I used to be The Answer Man. “Go ask O’Connor” was what they used to say around school. I even got stuck with nicknames like “Dr. Factoid” and “Mr. O’Google.” This was a cultivated effort. I made a point to learn everything. If students asked about something I was unfamiliar with I spent that night and as many others as I needed getting up to speed on whatever they wanted to know. It’s ultimately futile to try to know everything, but that didn’t stop me. I was The Answer Man. Teachers love answers because all day long they get questions. Most of the questions are ones the students can answer for themselves, but daily I would get questions that were authentic. That is, they weren’t entirely answerable. I lived for those. I liked figuring out how to frame the “answer” so that the student could see how rich their question was. Science, my primary field, is filled with answers like that. You can talk about what is known and what is unknown, what is more certain and what is less certain, but you can’t always give a definitive reply.

The capital of Mongolia is Ulan Bator. That was a running joke with me and my students. They all had to know that. My point was lost on them, I think. I wanted them to see that isolated factoids like that are meaningless. Unless it’s the Final Jeopardy question, of course! But so much of school is regurgitating factoids and I think that’s mostly pointless. I’m great at that sort of superficial knowledge mostly because I have a good memory. I encounter these tidbits when I’m learning about other things. I have to go back again and again to the big ideas and the deep concepts because they are hard and require that sort of effort. Along the way the bits and pieces stick to my brain like lint on velcro.

Teenagers are easily impressed. Toss out some cool facts and use big words and they think you are smart. I speak well and I’m articulate in front of a crowd. Mix that with my command of cultural arcana, my love of language and history, and my basic need to show off, and my students thought I was a genius. It wasn’t hard. Like I said, teenagers are easily impressed. While it is nice to be thought of well by your charges, that wasn’t really my goal. Sure, everyone likes to get their ego stroked, but that wasn’t my main motivation. I wanted to learn as much as I could because I thought that I might have to teach it someday. I wanted to be prepared to work with any student at any level at any time. Over the course of thirty years in the classroom I certainly did work with an enormous variety of individuals in a multiplicity of settings. And I tried out every kind of teaching and learning schemes I could come up with or steal from someone else. Teachers, god bless ’em, are notorious thieves. Anything you see done by another teacher that seems to work you take it and call it your own. It’s a survival skill.

But I didn’t know everything. It just seemed like I did because I relished the role. I loved being The Answer Man. It was a way to connect with and engage as many students as I could. I wanted to find something, even if it was entirely trivial, that I could share with a student so that he or she would feel connected. Ultimately students learn better when they feel a part of things and believe that the teacher is interested in them. And I was interested! The world is filled with amazing things and I learned so much over the years just by listening.

That was the secret—I listened. I assumed everyone else was an expert at something. And I love experts. I pick the brains of everyone I meet because I know they know all kinds of cool stuff. Stuff I would never have sought out on my own. So much of the knowledge I passed on to kids I learned from other kids! I’m also a voracious reader and will read almost anything. That’s such an easy way to learn. Students would always look at me in awe and ask “how do you know that?” and get frustrated when I said “I read it in a book.” They thought there was some magic elixir that would make them smarter or that I had some special gift they didn’t have and seemed disappointed when I showed them how easy it was to gain knowledge for themselves.

My dad loved to bullshit with people. He had a way of asking people about themselves that made them open up. Consequently he picked up a lot of things just sitting in a bar and listening to some guy go on about real estate, or vintage cars, or hunting, or whatnot. If it was something he didn’t do or didn’t know about he found out by letting people talk about their passion. I’m the same way. I got that from the old man.

In the end, it was just a job. A gig. A role, like an actor. Half of teaching is acting. My part was The Answer Man. I loved the part and played it to the hilt. It took lots of research and rehearsal. My brother is an actor and I know how much preparation he does for his parts. It was the same for me. I skimped on the mundane stuff like lesson planning and correcting papers and put more of my energy into learning. I wanted to know the material I taught but I also wanted to embellish it and flesh it out and so be able to connect it to all the other things in the world. It led to a number of spectacular discussions in class, I must say. We covered some ground! I miss that. The talks I had with students, whether in class or out, the whole class or small groups, were priceless. I’m not sure I remember the substance of any of them, just that they always started with seemingly innocent, simple questions. Naturally the students came to know that they could avoid the day’s “boring” lesson by getting me off task with a good question, and they often conspired to do so. Silly fools, they wound up learning more that way!

The best stuff in crime fiction these days is the latest from Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips, creators of Criminal, Fatale, and a host of other comic series. Their most recent venture for Image Comics is called The Fade Out. The story takes place in Hollywood during the film noir period, just after WWII and before the breakup of the so-called studio system. We mostly follow the adventures of a burned-out screenwriter who gets involved with an up and coming starlet only to wake up one morning after a serious bender to find her murdered. His search for her killer opens up dark secrets and threatens powerful people and he is terribly ill-equipped for the heat that comes down on him and his friends.

The third installment of the series arrived two days ago with my shipment from Ziesing Books, my favorite mom-and-pop outfit here in NorCal. (I strongly urge you to buy your books from Mark and Cindy Z, they answer the phone, do special orders, accept personal checks, and all that other stuff no one does any more.) It’s taken a year to get this far in the story as the three volumes are collections of the twelve monthly comic book issues. I have no idea how many more issues are planned but I know I’m hooked and will take it all the way to the end. Like other stuff from Mr. Brubaker it is multi-layered and weaves lots of threads together. You have to go back to earlier issues to keep it all straight! Like all the collaborations with Mr. Phillips the art is beautiful, always interesting and arresting. This series is colored by Elizabeth Breitweiser and her work is gorgeous and captures the mood of the story perfectly. Lies, deceit, murder, corruption, and perversion drip off the pages. You’ll never look at the movies the same way again.

If that’s not noir enough then come on over to another collaboration and another series, this one from Hard Case Crime. Irish writer Ken Bruen and American writer Jason Starr have penned three dark and twisted (but hilarious) novels about a small-timer with big ambitions called Bust, Slide, and The Max. The fourth and latest in the series just came out and is called Pimp. I expect it to be as thoroughly brilliant and equally disgusting as the previous three were.

Finishing out my order are the final two pieces of another series, this one from Ben H. Winters. A few years ago Quirk Books published The Last Policeman about a dutiful cop trying to stay on the job despite the fact that an asteroid will slam into the earth in six months and destroy all life. It’s a gripping read and the protagonist is a surprisingly likable sort, so I naturally had to find the final volumes. Countdown City and World of Trouble are on the shelf and will be tackled soon.

I like to read lots of things but the stuff categorized as “noir” or “crime fiction” (usually found under “mystery”) are some of my favorites. I think there is as much excellent fiction to be found within “genres” as in “mainstream” or “literary” categories. Good writing is good writing regardless of how it is packaged.

What sort of things are YOU reading these days? What’s on YOUR bookshelf?

N.B. I’ve made revisions to the original narrative as I had some facts wrong. Strikethrough is the old stuff, bold italic is the new.**

I’m gasping in the thin air at 8500 feet. My heart is doing its two-step but at a benzedrine-fueled pace. It’s cold and we are exposed to the wind on the ridge line but I’m sweating under my parka and soaking my wool undershirt. Just another day on the High Traverse at Alpine Meadows! A cluster of powder-hungry skiers and boarders are making the trek along the summit of Ward Peak to the “back side” in search of fresh tracks. I’m a bit out of my league as younger and fitter enthusiasts are powering past me. I have to step out of line as I can’t keep pace without stopping to catch my breath. My ski buddy waits patiently for me but I can see he’s chomping at the bit to get to the saddle and cross over to the just-opened and untouched downhill runs. Nearly a foot and a half of snow has fallen here overnight and the Tahoe hordes are out in force to find the freshies. I plod on, side-stepping up the hillside until finally cresting at a rocky ledge. I’ve been too slow and we find ourselves at the end of the line and suddenly alone. We head bravely down to a little knob where we can see better and try to get our bearings.

Our first mistake was mine: I failed to keep up. You don’t want to lose the group when you are off-piste (technically were were within the boundaries so it’s not “backcountry” or “off-piste” but rather “open terrain” skiing) in unknown country. Our second mistake was his: my pal didn’t remember the route as clearly as he’d thought. For a few minutes we contemplate our situation and it’s a little unsettling. We know there’s a way down the mountain but we can’t find it. We think we might have to slog back up to the knife-edge we just left and look for tracks. Just as that unpleasantness sets in a couple of small parties totaling a dozen or so skiers arrive at our spot. We follow them. Thankfully they are locals and know the mountain well. We don’t have time to be relieved and just ski on.

We get to a broad, open bench with an expanse of possibilities below us. My buddy recognizes a run and we head that way and encounter a red “stop” sign. We can’t take the run my buddy wants because it is posted red for “stop” and so we continue to follow green “go” signs down the hill. Ski parks post areas as “open” or “closed” to guide skiers to places that have been checked by ski patrol. They look mostly for avalanche hazards. All morning dynamite blasting was going on along the really steep faces to remove cornices and get the loose surface layers to move downhill in a more controlled fashion. The “stop” sign had everyone confused as we had just passed two green “go” signs on the way. The locals were confused by why the High Traverse was open and yet one of the main runs down the South Face was closed. Something wasn’t right. They would not have “opened the gate” on the High Traverse and sent us in this direction if the runs were closed. A couple of the obviously more accomplished skiers in the group simply ignored the sign and powered over the edge and into the South Face wilderness below. Nevertheless the rest of the routes down were available and two of the group, obviously strong skiers, went straight down the fall line. The rest turned right and looked for another route. They found it easily and we stayed with them all the way to the bottom.

It was the most incredible skiing I have ever done. I’ve been on better snow—it was a little wet and heavy to be ideal and required a subtle touch. But I’ve never skied in better circumstances. There were multiple lines down the mountain, all untracked, untouched, virgin powder. At one point the whole group was stretched out abreast in synchrony, bobbing and weaving together and laying down matching sinuous tracks. All our earlier consternation vanished as we fell under the spell of the perfect run. Eventually we had to stop as we were out of breath. The length of the run was probably three times the length we were used to from our local small-town ski parks. It was, in powder hound parlance, “epic.” The only bad part was the run out to the Sherwood lift was lengthy and relatively flat. Thank goodness the more intrepid athletes had already cut a track in the deep snow that we could follow. Otherwise we could not have kept our speed up and would have had to hike in the goop to the bottom. When the snow depth is that great you need some slope to keep moving. On the ungroomed portions you can often get stuck and come to a stop. This is the so-called “Sierra cement” that California skiers get more often than not. It’s not the drier, colder “champagne powder” that Utah is famous for. That stuff is so fluffy you can almost blow it out of the way.

When we got to the lift line we noticed it was not moving. The lift operator was attending to some maintenance issues and seemed bewildered by the sudden presence of a pack of skiers. He was even more confused when we told him we had come via the High Traverse. According to his board the High Traverse was marked as “closed.” Apparently we were the last batch to be let through and the “go” signs we found should been turned to “stop.” They had not checked the area we had just skied for avalanche danger and had intended to send everyone that came through on another run to a different lift. At least that’s what we pieced together. In fact it was possible that the person who had “opened the gate” had done so in error. A couple of the guys in line were former employees of the resort and they were shocked and angry at the screw-up, feeling that we had been put, unnecessarily, in a dangerous spot and that we were lucky conditions were as good as they were. In the end, the mountain gods had smiled upon us and spared us from harm and gave us absurdly good skiing.

We stood there for an hour before the lift started loading and our small group took three trips up the Sherwood chair and skied down that face three times before any other skiers at the resort got access. It was like having an entire mountainside to ourselves! All the runs were totally fresh, completely untracked, utterly epic. My buddy and I skied ourselves to exhaustion and then sucked it up and skied some more. I kept thinking I’d quit because I was beat and my legs were sore but then we’d find more beautiful lines in the snow and have to keep going. Eventually the hordes broke through and the runs got increasingly cut up. Snow fell steadily throughout the day however and we worked our way over to another section of the mountain and skied “refills” until we were practically cripples. Finally we had enough and took the beginner run back to the main area of the resort and back to the parking lot where we dumped our gear and got out of our soaking wet boots. Neither of us could move very well but thirst led us to the bar where we rendezvoused with friends and shared a pint of Deschutes Fresh Squeezed IPA. Man, was it good!

Later that night over dinner and cocktails my friend and I analyzed the perfect storm of events that led to our unique adventure. We made our mistakes, which I mentioned, and fortunately didn’t pay for them. At worst we could have been stuck in avalanche country without anyone knowing we were there. People die doing that shit! The resort compounded our mistakes with their own. One hand didn’t seem to know what the other was doing. Again, good fortune prevailed. I should say that I have great respect for ski park workers and their volunteer ski patrol counterparts. These people are amazing mountaineers and they work hard and put themselves at risk to make the resort safe for the paying customers. They can make mistakes just like anyone else.

My pal is an experienced and aggressive skier. His cockiness on the slopes is balanced by his joyful exuberance which is infectious and pushes me to get better. Every time I go with him I find myself doing things that I never thought I had in me. Sometimes we let our passion for powder get the better of our judgment. I know my limits, but I also know I have to butt up against them now and again or I’ll never get better. Alpine activities are inherently risky in and of themselves. I hurt myself seriously on my mountain bike one fall afternoon a few years back on a intermediate-level trail that I knew intimately. It’s all about balancing the risk with preparation and awareness. We resolved to be more attentive next time. I often let my friend lead the way and thus don’t take enough responsibility for myself. If he were hurt or whatnot I’d be in a heap of trouble on my own, not to mention being of no use to him. That’s my bad and something I can correct. My pal has always looked out for me and we spend a lot of time on the chairlift going over technique and discussing risks and emergency procedures. But I rely too much on his skill and thus don’t develop my own self-reliance and self-confidence. I know I have the ability but I tend to downplay it because my friend is so much more accomplished. I also know I could be a lot more physically fit which would certainly help. He thinks that’s B.S., that I’m plenty fit, I just let my fear of the unknown give me anxiety which elevates my blood pressure and robs me of strength!

It all worked out in the end. Our mission was to hit the Sierra storm and ski the powder and we accomplished that. We were “on the edge” for a moment but fortune favored the bold and we had a most memorable day in a season of great days. Let’s hope we get one more big storm here in the State of Jefferson before we put the skis away.

**All mistakes are mine. I own ’em. I’m happy to be corrected! (T’anks, man.)

An entomologist doesn’t usually go around calling insects “bugs.” Such a person would reserve that term for a particular group of insects, specifically the order Hemiptera, which includes aphids and leafhoppers. Boxelder bugs (Boisea trivitatta) are common here in the American West and they are “true bugs” in that sense. But we ordinary mortals use “bug” for anything vaguely insectoid that flies, buzzes, crawls, bites and generally gives us the creeps. We are mostly lucky, those of us that live west of the 100th meridian and north of the Mexican border, in that our semiarid climate reduces the incidence of insect-borne diseases.

The biggest killer of all is the mosquito. One species, Aedes aegypti, is responsible for transmitting the virus which causes dengue fever. Tens of millions of people are infected yearly with dengue and it is fatal in one to five percent of the cases. There are treatments but no cure, and some experimental vaccines are being tested. We don’t hear much about dengue fever in the States as it mostly affects people in tropical and sub-tropical regions. It is endemic in Puerto Rico, for example, and has shown up in the Florida Keys, but places like Brazil and Malaysia have climates more suited to large mosquito populations.

There was a time when yellow fever was a serious problem, even in the States, and one of the most dangerous infectious diseases worldwide. The same Aedes mosquito was responsible. We have a vaccine now, and of course the more obvious solutions of mosquito control like liberal use of insecticides. Draining and clearing swamps, marshes, and other wetlands also reduced the mosquito hordes. This is what we do to combat dengue fever. The problem is that destroying mosquito habitat also means destroying the habitat of all the other wetland plants and animals! And mosquitoes reproduce rapidly and have developed resistance to the insecticides once used to control them. Many people are also concerned about the accumulation of these poisons in the environment, perhaps contaminating the water and food supply, and killing other creatures not targeted, a sort of ecological collateral damage.

Oh, what to do? Like I said here in the semiarid West we don’t have a lot of issues with mosquitoes and their blood-borne pathogens. But in an increasingly global world the spread of tropical diseases to new areas is happening. And with the recent threat of the Zika virus even the US Congress is taking notice. Yes, Zika is spread by the Aedes mosquito. In fact, the US State of Hawaii has declared an emergency over Zika. Makes you want to go out and stomp those little bastards, doesn’t it?

Naturally there are some creative solutions. One is called the Sterile Insect Technique (SIT) which involves releasing factory-altered males into the native population. They are sterile and the mating with females produces no offspring or infertile offspring. This method eliminated the screwworm fly problem in the US decades ago. The usual technique is irradiation of the larvae or pupae. Anti-nukers would probably get on board with this “peaceful use” of atomic energy, don’t you think?

SIT requires huge numbers of such altered insects. The radiation technique is not very precise and the carriers have a number of “lethal genes” that they pass on to the offspring. Dozens of countries have used this practice for decades, however, and SIT has been used effectively against the Mediterranean fruit fly (the “medfly”), for example. That has required the production of about 20 billion sterile males from global insect-rearing facilities per week. Wow! Billions of genetically-altered bugs in the environment! Who knew?

But wait, there’s more. Turns out that a company called Oxitech has created a sterile male Aedes mosquito using genetic engineering. This critter has the advantage of being mostly “normal” and “healthy” and can successfully compete with the “natural” males and pass on their death-gene to the offspring which then fail to grow properly and thus die. Apparently mosquitoes don’t hold up as well to irradiation as flies and other bugs and the SIT strategies weren’t as effective with the weakened individuals being released. So the biotech geniuses came up with a more narrow, gene-specific approach, much like a targeted rather than a broad-spectrum antibiotic. This new lab-made mosquito has been tested in the field and shown to effectively reduce the populations of dengue-carrying Ae. aegypti.

Just this morning I read a story on the BBC website (a marvelous place for news, by the way) which said that the World Health Organization (WHO) backs trials of GM mosquitoes for fighting the Zika virus. We get a lot of GMO talk here in the States but it mostly has to do with crops, particularly corn. We argue over safety and labeling and whatnot. We even have a local Oregon county that has banned the use of GM crops. Folks don’t want to eat GMO-based food, it seems. Recently the FDA approved the production of GM salmon for human consumption. Naturally this has created a lot of controversy as it is a big step up from something like Bovine Growth Hormone which is a product of recombinant DNA (molecular cloning) technology but not an actual modified organism. A number of US retailers will not sell milk from BGH-treated (more properly rBST, recombinant bovine somatotrophin) cows, and there has been a nation-wide pushback against the product.

Much of this is driven by a fear, a legitimate one in my mind, that we have moved too far from our food supply. Only two percent of Americans are farmers and most of us live far from where food is produced. In the rural West farms and ranches are part of the daily scene but city and suburban dwellers are increasingly isolated from their life-sustaining connection to the land. The factory farm is the new model and the mass-production of crops and livestock is the way of the future. After all there could be nine billion mouths to feed by 2050! Americans and citizens of other wealthy countries are more and more interested in organic foods and small-scale, community-based agriculture. While these are welcome trends, they are mostly confined to regions where people have a high standard of living already and thus can be picky about what they eat.

In the poorer regions of the world where Zika and dengue are real threats and where the food supply is not as consistent there is less resistance to new technologies. To be fair, many of these places also lack robust, democratic institutions, human rights, and independent media so even if people had concerns they might not have the means to act on them. Franken-bugs like the genetically engineered mosquito are actually welcome, though, as the disease is a greater threat than the potential environmental impacts. Thus it does not surprise me that WHO has pushed for trials of the new bug (known as OX513A) to fight Zika, as it has the additional benefit of perhaps containing dengue as well.

Technology is not good or bad. The first caveman (or cavewoman) who figured out how to make a knife out of a rock and used it to carve up an animal kill and feed the family could also have just as easily sliced up their neighbor with it and taken their food. People are capable of great acts of love and kindness as well as great acts of treachery. It is easy to mistrust corporations and view their achievements with suspicion. Pick out ten people at random and I’ll bet at least six of them will have a very negative view of Monsanto, for example. But that should not blind us to the remarkable advancements that have come as well. Dengue and Zika aren’t coming to the State of Jefferson anytime soon so I doubt we have to worry about OX513A “infecting” our local mosquitoes. Not that we have all that many!

Despite the fears of Franken-crops and Franken-fish and Franken-bugs the innovations are not going away. We haven’t blown ourselves up with our nuclear weapons yet, although we certainly could, and I don’t think we’ll go all Jurassic Park on ourselves, either. Not to say that we aren’t capable of messing things up, we are. It’s just that the solutions to global problems like hunger and disease are complex and multi-faceted and will require an integrated approach with a variety of tools at our disposal. So I’m rooting for OX513A. I hope those little buggers wipe out Ae. aegypti. I know that technological solutions alone are insufficient, and there are dangers in relying on such “fixes” when much of the problem is social, economic, and institutional. But damn if this isn’t a fantastic opportunity to learn as well as a real chance to help those who are much worse off than we are!

p.s. Just for the record, I’d eat a GM salmon. Maybe the new genes will give me some cool mutation like super-powers (or at least a better jump shot). Just kidding, I know it won’t do that. Seriously, I don’t worry about GMO in my food supply. I can think of a hell of lot more frightening things than that.

This is my least favorite season. What season is that you ask? Election season. As I’ve accumulated years on this earth I have come to loathe politics. When I was younger I eagerly engaged in debates and discussions about the issues of the day. I thought I was smart and well-read and had something to say. But I could never really shake my old man’s favorite line: “opinions are like assholes, everybody’s got one.” Yeah, I know it was not HIS line, countless others have said it, but it fit my dad’s personality to a T. He had a boatload of opinions that he was happy to holler about and he was an asshole, to boot. I loved my father, but he really was a difficult sort.

Anyway, the longer I spent listening to people’s opinions the less I became interested. I’m happy you think cucumber-ginger ice cream is the greatest flavor on earth but I’ll stick with chocolate chip. I mean, really? Do I give a shit? No! And when I say I don’t give a shit that does not mean I disapprove. If you like that stuff, go for it. Just don’t shove it down my throat. In fact, I am cool with whatever floats your boat. I like happy people and if you want to do tae-bo at the crack of dawn with a gym full of other sweaty folks, more power to you. I’ll be sipping Peet’s and eating oatmeal because that’s how I roll.

Back to politics. Politics, for me, is intellectual death. The point of politics is to get votes. To get votes, you say what you think people want to hear. You keep it simple, and you lie if necessary, and it is almost always necessary to lie. Now I’ve got no beef with that. Really, lying is part of life. I’m a big boy. I accept that ugly fact. Advertising is lying and this country’s economy is built almost entirely upon advertising. Only a fool or a sociopath would look you in the eye and tell you with utmost certainty that his mass-produced take-out pizza is better than the other guy’s mass-produced take-out pizza.

That’s politics. Passing out the verbal equivalent of indistinguishable mass-produced take-out pizza slices. And claiming “mine tastes better, really!” I’m a good citizen. I obey the law, mostly, and stay out trouble. I don’t take what isn’t mine and I don’t mess with other people. I drive defensively and I use my turn signals. I pay my taxes and I vote. I don’t mind voting for “the lesser of two evils” and I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. I just don’t want to hear it anymore. I’m done. There’s nothing new, just the same old recycled jibber-jabber. My mind dies when I watch a political event, be it a speech, a convention, or a debate.

But this is the season. We get to elect a new El Presidente this November and by golly there’s a host o’folks chasing that dream. They are going to talk a lot and say very little. And all of us will line up this way or that, get in our tribes and holler and wave our banners, and try to stay friends through it all. But “messaging” hurts my brain. It’s bad for me. I don’t need and I don’t want “talking points.” I don’t see the world that way. I don’t think in “pro” and “con.” Those are just mental straitjackets. I see a continuum, colors that grade into each other like the spectrum, like a rainbow. I have a hard time with black and white despite my fondness for those kinds of movies.

I’m not a complete fool. I know some of those characters out there hoping to be POTUS are dangerous fuck-ups. I’m sure we could disagree readily on which ones. And one of them might win and fuck things up. I’m picking the one I think has the least chance of really blowing chow. I suppose a lot of the other voters think along the same lines. In the end, we’ll probably get someone not-too-great but not-too-horrible either and we’ll muddle along, much like before. I think we might be victims of our own expectations, that is, we hope for far more from our candidates than they can actually deliver.

I suppose I’m thankful for living in a democracy. Actually, it’s a republic, but we don’t seem to call it that nowadays. We get reminded all the time about the superiority of democracy but we forget that it’s a messy business. But, like taking out the garbage, I’m willing to do it. Taking out the garbage doesn’t kill brain cells, however. And if I want dead brain cells, I’ll whip up another cocktail.

Cheers!

It was Headbanger Heaven at our local watering hole last night. Metal music isn’t really my thing, but I knew a few of the youngsters performing so I figured I had to check them out. Four bands rocked the house for a few hours and I managed to sit at the bar and nurse a few brews while my senses were assaulted. Saw several friends, mostly former students, and got to see a real-live albeit miniature mosh pit. It’s been thirty-plus years since I was anywhere near a mosh pit and those were at punk shows in the Bay Area when I was a college kid. My ears are still ringing but that’s a common complaint for me, they ring most of the damn time. I should have brought ear plugs.

I don’t really like the throat cancer-growling that passes for vocals with these fellows but I do have to say they are mostly strong musicians and the guitarists could lay down some licks. The booming double-kick bass drumming seems to define the genre and you could feel those vibrations deep in the viscera. Speaking of genre, I don’t know if it’s hardcore, thrash, speed metal or what-have-you, I couldn’t tell the difference but I’m sure the lads would have told me if I’d asked.

What I liked the most was not the music so much, even though two of the bands were noticeably good, but the passionate fan base. People came out ready to party and have fun. Pints and shots, mostly Bud Light and tequila, flew across the bar and the crowd got good and drunk and hollered every time a singer dropped the f-bomb, which was a lot. The mood was upbeat and cheerful despite what seems to me somber and angry music. And getting intoxicated people all fired up seems like a good way to have bad things happen. I left at the end of the show so I can’t say if anything bad happened at the end of the night, but it was all good when I was there. Everyone was too busy enjoying themselves and cheering on their boys to have a problem. The headliner act is local and last night was the first date on their inaugural tour. The folks running the bar did a great job slaking the thirst of the army of metal-heads and the event went smoothly as the bands swapped out quickly and got to playing straight away.

I won’t be switching to black leather and boots any time soon. And I won’t speculate on the sociology of metal. People like it, I can tell you that. The performers were all serious about their craft and made the most of their stage time, giving it their all. Like I said it ain’t really my thing but I needed a dose of something new and original and it suited me just fine.

I read a blog called Wasatch Snow Forecast. Powderhounds who are meteorologists. Or meteorologists who are powderhounds. I don’t know. Might just be one guy. In fact, I think it is. So this Utah powderhound meteorologist writes about the Wasatch Range, weather, and powder skiing. Scientific, but personal, written by a serious enthusiast of both endeavors. And he likes to call the powder days. That is, predict the arrival of the snow as well as its quality, and about timing the skiing. Bluebird conditions, deep and soft, that sort of thing. This blog isn’t the only one devoted to Utah pow. There are others. But that’s not the point. The point is that WSF had this to say about our home:

The Pacific Northwest was a barren wasteland last year at this time.

So true!  But that’s not the point either. The point is that things are looking up. I’ve made seven trips to Mt. Ashland in the last two weeks and got five great skiing days out of those trips. I could have skied another five days but I was fussy and only went when there was fresh snow. But there are piles of the stuff up there. Enough so that there will be skiing for some time. I prefer to ski the freshly fallen stuff, the elusive pow-pow, so I’ll be awaiting more storms. After this weekend the schoolkids will be back in school and their parents will be back at work so the slopes will have fewer folks. But the fact that so much has come already is the real good news. Here’s a visual:

Purple is good.

We look good.

Let’s hope it continues.

Happy New Year!

The storms came and the snow fell and the mountain was covered. So covered, in fact, that they could not open due to a power outage and a nearly-impassable road. But open, eventually, they did. This past Monday Mount Ashland ran one—just one—chairlift and skiers from all over thronged to the gates. The snow was deep and fluffy and was cut up in a hurry by the skiing-starved hordes. My buddy and I managed to find some good stuff. It was hard going for me at first as it always takes me a while to find my legs. The surface was soft and ski-able but inconsistent and well-churned. As the day progressed I managed to find a rhythm and got in some good sequences. The last run was a trip to The Void where it was waist-deep. I got stuck at the top in a quicksand-like patch but dug myself out for what was almost a swim down the steep pitch to just above the parking lot. I missed the spot I wanted and had to traverse over a vertical stretch before finding an outlet. Two quick turns on the steep wall and I slid down to the snow-covered pavement and skied it back to my truck. Glorious!

We are going to take another stab at it tomorrow morning. Maybe this winter will finally give us the ski season we’ve been waiting for. And perhaps the snows will finally give us all some relief from the drought. Nature is a harsh mistress. No guarantees. But a good start, to be sure.

Here’s a link to the webcam on Mt. A. Nice, huh?

That’s not a snow report, that’s a dull blade shoved in deep. Mt. Ashland has a veneer of snow on her slopes, nothing more. At least two feet of the white stuff, preferably three, is required for skiing. Another winter is upon us and although it is early things are once again starting slowly. Too slowly for my taste. Last year was a disaster and that followed a year that was actually worse. If good things come in threes, what do bad things come in?

I love winter. I love cold weather. Jackets, hats, gloves, scarves, thick socks—these are the things that make me happy. Piles of snow make me even happier. It’s been plenty cold here in the State of Jefferson but there’s certainly not been enough moisture in the air. On our drive south last week we drove over Black Butte Summit in the snow. We followed the plows on the interstate as they scraped the measly few inches off the blacktop in front of us. Since then? Nothing. Bupkes. Nada. Oh, the forecast says we’ll get a drop or two later this week but nothing to get excited about.

In California we talk about drought all the time. That’s because it doesn’t rain at all for half the year. Just about all the precipitation that will fall in the state will fall between November and April. From May to October we are mostly dry. And half the damn state is desert or damn close. I tell people we will always have drought. We will always demand more water for whatever purposes we want it for and our demand will always exceed our supply. But it can be better some years and worse in others and that is mostly due to snowpack. In fact, the entire California water system is built on snowpack. During the dry season the snow melts and keeps the flow of fresh water coming. No snowpack, no renewal. No replenishing the streams. No refilling the reservoirs. No recharging the aquifers. That’s what we have been experiencing lately. Unless we get a proper snowpack this winter we will suffer again next year.

The water-hungry can be forgiven for their obsession with El Niño. I’m not sure any of us can adequately describe an El Niño, but we will babble on about it and imbue the term with prayerful longing because we are desperate for relief. The rains will come at some point and most of the state will sigh contentedly, sure that it means the drought is over. But the high country folk will look at the snowpack and if it isn’t thickening steadily they will sigh resignedly, convinced once again that the gods of winter have cursed us.

And that’s where I am right now. In the dark heart of winter. I sit, watch, and wait for the storm clouds. I long for masses of saturated Arctic air to descend upon our little valley and the peaks that surround us. I need a sign that such will happen soon or I will be be weeping and gnashing my teeth, wailing and lamenting the cruel and capricious weather deities.

I’ll leave you with this. It’s a map of the West with current snowpack numbers compared to the 1981-2010 median for each region. Green, blue, and purple are good. Red, yellow, and brown are bad. I see a lot of bad. Tell me something good is on the way.

You can’t “Drill, Baby, Drill” without a few complications and one of the biggest is the low cost of natural gas. We are swimming in the stuff and it’s not always worth it—economically—to collect it and transport it from the wellhead to wherever it needs to go. Consequently we burn a lot of it off. Seems nuts, right? This is a high-quality, relatively clean fuel source and we waste it to the tune of 288 billion cubic feet annually. Is that a lot? The US consumes about 27 trillion cubic feet in a year so the amount that’s leaked, vented, and flared (burned off) represents about one percent. Of that 288 billion about 129 billion cubic feet or roughly 45% comes from North Dakota alone.

On the global scale the natural gas waste is about 5 trillion cubic feet meaning the US is responsible for about 5%-6% of that total. That number is growing, again mostly because of North Dakota. I’m not picking on the Peace Garden/Flickertail/Rough Rider State. We all burn oil. And when you drill for oil you often get gas. And in places where there is an infrastructure to get the gas you get the gas. Where there isn’t you vent it or burn it off. Turns out that methane is a worse greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide so burning it may be the better choice. Regardless, it’s a terrible waste. Here’s part of the reason why (from geology.com):

It costs money to move the stuff. Natural gas (which is mostly methane) is not very dense. It can’t be moved through a pipeline unless it is compressed. It can’t be shipped unless it is liquefied. It’s also quite combustible. This is why gasoline and diesel remain such valuable transportation fuels: they are relatively dense and thus relatively easy to move from one place to another. And they are a lot less combustible, especially diesel. Gases mix with air and ignite easier and burn faster than liquids. Automotive gasoline (petrol) is more volatile than diesel (it fumes easier and makes vapors more readily) and thus is more dangerous to store and carry. This is why we transport crude oil (denser and less volatile than its refined by-products) long distances and refine it closer to the markets. Natural gas also has to be processed—have moisture and impurities removed and any other useful hydrocarbons separated. These things not only cost money but require particular engineering solutions.

Even so, a big rich country like ours ought to not waste a valuable energy resource. In Saudi Arabia they’ve invested billions in schemes to recover the natural gas associated with their oil fields. What they can do, we can do. The difference of course is that their stuff is all nationalized and there is little separation between oil executives and energy ministers. In the States we like the “free market” to make its own rules and we tend to scream and holler about government involvement. Unless of course the government cleans the air, protects the water, and stabilizes prices!

North Dakota, particularly with the emergence of the Bakken shale as a major supplier of crude and now natural gas, has a flaring problem. The infrastructure is not there to take advantage of this abundant fossil fuel. Texas, for example, has a more well-developed gas recovery system in place and does not have the flaring waste issues we see in the north. Naturally there is a tug-of-war going on between the developers and the regulators and at some point the market and the populace and the governments involved will figure something out. Just how much we’ll burn off in the meantime remains to be seen.