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  1.   The last weekend of April is the time for my annual pilgrimage to Philadelphia to visit family and attend the Penn Relays.    Back in the late 1960's father took me to my first visit to Penn when I was nine years old.   My mother went into labor with my brother that day, and dad had to abruptly leave to be by her side.  This was 1967, and I walked back from Franklin Field to 30th Street station.    

    Getting a ticket back then was easy.  You go up to the ticket booth, ask for a ticket, slide them some bills.   You get on the train, a conductor punches the ticket and that was that.  Simple. 

    It's not so simple these days.   SEPTA must have worked extra hard to make getting a ticket an absolute nightmare.   Here I document the multiple travails of getting in and out of Philadelphia from the suburbs. 

    Now that I live in Massachusetts, I take Amtrak down to 30th Street Station and find my way on SEPTA to get to Bryn Mawr where I stay with my mother for the weekend.  



    Thursday afternoon, I arrived at 30th St. station from Boston, put my bags up at the storage counter to attend the first day at Penn.   When I got back to 30th St., I went up to the SEPTA area and waited for an interminable amount of time in front of the ticket booth.   There were only two people ahead of me at the booth, and it seemed inordinately complicated.   One man in front of me just wanted a ticket and had the exact change in hand, but the woman behind the counter could not get a ticket to him.   She kept pushing buttons on her computer screen, but it was non-responsive.   Eventually, she directed him to an automatic ticket machine down the concourse.   I was next up, but the woman told me that their computer system was having problems and also directed me to the automatic ticket vending machine. 

    Now, I had some thought that I could just buy at ticket on the train, but the platforms were protected by automatic turnstiles that require a magnetic ticket swipe to get through.   The turnstiles were also guarded by three or four minders to discourage gate jumpers.   

    So, I got in line for the automatic ticket-vending machine.   This took even longer as my hapless fellow travelers tried to negotiate the complexities of the devilish vending device.     There was even an employee whose job seemed to be solely devoted to helping people like me get a ticket out of the thing.  

    When it got to my turn, the automatic-ticket-machine-minder helped me push the buttons.   I said that I was going to Bryn Mawr, but the machine asked me what 'zone' I was going to.   I had no idea what zone that was, and there was no map or way of figuring out what zone that was, but the employee helpfully told me that it was zone 3.   I wanted to get multiple tickets, but this wasn't an option.   I could only get a single 'quick trip' ticket.  Back in the day, you could get as many tickets as you want from an actual human being.  I finally got a ticket after about 20 minutes of fussing about, and missed the train I was hoping to catch, and waited for the next one. 

    That was the first trip on Thursday afternoon.   

    The next morning, was going to catch yet another SEPTA train into 30th Street.   I went into the train station up to the ticket booth with a man behind the grate.  I figured I could some tickets for multiple rides.    The man behind the counter informed me that he doesn't sell tickets.  He only sells automatic swipes for regular commuters, but nothing for someone like me who was just visiting.   He told me that I could buy a ticket on the train.   

    I later found out that multiple people made the same mistake as I did: that you could buy a ticket at the ticket counter.    

    I did get a ticket from the conductor on the train, but he couldn't take cash, only a credit card.   So, I got a ticket with the magnetic swipe on it and this did allow me to get out through the automatic turnstile.   However, as I was going through, some people next to me with luggage struggled to get through the turnstiles with their suitcases, and one of the turnstile minders rushed up to admonish them that they weren't using the turnstiles properly.

    Friday at Penn was wet and rainy, but there were some dramatic races.   I made my way back to 30th Street Station.   Chastened by my previous experience at the ticket booth, I returned to the automatic machine.  Again, the automatic ticket-machine minder helped me purchase a ticket, and now I knew that I needed a 'zone 3' ticket.   Unfortunately, it took me five tries to get the machine to accept my credit card, and I again missed the train I had hoped for.  

    That was Friday.   

    Saturday morning, since I knew I couldn't get a ticket at the ticket booth with a human behind the counter, I boarded the train.   The conductor seemed busy and instructed me to get a ticket at the automatic machine at 30th Street.   I asked "but isn't that on the wrong side of the turnstile?"   He said that no, there is a machine on the inside of the turnstile, and I needed the ticket to swipe my way through.   

    So, I got off the train, and had to wait in line for the automatic ticket machine, which didn't have a minder this time.   I felt somewhat relieved that I wasn't the only person confused by the machine and waited in line.   When I finally got to the machine, it wouldn't accept my credit card, and kept turning me down.   Somewhat desperate, I then turned to try cash with the machine, and got some Susan B. Anthony dollar coins back, along with the coveted swipe to let me get through the turnstiles.  

    Saturday afternoon, I returned to 30th St. Station.   At this point, I had allocated what I thought was a generous amount of time to catch my train.   When I got to the SEPTA platform area, I saw that the human-ticket booth was closed, and again went to the automatic ticket machine.    

    Taped on the face of the ticket machine was a hand-lettered sign that read "No credit cards, cash only".  It was the only working machine in the area.   I pushed the buttons.   There was not only one, but two minders for the automatic ticket machine.    I got to the point where I put in cash, and I tried my twenty dollar bill, which the machine promptly rejected.   I tried again.  Rejected.   The minder said that I wasn't putting in properly, so I said "well, you try it."    The second minder suggested he could try for me.  As I was about to hand him my twenty, the first minder said, "No, you can't touch money from a customer."  But the second minder ignored this and tried to put my twenty dollar bill into the slot.   On multiple tries, it kept getting rejected.   

    The second minder asked if I had another bill, but I only had a two dollar bill and the fare was $5.25.   Finally, exasperated, I asked "how on earth am I supposed to catch a train?"   So, they directed me to the automatic turnstile minder and asked her to let me through.   I promised I would pay the conductor on the train, and she waved a special card to open the turnstile for me.    So, at this point, it took three, count-em, THREE human beings to navigate the supposedly automatic system to get a ticket.   Although it may be obvious, but back in the day, it only took one person to sell you a ticket. 

    I just barely made the train to Bryn Mawr.   I don't even think I saw a conductor on the train, and basically got a free ride.

    I honestly don't know what SEPTA is thinking, but they managed to take what should have been a simple transaction and turned it into a labor intensive time-sink.


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  2. Peru


    Time travel back to March 12, 2020:  Karen and I were scheduled to get on a plane to Chile to see Charlotte in Santiago and travel on to Chilloe for a brief vacation.    The Covid-19 pandemic got in the way, and we cancelled.   For some reason, a faint hope emerged about traveling to Machu Picchu and Easter Island in December 2020.   

    Nope, not a hope, not that year.   

    December 2021?   Peru was still shut down, as was Easter Island, BUT Argentina was opening up, so we spent time there.  

    April 2022 rolled around.   Harvard had gone to a 'masks not necessary' policy, and was rolling back Covid testing.   It seemed like there was some normalcy on the horizon with Covid, so Karen commenced to schedule a long anticipated trifecta of Machu Picchu+the Atacama Desert+Easter Island. 

    This was not trivial with a rotating cast of characters and plane flights.   At any one moment, there were eight people in our entourage.   Myself, I counted ten airplane flights, including connections.   Do connections count?   YES.   They can be missed, or the airlines can change flights and screw up connections.   

    The trip was scheduled over the winter 2022-2023 holiday period.    As the appointed lift-off hour approached, a major challenge arose.     Our first stop was in Peru.   The President was arrested under corruption charges, and protests erupted all over - particularly in the southern provinces where Machu Picchu was located.   

    A video showed the Cusco airport, gateway to Machu Picchu, with smoke billowing out and police dept. motocycles racing to the scene.  Six people were killed in clashes with the military.   Six airports in southern Peru were closed, including Cusco.     Roads were blocked.   The train route to Machu Picchu was blocked by protesters.   This was by December 12th and we were scheduled to leave December 19th. 




    Video of Cusco Airport approximately Dec. 12.

    I tried to get various reads on the situation in Peru.   Most of the people who were either living in Peru, or had lived in Peru were of the opinion:  "Stay Away!!".    Our travel agent was a bit more sanguine.  She said that the people she organize with had seen this before and it will likely blow over.   My daughter who had seen unrest in Chile thought that it would likewise blow over.   We did a sampling/polling of people scheduled to go on WhatsApp, and I was the only one who didn't want to go.   I was out-voted.   Given that the plans were fairly complicated, intertwined and such, my only thought was that the Xmas holiday might cause people to quiet down and spend time with their families.  This was my hope.   It turned out to be more or less correct.     Now, as of this writing on January 19th, a month later, unrest has returned and the Cusco airport is again closed.  

    We flew to Lima on the 19th, getting in late in the day.   My daughter Charlotte was already at the airport and waited for us.   Lima is a city of approximately 11 million and is divided into some 40-odd districts, each with its own mayor.   After a drive to the airport, we went out to dinner at a restaurant with 'typical' Peruvian fare.   I use quote because we must have eaten ceviche' nearly every day of our trip, and I've added this to my 'must cook' items.

    There was a day trip in Lima, where we saw a memorial to over 500 healthcare workers who perished in Covid-19.    The time we had held out small hope for a trip to Machu Picchu in December 2020 was a nightmare for many localities - no real hope on the immediate horizon for a vaccine and the daily challenge of dealing with illness and death in the hospitals. 

    Memorial to healthcare workers who died from Covid in Lima

    We visited the house of the artist Victor Delfin, who is fairly famous.  He got his start in NYC but is resident in Lima.  He's still alive and Karen purchased some items from him. 

    Painting from house of Victor Delfin

    From the vantage point of high up in the hotel, we could see a train of waves far out into the Pacific of all nearly the same wavelength - presumably kicked up by a distant storm. 



    The next day we flew to the Cusco airport.   On account of the unrest, a normally jammed plane was maybe 1/3 full. 


    We were fortunate that there was a lull in the unrest in Cusco.   In fact, we heard of a 'truce'.   My major hope of the Xmas holidays being a period of calm was realized.   After landing, we had a day of acclimatization, and mostly toured around a region called the Sacred Valley, which is the river valley that leads to Machu Picchu.  We toured some Inca remains, including a working salt distillery - where salty water from an underground stream was channeled into pans that were naturally evaporated. 


    "Super hikers" as we became known for taking the three day hike that included camping.

    We stayed one night in the Sol y Luna resort/hotel complex.   There were 43 units at the hotel, and only five were occupied.   We were four out of the five.   Normally, they'd be full at that time of the year.  There were a ton of cancellations, clearly. 

    The next day, we embarked on a three day hike.   We had originally planned to hike the Inca Trail, which is the trail leading directly to Machu Picchu, but there was a problem with the porter union and the government.   The porters schlepped people's gear along, and the tourists got to just carry day packs.   There was the start back of some Inca trail hiking, but given the unrest.   We did have the chance to do a one day hike of the "Inca Express," which hooked up with the last bit of the Inca trail. 

    As an approximation to the Inca Trail, we had another hike lined up with three days and two nights of hiking.   This was the Ancascohca Trek, which started out in a relatively dry area, crossed over a number of passes, including one at 15,000 feet, and then descended through a cloud forest into the Sacred Valley.  

    We had a guide, Wilfredo, who was a talkative chap and very enamored by the fitting stones carved by the Incas.  The hike was augmented by a horse train to carry most of the gear, and we just had day packs.   This is more or less called "glamping" - or glamorous camping.   











    We hiked to a pass at 15,000 feet called Chi Chusqasa.    Now, that's pretty darn high.   Hiking uphill at that altitude caused a lot of huffing and puffing, but take it slow.   There was something remarkable about the hike up to the top, however.  There were potato fields way up there, perhaps 14,000 feet.   Our guide remarked that the farmers kept planting potatoes higher and higher, presumably in response to climate change.    From the pass at 15,000 feet, in the distance I could see the outline of sheep and shepherds on a ridge that I was guessing was maybe 16,000 feet.   

    We dropped down a river valley called the Silque and camped at a place called Ancascocha at about 13,000 feet.      It was Christmas eve and our guide Wilfredo broke out some champagne.  Dinner was inside an abandoned school-house, which still had books on the shelf. 











    The next day, Christmas Day, we continued down the Silque River.   As we departed camp, we ran into an older lady who lived in a nearby stone house.   Wilfredo spoke back and forth with her in Quechua, which is the major language in those parts.    As we went down the Silque, we were entering a cloud forest.   We passed one guy on his way up the hill carrying a fairly hefty load and he was practically running.  I was amazed what kind of conditioning he must have had.   We were maybe at 12,000 feet at the time.   

    It rained for most of the downhill hike, but we were treated to the sight of amazing orchids.  Another aspect about the Silque River valley was that the sides were very steep.  I'd gaze ahead and couldn't imagine how there was a trail that actually made it through.  "No way there's a trail that goes through there."    But, go through it did, and there were no real scary sections - e.g. some very steep scree or something like that. 

    When we got to our last camp outside of a town called Camicancha at 9000 feet, most of the clothes I had on were utterly soaked.   That's the problem with rain gear - you might be covered up, but you can sweat a lot underneath them.   Anyway, I noticed that there were some guy-ropes for tying down the tents there were unused and read in my tent, listening to the rain on the top, reading, and having my clothes dry out on the ropes I appropriated from outside. 







    That was the end of the super-hiker saga.   We piled into a van which took us to the town of Ollantaytambo and met back up with Karen, Marion, and Renee.   There, we waited on the train that goes all the way to Aqua Calientes, the town a the base of the mountain that Machu Picchu reside.  

    One train came by in the other direction and some of the Inca Trail porters came off with huge loads on their back.    A small band played at the train station.  All-in-all, it was a pleasant wait.    Our train arrived, and we got off at km 104, which is the start of the so-called Inca Express Trail.   It's a one-day hike up to Inti Punku, the Gate of the Sun, and then a drop down into Machu Picchu itself.   It does pick up to the actual Inca Trail at one point and follow it.   Amazingly, the Trail itself is paved.   Remarkable. 

    When we got to the top of Machu Picchu proper, it was deserted.   This was a combination of effects: the tourist traffic was way down on account of the unrest, and we were there late enough in the day that anyone that was there already departed, so we got a nice view of Machu Picchu deserted.  









    We stayed at the Belmond Lodge, which is right next to Machu Picchu.    While some group of the super hikers decided to hike the very very steep mountain of Machu Picchu, I decided to have as much of a full day looking around the deserted city.    It was super impressive. 

    What was Machu Picchu?   That was the question that I had on my mind, and yet, no one has a satisfactory explanation.   One aspect of Inca culture was a worship of the sun.  That we know.  So, there is some thought that this was a refuge or second home for the Inca - the person at the top of the power pyramid.   Although Machu Picchu is actually lower than Cusco, the 'center' or 'capital' of the Inca Empire, it was on high ground compared to its surroundings, with the Urubamba River winding a large loop around the base.   So, perhaps the height of Machu Picchu put it close to the sun. 

    Another interesting tidbit is that Machu Picchu was 'discovered' by the American explorer Hiram Bingham.   The story that's often told is that he was searching for a fabled lost city and eventually got to the base of Machu Picchu in 1911, where local farmers said that there was a city up on the hilltop.   He found someone to guide him there.  And...There it was.   With funds from the National Geographic and elsewhere, he returned the following year and went on a bit campaign to pull out all the trees and vegetation that had grown over it.      

    Now, the construction of the buildings is fascinating, as the guide pointed out.   The bases are in an Inca-classic tight fitting stone formation, but the tops are much more of a stone-and-mortar construction. There were some impressive water-diversion moats and tunnels to drain the complex.   

    Our guide pointed out the sun temple, where one window pointed at the Sun Gate - supposedly the southernmost point the sun reached in the austral summer, and the other window pointed as a gap in the mountains where the run rose in the austral winter.   To my eyes, the two windows were spaced too far apart, but I couldn't get into the sun temple proper to take any bearings.   Yes, I did have my compass with me.  












    After our exploration of Machu Picchu, we took the bus down to Aquas Calientes and caught the train back to Ollantaytambo, where we piled into the van again to take us back to Cusco.   We had the next day to tour around Cusco and see, in particular, the remains of the palace of the Incas, Sacsayhuaman or Saqsaywaman - either way, pronounced like "Sexy Woman".  Our guide Wilfredo seemed to be highly enamored of the way the stones fit so closely together and even seemed to see animals in the stone formations, which strained credulity.  



    So, that was Peru.   We flew directly from Cusco to Santiago Chile the next day.  The airport in Cusco had a regiment of soldiers walking around with automatic weapons, some kind of grenades, body armor, you name it.   As we taxied on the runway, you could see them in a formation with even snare drums, in front of their commander.   This was a reminder of the threat of unrest that later descended on the city again.   It seems we hit the sweet spot over the holidays. 

    Atacama

    From Santiago, we flew to Calama (Chile).   There's a regular flight there, not only for tourists, but also for miners who go there.   The major claims to fame for the Atacama desert is mining and astronomy (data mining, I guess).   There's copper and lithium in the desert.    

    For my admittedly subjective experience, Atacama was less interesting as a destination than the area around Cusco.   Some highlights were the brilliant sunsets, an impressive geyser field, the tall volcanoes on the border with Peru and Bolivia.   

    One amusing trip was a bike ride to a very briny pond.   It has ten times the salt content of sea water, and the buoyancy is impressive.    I recall that you don't have to tread water at all, and you would have to fight to stay vertical, and then let go and feel your body rotate naturally into either a prone or supine position, depending on some purely random factors.   







    Easter Island

    The flight to Easter Island is 5 hours from Santiago.   Easter Island, or Rapa Nui, is a long way from anywhere.   Its isolation made it one of the first islands to lose contact with the rest of the Polynesian culture as long distance voyaging began to contract around 1350 or so.   

    When Westerners first made contact with Rapa Nui, they found most of the famous stone heads turned over - face down, in effect.    There is much speculation about what caused the transition from the stone-head culture to something different, but some of it centers around climate change.  

    The start of long distance Polynesian voyaging and end of it corresponds roughly to the Medieval Climate Anomaly, when temperatures globally changed, along with rainfall patterns.   This period was roughly 900 to 1350 AD.   Around 1350, Europe encountered the Little Ice Age.  

    The speculation was that the stone heads were a kind of talisman of elders that stood watch over villages along the coast of Easter Island.   When the 'magic' of the elders seemed to disappear, the stone heads were toppled.  


    The quarry for the stone heads is a favorite destination on the island, and there are instances of stone heads in various states of construction.    Elsewhere on the island, there are locales where the stone heads have been resurrected into a vertical position.   There's been much debate about how they were moved from the quarry to their final position, and I won't go into the minute details of this.   

    The Norwegian Thor Heyerdahl got deep into the action of Easter Island.   He advocated an 'accidental drift' theory of the populating of the Polynesian islands.  In this version, South American peoples, just drifted in the trade winds and west-bound currents.   Some supporting evidence includes the adoption of sweet potatoes from South America by Polynesian peoples, and some DNA evidence. 

    One of our guides in Peru went so far as to suggest that the stone heads on Easter Island were transported by the Incas on rafts.    For me, this strained credibility, given that there was an obvious quarry on the island, and just getting the stone heads from the quarry to a site on the coast would have been a huge chore.  

    Heyerdahl did a lot of amateur archeological work on Easter Island in the 1950's and seemed to have driven by confirmation bias to find what he wanted to that supported the accidental drift hypothesis.   




    One of my 'stay away' correspondents on the question of traveling to Peru has a son who lives on Easter Island, Felipe Custer.    Somewhat out of the blue, Felipe e-mailed me and invited us to an informal cocktail party.   Now, Easter Island had been shut down for most of the covid pandemic.   I can't even imagine being confined to the relatively small island for two years and change.   But, in some ways, the isolation is truly a thing for the island.   

    In my understanding, there were tons of tourists visiting, but the tourist visits are only now slowly rebounding.   

    I can imagine that folks would crave contact with outsiders.   Filipe did not explicitly say this, but most of us were having a bit of cabin-fever with each other.  We'd been in contact for a couple of weeks with each other, and having a break with others came as a welcome relief.    






    While Thor Heyerdahl was a bit of an amateur, there was a more serious archaeologist, Edmundo Edwards who came to Easter Island in the late 1950's.    He was much more meticulous and was appropriately skeptical of jumping to conclusions.   I knew of Edmundo from contacts in the Harvard alumni circles.   He offered to give me a cooks tour of lesser known spots on the island, and I took him up on the offer.  


    Edmundo showed me some lesser-known petroglyphs.   One was a fish - likely a tuna next to a shark.  Another was an octopus.  



    In return for the 'insider' scoop from Edmundo, I gave a talk for some local people about my investigations into wave piloting in the Marshall Islands.    Edmundo gave me an autographed copy of his book,  When the Universe Was an Island, about his investigations.

    What happened after the statues were toppled and the mojo of the stone heads didn't seem to work?  There was the emergence of the culture of the birdman.   In this culture, there was a yearly competition for able-bodied youths to secure the first hatched egg from migratory birds on a nearby pair of rocks.  The jumping off point was a large inactive crater filled with water.  

    Some of us hiked up to the crater and got a good look at the rocky islets as part of the birdman culture.  Whoever first brought back an intact egg became the chief of the island for a year. 


    Me, getting tired of group poses, I decided to take center stage.  Birdlike. 



    After Easter Island, it was back to Santiago.   As part of my contacts with Harvard alumni, I agreed to give a talk to a general audience that was centered around my latest book on the connections between spatial and social cognition.   It was 'in conversation' with the astronomer Cesar Fuentes, who is a Harvard alum.   

    Cesar Fuentes, Ellen Guidera, and me in Santiago

    That's more or less a wrap, if you've gotten this far.   What I'm left with are some great memories, and also a few culinary challenges.   I really really really need to experiment with ceviche.   Beyond that there is a dish with razor clams that was vaguely reminiscent of Coquilles St. Jaques, where the clams are served on the half-shell with cheese melted over.    So....something to look forward to. 





     
















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  3.  Fare You Well

     We had a farewell concert for Carlos: our fiddle player and singer. Carlos and my son James got to know each other at high school and have been buddies and music buddies since then. They played in a talent show together. Over time, they aggregated into a band that I began playing banjo with around 2018. We had a number of performances, including our farewell concert. 

     Whenever I lose a regular musician pal, it’s a heartache. Response to music is inherently emotional, and parting with a regular music buddy leaves a gaping hole – not just the musical content, but the attendant emotional content. 

     Back in 1990 when my spouse Karen was pregnant with James, I decided to take up banjo and bought a cheap one on sale in a local music store in the Chicago suburbs where we were living. I got a “How to Play Banjo” book by Earl Scruggs and immediately tried to learn Foggy Mountain Breakdown, but that was a huge mistake. It’s like expecting to sound like Eric Clapton the first time you touch an electric guitar. It was torture for Karen to listen to me practice, at least for the first year. I took lessons and slowly improved, even attending my first bluegrass festival on my way to Boston in 1993 to take a job at Harvard. I tried to do some field picking, but I had a ways to go compared to the gun-slinging banjo pickers I met.

    When we settled in the Boston suburbs, James was three years old. Karen enrolled him in a preschool program in the basement under a church that we later joined. 

    Bluegrass with Brian (roughly 1996-2003)

    James had friends in pre-school – one was Clayton. Karen arranged play dates for the two of them. Over time I got to know Clayton’s mom and dad, Alden and Brian. Brian had gone to the Berkeley School of Music in Boston. From my recollection, he had mostly played jazz guitar.

    I introduced Brian to the bluegrass style of acoustic guitar and he took to it like a duck to water. We started to jam and practice together. I mostly played banjo, but sometimes guitar. 

     Brian and I ended up developing a kind of ‘brothers duet’ style of singing and playing. I’d usually sing lead and Brian would do the harmony above, typically a fifth. We had solos in our songs and it all had a good bluegrassy feel to it. Over time we developed a repertoire that was bluegrass standards and fiddle tunes.

    We started going to bluegrass festivals, bringing James and Clayton along. There were two that were regulars for us: Thomas Point Bluegrass Festival outside of Brunswick Maine, and the other was called Greyfox, in upstate New York.

    There are some great memories from that period. Once at Thomas Point, some guys from the Vermont mountains came by to listen to us jam. There were smoking weed and drinking some clear looking whiskey out of a jar. Also, missing a few teeth. There was a younger guy with them who seemed a bit embarrassed about being in their company. We were playing Going Down the Road Feeling Bad, and I launched into my solo, whereupon one of the older guys jabbed the younger guy in the ribs and pointed at me, saying “you hear that, son, that’s how this music is supposed to be played”. That was perhaps the best compliment around – toothless moonshining hillbillies praising my banjo picking.

    Another time at Thomas Point, a woman came by to listen in on us playing next to the campfire. At some gap in the music, she asked if we had CD’s for sale, and couldn’t believe that we weren’t on the festival lineup.

    Sometimes our jams at the festivals would go from sunset to sunrise, and I’d wake up in a hot tent with the sun beaming down.

    At the very first Greyfox festival, I bought a couple of raffle tickets for a brand new banjo donated by the craftsman Geoff Stelling. Our camping setup had several tents, a couple of camping tables, and an elaborate system of tarps held up by poles and guy-ropes. It turned out that the setup was perfect for Greyfox because we had a storm that poured rain. This was serious. We got 12 inches in 24 hours. It was a challenge to stay dry.

    At one point, Brian got up the nerve to make the hike to the main stage from our campsite. I was making coffee for our evening jam when Brian returned. Breathlessly he blurted out, “I have bad news and I have good news. The bad news is that you’re going to have to go out there in the pouring rain to the main stage…..because the good news is that you won the F**KING BANJO!”

    That was in 2000, and that Stelling banjo is my main go-to banjo to this day, 22 years later.

    I can’t count how many festivals Brian and I went to – almost always with James and Clayton in tow.

    Then one year, Brian and family moved away because of work. His absence was a real heartbreak. I lost my jamming partner.

    At that point, I had a book project that I was working on, and it was all-consuming. My Greyfox banjo went into its case for a long hibernation.

    Doc Huth and the Uncouth Youth (2017-?)

    A bit about James’s trajectory in music. When he was in high school, 2004-2008, he played in a talent show with Carlos.  Their band was Faith on Hope Mountain with Gabe Hirshfeld on banjo who went on to become a phenom in bluegrass.   I should also add Janaka and Sam, who both ended up playing bass with us and went to the same high school: Newton South. When James was in college at Middlebury, he picked up guitar and played in a band.

    I didn’t follow his music too closely, but he lived and worked in the Boston area after college, and is attending Boston University, working towards a PhD in developmental biology. Being close to his friends from high school, they’d get together and make music periodically.

    On Christmas 2017, James gave me the gift of a weekend pass to the Thomas Point Beach Bluegrass Festival, where he’d gone many times as a boy with Brian, Clayton, and me. Soon after that, he asked if some friends could come over to play music – the idea being that I’d join in. Finally, the ‘end-point’ was for all of us to go up to Thomas Point and jam at the festival.

    My playing was super-rusty. The prized Stelling Greyfox banjo had taken a beating. I had a spare battery in the case, which apparently outgassed corrosive chemicals and made a mess of the tuning pegs, which were closest to the battery. I phoned up Geoff Stelling, who agreed to fix it all up. In the meantime, I had my old beater banjo from 1992 or so.

    The first incarnation of the band was made up of James’s friends, roughly his age…well, and me. We had Carlos on fiddle and singing. Maggie on mandolin and singing. Sometimes Carlos and Maggie traded off on fiddle/mando as the tunings are the same for both instruments. James played guitar and was mostly the lead singer. Finally, there was Sam who played bass.

    It was a little rocky at first, but we began to develop some cohesion. Four of us: James, Maggie, Carlos, and I traveled up to Thomas Point. There’s a recording from that Labor Day Weekend 2018 and it’s a bit rough but showed promise.

    We continued to play once a week into the fall and winter. When 2019 came around, we were invited to ‘headline’ at a party that summer. They had a friend, Harlan, who threw parties that were themed (and named) after music festivals. This one was called HarElectricForest. I left most of the song decisions to “the kids” because I was the “old guy”. They decided to do a set of the songs in the soundtrack of the movie Shrek. They all grew up with Shrek as children.

    The second set was more of a mix of tunes, some of where were covers of a band called the Mountain Goats, a favorite of James’s.

    The gig went off well, and at some moment, I found myself drinking wine and indulging in weed with the youngsters at the party. For a moment, I forgot that I was a generation older, but it dawned on me that I was the ‘old-guy’.

    Then, surprisingly, we got a paying gig at a BBQ party of the parents of a friend of Carlos about a month later. We hastily threw together a couple of sets worth of material. I tend to be punctual, so I was the first member of the band to show up. I knocked on the door, and when I told them that I was a member of the band, there was incredulity. They were expecting ‘kids’, and there I was.

    Although the gig wasn’t our best effort, we got paid, and I drove home with $200 in my wallet.

    That fall, Sam quit the band. Backing bluegrass style songs just wasn’t challenging enough for him, so it just became the four of us: Carlos, James, Maggie, and me (fiddle, guitar, mando, and banjo).

    We played into the fall and winter and then covid-19 hit. That put a sudden stop to our practices, and a summer music festival themed party seemed out of the question.

    But Carlos hit on a brilliant idea: we could get together outside, wear masks and practice. We recommenced our weekly practices. The practices/jams had all of our go-to songs: the high point of our weeks, so the revival was a tonic for the soul.

    Playing outside attracted neighbors who listened in. Recall that this was the height of covid, so there were few, if any, indoor gatherings. Some of the friends of Carlos, James, and Maggie would come by and bring lawn chairs and listen to us practice.

    It was so much fun that I really didn’t want it to stop as winter closed in. I got some propane powered space heaters, Coleman lanterns and such. Pretty soon, we were practicing/jamming in mid-January, standing on a sheet of ice on my driveway all masked up. Neighbors continued to swing by to listen to us play.


    Playing outside in January

    Then vaccinations arrived, and things began to lighten up. Harlan’s birthday music festival themed party returned; this time at a funky house in Orleans overlooking Pleasant Bay on Cape Cod.

    And now the dilemma of band names. There’s an amusing concept for bluegrass bands – you take a place name and pair it with some sort of human-related relationship. So….The Black Mountain Boys, or the Dismal Swamp Brothers. I live next to Heartbreak Hill (of Boston Marathon fame) in Newton, and I’d long been wanting to have a band called the Heartbreak Hillbillies. Well, that didn’t work with the ‘kids’ as they thought it would be insulting to Hillbillies.

    One possible name was The Band Dynamic. It was a double entendre because we had attended a workshop on “band dynamics,” at Thomas Point Beach which we thought was going to be advice how loud to play. It turned out to be more about how they arranged gigs, practices – the human dynamic. That sounded cute, but nope!

    Then there was Diet Whiskey. I’m not sure where that one came from.

    Finally, there was the suggestion of Doc Huth and the Uncouth Youth, which somehow stuck. It wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I deferred to the youths.

    We worked up two sets of materials and played the party in Orleans, which was dubbed Capechella after the festival in Coachella.

    Partiers at Capechella


    There were more regular practices after Capechella and the anticipation of another party-gig the following summer. By my count, we had hundreds of songs that we played. James also had taken up song writing, and we had two handfuls of his originals.

    In the fall, two friends of James joined: Chris on guitar and Janaka on bass. We continued to practice, but indoors now. Every so often we played outside and had a few neighbors stop by.

    Carlos got married to Sarah, a regular in James’s friend group. Sarah got her PhD in divinity at Harvard and secured a job at Gonzaga University in Spokane Washington. Their plan is/was to move to Washington State. We were losing Carlos.

    A word about Carlos: He has the most amazing ear of any musician I’ve played with. He could think of a jingle for a TV commercial from the 1960’s and could immediately play it note-for-note. Along with Maggie, he held down the vocal harmonies. He was certainly a major core musician of the group. Whenever he messed up a harmony, I couldn’t tell, but he’d scream some expletive.

    A couple of new goals emerged for the band: 

     The next music festival themed party 

     Recording some of James’s songs in a studio

    The 2022 music festival gig was held at Hunter, a ski town in the Catskills. The party/festival was called Dream Upstate. All told, we had four sets at the festival. One was a complete improvisation called the All of Us Ensemble. There was two sets of Doc Youth and the Uncouth Youth, and then a Sunday bluegrass set under the name Heartbreak Hillbillies.

    At the end of our sets, one of James’s friend group, Aarika, asked if we could play more. I was exhausted and had to drive home. So, I suggested that perhaps we could have a farewell concert for Carlos. Everyone agreed it would be a good idea, so we set a date.

    We went into the ‘studio’. I say this in quotes because it was not what I was expecting. It was in an old warehouse in Charlestown. It looked quite rundown – like the place where some mob guys would drag a hapless victim to shake him down. It was also in the middle of a heatwave. Still, it was interesting to lay down tracks. Everything up to that moment, we’d just played and practiced live.

    Then was the date for the farewell-to-Carlos gig. In advance of the gig, James asked us to play a special tune for Carlos as a surprise. It was an old Grateful Dead standard: Brokedown Palace. We didn’t have a chance to practice, so each of us worked on it on our own.

    About 20 people showed up, sitting in lawn chairs in my backyard. Folks brought burgers for the BBQ, beer, and we had a fire pit going. There was a bowl where people wrote down their requests on a slip of paper. James would go over to the bowl and pick out a song title and we played whatever written down. Everyone in the audience knew all our go-to songs, so there wasn’t a problem with that. Many of the requests were for James’s originals.

    Doc Huth and the Uncouth Youth at the farewell concert.  From left: me, Janaka, James, Maggie, Carlos, and Chris. 

    Then came the time to play Brokedown Palace. Carlos was sitting down next to Sarah and Karen to listen. There’s a particularly poignant sign off line that had Carlos and Sarah sobbing, at least according to Karen:

    Fare you well, Fare you well 
    I love you more than words can tell 
    Listen to the river sing sweet songs 
    to rock my soul

    Good bye (fare you well cast in a different way) Carlos and Sarah. You’ll be missed.
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  4.  

    Return of the pilgrimage to the Penn Relays



     I have a yearly trip to Philadelphia to see the greatest track and field meet on Earth: the Penn Relays. My father took me to my first Penn when I was 9. It was wild: late sixties, the smell of marijuana wafting around, people selling Huey Newton Black Panther posters, people playing bongos in the stands. Occasionally fights would break out between rival high school spectators. My father had to leave me alone suddenly as my mother went into labor with my brother. Here I was: one of the few white people there, alone, all of nine. I felt totally safe. When I related this episode to other people, they seem horrified. 


    Teams from Jamaica were already competing, and they were amazingly fast. Waiting on the train to Bryn Mawr from 30th Street Station, the popular song “One Toke Over the Line” kept playing in my head. 






    Larry James ran a 43.9 anchor leg in the 4x440 yard relay at the 1968 Penn Relays.   My second. 


     I went year after year, eventually running the 4x400 meter relay for Princeton. When I went to Berkeley for graduate school, I had a long hiatus. After grad school, I moved to Chicago to work at Fermilab, and then got tenure at Harvard. There, I realized a trip back to Penn was manageable, and I resumed. Since then, I’ve made the trip nearly every year. 


    My administrative assistant at the time, Carol Davis, had a husband named Skip who, like me, was an avid track fan. We started to attend together. For a couple of years, I ran as a master in both the 4x400 and the 4x100. My 50+ year old body wasn’t really up for sprints, and after too many hamstring pulls, I hung up my spikes. 


    Covid hit and the “longest continuously running track carnival” (yes, they called it a carnival) took a two year hiatus. 


     Forward to 2022: restrictions were easing up, the relay was on again. My mother got tickets for the same seats we get year after year. Alas, Skip couldn’t make it as his knees were in such poor shape that he felt he couldn’t negotiate the stairs in the stands. I managed to get a buyer for the tickets with one of the masters runners I knew. This was Tucker Taft, and he ran in to 65-year-old-plus relays, the 4x100 and 4x400, setting American records in both. 


    The pilgrimage started with the trip down on Thursday. The leaves are just barely out in Boston, and as the train goes south, more and more foliage opened up. I dropped my luggage at 30th Street Station and made it over to Franklin Field, where the carnival was already in full swing. I’ll spare you the details, but there were a lot of qualifying heats and then some championship races- the sun was out and there were few clouds in the sky. 


    I took the train from 30th Street back to Bryn Mawr. My brain is now hardwired to hear One Toke Over the Line while waiting for the train. 


    Back at my old home, I visited with my mom, who was delighted to see me. My father died in November, and she said that the one thing she seriously missed in his passing was their chance to chat in the evenings. Most of her days are busy with clients (she still practices as a psychologist), various social interactions, and gardening. But, the evenings are now tough for her. My presence as someone to chat with was something she looked forward to, and she noted how much my father enjoyed my willingness to hold what he felt were intellectual discussions. 


    That was Thursday. I took the train back on Friday to watch a nearly full day of events. 


    Again, I’ll spare the details, but one was memorable, but not in a good way. The high school girls 4x800 meter race was carnage. The leadoff runner from Holmwood Tech (Jamaica) got tangled up going around the turn and fell. She was on the ground for a long time surrounded by medics and finally carted away on a gurney. I later learned that she broke her leg in the fall. 


    Edwin Allen, another Jamaican team, often dominates this relay, and they were out in front. The one US team that had even a remote shot at it was Union Catholic, who always fields a good squad. The greats Sydney McLaughlin and Athing Mu are from Union Catholic. The names might not mean much to the average reader, but track fans know. The Union Catholic leadoff runner managed to stay close to Edwin Allen. The second leg for UC was a runner wearing a head-covering, and she worked super hard to stay in touch with the runner from Edwin Allen, but she collapsed only 10 meters from the exchange zone, with the third runner waiting. She got up and fell down again, and finally got up and managed to get the baton off. She was lying on the ground shaking and had to be taken off in a wheelchair. Later, I was reminded that it was Ramadan and she must have been fasting all day. Likely, the combination of low blood sugar and running her heart out took its toll. But that wasn’t all. Three other runners fell to the track after their handoffs and had to be taken away in wheelchairs – I don’t know what happened to them, but I’m guessing leg cramps. Edwin Allen did win. 


    Saturday rolled around, and I was in early again. This was the big day, and the stands filled up. Old seat mates I knew from years back showed up. They’re all Jamaican emigres who live in the states and wave their Jamaican flags during the championship races. The day started out cold, but when the sun hit the stands, I was baking. 


    As usual, the Jamaican high school teams dominated their championship races, and one team, Camperdown, that had been knocking on the door for years, claimed a championship in the 4x100 meter relay. 


    Camperdown High School's 4x100m relay celebrates their championship win.  

    A surprise – the Jamaican Prime Minister, Andrew Holness, showed up. He watched many of the championship heats in the stands, just one section over from me. Maybe it won’t impress you much but sitting close to the Jamaican Prime Minister while watching the relays at Penn was a big deal for me. He addressed the crowd from the infield and closed with the phrase “one love”. 


    A few details:  Jamaican teams have been running at Penn since 1964.   This year marks the 60th year of independence of Jamaica, so it was a fitting appearance.




    Jamaica Prime Minister Andrew Holness in the stands, reading the official programme. 

    One more trip back home, waiting on the train at 30th Street Station. 


    Sittin downtown in a railway station.



    I made it back to Bryn Mawr one last time and visited with my brother who came up. It was his birthday dinner – somehow it all came full circle. 


    Sunday, I took the train back to 30th street, and got on the platform, waiting on the train back up to Boston. As a coda to the weekend, a woman came up to me and asked “Are you Professor Huth?,” I nodded “yes.” 


    She: “You probably don’t remember me, but I’m one of your students from way back, Shana McCormack.” 


    Me: “Oh, yes, you were in my Physics 15a class back in the mid nineties, and you went on to medical school.” 


    She was surprised that I remembered. She was off to NYC to visit a friend who was also in that class. I asked about what she was up to. She specializes in endocrinology at the Children’s Hospital, and said she really enjoyed her work. She has two children, ages 10 and 13. 




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  5.  

    I'm writing this for friends who might want to make a trip to Argentina.   This was a tourist-type visit, and I'll make no bones about it.   Still, this might be a semi-useful guide to folks who would want to see parts of Argentina. 

     Back in March 2020, Karen and I had a trip to Chile scheduled, but that was at the start of covid, so we cancelled.   We made an attempt back to South America in December 2020, but that was still a no-go.   

    We tried for Argentina, and then a week on Easter Island/Rapa Nui for December 2021 because, surely, covid would be over.   Wrong.   Easter Island is still closed out as I write this (Jan 1 2022), but Argentina opened up on November 1st 2021.    Scrambling, we ended up with a patch-work of plans in Argentina to fill in the gap left from the Rapa Nui closeout. 

    I don't know if this is the case, but the Argentinians said, to a person, that they had the longest pandemic shut-down of any nation, lasting from March 2020 until November 2021.   One tour-guide who was showing us around Buenos Aires high-fived another guide,  "We're back in the game."   Certainly the Argentine economy suffered like many others, and with tourism a significant component, they took a big hit.

    We flew into Buenos Aires, had a quick nap and then got a tour of the city.   I'm not a huge fan of big cities, and BA is certainly big.   It has a population of about 3 million, and if you include the sprawling suburbs, it's a lot bigger.   The international airport is on the outside of town, and the domestic airport is right on the Rio de la Plata.   I had a minor issue when my credit card was hijacked at the domestic airport when paying for a heavy suitcase.

    We flew to El Califate, the regional airport for the Patagonian region, and then took a van to El Chaten, which is a climbing and hiking hub for Los Glaciares National Park.   Most prominent of the mountains there is the famous Mount Fitz Roy (or FitzRoy, after the captain of the Beagle).   This granite spike dominates the landscape. 

    Mount Fitzroy, surrounding peaks and El Chaten. 


    We went to the Explora Lodge, which had just opened.   I don't know when precisely they opened up, but like most everything, this was a pandemic opening.  I'm tempted to say "post-pandemic", but we aren't out of it yet, but at the same time things are beginning to feel 'open', whatever that means and time will tell...

    All of our hikes were guided, although realistically, we didn't need the guides, but they still added a lot of local information.   The first two hikes were up the Diablo and Electric Rivers, which both terminated in glacial lakes.   Patagonia is home to the third largest ice-field on the planet, after Antarctica and Greenland.   This left us to wonder, "what is the fourth largest ice field?," which we are guessing is in Alaska/Yukon (need to look this up).   The main up-shot is that the glaciers fed by the ice field come down quite low compared to sea-level. 

    On one hike, we found out that our guide, Valeria, had summited FitzRoy.   This is quite the feat.  FitzRoy was first climbed the the French alpinist Lionel Terray in 1952, who wrote about it in his book Conquistators of the Useless.   Another notable ascent was in 1968 by Yvon Chinouard, who made it down to Patagonia with friends, driving all the way from California.   FitzRoy is quite a climb - not only is it tall difficult granite, but the weather is a major factor.    

    We'd been told that the weather sometimes continuously shrouds FitzRoy, but on our visit, it was cloudless for five straight days.   Remarkably, in our 10 days in Patagonia, both on the Chilean and the Argentinian side, we had nothing but picture perfect weather.


    Lake Diablo

    The most famous hike in the area is the one to Laguna de los Tres at the base of Mt. FitzRoy.   The name comes from the three guides who took Francesco Moreno to the base of Mount FitzRoy.    There are a number of routes to the lake.   We were dropped off at the Pilar Inn to the north, and hiked to the connecting trail, next to a campground.   Before the hike I read about it, and there is a steep section just before the lake that's about a 400m climb in a bit over a kilometer.   Depending on who writes about it, you'd think that you'd have to be an ultramarathoner to make it up.   It wasn't such a big deal for me, but a couple of the folks on the hike were done in by it.   

    After spending a lunch at the lake, we hiked out by the trail to El Chaten.   As a word of warning: this trail is quite crowded, but the view is spectacular.   Just don't expect to be alone. 

    Laguna de los Tres



    After the hikes from Explora, most of our party decamped for the lake district of Bariloche, while my son James and I had plans to go to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world (so far) in Tierra del Fuego.   On the way, we got a ride to El Califate, and then to the glacier Perito Moreno, which is an extension of the vast Patagonian ice-field.   According to the guide, it travels at about 6 feet per day, and is more or less in equilibrium, as opposed to so many glaciers that are in steady retreat from global warming.   

    The hike on the glacier was my first time on crampons, which took a bit of getting used to, but fun nonetheless. 

    Glacier Perito Moreno

    After the glacier hike, and a night in El Califate, we flew to Ushuaia.   Tierra del Fuego is spectacular, with the tree line being only at 1000 feet, and the Beagle channel transecting the region, which shows all signs of recent glaciation. 

    We did a hike in the national park, and then had a guided sea-kayak tour of a remote part of the Beagle Channel.   As a note - the sea kayaks had rudders on them, something I wasn't accustomed to.   Here was an example where guides were definitely helpful.   They had access to a remote stretch of the Channel that was something of an archipelago, and you could dial in the amount of exposure readily.

     In calm waters, I started to get the hang of using the rudder to steer, but then when a following wind picked up some waves, the rudder didn't do its job, and I somewhat instinctively went back to steering by paddle.  

    I took Christmas day off from hiking, as every day there was some plans, but I just lounged.   The next day was a long trip from Ushuaia to El Califate to Buenos Aires to the wine country in Mendoza.   

    We had two days in the wine country with a number of wine tastings and lunches with wines paired with the meals.   Argentina's wine industry has come quite a ways in the last several decades.   Originally, one would think of industrial grade malbecs in large jugs from the country, and that was that, but many high end vineyards have since sprung up and take advantage of the climate and soil to produce very high quality wines.   Malbec is still preeminent, but other varieties like sauvignon blanc have proven successful.   

    After the Mendoza wine country visit, it was back to Buenos Aires, and then Boston.

    In addition to getting some fresh air in the hikes, I suppose the most enduring impression was just getting out to the Austral summer from the gloom of the Boreal winter.   As I write this in Newton Massachusetts, it's overcast and gloom, but I was trying to soak up the sun and heat from Buenos Aires as a way of carrying me through.   At least we're past the solstice and the days are getting longer again.  Whoo-hoo!!  

     








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  6. Ecuador trip 14-30 December 2019



    Following on to our Alaska trip for my 60th birthday, Karen arranged a major trip to Ecuador for her 60th birthday, surrounded by family and friends - her favorite way to travel.   

    By way of background, I should note that I organized some of our early excursions when we were young.  These turned out to be less than luxurious.  For example, we hiked inn-to-inn on the Long Trail in Vermont for our honeymoon.   Although this might sound great, it was in late May and we encountered some wretched weather on our last day.  It was absolutely bone-chilling rain, ending up with a 1000 foot skid on our butts down a muddy slope.   The weather was so severe that our Inn was about to call in the National Guard to search for us.   Fortunately, we made it out none the worse for the wear. Some years later, I organized a canoe trip in the Boundary Waters Canoe area, which featured a torrential downpour that flooded out a campsite, and we bailed for the warmth of a hunting lodge. 

    Since then, Karen has taken over our outings where there is a 'strict no suffering' policy, as my friend Dan would say.    I am in no way writing about this trip as a high-level daring adventure full of peril - it was well catered, but nonetheless very rich in experience, and I think everyone had a fantastic time.  

    The group on this vacation was larger than the Alaska group, and the itinerary itself was more ambitious.   Here is the cast: 


    Me - somewhat scatterbrained academic, who plays banjo
    Karen - loving spouse (she likes the term 'spouse' over 'husband', 'wife', or 'partner')
    James - eldest son, who plays guitar and brought along my backpacking guitar
    Janice - James' partner
    Phoebe - eldest daughter - working for the DOJ in Manhattan
    Charlotte - younger daughter - working in finance in Santiago, Chile
    Marion - Karen's friend from when she was a teenager
    Maddie - Marion's daughter,  and Karen's goddaughter, who I recently learned was named for Madeline Albright
    Renee - Karen's friend from when she was four years old
    Kara - Renee's daughter
    Cathy and Ken Carlson - Karen's sister and her husband
    Jonathan Carlson - Cathy and Ken's eldest son
    Netta and Jim - Close friends from Petaluma California



    The whole crew behind a Galapagos giant tortoise on Santa Cruz Island, Galapagos.   From left, Janice, James, Phoebe, me, Charlotte, Karen, Jim, Netta, Marion, Maddie, Renee, Kara, Jonathan, Ken, and Cathy. 

    The trip consisted of roughly four parts:

    1.) The Napo Wildlife Center in the Amazon basin
    2.) Quito - capital city at 9000 ft. above sea level
    3.) Galapagos Islands 
    4.) Hacienda Zuleta in the foot-hills of the Andes, also at 9000 feet

    Napo Wildlife Center (15-18 December)

    Charlotte couldn't make it for this part of the trip, as she had work obligations down in Santiago, but joined us for the rest of the trip.   Fourteen of us made our way to the airport in Quito through various routes, from Boston, Portland OR, New York City, San Diego, and San Francisco.  We had a quick overnight at the local airport hotel, then boarded a plane for Coca, a small city at the confluence of two major rivers in the Amazon Basin. 

    Our destination was the Napo Wildlife Center, located in the Yasuni National Park.   This is an impressive eco-lodge that was constructed, and is maintained by a supply chain that includes a 2-hour human propelled canoe ride up a small tributary of the Napo River.   

    At Caco, we boarded a motor-canoe that we took downriver for two hours.   The Napo River originates in the Andes and carries a massive amount of sediment, and has a rather swift current, that I reckon is about 2 knots, give-or-take.   The river is fairly wide and quite shallow.  I admired the skill of the pilots who navigated through the numerous sand bars along the way.   

    On the banks of the Napo, there were signs of the national oil industry - barges supporting oil exploration, oils wells and the like.   Most of the Ecuadorians seemed keenly aware of the trade-offs of the economic boost of petrochemical exploitation against potential harm to the ecosystem.   


    View down the Napo River from the city of Coca.

    The preparations for the Amazon basin included shots for Yellow Fever, a prophylactic round of anti-malaria drugs, plenty of deet, bug nets, and treated clothing.   All of this conjured up images of massive suffering - super hot sticky weather, venomous critters of all kinds, parasites and the like.  When I was young, I had a horrid experience with black flies in northern Quebec, and in the back of my mind, I was concerned about something similar, but perhaps even worse.  

    Nothing could be further from our experience - although it was humid, we had cloud cover most days, and the temperatures were moderate.   There were few bugs or mosquitos, although we encountered some massive spiders from time-to-time.  

    After our motor canoe ride, we disembarked and got into one of three canoes for the two hour paddle up the tributary to the Napo Wildlife Center.  


    Canoe paddle to the Napo Wildlife Center


    Crested heron on approach to the wildlife center. 



    Hoatzin or 'stinky turkey'.  

    We split into two groups of 7 for each of two canoes.   Our canoes had guides: Luis and Delphin.   During the paddle in, they pointed out many creatures - birds and monkeys.   Although a seasoned Amazon basin traveler might view the experience as somewhat pedestrian, it was amazing for us, and well-suited to our large group.     

    Just after sunset on the first day, we reached the lodge, which was quite cushy, with excellent food, and even wifi service.   Power is supplied by diesel generators, and, like everything else, fuel has to be transported via paddled canoes.   

    The next two days were various excursions around the Yasuni Park, with our guides.   The wildlife guides were Quichua's, the largest indigenous group in Ecuador.   Their skill in identifying animals was astonishing.   I recall one time when they pointed to what seemed to be a dark patch in the trees, which turned out to be a sloth with her baby clinging to her stomach.  

    Lurking in the weeds near the Center was a huge anaconda that the guides reckon was in the 15-20 foot range.  We stopped and looked at this huge beast coiled up, evidently digesting its most recent meal.  



    Capuchin monkey.   They use their prehensile tail as a kind of fifth limb for maneuvering in the forest canopy. 

    The two groups took turns looking at birdlife in a platform high up in the forest canopy.  Our group saw a magnificent sunset, and then walked and paddled in the dark back to the Center.   On the way, we saw tons of bioluminescence, including fireflies and glow worms.  


    Sunset from the viewing platform. 

    The next day we visited two clay licks.   Many of the birds have an adapted behavior that includes a trip to clay licks that have elevated amounts of metals, including sodium.   Various hypotheses abound, including the idea that some metals allow them to produce gastric enzymes that allow them to tolerate bitter fruits.  

    First of two clay licks - this one frequented by parrots.  


    A surprise: an unusual appearance of a family of howler monkeys on the ground at the second clay lick. 


    A pootoo - native bird to the Amazon region that clearly has good camouflage going.  


    Macaws at the second clay lick.   They had to wait for the howler monkey family to depart. 


    Cayman seen on the paddle back from the salt licks. 



    James and me playing music at our last evening at Napo. 

    After our two days at the Napo Center, we took the paddle canoes back and boarded the motor canoe to Coca.   The water level on the Napo river had dropped significantly, and we bottomed out a few times, but by getting the passengers to redistribute their weight and rock the boat, we managed to make it through.   Time was tight, be we caught our flight back to Quito. 

    Quito (18-20 Dec) 

    Natalie, our guide for most of the ground excursions in and around Quito, met us at the airport and accompanied us on the bus ride into the Old Town.    

    Ecuador has a fascinating history behind it from the pre-Inca times until the present.   The reader can clearly look up their own history, as I am sure to mangle it, but I'll give my impressions.   First, much infrastructure is quite new.   The airport serving Quito was recently built and very well appointed.   The system of highways is impressive, as they wind through precipitous canyons of the rivers sculpting the country around the capital.  Because of the threat of earthquakes, the hillsides facing the highway are plastered with concrete to prevent rockslides.  

     According to Natalie, the country has run up substantial debt in updating their infrastructure, including two major hydroelectric power plants financed by the Chinese.   Another piece of infrastructure underway is a new subway system in Quito, which is scheduled to come online in 2020.  

    The government is somewhat unstable, with a succession of presidents that have come and gone without finishing out their terms.   In the fall of the past year (2019), there was a mass protest in the Old Town in front of the Presidential Palace, closing off streets in the capital.   

    At some point, there was a decision to go onto the US Dollar as the official currency.   This was a conscious decision in the face of multiple severe instances of inflation, but closed off many of the export channels to the rest of South America.  

    From the airport, we were driven to the Hotel Patio Andaluz, in the heart of the Old Town of Quito, where we had the afternoon off.   Being at 9350 ft above sea level, Quito vies for the title of the highest capital city in the world with Bolivia and Tibet, depending on how you count these.  In any case, we definitely felt the effects of a quick transport from sea level at Napo to altitude.   Some of us tried the cocoa tea available at the hotel, although it's not clear that it had any effect.  

    Some of us hiked up to La Compania de Jesus, the 16th century church situated high above the Old Town.   Later, I had dinner at a restaurant/cafe along a street in Old Town called La Ronda.   

    The next day (Dec. 19th), we were back on the tour bus.  We first took a cable car to a hillside high above Quito for a view of the entire city.   With a population of 2.5 million, and hemmed in by mountains to the west and gorges to the east, it's expanding to the north and south.   Charlotte flew in that morning from Santiago and joined us as our 15th. 

    On the bus ride from the airport, our guide, Natalie had mentioned an Equator Museum somewhat to the north of the city, and we asked to see it as part of the Quito portion of our holiday.   After the cable car ride, we went there.   It's a somewhat whimsical look at common misconceptions about phenomena associated with our existence on a spinning planet.    

    My favorite part of the museum, in fact, our stay in Quito, was Natalie trying to work her way through the Coriolis Effect.   I've worked long and hard to derive cogent descriptions of the Coriolis Effect: what is is and isn't. I had to bite my tongue through Natalie's explanations.    One fun demonstration was water draining out of a moveable sink.   First Natalie took it to the physical equator, and drained it, noting that the water went straight down the drain-hole.   Next, she took it about 10 feet south of the line, and noted that the water drained out clockwise.  Then, she took it 10 feet south of the the line, and noted that it drained out counterclockwise.   When I noted that she had given the water a gentle swirl inciting the rotations, she did not object.  


    Natalie, explaining the Coriolis Effect and water draining out of a tub to a credulous audience. 

    After the Equator Museum, we had lunch in a restaurant in the plaza opposite the Presidential Palace, and then a walking tour of the Old Town.   On the way back to the hotel, we passed a protest against the detainment of opposition figures to the government in front of the Palace.  


    Rally for jailed political activists outside the Presidential Palace in the Old Town. 

    Galapagos (20-27 Dec)

    The next day, we were transported back to the Quito Airport, and caught a plane for the Baltra Airport, one of the two serving the Galapagos Islands. 

    Route of our tour of the Galapagos Islands on the Anahi.  The start and end was at the Baltra Airport on the north end of Santa Cruz Island.  

    Entry into the Galapagos is a bit like entering a new country, as the government of Ecuador has put numerous restrictions on entry, mainly for preservation.   So, passports were duly presented and luggage was passed through screening.   

    Just out of the airport, we were met by our next guide, Galo.   He's a native Galapagan from the Island of San Cristobal, and free-lances as a certified National Park Guide.  We boarded a bus that transported us to a boat ferry that crosses a narrow canal connecting to the island of Santa Cruz. Baltra was the site of a US WWII naval base that was intended to guard approaches to the Panama Canal, and we could see the remains of buildings dotting the landscape on the bus ride.   After crossing the canal, we caught another bus on Santa Cruz.   

    Descriptions of the Galapagos abound, but I'll give my impressions.   The first immediate impression is the recent volcanic activity.   I'll wager that 95% of the surface of the islands are either lava or volcanic ash, and the remaining 5% is just ground down ash and soil.  The lower elevations are drier, and at higher elevations, the mix of plants changes from cacti to moisture loving vegetation, with grasses and trees dotting the landscape.  According to Galo, the archipelago is astride a hot-spot on the Nazca plate, which is moving east and being subducted under the Andes.  

    The youngest island is Fernandina, which geologists put at at less than 1 million years old.   Galo said that it was only 35,000 years old.   Whatever the precise ages of the Galapagos Islands are, the remains of volcanic activity are a constant.    

    The next impression is not only the profusion of wildlife, but their fearlessness of humans.   In the transfer off the bus from Baltro to the ferry across the channel, sea lions lazed about in the sun in the waiting line for humans.   These two first impressions of volcanic activity and the profusion of fearless wildlife held throughout our stay. 

    Our first stop on Santa Cruz Island was a site for viewing the giant Galapagos Tortoise.   These were all over the landscape, munching at the abundant grass dotting the uplands.   


    Tortoises on Santa Cruz Island


     After the tortoise visit, we were guests at a Christmas Party held for a kind of extended family of the company running trips in the Galapagos, including the crew of the Anahi, the catamaran that took us around the islands.   After the party, we took the bus down to Puerto Ayora, where the Anahi was anchored, and boarded.   At midnight, the crew pulled the anchor and started the passage to Puerto Villamil on Isabela Island. 

    Anahi

    The Anahi has a capacity for 16 passengers, and with 15 people in our group, we bought out the boat for ourselves, which had the distinct advantage that we could move as a coherent group for the duration of the tour of the islands.   A typical day consisted of breakfast, followed by a zodiac (motorboat) ride to a region of interest, some tour on one of the islands, then lunch, and another tour.  We had frequent opportunities to snorkel.   This is fairly typical for the Galapagos experience, and we saw multiple vessels anchoring in the various harbors on our cruise.   Now, it seems pedestrian to say "typical", as the Galapagos is anything but.   

    Most of our time was spent along the coast of Isabela Island.  Our first stop was at Puerto Villamil, at the base of the Sierra Negra volano, a shield volcano typical of Isabela Island.   We were bused up to the trailhead leading to the caldera of Sierra Negra, but it was hemmed in by clouds, so Galo took us to a lava tube with insides dotted with a strange kind of lichen that glowed silver and gold under the blaze of the headlamps and cell phones.  


    Sea lions lounging on benches at Puerto Villamil. 

    We snorkeled, visited a tortoise breeding center, and then had a beer on the beach before getting back on the Anahi.  


    Flamingos at Puerto Villamil, Isabela Island.  



    The next several days were visits to various anchorages along the west coast of Isabela Island and a brief visit to Fernandina Island, just off Isabela.   I won't go through a day-by-day description, but give some highlights below.  


    Blue footed boobie and penguin.


    Blue footed boobies, marine iguanas, a baby sea lion nursing with its mother. 


    Flightless cormorant drying its wings. 


    Pelican nest. 


    Galapagos penguins.  


    One evening we had a birthday celebration for Karen, another night there was an Xmas party - all were festive, and the vacation was, to some extent, an extended party.   I think Karen felt well celebrated with friends and family surrounding.   The crew of the Anahi were great hosts.

    There was one amusing moment that stuck with me.   Galo was a fantastic guide, and had lots of patience with us.   On one anchorage off of Isabela, he took the zodiacs into a mangrove swamp, and we paddled quietly into small alcoves.   I was in the second zodiac and couldn't hear everything Galo was saying, but as we closed in on his boat, I caught the tail end of a description, "It's over there, but it's camouflaged, so you can't see it."   He was pointing out a sea turtle that had burrowed into the muck under the mangrove roots, but it wasn't immediately clear what "it" was to me, and if it was camouflaged, how could I see "it" in any case.   The joking response of Jonathan was, "But what is camouflage?"   I noted that this was more of an existential question, and the theme of "What is camouflage" stuck as a repeated inside joke throughout the voyage. 


    Galapagos flycatcher

    On one shore excursion, Galo tried his best to point out many of the species of land-birds, including the famous mockingbirds and finches that inspired Darwin.   The profusion of land-bird species was somewhat daunting to us, with small, medium, and large ground finches all around.   Galo said that when he was young, he found the finches rather annoying, but now he somewhat understands the enthusiasm of foreign birders who bring in $7000 telephoto lenses to document their list of  sightings.   


    Dolphins off Isabela Island

    After four days on Isabela Island, we motored to Santiago Island, then visited Rabida, an island called the Chinese Hat, and then Bartholomew Island.  


    Phoebe, Karen, and Marion on Santiago Island.


    Chinese Hat

    Bartholmew Island.  One of the scenes from the movie Master and Commander: the Far Side of the World was shot here. Astronaut Buzz Aldrin commented that the surface of Bartholmew looked like what he saw on the moon. 


    One of the highlights of the excursion in the Galapagos was snorkeling.  In addition to the bright colored fish, like parrot fish, there were all manner of near encounters with sea life.   Here, a group of penguins would zip by. Over there, a sea turtle would swim so close that I had to work to avoid touching it.   In another moment, I was by myself, and a sea lion came out to play with me, like some kind of friendly and curious aquatic puppy.    I also saw my first live octopus fending off aggressive fish from its lair. 

    Our final anchorage was off the Seymour Islands, near the Baltro Airport.   On our last morning, we toured one of the Seymour Islands, seeing nests of magnificent frigate birds and blue footed boobies. 

    Then it was into the airport, and a flight back to Quito. 

    Hacienda Zuleta (27-30 Dec)

    Again, Natalie met us as we got out of baggage claim, and we herded ourselves and baggage onto the bus, this time for a drive of about two hours to Hacienda Zuleta for the last leg of our vacation stint.  This dates from the 17th century, and was recently the home of Ecuadorian President Galo Plaza Lasso and was converted into a resort hotel.   

    When we arrived, President Lasso's daughter, Margarita, was 'holding court' during the cocktail hour in the living room/entry, and when she saw my banjo and James' guitar, she asked for a concert, which we delivered on our last evening there.   


    Library at Hacienda Zuleta, with a portrait of Galo Plaza Lasso.  


    The food there was great, with many local specialities.   The working farm had a cheese-making operation, with a signature brand called Don Galo, which is/was amazing.   

    The next day we toured a local site for breeding Andean Condors - a highly endangered species, of with only 150 are supposed to inhabit the Ecuadorean mountains.   Locally, there was something of a treat.    In addition to the caged condors, there were three wild condors soaring high above the valley.  



    Wild condor soaring above a valley near Hacienda Zuleta. 


    Phoebe, Maddie, and James walking toward the condor breeding center. 

    On our final full day, everyone took some kind of excursion - either a hike, or a horseback ride, or a cooking lesson.    We had a local guide hired for the day, and he took James and me up a nearby...hill...er...mountain?   The 'summit' was at 14,000 feet, but was completely covered in grass.  It's strange for me to write about a 'hill' at 14,000 feet, and I definitely felt the altitude hiking up it, but there were families picnicking on the lakes dotting the hillside on Sunday outings - not something you'd think of when discussing 14,000 feet - well, at least in the US.  

    One of the guides told me of a set of navigation windows left by indigenous peoples from some time ago.   These were stone 'frames' that were intended to guide people across the crest of the mountains.  Unfortunately, I didn't have time for the 8-hour circuit, but I did think about a return visit, with some time to acclimatize and a tour of these curious structures.


    We bumped into Maddie and Netta horseback riding on our hike. 


    View of Cayambe Volcano.



    James and me on the summit of the 14,000 ft. 'hill'.  The city of Angochagua, capital of the province of Imbabura, is visible in the distance.

    I think some of us may have suffered from excursion fatigue by the end.   Although I had opportunities to get out that last afternoon, I opted to practice the banjo in the outer courtyard of the Hacienda.   The acoustics were magnificent, and there was a nice reverb effect from the sound bouncing off the stonework, including the cobblestones.   That evening, James and I played some tunes for Margarita, who seemed to enjoy the mini-concert. 

    On our last day in Ecuador, we had a tour of the Hacienda grounds, including the cheese-making facility.   After lunch, Natalie returned with the bus back to the Quito airport.   We made a brief stop at an open market in the town of Otavalo for folks to stock up on last minute souvenirs.   

    Charlotte had to leave early on her Lima-to-Santiago flights, and then our crew slowly dispersed with late-night flights to all points in the US, scattered to the compass points and into the new year. 

    But, what *is* camouflage, anyway?






























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  7. Circumnavigating Admiralty Island


    On my 60th birthday, my wife gave me the gift of an Alaska cruise.  This gave me a chance to be with my family for over a week in an amazing place - something that would never happen backpacking or on an extended kayaking trip - so in many ways it was the perfect gift. 

    For someone who isn't friend or family, or might be bored with a summary of an Alaska cruise, I apologize, and suggest that you might scan the photos.   For anyone curious, I'll try to do my best job, here.    

    The trip started out with the wedding of my nephew, Patrick, in Portland, Oregon, and then a quick drive up to Sea-Tac Airport and hopping up to Juneau.  We had an entire day in Juneau, and this allows me to introduce the cast of characters:

    Me - somewhat scatterbrained academic, who plays banjo
    Karen - loving spouse (she likes the term 'spouse' over 'husband', 'wife', or 'partner')
    James - eldest son, who plays guitar and brought along my backpacking guitar
    Phoebe - eldest daughter - ready to start a new job with the DOJ in Manhattan
    Charlotte - younger daughter - ready to start a new job in Chile
    Santiago - Charlotte's boyfriend, who lives in Santiago (go figure)
    Marion - Karen's friend from when she was a teenager
    Renee - Karen's friend from when she was four years old
    Maddie - Marion's daughter, who I recently learned was named for Madeline Albright

    On the cruise itself, we became known as the Karen Clan - for somewhat obvious reasons, and also because the Tlingit - the first peoples of the area, have a matrilineal inheritance and identify as specific clans. 

    Once in Juneau, we had a full day before we departed on the cruise.   We decided to hike up to the base of the Mendenhall Glacier.    This is very close to Juneau, and is receding at quite a pace.   Karen, Renee, and Marion hiked the east trail, and I and the young 'uns hiked the west trail that goes all the way up to the foot of the glacier itself.  The cairn trail, as it's called, has a set of signs set in rocks that gives the year when the foot of the glacier was in a given spot.   Two things came to mind - one is the speed the glacier is receding.   The second is found in a sign for 1985 that sits in a forest well on its way to being a climax, with deciduous trees all around.   


    Foot of Mendenhall Glacier - on this trip.  Don't blink, this section will be gone next year. 

    Phoebe, Maddie, and Santiago on the top of a hill at the foot of the glacier. 

    Tour group hiking around on the glacier. 

    The next day was the scheduled departure of the cruise, but we had one last go-round.   There's a hill in Juneau called Mount Robert, which has a tram that runs up to the top of it from the waterfront.  A bunch of us hiked up it at various speeds.   Here, a word is in order about the weather.   When you mention Southeast Alaska, the main thought is 'rain'.   But, we seemed to catch the best weather ever.   For ten straight days, there was no rain at all, and for most of the time, there was nothing but clear blue skies.  

    We made it down to the waterfront, where the giant cruise ships docked.   By far, these were much larger than any of the tallest buildings in Juneau.   By my estimate, some were 12 stories tall, seven of which were devoted to staterooms for the passengers.   People would swarm off the boats during the day, looking for various excursions onshore.   The local Juneau-ians (is that the word) made good money from the trade of the cruise ships, but they were also something of a curse in the short summer months.    Our boat, by contrast, was hardly noticeable.   The Island Spirit had a capacity for 30 passengers.   It was moored next to a fish processing factory.   



    Island Spirit 

    Karen called the cruise "glamping" (glamor camping), but it was actually quite well appointed, with a happy hour every evening, and very good food.   The rooms weren't huge, but I spent most of my time on the upper deck to be closer to the surroundings.   

    Below is a chart with our route overlaid.   Each red star indicated where we anchored each night.  Because the Island Spirit was relatively small, the Captain could get into relatively small harbors and bays to anchor each night.  



    Outline of the cruise.  The path in red is counterclockwise around Admiralty Island. 

    First evening, we went out of Juneau and anchored in a small unnamed bay on the Mansfield Peninsula on the north end of Admiralty Island.  The first evening was mainly an orientation, getting situated and the like.   Because the cruise was mostly sheltered from the Pacific, there were nearly no swells, so seasickness wasn't an issue.   

    The next morning, we pulled the anchor, and motored past Point Retreat on the northern end of Admiralty Island. 

    Lighthouse on Point Retreat

    Most of the lighthouses in Southeast Alaska have been put up for sale, and buyers try to use them for various means.   The one on Point Retreat is now a bed and breakfast.   Just as we were passing the lighthouse, someone spotted a humpback whale playing off of Hump Island to our north.  We got relatively close to it and saw some of the pectoral finds, and saw it's tail go up when it sounded.  It was a first glimpse, in any case.   We then turned south into Chatham Strait that runs to the west side of Admiralty Island.  

    I had several charts of the area, so I followed along, and the Captain (Chuck) was kind enough to confirm our position on the charts.   The night before, the entourage was on the top deck ...er...partying it up just a bit.   Chuck came up after anchoring saying "Oh, so this is where the cool kids are."   We were close to being the youngest on board, which is not surprising for an Alaskan cruise. 

    Our destination that night was Pavlof Harbor in Freshwater Bay.   What's the most striking about any cruise in Alaska is the sheer scale of everything.   While people may ooo and ahhh about Mount Desert Island in Maine, the mountains are higher and all over the place in Alaska.   As Karen put it, 'it's like Maine on steroids'.    In the harbor, the kayaks were put out, and some of us paddled to the outlet of a creek where brown bears were known to feed.   In fact, there was a group of sightseers who had come in by float plane to see the bears feeding on salmon.   Alas, there were no bears to be seen, but it was a nice paddle to get out. 

    At around five the next morning, there was a commotion with people scurrying to the bow.   It turns out that a brown bear and her two cubs were sauntering down the beach toward the creek.   

    Bear and cubs in Pavlof Harbor.

    On the trip, bears were kind of elusive, but we spotted them every once in awhile.   One of the crew said that they look like rocks that move, which pretty much sums it up from the perspective of a cruise.    

    We pulled up anchor and went into the next embayment, Tenakee Inlet, and the town of Tenakee Springs.   Tenakee was the only town we visited along with way.   It has 130 people living there, according to the 2016 census.    There's a b-and-b in town, and a bakery that boasts the best cinnamon buns around.   We visited there, and took a short hike. 


    House in Tenakee Springs. 

    Every so often, there was a reminder of our high latitude - 58 degrees North.  The satellite dishes in Tenakee were pointed almost horizontally.  Geostationary satellites that transmit to the ground hover over a fixed point over the equator, and the receiving dishes have to be pointing toward them.  In Boston, the satellite dishes are angled upwards, but in Tenakee, they're pointing at a much lower angle. 
    Some of us on the hike near Tenakee Springs.

    As we were leaving Tenakee, I spotted some people setting up tents on the shore, and noticed some sea kayaks pulled up.  I went over and struck up a conversation with the group, mostly women.  They were from Whitehorse, in the Yukon Territory.   About a week previously, they drove to Skagway and took the ferry, part of the Alaska Marine Highway to the town of Hoonah, which is north of Tenakee.  They paddled up the fiord of Port Frederic, and did a short portage into Tenakee Inlet, and then down to Tenakee, waiting on the ferry, which was due in the next day.   

    We pulled out of Tenakee and continued south.  Captain Chuck asked what we wanted to do - there wasn't a fixed itinerary, and we had some options.   Most people in our group wanted to do something active, like go kayaking in the morning.   We pulled into the next anchorage, Takatz Bay, and the crew put out the kayaks, and also the motorboat.    The next day, we had a nice long paddle around the Bay.   I managed to find a stream leading into it, and pushed up against the current that I reckon to have been about 3 to 4 knots.   There were salmon all over the place, darting around.   A some moment, a huge bald eagle soared over me.   It was a slice of heaven, and I momentarily forgot that I was paddling in what was probably an ideal fishing site for brown bears. 


    Sea Otters in/near Takatz  Bay


    After lunch, and a final paddle, we pulled up anchor and began to motor around the southern end of Admiralty Island.   A fairly strong wind was blowing from the north, and when we rounded Point Gardner, there was a big current moving against the wind.  This patch of disturbed water was about 3-4 miles long - not something I'd want to be caught in with a kayak. 

    Current against wind at the south end of Admiralty Island. 

    That evening, we ended up on Pybus Bay, on the east side of Admiralty Island, and anchored up.  

    I should mention that I brought my banjo along, and James brought my backpacking guitar.   Because the banjo is my old 'beater', and the backpacking guitar takes some getting used to, our practices were a little rusty, but we got better as the trip wore on.   In particular, I've been trying more harmony singing - in part because James takes the lead with our 'band' called the "Heartbreak Hillbillies" - so I figured without the others around to do harmony, I might as well do it.   I even found that I could pretty much hit the notes, although my tone definitely needs work.  I suppose pitch is the first thing, and then work on tone.  

    After Pybus bay, we motored to a group of islands called The Brothers.   There's a somewhat 'standard' kayak route along the inside passage.    There's a 10 mile crossing from the mainland to Admiralty Island, and this passes through a cluster of islands called the Five Fingers, and then the Brothers, allowing the crossing to be broken up into only 3 mile segments.    

    We anchored off the Brothers, and the motor boat was launched.   The destination was a small island where sea lions gathered.   It was impressive, and smelly, too.   There were some battles between males vying for domination. 


    Sea lions off of The Brothers

    Boat framed against the coastal range.


    After the Brothers, we pulled up anchor and motored around the Five Fingers, which had a magnificent lighthouse on one of them. 

    Lighthouse on five fingers

    After motoring past the lighthouse, a mother and baby humpback whale were spotted, and pretty soon, we saw an example of bubble netting.   In bubble netting, a group of several humpbacks get together to concentrate herring an krill by make a bubble net.   They go underwater, create a ring of bubbles that corrals the fish, and then they all charge up through the concentration of fish with mouths open.   This went on for a couple of hours - very impressive. 

    Humpback whales bubble netting.  



    After the bubble netting, we pulled into Hobart Bay, which is on the mainland.  

    View of Hobart Bay at sunset

    Rob, the cook on the cruise came upstairs to shoot the breeze.   It turns out that he was in the army infantry during the battle of Fallujah.    That didn't sound terribly fun.   However...he said that he sometimes sets up a hammock on the upper deck to spend the night.   He set it up, and allowed me to sleep in it that night in Hobart Bay.    

    In the morning, we had a little wait as we had to time our departure to get into our next anchorage in a place called Fords Terror, which has a narrow opening that the boat can only get through at the highest high tide, during slack water.   There's only a 15-20 minute window of opportunity.   

    The water was quite still and there was a reflection of the rock in the still water at high tide that created an interesting geometric effect with a symmetry the reminded me of a totem pole, so I did some photoshop cropping and rotation to create a kind of abstract that looks like a totem pole. 

    Rock reflections - rotated vertically


    We began motoring up to Holkum Bay, which has two fiords, the Tracy Arm and the Endicott Arm.  During the most recent glaciation, the Wisconsonian, both arms had glaciers that made it all the way down to the end, and retreated over the past 10,000 years.   There is a submerged moraine at the end of Endicott Arm, and this creates an upwelling of sea life - great for whales to feed.   We saw maybe five or six at one time feeding.   We were told that this was 'lunge feeding' - I'm not totally sure what lunge feeding is, but there was definitely a lot of coordination by anywhere from two to six whales, where they swam together in parallel and then all dove at the same time. 







    Lunge feeding

    After viewing the feeding some time, we went up Endicott Arm to enter Fords Terror.    Fords Terror is a long, deep fiord, with very steep mountain walls surrounding it.   The entrance, however, is quite shallow and narrow.   During the flood and ebb tide, there can be strong currents, up to about 8 knots running.   Ships can only pass at high slack tide.   

    The name of the fiord comes from a ship's captain, named Ford, obviously, who got into the fiord at high tide, but then got trapped by the rapids, and evidently was terrified, thinking he couldn't get out, but ultimately he did.   Sea kayakers and surfers like to play in the currents, catching the top hydraulic and riding it.   We entered at 'precisely' high slack tide, but even then, there was evidence of a confused current running. 
    Entrance to Fords Terror at slack high tide. 

    We anchored up in one of the arms of Fords Terror.   It's a magnificent sight, and the photos don't do it justice - how big it is. 

    View of Fords Terror from anchorage.

    Karen and some of the crew at anchorage at Fords Terror.  From left: Jake, the deckhand, Captain Chuck, Karen, and Rob, the cook. 

    The next morning gave us a chance to do some kayaking.   I headed to the other arm of the the fiord, where there were some shallows and current running  - at about 4 knots, I reckon.   I worked my way up by eddy hopping and got a nice ride back down. 



    Phoebe and Maddie kayaking in Fords Terror



    Char, Phoebe, and Maddie jumping into Fords Terror

    After the paddling, the crew invited the guests to jump into Fords Terror from the boat.   The water temp was 42 degrees (F), but we weren't in very long, so it was quite refreshing.   After that, we pulled up anchor and exited the fiord again at high slack tide, and motored up Endicott Arm and up to anchor in Dawe's Bay, a few miles from the tidal glacier of the same name. 

    In the morning we made it out.   Dawes Glacier is quite popular, as there is a lot of ice that calves off and into Endicott Arm.   In fact, it takes a lot of tricky steering to get close to the glacier as there are many berg-bits floating around.    We saw many calving events, but they're tricky to capture via a camera.   I did get a nice photo of arctic terns resting on one of the iceberg bits in the water. 


    This was kind of our last hurrah for the trip.   After we'd inched back out of the ice in Endicott Bay, we motored back up to Juneau, and docked.   

    I'll mention here some more of the crew.   I've already said something about Captain Chuck, and Rob, the cook.   There was Doctor Dan.  He's an anthropologist from the University of Alaska Southeast, and has extensive knowledge of Tlingit culture.   Dan gave a number of naturalist talks.   It seems that each cruise is a bit different, and he wasn't going to join in the next cruise.  

    The Tlingit are the first people of the region of Southeast Alaska.   Their language is something of a mystery as there is no affinity with neighboring language groups, although there is some evidence to suggest that the Tlingit language has relations to indigenous Siberian language groups.  If so, there's probably a fascinating history buried in this, if we could only unpack it. 

    Dan kayaked a lot of the coast, and had some helpful suggestions for good kayaking.   In addition to Dan, there was the first mate, Nick.   For some time, Nick was a sea kayaking guide, and also had good suggestions.   The 'convergence' of suggestions seemed to focus in on the Mystic Fiords region of the Tongass National Forest.  This is near Ketchikan.     

    In parting, let me mention that I was out of internet contact for eight days on this cruise, which was absolutely delightful - particularly not have to learn about the stupid tweets from you-know-who.  









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  8. Flat Earthlings


    How much of your knowledge is the result of direct experience?   How much of your knowledge comes from external sources, with trusted experts informing you?   How much of your knowledge comes from posts on social media? In the so-called post-truth era with dubious information promulgated, the question of ‘facts’ is continually being reevaluated.   Here, I used the modern and ancient beliefs in a flat earth as a small window into knowledge, culture, and experience.  

    A well-known dynamic of the internet is the ease with which like-minded individuals can aggregate.   Conspiracy theorists hold forth on chemtrails, 9/11, the JFK assassination, and other topics, but for me the most intriguing are the Flat-Earthers.    There is even a Flat Earth Society. In addition, a number of celebrities, including Kyrie Irving, profess the belief.   In November 2017, The Boston Globe reported the strange case of a New Hampshire native, Jason Torres, who, in his desire to prove that the earth was round, ended up believing the opposite: that the earth is flat[i].   According to the Globe, he spends a large amount of his time doing measurements in his quest.

    The modern Flat-Earthers hold that the world is a circular disk, with the north pole at the center, and the farthest known territories are a ring of mountains in what the rest of us call Antarctica.  In their model, the sun simply circles overhead in a path that gives darkness to some areas and light to the others, depending on where it is in its orbit.   To them, photographs of the earth from space are all doctored and there is a massive conspiracy to present the earth as a sphere.  

    Not surprisingly, popularizers of science like Neil DeGrasse Tyson, and the UK’s Brian Cox, have fired back at the trend.   In a social media rant, Cox goes off on the flat earthers: “There is absolutely no basis at all for thinking the world is flat. Nobody in human history, as far as I know, has thought the world was flat.”[ii]

    I point out that the second part of the statement by Cox is plain wrong.    Let me ask the reader to introspect for a minute and ask yourself if you have any direct experience of the earth as a sphere.   I’m not talking about seeing photographs taken from the moon, which the Flat-Earthers claim are bogus; I’m talking about direct experience.  

    It’s not crazy to think of the earth as flat, particularly if you don’t travel very far.   Some cultures may not have even had a conception of the difference between a flat and a spherical earth.   Such a thought already requires some degree of abstraction: which of two (or more) geometric models describes the totality of the surface we inhabit?    Without this kind of abstract thinking, we cannot even contemplate the question.

    In ancient Egypt, the sky was viewed as a dome formed by the body of the goddess Nut, whose feet were planted in the east and whose head and arms extended to the west.  Nut arched over Geb, the god of the earth who lay prone.  There is a curious question for believers in a flat earth:  how does the sun move from the west at sunset to the east at sunrise during the night?   The modern Flat-Earthers would say that the circular path of the sun in the sky accomplishes this.  What about the Egyptians?   In one version of the mythology, the sun journeys along the abdomen of Nut during the day, then she swallows the sun in the evening, and she expels it from her high quarters at dawn.   In other versions of the mythology, the sun journeys through the underworld to get back to the east.   

    Nut and Geb


    In myths where the sun’s return path is through the underworld, the idea that dead souls also inhabit this dark nether region has a certain logic to it.  In an Egyptian variant, Duat, the underworld is a region where the sun (Ra) makes the return journey from west back to east.   The setting sun in the west is often associated with death, and not surprisingly, the idea that the dead inhabit the region where the sun journeys back to the east at night would be compelling.

    The first significant departure from mythologizing the cosmos was with the ancient Greek philosopher, Anaximander, who opted for a purely physical model.  In his universe the earth was a short cylinder floating in free space[iii].   On the flat surface of the cylinder all the land of the world was surrounded by an encircling ocean.  The sun and moon are part of separate wheels in the sky, but tilted at an angle to the cylinder.   In Greece, as in other temperate regions, the path of the sun is inclined, so the tilted wheel model makes sense.  With the sun modeled as a floating cylinder, the return path of the sun to the east has a physical explanation rather than the mythology of Ra journeying through the underworld.


    Anaximander's model.


    That was in 600 BC.   The Pythagoreans (c. 500 BC) were likely the first Westerners to conceive of a spherical earth as it was an abstract geometric model where the surface did not have a boundary per se.   Still, the spherical nature may not have been evident, but voyages of significant distances to the north changed that.   In particular, Pytheas of Massalia is said to have sailed as far north as what is now Norway.  With long voyages to the north, the apparent motions of the stars, planets, the sun, and moon all change appreciably e.g. the midnight sun that never sets.   Pytheas would have witnessed different motions of the sun and stars that can only be explained by a spherical earth.   

    I have the good fortune to have traveled widely: as far north as Iceland, as far south as Patagonia, and many points in-between, such as the Marshall Islands, close to the equator.   Being an inveterate star-gazer, I’m always looking for star formations – whether seeing the entrance of the Southern Cross when I approach the Equator, or the appearance of Orion as ‘upside down’ from Patagonia.   These are all visible reminders of the spinning ball we inhabit.   Taken one step further, it forms the basis of celestial navigation.  

    In a course I teach, I ask my students to visualize the motion of the stars and sun over the course of a night, and throughout the year from different vantage points on the earth.  We start with the motion of rising stars at the equator, imagine the stars circling overhead at the poles, and then the views from latitudes in between. It’s not an easy exercise to gain this visualization, but when I then present the motion of stars and the sun in time lapse videos, the students are able to identify roughly the latitude where the video was taken and which direction they’re looking. Most people rarely engage in this kind of home-brewed empiricism, and yet, it’s something that our ancestors do.

    While the motion of celestial objects as seen from widely varying latitudes pretty much nails the question of the earth being round, observing the sphericity of the earth on shorter distance scales can be challenging, but it is possible. Although we may view the Flat-Earthers as unscientific, they do engage in a kind of empiricism, as pointed out by the writer Lizzie Wade in an article she wrote for the Atlantic[iv].   In the Globe article on Jason Torres mentioned above, it describes his attempt to measure the curvature of the earth by photographing Hull from Boston Harbor.   What he was hoping to see was some of the shoreline of Hull hidden by water as it would be slightly under the horizon.   In his account, he didn’t see an effect.   This is not terribly surprising as Hull is only five miles from Boston Harbor, and the effect is fairly small. 

    On the other hand, at distances of about seven or eight miles, the effect of land disappearing under the horizon begins to become apparent.  For example, from my house on Cape Cod facing Nantucket Sound, the image of parts of Monomoy Island eight miles away are at the point of being obscured over the horizon by the earth’s curvature.   The long contiguous stretch of Monomoy visually appears to be broken up into much smaller islets, as the low-lying parts are obscured by the horizon while the higher parts protrude.   Nantucket, being 20 miles away, is simply not visible, although on clear nights, I can see the lights of Nantucket village looming as light from the Village reflects off of dust in the atmosphere.   The sweep of the lighthouse on Great Point also looms in the distance, although the lighthouse itself is also over the horizon. 

    This phenomenon of objects disappearing over the horizon is fairly common and is well known to sailors.  To me, this raises a question: in the presence of objects disappearing over the horizon, why did people not believe in a spherical earth well before Pytheas? Surely sailors sailed far enough away from land for this to be apparent.  Here is my speculative answer: we know that light from near the horizon travels a considerable distance to reach our eyes, and refractive effects (bending of light in the air) are common, often giving rise to mirages.   I can imagine that ancient sailors might have interpreted the disappearance of low-lying land in the distance as a mirage-related phenomenon.   Moreover, at distances of eight miles or more, where the effect might be apparent, objects appear quite tiny, and the visual appearance might not have been discernable.

    A container vessel 'hull down' in the distance.  It is so far away that the hull underneath the containers is under the horizon.  This photo appears on the Flat Earth Society website where they go to some length to attribute the phenomenon to refraction. 



    The modern Flat-Earthers use refraction to explain the disappearance of objects over the horizon, and on this point, they may be invoking an argument that may be quite old, and not completely inconsistent with personal experience. 

    I know of at least two other simple experiments that an individual can perform over short distances to demonstrate the curvature of the earth. Again, these may have not been obvious to ancient peoples.   I haven’t poured over the Flat Earth Society website to see if they are aware of these, and if so, whether they have explanations for them.   Given the nature of online conspiracy groups, I strongly suspect that they would have some explanation if confronted with the experiments.  

    From the time of Aristotle onward, the Greek model of the universe had a spherical earth at the center of the universe and celestial objects orbiting around it.   Curiously, this central to the development of astrology as a means of augury, and the ‘rules’ were described in detail by Ptolemy in Tetrabiblos (four books).   I will not defend a spherical earth on the basis of astrology, but will note that the sphericity of the earth is key to its workings.

    During the centuries after Ptolemy, astronomy and astrology were largely intertwined and not separate endeavors as we see them today.  In the 15th century, the Portuguese employed astrologers to develop the schema for celestial navigation.  They employed the tools of their trade: almanacs of the positions of celestial objects, and instruments like astrolabes and quadrants that measure the heights in the sky.   A spherical earth was absolutely critical for the this to work.  Contrary to misconceptions, very few educated people believed in a flat earth in that period, and voyages of any considerable distance in the 16th century and beyond relied on celestial navigation.   In that era, a belief in a flat earth became quite unsustainable – the trigonometric equations used to determine latitude and longitude require a spherical earth.  

    This is not to say that the earth is a perfect sphere.   By the 17th century, it became evident that there was a bulge at the equator and a flattening at the poles due to the earth’s rotation, and measurements by satellites launched in the 1960’s and later measure other departures.  Modern mapping and GPS measurements use two models: a reference ellipsoid and a geoid.   The reference ellipsoid is a mathematical model that approximates the surface of the earth and an idealized ellipsoid that captures some features like the equatorial bulge.  The geoid is an irregular surface that takes into account the gravitational pull of mountains and other features to help define a mean ‘sea level’ as an aid to precision measurements. 

    Few people engage in celestial navigation or know what a geoid model is. These are undoubtedly obscure topics for the average citizen, although the man or woman on the street will gladly find their location with a cell phone that relies on these things.   

    Returning to the ‘proof’ of a round earth, the most convincing to a citizen willing to engage in a personal quest, like Jason Torres, is the motion of celestial objects at different latitudes.   Sadly, in our era, you have to look far and wide to find a person who can identify stars, much less visualize their motions.   While I do not have much sympathy for the modern Flat-Earthers, I can see how they could maintain their conspiracy.




    [i] Dugan Arnett,  The Point of No Turn:  For a dogged flat-earther, it’s a lonely new world, Boston Globe, Nov. 29, 2017, p. 1.
    [iii] It should be noted that information about pre Socratic philosophers can be sketchy, as only fragmentary sources exist, and the rest are summaries from sources like Aristotle and Plato.
    [iv] Lizzie Wade, In Defense of Flat Earthers, The Atlantic, 27 January 2016

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  9. I use two sheets of graph paper, which are each 8.5”x11”.   I make sure the paper has the grid centered on the hole for the gnomon.   You’ll need to use some clear tape to get the graph paper attached to the plate.   Then, create a coordinate system using the center of the gnomon hole as the origin (Lx=0, Ly=0). 

    Figure 11 Graph paper placed on Masonite board with axes (Lx and Ly) set up.

    Figure 12 Detail of the coordinate grid on the plate using the graph paper.

    The next step is to set up the compass itself.   It’s easiest to use a protractor to create the disk of the compass.   Depending on your latitude, you’ll have to think about where the shadow will be projected.   In the Northern Hemisphere, north of the Tropic of Cancer, the sun will always transit to the south of the local observer, so the shadow at its shortest length will point to true north.   The calculations in the spread sheet assume that the center (Lx=0) will be at the local noon.   So, taking Lx=0 and drawing a line to the away from the gnomon hole will point to true north.    By using the protractor, the compass points can be laid out, with 0o being due north, and 180being due south.

    Figure 13 Laying out the compass disk on the sum compass.

    Figure 14 Completed compass disk.


    The next step is to lay out the hyperbola.   The coordinates listed in red on the spreadsheet should give a series of points that can be labeled with time.   A detail of this is shown below for my example on June 14th

    Figure 15 Laying out the hyperbolic trace using the points in the spread sheet (Lx and Ly coordinates) labeled with times.
    Once all the points for the hyperbolic trace has been put on the graph paper, they can be connected using a straight-edge.   Although there’s some curvature, approximating the curve with a straight line between each pair of points gives a good enough trace. 
    Figure 16 By connecting the dots of the trace, a full hyperbola can be created.





    Figure 17 Detail of the trace around the local noon on the sun compass.

    3.)   Using the sun compass

    Depending on the day of the year, the hyperbolic trace should be good for a number of days around the time it was made for.   Even when latitude changes, and the date changes a fair amount, a decent compass can be used by adjusting the height of the gnomon. 

    Make sure the gnomon is level.   Usually this just means that you have a flat surface to use.  If you want to go one step further, you can find a set of levels in a hardware store, and use these to level out the plate.    

    Rotate the plate until the tip of the shadow touches the hyperbolic trace.   If you labeled the points with the time, you can also get an estimate of time.   This alignment is shown below for 8:45 AM. 


    Figure 18 Alignment of sun compass for 8:45 AM on June 14th.

    Figure 19 Alignment of sun compass at 10:45 on June 14th.

    Figure 20 Alignment of the sun compass at 11:45 AM on June 14th.

    Figure 21 Alignment of compass at 12:30 on 14 June.

    Figure 22 Alignment of compass at 13:00 on 14 June.
     Below is a time-lapse video of the sun compass over some fraction of the day. 

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  10. Making a sun compass


    The concept of a sun compass is fairly simple – we take a vertical stick called a gnomon that casts a shadow onto a horizontal plate.   For a specific latitude and day of the year, the path of the tip of the shadow on the horizontal plate is unique.  This shape is generally the geometric shape of a hyperbola.    The shadow reaches its shortest length when the sun reaches its highest point in the sky – the local meridian.   If we know this path and draw it out on the plate, we can rotate the plate until the shadow touches this path.  


    Figure 1 Sun compass operation.  The tip of the gnomon shadow touches the hyperbolic trace, and the compass 'dial' is aligned to true north.  The levels in the photo were only places to ensure that the plate was level.

    If the path is drawn properly, this provides an alignment of the sun compass, so that north/south/east/west and points in between can be measured.  

    There is some evidence to support the notion that the Vikings used a sun compass in their voyages to Iceland, Greenland, and Vinland during the Middle Ages. 

    More recently, sun compasses were used during World War II.   Infantry on jeeps had to cross large distances across the north African desert, and the metal in the vehicles would screw up magnetic compass readings, so the soldiers were issued sun compasses that allowed them to take their bearings from inside the jeep. 

    In addition to being a compass, if the trace carries time information, the sun compass can act as a clock to a reasonable degree of precision (+/- about 10-15 minutes). 
    Figure 2 Sun compass made for summer.  Note the length of the gnomon and the shape of the trace.

     Figure 3 Sun compass made for winter.  Note the shorter gnomon and the shape of the trace.

    For this exercise, you’ll make a sun compass that’s designed to give you both an approximate time of day, and also work as a compass.

    For this exercise, you’ll make a sun compass that’s designed to give you both an approximate time of day, and also work as a compass.

    The project

    Tools: Excel spreadsheet (link here), flat plate, gnomon (stick), graph paper, protractor, ruler.  

    For the flat plate, I recommend a material like Masonite.  It’s thin, lightweight, and reasonably stiff. 

    There are three parts to this: 

    1.)   Getting the data for the sun compass using the Excel spread sheet
    2.)   Making the sun compass itself
    3.)   Using the sun compass

    1.)   Getting the data

    Part A  (Can skip this if you want, but it gives you sunrise and sunset times)

    The Excel spread sheet has a lot of intermediate numbers that you don’t have to pay attention to, but there are some numbers that you must enter in order to get it to work properly.  In the top of the spread sheet, there is a sample calculation of the altitude and azimuth of the sun for a given day and latitude/longitude/time of day.  It also provides the time of sunrise and sunset for that location.

    Figure 4 Top of spread sheet - inputs are in bold face.

    Look at the very top of the spread sheet.   The entries you’ll need to put in are in bold face in this.  The year is obvious, the month should just be the number associated with the month (e.g. January=1, February = 2).  The date of the month is simple.  This particular entry is for June 14th.

    The time zone in UTC is straightforward.   UTC is, effectively, Greenwich time (GMT).   This is for Boston in the summer.   Since Boston is west of Greenwich, it would normally be -5 UTC, but since it’s summer, it’s an hour early, or -4 UTC. 

    Latitude and longitude is something that can be looked up readily.  This calculation uses decimal latitude and longitude.   The “day_of_year” is an intermediate calculation step that will happen automatically.

    Enter, then, the hour (0-23), minute, and second of the observation.  In this case, I entered the time of 12:42:38, which corresponds to the time of the local noon for Boston, which is the latitude and longitude entered. 

    Scroll down a little farther, and you’ll see in bold red the altitude and the azimuth, followed by the sunrise and sunset times in local hours, and local minutes. 


    Figure 5 Section of the spread sheet giving the sunrise and sunset in local time.

    In the above clip from the spread sheet, for Boston on June 14th, sunrise is at 5:07, and sunset is at 20:17 (8:17 PM).   The time of sunrise and sunset can be helpful in deciding how to set up the flat plate.

    Part B

    This is effectively the same calculation as the first part of the spreadsheet, but done for increments of time, and carried out all along rows.   This is in the second part of the spreadsheet.  You enter data under the bold-faced headings.  These include the year, month, day, time zone, latitude, longitude, and time in hours and minutes.   On the spread sheet example, the times are entered in 15 minute intervals.   Getting much finer grained than this is not necessary. 

    Figure 6 Portion of spreadsheet for data entry for sun compass construction.

    In addition to this, you have to enter the length of the gnomon.  My plate is 20”x8” wide, and I want to get a fairly large chunk of time covered on the plate.   This means that I have to play around with the gnomon length until I get the best coverage.   If I get too close to sunrise and sunset, too much of the board is taken up with that, so I try to get some time after sunrise and sunset.   In this particular case, June 14th, sunrise is at 5:07 AM, and sunset is at 8:17 PM.   I only put down the time period of 8:15 AM to 17:15 PM. 

    Note that the coverage will depend on the gnomon length.  In the photo below, I show two gnomons – one for the summer (long) and one for the winter (short). 

    Figure 7 Summer gnomon (left) and winter gnomon (right).  These are constructed to get most of the shadow path during the day onto the plate.

    Figure 8 Screen shot of right-hand side of spread sheet, with the gnomon length entered, and the locations of the points on the hyperbolic trace in red.

    Next, go to the right-hand side of the spreadsheet.   You have to enter the length of the gnomon.  For the summer months, I used 6”.   I used a 20x8” Masonite plate for my sun compass, with a hole drilled and centered in the middle of the long axis (labeled Lx).  The hole is offset about one inch from the edge of the plate in the short axis (labeled Ly).   The center of the system is 0,0, where the gnomon is located.  In the above example, some of the Ly values are negative, as the sun rises north of east in the summer, and so the shadow will be cast to the south for some times closer to sunrise and sunset.  

    Note that the maximum value for Lx is 10 inches to fit onto the plate. 

    This list of red numbers is the data you need to plot on the graph paper laid on top of the plate.

    1.)   Making the physical sun compass

    Here, you will need the following:

    a)     Plate – I use a 20”x8” Masonite board, with a hole drilled – centered on the long axis: 10” from each side, and 1” from the edge of the short axis. 
    b)    Gnomon: use dowel stock – the hole in the Masonite should match the diameter of the dowel stock. The tip of the gnomon can be sharpened up to make for an obvious shadow-tip.
    c)     Graph paper.  Since I’m using inches as the metric, I use a pad of graph paper with 5x5 subdivisions per inch.
    Figure 9 Raw materials for making the sun compass.
    In addition, I use a ruler and a protractor.
    Figure 10 Detail of plate, gnomon, graph paper, and protractor.






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