hiking that if there is any question I should take a closer look or a photograph, I do it.

The stream had a snow bridge, nice flowing water, and when I looked a little more carefully in front of me, a few icicles as well.  The noise was pleasant, and the knowledge that in a few weeks this place would be dry reminded me how dynamic nature is.

Tributary of Clear Lake, Oregon.

I posted those comments, and a good friend wrote that if I traveled more slowly I would see a lot more.  He’s not the first to tell me that, and he won’t be the last. He’s right, in a way. I think many have the sense I go through life in a big hurry and miss seeing things that others see.  Perhaps, it is true.  My father was always in a hurry, and I emulated him.  I have distinct recollections of those times in my life I was hurried to do things that weren’t a rush.  I became a hurried, harried practitioner, and the more I hurried, the less benefit I got from it.  Little I did seemed to me to be soon enough, right enough or timely enough.

What is seeing a lot more?  Why am I out in the woods anyway?  I go my own way, and to me, there is so much to see and so little time to see it.  When I spent the summer of 1992 in the canoe country of Minnesota, I wanted to see every lake I could.  It was impossible, of course, but I got into more than three hundred.  I saw plenty—eagles, otter, beavers, moose, bear—but a big reason that I went was to cover ground or water, lots of it, every day.  It mattered to me.  Why?  It did.  Sure, I could have paddled four miles and found inlets with all sorts of interesting plant and animal life.  Occasionally, I did that, but the long days under pack and paddle was part of fulfilling my need.  I have wonderful memories of the 18 mile day in a cold October rain, where I saw nobody for the fourth consecutive day, a day that took me to Little Saganaga Lake, or the push the following day down to Alice, where I encountered a blizzard, solo, in October.  That trip has stayed in my mind as one of my great ones.  I went six days without seeing another soul.

I did the 26.6 mile McKenzie Trail hike last year, setting a good pace and finishing it in under 9 hours of walking.  The purpose was to hike the whole trail, my kind of hike, and I enjoyed it.  I did the 23 mile Duffy Loop, which carried me through an awful stretch burned over by the B and B fire 13 years earlier, solo.  I won’t go back, but I know what is out there.  There is no blank spot on a map when I look at it.  On the Noatak River, from near the headwaters by Mt. Igepak to Lake Matcharak, I know what that country looks like.  I’ve trod the ground, paddled the water.  I saw a lot of griz, caribou, and even a wolverine.

To me, the hard work, the long distances covered matter.  I have awakened and seen Orion’s reflection on a lake, the sunrise through thick fog, watched a smallmouth jump out of the water with my lure, and watched an osprey dive deep into a lake to come away with a fish.  It all mattered.  Speed on the trail is something I like.  I’m not the fastest, never could be, never would want to be.  I process nature as I go, and I process very slowly.  It is often later when I realize what a special scene I had encountered.  I saw it, and I spent as much time as I wanted to.  Then I moved on.  On the out and back trips, I remember certain areas as special to view, and as I return, the processing primes me for these views.

I posted a greatly abbreviated summary of the above, and then realized I needed to continue.  I was on the Owyhee River last year, where distance covered was not under my control, except on day hikes, and one of those I got dropped by a the guide and three other clients.  I realized finally that I couldn’t keep pace, and I didn’t much like the uphill bushwhacking that we did.  I stopped, said no more, and turned towards the river, taking the best pictures I took the whole trip.  Had I kept going uphill, I would have seen more and from higher.  But I went, which is what mattered, and I saw something very nice, by myself.

Owyhee River, Oregon

Those who say I miss too much often don’t share the my values.  I don’t tell people what they should or shouldn’t see.  One clear night on the Owyhee, we had an opportunity to see the night sky from one of the darkest places in the contiguous states.  Almost nobody was interested.  I am encountering people who are not interested in seeing the total eclipse this summer, and almost nobody viewed the transit of Mercury that I had in my telescope last May.  These are all interesting, beautiful, and to me special.

Transit of Mercury, 9 May 2016; large sunspot in upper center, with Mercury at the 4 o’clock position.

I could go as far as to say that if one is not interested in any of these, one is going through life too fast. But I don’t.  I want others to go through life at their own pace, listening to Nature, listening to the Earth, but listening more to themselves, always learning.

Sunrise over Odell Lake, Oregon; 2 March 2017

In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments; there are consequences.                           (Robert Green Ingersoll).

I recently went to Newport, Oregon on a Club Trip, planning to see the king tides, walk a lot, sleep in a yurt, and hike the nearby Drift Creek Wilderness.  I did all that, but the highlight of the trip came hearing Dr. Scott Heppell talk one evening about real biology—at a brewery no less.

The Nassau Grouper is an interesting fish.  Near the top of the food chain, it gets close to divers, not to eat them, but enough in the way where one really wants it to move. That is almost cat-like.  Yes, like some cats I know, they won’t eat lion fish, an invasive, unless it is speared.  And pointed out.  One apparently was over a reef pointing—“bird dog” was the term used—at a lion fish that he wanted speared.  Life is remarkable.

The Grouper has an interesting pattern of breeding.  They have special areas to breed, the same place, right after the first full Moon after the winter equinox, unless the full Moon is before the 15th of January.  Then they wait another cycle.  Why?  Good question.  Somebody needs to answer it.

When they breed, it is an explosion of sperm and eggs in the water, eventually producing fish larvae, and if a hundred thousand fish were involved, it must have been a remarkable sight.  I use the past perfect, because this number no longer exists in the Caribbean.  Indeed, had it not been for the work of a few people in the Cayman Islands and a few researchers like Dr. Heppell, it would never again occur in the Caribbean.

The Grouper breeds in certain small areas, and it isn’t clear why they do.  Unfortunately, when they breed, it is easy for them to be overfished, which has happened.  Equally unfortunate, once a breeding place is overfished, it never recovers.  This happened first in Bermuda, where they acted early—1970s—and have kept a reasonable population.  The US acted in the 1990s and today there is a 1 in 20 probability that somebody diving in the right waters will see one.  It was once ten times higher.

There were perhaps 50 known areas in the Caribbean where the fish bred, including several around the Caymans.  All have almost completely disappeared, the largest off Little Cayman. I have the GPS coordinates and the time when this will occur. The former area at the other end of the island is gone.  About 15 years ago, two men and a boat, just two, pulled 4000 groupers out of the last breeding area in a couple of days’ fishing.  Not having enough refrigeration, the fish were dumped and allowed to rot. That galvanized action. It is amazing how often when things finally rot, something changes.  It’s better than no change, but it would be nice if somehow we could act sooner.

The Cayman government wished to protect this last area, which  had about 1500 fish left. The fishermen objected for three reasons: (1) the fish would replenish themselves from somewhere else, (2) Babies came from somewhere (not stated) and (3) if it were too late, it wouldn’t matter, which I call the end of the world excuse.

The researchers began studying the fish more, and they did exactly what I was thinking while I listened, now with rapt attention, in Rogue Brewery in Newport, Oregon.  There is a monthly talk here, a great idea.  The researchers first tagged the fish to get an idea of numbers.  They marked a certain number of fish, so that when they looked later, once they knew the percentage of fish in the population that were marked, they knew the population.  It’s a good way to estimate; furthermore, the error of the estimate was known, error not a bad thing but a way of saying that different estimates would have certain values, and other values were just plain impossible, which eliminates common statements like, “anything can happen.”  No, anything cannot happen.  The researchers actually implanted chips into the fish to track them.  They studied currents at various depths by placing  sondes at a specified depth to track currents, learning that during the full Moon, the currents did loops.  Why?  We don’t know.  Why are certain places used for breeding?  We don’t know that, either.  But we know a lot more.

We know that the fish don’t swim from one Cayman to another, over a trench 6000 feet (1800 m) deep.  That fact wasn’t known.  We know that because sound buoys at the other Cayman islands didn’t hear these fish.  We knew where the fish tended to live, and it was all around Little Cayman.  At the time of the proper full Moon, we learned they didn’t all go at once to the breeding area.  They went individually, often taking several trips around the island before they arrived.  That last piece of information was important.  It meant that making the breeding area protected around breeding time was insufficient.  The fish were more on the move before and afterwards, and they needed to close the whole island to fishing for four months, where the fish were not so widely dispersed.

As for the comment that fish would be replaced from some other place, that was impossible, for there were no other places left of note in the Caribbean.  Overfishing has consequences; sure, it’s fine to have a job, but too many jobs in areas that aren’t sustainable lead to nobody’s having a job.  It’s sort of like logging. Somehow in all the “job” talk, nobody mentions “fewer children.”  Maybe that’s because we are stuck on “growth,” when “growth” can’t continue forever. Does anybody think China can grow at 8% for the next century?

Spearing fish was banned, along with limiting diving.  The fish weren’t coming from anywhere else.  Once the fell below a certain population, they stopped breeding.  They’re gone. No more job.  Once the fish are gone, work is gone. The researchers also learned that the fewer the fish, the more time they spent in the breeding area, and the higher their risk.

There was, however, good news in all of this.  The numbers have actually risen the past few years.  Mind you, they aren’t great, only about 2500 now in the breeding area, but they aren’t 500, either, and this increase had never been documented previously.  We have some understanding of their life cycle and biology, and the Cayman government not only continued the ban until 2019, they have written legislation citing the biology known.  The Caymans have become the model for how to manage a fish.  It’s a shame it took several thousand rotting fish and overfishing to make this change, but at least it was changed.  Whether the fish ever return to the area where they were before is not known. The fish do check out the old site near breeding time, but none has gone back there to breed.  If that ever becomes a breeding spot, it would be marvelous.

Doing the right thing has consequences.