Moonlight Skiing: Altarwise by Owlight

Here is the other half of my recent collaboration for the Butte Silver Bow Arts Foundation show, "Visions & Voices." -- a collaboration of 55 artists and 55 poets/writers -- as part of the first Art Walk for this year in Butte. This first part was exhibited at the MoFAB gallery in the old YMCA (405 W. Park St.). For the
second part of the collaboration, exhibited at the Venus Gallery in the Venus Rising Cafe' (124 S. Main St.), see EcoRover blog entry for 05 May 2008.

Moonlight Skiing: Altarwise by Owl Light

Cross country skiing by the light of the full moon, he recalled a fragment of a poem by Dylan Thomas. "Altarwise by owl-light in the half-way house
The gentleman lay graveward with his furies..."

His father had died earlier that winter, and since that time he could taste life. It was like late summer raspberries, sweet and juicy but with an off-flavor that made you hesitate before eating another one. But you knew the end of season was at hand and soon they would be gone, and so you kept eating. Past sixty, he should not be skiing alone at night on narrow trails with the temperature edging below zero.

Leo and Janet were to have met him in the parking lot, but as usual they bagged out. Probably Janet had some new imaginary illness, or perhaps Leo had driven halfway and remembered how the truck’s starter had been acting up. Oh, hell. They had the good sense to stay home on a cold night. What had happened to the days when a dozen or more of the gang would meet up for a midnight ski, build a bonfire, drink brandy, and careen back down the trail to the parking lot?

The steep climb left him breathless. It was a beautiful night. He paused in the big meadow to catch his breath and looking up at the moon, for just a moment he felt the earth and sky swing round the North Star. From the vast silence there arose a faint sound of voices. Too far into winter for geese. Maybe Leo and Janet, following his tracks? No, it was the stars, singing—just as the Kalahari Bushman had taught him. The song was coming from the Pleiades.

He heard his own voice, "My feet are getting cold." It was time to go home.

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And here is the painting created by Kathy Cashell after reading my bit of prose (it's a poor photo that does not do the art justice, but it's the best I could do with the glare and reflection from the glass):



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Friday evening art strolls in uptown Butte, a place and time when friends meet. Jan Munday & I made a quick stop at the Venus gallery before meeting Gloria & Dave Carter for Jan & Gloria's birthday supper at the Old Hotel in Twin Bridges. On our way to the cars, we met up with Frank & Hwe Ackerman, and Andrea & Don Stierle (Andrea Stierle had several beautiful paintings in the show). Of course we did what Buttians do: stand in one lane of Main Street and talk:


The Old Hotel is (in this humble bumpkin's opinion) the finest place to dine in Southwest Montana:


And here's one of the birthday girls, Gloria Carter, at the restaraunt:

Dennis Washington: The New Copper King

Wow, Dennis Washington gave $10,000 to Butte in support of the folk festival!

The "wow" is because this is such a pitifully small amount, given both Washington's huge wealth and the Butte/National Folk Festival's need to raise 3 million dollars.

You see, just one of Washington's companies, Washington Group International, posted more than 80 million dollars in profit last year. Another of his holdings, The Washington Companies, includes Montana Resources, Envirocon, and Montana Rail Link--all very profitable businesses in their own right. Washington makes money coming (by gathering and hauling mine waste from Milltown to Opportunity) and going (from the Continental Pit) in our area.

Like his Copper King predecessors, Dennis Washington operates a giant conveyor belt that permanently removes wealth from Butte. Marcus Daly had his mansion in Hamilton, where he stabled his race horses. William Clark preferred New York City, where he amassed a fantastic art collection. Their combined assets became the Anaconda Copper Mining Company. The ACM left Butte a legacy costing hundreds of millions of dollars in Superfund remedy. The ACM's environmental legacy for the entire upper Clark Fork River Basing is approximately 1 billion dollars.

Dennis Washington secludes himself on a large private estate on Stuart Island in British Columbia. His principle charity is the University of Montana in Missoula. The first million dollars in charity went to finance Grizzly stadium in 1985. The most recent 10 million dollars went to the School of Education. Missoula gets tens of millions and Butte gets tens of thousands—a ratio of one thousand to one? Last I checked, the copper and molybdenum was coming from Butte, not Missoula. Butte copper was crucial in making Washington a billioinaire. With copper and moly at record high prices, the profit margin at Montana Resources (the mining operation here in Butte) are obscene even when compared with Exxon.

Everyone can applaud the many good charitable donations from the Dennis and Phyllis Washington Foundation. Similarly, Butte is happy for the taxes paid by MR, and for the salaries and profit shares to MR employees.

However, one great question remains: the Anaconda Copper Mining Company left us the Berkeley Pit and a crumbling water supply infrastructure; What will be Dennis Washington’s legacy in Butte?

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A version of this piece appeared in The Montana Standard newspaper 07 May 2008.

When Ivy Newman responded to my letter in the Montana Standard, she raised the issue of current (and sorely needed) efforts to reform the 1872 Mining Law. Here are two links she suggested for further information:

US Senator from Montana, Jon Tester's recent op-ed on Reforming the 1872 Mining Law.

Pew Campaign for Responsible Mining

Uncle Mike: a vernacular version of "Seven Nights Drunk"

Gramps (Eugene Patrick Munday, Sr.) was a master of Irish oral culture, having been raised by traditional, illiterate Irish-American parents in various oil boom towns along the New York State-Pennsylvania state line. These towns included Bingham, Harrisburg Run, Nichols Run, Cobb Hollow, and Wolf Run. Like many children, I wish that I had listened more closely and written down his many poems, songs, and stories. Many were bawdy.

Such a one is the song "Uncle Mike." It's clearly related to "official" versions intended for polite company such as "Seven Drunken Nights" (aka "Seven Nights Drunk") recorded by The Dubliners. It's one of the few songs I remember, possibly because Gramps and my sister Kathy sang it so often. Also, it's one of the songs he sang to his teacher Mary Regan as he sat outside the schoolroom window after school let out in Harrisburg Run. He sang her naughty songs and recited naughty poems until she began crying. He thought he was in for the beating of his life, because Miss Regan boarded with his parents (John Eugene and Bertha Munday). But she never told, he felt guilty, and it built a special bond between the two of them. Gramps dearly loved school, though he had to quit in the eighth grade to begin working on an oil lease.

Here's a pic of that old schoolhouse with teacher, students, and some parents. That's John Eugene Munday on the left, with his two sons Charles (left) and Eugene (right) in front of him. I think Mary Regan is the woman just to the left of the open doorway:

I've done my best to teach "Uncle Mike" to the families and kids we've backpacked and camped with over the years. Here it is:

Uncle Mike

Oh Uncle Mike come home one night as drunk as drunk could be,
And at the door he saw a horse where his horse ought to be.
So he said to his wife, his pretty little wife, explain this thing to me
What's this horse outside the door where my old horse should be?

Oh you darn fool, you damn fool, you son-of-a-bitch said she,
It only is a milk cow my mother sent to me.

Well, I've traveled this whole world over, ten thousand miles or more,
But a saddle on a milk cow I never did see before.

Oh Uncle Mike come home one night as drunk as drunk could be,
And on the peg he saw a coat where his coat ought to be.
So he said to his wife, his pretty little wife, explain this thing to me
What's this coat upon the peg where my old coat should be?

Oh you darn fool, you damn fool, you son-of-a-bitch said she,
It only is a cleaning rag my mother sent to me.

Well, I've traveled this whole world over, ten thousand miles or more,
But buttons on a cleaning rag I never did see before.

Oh Uncle Mike come home one night as drunk as drunk could be,
And on the chair he saw a pipe where his pipe ought to be.
So he said to his wife, his pretty little wife, explain this thing to me
What's this pipe upon the chair where my old pipe should be?

Oh you darn fool, you damn fool, you son-of-a-bitch said she,
It only is a tin whistle my mother sent to me.

Well, I've traveled this whole world over, ten thousand miles or more,
But tobacco in a tin whistle I never did see before.

Oh Uncle Mike come home one night as drunk as drunk could be,
And by the bed he saw two boots where his boots ought to be.
So he said to his wife, his pretty little wife, explain this thing to me
What's these boots upon the floor where my old boots should be?

Oh you darn fool, you damn fool, you son-of-a-bitch said she,
It only is two flower pots my mother sent to me.

Well, I've traveled this whole world over, ten thousand miles or more,
But flower pots with buttons and laces I never did see before.

Oh Uncle Mike come home one night as drunk as drunk could be,
And on the bed he saw a head where his head ought to be.
So he said to his wife, his pretty little wife, explain this thing to me
What's this head upon the bed where my old head should be?

Oh you darn fool, you damn fool, you son-of-a-bitch said she,
It only is a baby doll my mother sent to me.

Well, I've traveled this whole world over, ten thousand miles or more,
But a baby doll with whiskers I never did see before.

Oh Uncle Mike come home one night as drunk as drunk could be,
And on her titties he saw two hands where his hands ought to be.
So he said to his wife, his pretty little wife, explain this thing to me
What's these hands upon you where my old hands should be?

Oh you darn fool, you damn fool, you son-of-a-bitch said she,
It only is a night gown my mother sent to me.

Well, I've traveled this whole world over, ten thousand miles or more,
But a night gown with fingers I never did see before.

Oh Uncle Mike come home one night as drunk as drunk could be,
And in her thing he saw a thing where his thing ought to be.
So he said to his wife, his pretty little wife, explain this thing to me
What's this thing here in you where my old thing should be?

Oh you darn fool, you damn fool, you son-of-a-bitch said she,
It only is a candlestick my mother sent to me.

Well, I've traveled this whole world over, ten thousand miles or more,
But a candlestick with balls on it I never did see before.

Spring Hike: Being Al/l-O/one

My tolerance for what generally counts as human culture is about two weeks. For two weeks, I can be around people, function relatively normally, and not act like a total misanthrope. I can satisfy myself with my excellent walk to and from work, chatting with the local ravens, and watching the bitterroot rosettes spring to life:

And the chunky, early spring predator wasps working the sagebrush/knapweed prairie (they sting & paralyse an insect, lay an egg on the insect, and stash it in a small ground burrow):

But the terrible environmental ethics of people begins to get to me, and each day I have to witness ongoing processes of mutilation, such as this ATV track near Big Butte that gets wider and deeper each year:

So I "lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my strength," and head out for a hike. Someplace where there is not another soul in sight. This fine day it was in the shadow of death, that is to say, in the shadow of the Anacona smelter. There are plenty of signs of bad environmental ethics here: the still-barren landscape was heavily damaged by arsenic, acidic fumes, heavy metals, and other fallout from Anaconda Copper Mining company smelters. Still, the damage is historical, and slowly fading away like this old fence line:

And there is remarkably good forage such as the grasses recover the land, and this old growth bitterbrush:

RTD and I saw a lone mulie doe and an enormous bull moose. Strangely, both were extremely skittish. This is normal enough for mule deer, although they usually run 100 yards or so and then turn to look back. This one ran clean to the other side of the open valley (a half mile or more away) before she even slowed down. And (as I learned from the tracks) bullwinkle hightailed it up over one ridge, through a shallow wash, and then up over the next ridge before heading down into thicker cover.

RTD and I also saw two large coyotes , or what I thought at the time were coyotes. We got just a fleeting glimpse of them as they trotted across a small snow field and up over a distant ridge. I wished afterward that we had hiked over to check out their tracks, for they did not look quite right for coyotes: their heads seemed large, and they carried their tail almost horizontally. Hmmmm... Wolves would explain that skittish deer and moose. Sure wish I had hiked over to check out those tracks.

We hiked up the drainage as far as we could go without snowshoes, taking in the good view of Short Peak and Mt. Haggin:

And pausing for a pot of noodles and a hot cup of tea:

Greatly refreshed, and ready to face the human world for another few days, we hiked down the ridges and back to the truck.

M is for Water

The Butte Silver Bow Arts Foundation coordinated "Visions & Voices" -- a collaboration of 55 artists and 55 poets/writers -- as part of the first Art Walk for this year in Butte. Numerous galleries and businesses exhibit art of all kinds, and folks stroll from place to place in Uptown Butte on a Friday night. The "Visions & Voices" was a two part collaboration: first, with the artist creating a piece in response to a bit of prose or a poem; second, with the writer creating a bit of prose of a poem in response to an artist's piece. The second part of the collaboration was exhibited at the Venus Gallery in the Venus Rising Cafe' (124 S. Main St.). The first part was exhibited at the MoFAB gallery in the old YMCA (405 W. Park St.).

Here is a photograph of the papier-mâché piece "Desultory Delusion" by artist Kevin Curtis:

And my response, inspired by Curtis's art as well as the letter "M:"

M is for Water

We shape our papier-mâché lives into meaningful form.

It begins with our face. The infant’s smile when they fart. The toddler’s jaw set in a defiant “NO!” The belligerent boy’s shit eating grin after he has gotten away with some mean thing. Mona Lisa’s shy smile at the thought of her lover.

And living shapes our papier-mâché lives into meaningful form.

It begins with our spirit. Crushed by parents telling us that bugs are bad and scary. Warped by lies we tell ourselves about The Amerikan Way. Bundled away inside of big SUVs, super-sized meals, and five thousand square foot houses.

In late middle age, for a year or two, he had sought the truth about his own life. Once, after a steep climb up and a swift hike down some unnamed ridge of the Continental Divide, he knew Truth. Saw it. Tasted it. Even heard it, like the sound of northern lights crackling in a gin clear February sky. But it must have been the endorphins talking. By the time he stopped for lunch at the lake, this burning Truth had waned to a fuzzy, warm, pleasant ember—something like the afterglow of good sex.

Later that night, over port wine in a tin cup, he tried to unravel it all. It would be the last time. To know it, to really know this thing that was his life, you would have to take it apart. But then no single, isolated fragment would make any sense. And it would be dangerous. You’d end up like Steve Irwin, pierced through the heart by the very thing you wanted to know. From that moment on, he simply accepted the bricolage that was his life. A work in progress.

Leben is leben: Life is living.

Opportunity for Justice: Citizens File Lawsuit Against Arco-British Petroleum

George Niland, of the Opportunity Citizens Protective Association, sent me a message about the citizens lawsuit against Arco-British Petroleum. Here is a paraphrase of that message:

A lawsuit has been filed with Butte District court by the law firm of Lewis, Slovack and Kovacich against Atlantic Richfield Company. 90 Residents of Opportunity are involved in the lawsuit. The lawsuit is for an human health cleanup of Opportunity. The arsenic action level of 250ppm set by the Environmental Protection Agency is too high and the law firm aims to make ARCO clean it up regardless of the action level.

Opportunity continues to be plagued by dust storms from the Arco-British Petroleum waste repository. Everyone is getting sick of it. In the future when there is vegetation on the barren ground, the dust will diminish but in the meantime, Opportunity must endures these horrible storms and there is nothing residents can do about it.

Arco-British Petroleum claims to be making efforts to halt the dust storms, but there seem to be no results. There have been 2 real bad dust storms at night in the last several weeks and seems as if they are doing the dusty work at night. A resident of Opportunity that is on oxygen says he is planning on trying to sell his home and get away from here because of the dust problems.

The old Anaconda Company tried growing vegetation for years in its waste repository and it would grow for a while but die out in a matter of a couple of years. They planted several types of trees and bushes, along with different types of grass, but everything eventually died out. The same thing is likely to happen to the vegetation that ARCO-British Petroleum is planting.

When Arco-British Petroleum pull out of here, they will abandon maintenance, the vegetation will die off, and Opportunity will once again be cursed with severe dust storms.

For more information, see the newspaper article in the Montana Standard (18 April 2008).

Happy Birthday, Kathy (wherever you are)

Today is my big sister's birthday. Kathleen Lenore Munday was born 01 May 1954 in Bradford, Pennsylvania. Here's Kathy Munday in her high school graduation photo (her face is still a little swollen from all the dental surgery following having been hit by a truck):

May first, a good day. May Day, the International Workers Day to celebrate the labor movement. May Day, the pagan holiday--in celebration of which Gramps would say,

Hooray, hooray, it's the first of May.
Outdoor fucking starts today.

Gramps could always get a smile with that, and with his many other witticisms and bawdy songs. Kathy and he would sing "Uncle Mike" at the top of their lungs, shouting out the verses over the noise of the engine that pumped the wells at the oil lease, or over the clatter of the old Willys going down the road. I still laugh to think of it.

For me, though, May 1st not so happy. Not since Kathy seemed to drop off the face of the earth more than fifteen years ago.

She had a tough time of it from day one. Mom and Dad fought a lot, both were alcoholic (Mom especially), there were several older half-siblings from Mom's first marriage, and Mom & Dad were trying to keep an independent trucking business afloat. My first memory is of Kathy coming in to wake me up, taking my hand, and leading me to the top of the staircase where we could peek down into the living room. Dad and Mom were going at it again, yelling and swearing, Dad punched Mom and gave her a bloody nose, and she clobbered him with a wire magazine rack that opened a big slash on his bald head. Kathy was four and I was barely three when the marriage went bust, and Kathy & I went to live with our fraternal grandparents.

Gram and Gramps had always wanted a daughter, and Kathy helped fill that void. But she always longed for Mom & Dad. We saw them both -- Mom on the occasional day visit (often including a drunken visit to the Option House bar) and Dad when he was home from the road (often including a drunken visit to the Italian Club) -- but it wasn't like having them as parents. Kathy & I fought a lot, and I don't know how much of it was our opposed natures, and how much was acting out what we felt in our lives.

By junior high, Kathy was into sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll. I liked books and getting into the woods. Still, we had a mostly good sibling relationship during those years, and I learned a lot that I wouldn't have otherwise. Things like how great the Stones were, and why heroin was a lot worse than pot.

Kathy was very smart and could have done well in her classes at the local University of Pittsburgh branch campus. But rebellion and drugs don't make for college success. Still, she always seemed to maintain, and would pop in and out of my life throughout my high school and college years. She was back home living with Gram after Gramps died, and it was there in the old house at 37 High Street that she met Don, my friend from the MS program at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute.

Kathy and Don married, lived near Bradford for a time, and then moved to upstate New York. Kathy Kieffer went back to school, took a degree in nursing, and had some good jobs. But she was still wrestling with some demons, and the marriage and her nursing career did not work out.

Kathy visited with us after Emily was born, and there seemed to be a bond. Emily looked a lot like Kathy at different phases of her life and still does in the right light (and when her anger flares). Soon after that visit, Kathy left upstate New York and none of the family ever heard from her again. Gram, Dad, Mom, and Uncle Jim all longed on their death bed for some news of their darling.

It hurts to remember, but there is also a warm joy in some of those memories. So Happy Birthday, Kathy, wherever you are. And if you ever run across this, please drop me a line.

Science-in-Society (NEWSSC08): Teaching & Engaging Across Boundaries

It felt good to come back, like coming home. Two years ago, I attended the New England Workshop on Science and Social Change; the theme was Ecological Restoration as Social Reconstruction. That workshop helped frame the National Science Foundation-funded research I am doing on citizen participation in developing Superfund remedies, and it also profoundly changed my attitude & approach toward teaching.

This year, the theme was "Teaching & Engaging Across Boundaries."

The workshop is an intensive 4-day experience with about 14 participants. We workshopped together from 8:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. each day, and then spent several hours at our joint supper, followed by an evening group activity or two. The Woods Hole Marine Biological Laboratory (MBL) is a great place to host this workshop--quiet in the off season, a small & cozy village that lives for science, and even in the few minutes when you're "off-duty" you will run into the other workshop participants. We slept in double-rooms at Shope dormitory, and it was warm enough that we could eat our take-out meals from Captain Kidd's in the picnic area next to the Eel Pond:

The day's main activities took place primarily in a small room in Lillie Hall:

Workshop duties -- meal takeout for lunch and supper, regulating the time for sessions throughout the day, cleaning our room at day's end, etc. -- are divided so that it is, as faciliator and founder Peter Taylor calls it, a "self regulating workshop." My job was fetching beverages for supper, so that helped get me out on an afternoon walk. I like taking in the feel of the place, such as this "squid art" gate on one of the MBL docks:

The typical humble homes of Woods Hole:

And the beautiful but simple/low maintenance landscaping:

Even the cats of Woods Hole have the wise gaze of a serious scientist (T.S.Eliot forgot to write about this one!):

Each morning, breakfast began with a 7 a.m. walk to Pie in the Sky for coffee and a bagel (the place also has outstanding bakery treats), and there were invariably several other workshop participants there:

The weather was perfect (60s deg F, sunny, gentle breezes), which made it a bit difficult for EcoRover to be in an intensely interactive, indoor setting most of the day. We worked our butts off, as you can see by this typical individual session around the table. Ouch, my brain is sore! [left to right: Amy Lesen, Erich Schienke, Lee Worden, Paul Erikson, Mary McGuire, Jeremy Price, Wendy Hamblet]:

A brilliant element of the workshop is the "office hours" concept, where participants sign up to talk about their teaching or research with other participants. Office Hours normally are in sessions of two people, but occasionally there's a group of three [JoAnn Oravec, Kurt Jax, and Marisa Santos Matias]:

Each day is mapped on a posted page. In part it is scripted by the pre-planned agenda, but much of what happens is based on ideas or plans that emerged in prior days from participant-generated activities (that self-regulating workshop idea, again):

The workshop stresses careful listening and full engagement [Douglas Allchin, Peter Taylor, Kurt Jax, Wendy Hamblet]:

Even during breaks, everyone tends to stay very engaged -- either in small groups, or in working through their own thoughts about what just happened or is scheduled to happen next:

As a participant generated activity, my small group modeled a Forum Theatre exercise. As might be expected, a serious play about the moral obligations of physical & social scientists to various stakeholder groups among the post-Katrina citizens of New Orleans also led to some good (and funny!) improvisational theatre [Wendy Hamblet and Erich Schienke]:

Peter Taylor has a certain genius for organizing the workshop, and it includes one day with a few hours on the beach. We drove to the nearby Nobsca lighthouse:

Hiked down the rocky shore:

Past tidal pools:

Filled with snails and barnacles:

And then to the sandy beach. Where some brave souls bared their toes/soles to the gentle (and surprisingly warm) waters [here, Amy Lesen]:

I waded in too, and had this gorgeous jelly swim past along the bottom, then come up to have a look at me (well, it seemed that it was looking at me!). It's moments like this of deep engagement with nature that make EcoRover's life worth living:

The last night, participants had a superb last supper at the upscale (for me) Phusion Grille (great wine, but yikes does the beer list suck!). Our large group ate out on the deck where it was a bit chilly (note the coats) [Marisa Santos Matias, João Arriscado Nunes, Erich Schienke, Douglas Allchin]:

And the final goodbyes and group photo [Jo Ann Oravic had to catch an earlier flight, and is missing from this photo]:

For those who want to know more about the Science-in-Society workshop, I can offer a short list of my own perspectives on what happened, why it was important, and how it affected me:

1. The international character of the workshop: Marisa and João are from Portugal (Center for Social Studies, University of Coimbra); Kurt is from Germany (Helmholtz-Centre for Environmental Research in Leipzig, and Department of Ecology with the Technische Universität München); Wendy is from Ontario, Canada, and is now with the University Studies Department at North Carolina A&T State University in Greensboro; and Peter is from Australia and now with University of Massachusetts-Boston. In our day-to-day academic lives, we get very ethnocentric about the meaning of environment, ecology, teaching, political engagement, and other interests. Intense and meaningful interaction with persons of other cultures helps disabuse me of my dull ethnocentric practices.

2. The interdisciplinary character of the workshop: For example Douglas is a Science & Technology Studies prof with the University of Minnesota, and most participants did share some interest in and experience with STS. Others, however, brought great interdisciplinary perspectives, such as Mary's work in public history, Wendy's understanding of the philosophy of violence, and Jo Ann's experience with business, economics, and creative communities. The range of creativity and intelligences of the group was amazing, and every interaction seemed to fire neurons that I didn't know I had.

3. The diversity & good will of the participants: Well, we were all white and of European descent, but there are other kinds of diversity. In part, these were covered by (1.) and (2.) above, but there is more to it than that. I've been in other so-called workshops with diverse smart people, but often times things didn't go so well: big egos dominated the sessions, faciliators talked too much or misunderstood participants, or it all felt like "workshop in a can, just add hot water..." Here, the mix of young and old (well, middle aged anyway, I guess I can admit to that) along with the interdisciplinary mix really seemed to work for us. This must in part stem from a good selection of participants, those who are open to what might happen. For example, Amy was very strong in this regard, and could draw on her New York City to Woods Hole to New Orleans experience and bring insights to whatever was happening at any given moment. And Erich's challenging critical attitude never let naieve assumptions pass too easily, helping press all of us to be clear about how and what we valued in the various sessions.

4. The mix of techiques with which Peter structures the workshop:
Peter has spent much of his academic life exploring reflective, critical, and creative thinking, and how these things work out in pedagogical settings. Along the way, he has built up an awesome tool box. He brings structure to the workshop, but also seems to know when to let things happen. Well structured techniques such as "dialogue and dialogic discourse" help make these unexpected but fruitful things happen. A lot of Peter's success is, I suppose, rooted in tacit knowledge. But he could write a great Idiot's Guide to Self Organizing Workshops.

Over the next year or so, slow learner that I am, I'll probably digest this a little better and process it into my teaching, research, and life. For now, I'm thankful for the experience, and there are of course student projects to advise, final grades to submit, graduate candidate defenses to chair, and committee work to be done.

Woods Hole: via Boston

I was honored to participate again this year in the New England Workshop on Science and Social Change in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Woods Hole is a 2-hour bus ride from Boston, and so I had some time to visit my daughter, Emily Munday, who is a sophomore in the Marine Biology program at Boston University (BU).

We met for a quick coffee and bagel at one of Boston's ubiquitous Dunkin' Donuts shop. Emily invited me to attend a seminar on lobster research by one of Professor Jelle Atema's graduate students. Before the talk, we had some time to stroll around the BU campus on a beautiful spring day with the cherry and magnolia trees blooming:

BU has some great sculpture, like this one -- "Homage to Durer" by Igael Tumarkin (Albrecht Durer is a favorite artist of mine, and I use his work to illustrate themes of the early scientific revolution):

Here's another nice piece, titled "Exlplosion" -- in front of the Science Building, of course:

And, in the basement of the building, boxes of "Instant Ocean" ready to create needed habitat for the lobsters and other marine critters:

It was a great seminar, and I was able to connect a lot of the ideas about lobster genetics, local population differences, and loyalty to particular local environments (the larva, after dispersal by ocean currents, find their way back "home") to things I've learned about freshwater fish. What I did not (and it's a specialty of Dr. Jelle and his students) is the incredible ability of lobster to sniff out not just chemical sensors that mark home water, but also things like a male lobster that loses a fight. Cool stuff, and it makes me wonder if salmonids don't have the same ability, given their tendency to sort out into particular "stations" with very little aggressive interaction.

After a long quest on the Orange Line trolley and a bus (we were in search of the Museum of Bad Art -- EVERYONE should visit while in Boston), it was time to find supper before I caught the bus to Woods Hole. And what a sumptuous meal it was, at a humble place on the waterfront called the Barking Crab:

We had some great raw oysters (they had some really good "briny" tasting ones) and a couple of pounds of Dungeness crab (and, for me, a couple of pints of Harpoon IPA--my favorite beer when I'm in the Boston 'hood). The place was packed, but the waiter made a spot for us at the bar so we did not have to wait and I could make my bus (note the rock -- that's the Barking Crab version of a claw cracker):

Happy place. Good food. Great company. EcoRover can't wait to eat there with Jan Munday when BU hosts the Northeast Conference swimming championships next year!

Springtime is Creeping up the Slopes

Springtime is creeping up the slopes of the Continental Divide in the Northern Rockies of Montana. The sun is a little further to the north each morning and evening, and a little higher in the sky throughout the day. The snow is gone around the house, and the bitterroot leaves are green and packing away energy for flowers to come.

Dave Carter, RTD, and I went for a hike in some hills overlooking the Cardwell Canyon of the Jefferson River. Lewis and Clark passed through here in late July/early August, 1805, and called the area "third mountain gap:"

We hiked along a ridge that might have been the same climbed by Clark as he reconnoitered the landscape:

There are great views, of course, west and to the Highland Mountains just south of Butte:

It's rough country, with vertical slabs of limestone that sometimes run for a mile or so, creating sparsely vegetated ridges separated by sagebrush valleys and even a few trees on northern aspects:

Though it doesn't look like moose country, there was sign of a cow and calf having wintered here:

Like mule deer, they must like the mountain mahogany:

And the bitterbrush:

Nothing like a cool spot of snow to press your ass into on a warm, sunny spring day:

And lo,"Consider the lillies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor sping; and yet I say to you even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!"

Several days later, I drove over the Continental Divide to the Bitterroot, where I gave a talk about the Big Hole River and fluvial Arctic grayling to the local Trout Unlimited chapter. I drove through the Big Hole and up Trail Creek and across Chief Joseph pass. Still lots of snow in the Big Hole, here a view toward the Pintler from the Mule Ranch on Deep Creek:

Near Hamilton, RTD and I found a nice campsite in the ponderosa pines at the mouth of Blodgett Canyon. Just enough light to build a nice fire to sprawl in front of and relax before bedtime:

And enjoy the nice view of the rimrock above camp:

You can press your nose into a ponderosa trunk and inhale the aroma of vanilla. And I love the graceful, long needles of the ponderosa:

Just after making my morning coffee, I strolled out to a sunny point and sat down. Looking up toward that rimrock, I watched several mule deer work their way up the grassy zig-zag chute. The deer in the rear of the group spooked and bolted back down the chute, but the deer in the lead stood fast. Hurrying back to the tent, I grabbed my binoculars, found a spot to sit, and watched a mountain lion slip from the rock into a patch of bruch 50 yards or so above the deer. I thought I was going to witness a Wild Kingdom moment, but the deer stood its ground, the lion remained in the brush where I could not see it, and after about 20 minutes I decided to finish my breakfast and pack up. By which time another bunch of deer walked into camp, seemingly unafraid of me or the excited whimpers of RTD:

On my way back to Butte, the ice was just starting to break up on the upper Big Hole River near the Fishtrap Access Site and Sportsman's Park:

Here and there throughout Montana, as here at Fishtrap, you will see the cool fence post art sculptures by Cory Holmes of Havre:

A mating pair of sandhill cranes look forlorn out there on a still frozen meadow:

But spring is on the way, as these pussy willows will attest:

Almost home to Butte, I'm welcomed back by the herd of antelope in Butori's pasture along the Crackerville Road:

See also:

Lewis & Clark in the Cardwell Canyon

Montana fencepost art