Practice Test

Snowy Mountains

by John Gould Fletcher

Higher and still more high,
Palaces made for cloud,
Above the dingy city-roofs
Blue-white like angels with broad wings,
Pillars of the sky at rest
The mountains from the great plateau
Uprise.

But the world heeds them not;
They have been here now for too long a time.
The world makes war on them,
Tunnels their granite cliffs,
Splits down their shining sides,
Plasters their cliffs with soap-advertisements,
Destroys the lonely fragments of their peace.

Vaster and still more vast,
Peak after peak, pile after pile,
Wilderness still untamed,
To which the future is as was the past,
Barrier spread by Gods,
Sunning their shining foreheads,
Barrier broken down by those who do not need
The joy of time-resisting storm-worn stone,
The mountains swing along
The south horizon of the sky;
Welcoming with wide floors of blue-green ice
The mists that dance and drive before the sun.

“Snowy Mountains” by John Gould Fletcher—Public Domain

Excerpt from “The Spirit of the Herd”

by Dallas Lore Sharp

In this excerpt, published in 1914, author and professor Dallas Lore Sharp describes a summer cattle roundup in Oregon. The heat and dust had been relentless for three days. The cowboys were exhausted, and the cattle were restless. The ranch boss, Wade, had led the drive to a watering place, only to find it empty.

Along with the wagon had come the fresh horses—one of them being Peroxide Jim, a supple, powerful, clean-limbed buckskin, a horse, I think, that had as fine and intelligent an animal-face as any creature I ever saw. Wade had been saving this horse for emergency work. And why should he not have been saved fresh for just such a need as this? Are there not superior horses as well as superior men—a Peroxide Jim to complement a Wade?

The horse knew the cattle business and knew his rider perfectly; and though there was nothing like sentiment about the boss of the P Ranch riders, his faith in Peroxide Jim was complete. . . .

The desert, where the herd was camped, was one of the highest of a series of tablelands, or benches; it lay as level as a floor, rimmed by sheer rock, from which there was a drop to the bench of sage below. The herd when overtaken by the dusk had been headed for a pass descending to the next lower bench, but was now halted within a mile of the rim rock on the east, where there was a perpendicular fall of about three hundred feet. . . .

In the taut silence of the stirless desert night, with the tension of the herd at the snapping-point, any quick, unwonted sight or sound would stampede them. The sneezing of a horse, the flare of a match, would be enough to send the whole four thousand headlong—blind, frenzied, trampling—till spent and scattered over the plain.

And so, as he rode, Wade began to sing. The rider ahead of him took up the air and passed it on until, above the stepping stir of the hoofs rose the faint voices of the men, and all the herd was bound about by the slow plaintive measures of some old song. It was not to soothe their savage breasts that the riders sang to the cattle, but rather to preempt the dreaded silence, to relieve the tension, and so to prevent the shock of any sudden startling noise.

So they sang and rode and the night wore on to one o’clock, when Wade, coming up on the rim-rock side, felt a cool breeze fan his face, and caught a breath of fresh, moist wind with the taste of water in it.

He checked his horse instantly, listening as the wind swept past him over the cattle. But they must already have smelled it, for they had ceased their milling, the whole herd standing motionless, the indistinct forms close to him in the dark showing their bald faces lifted to drink the sweet wet breath that came over the rim. Then they started on again, but faster, and with a rumbling now from their hoarse throats that tightened Wade’s grip on the reins.

The sound seemed to come out of the earth, a low, rumbling mumble, as dark as the night and as wide as the plain, a thick, inarticulate bellow that stood every rider stiff in his stirrups. . . .

Then the breeze caught the dust and carried it back from the gray-coated, ghostly shapes, and Wade saw that the animals were still moving in a circle. He must keep them going. He touched his horse to ride on with them, when across the black sky flashed a vivid streak of lightning.

There was a snort from the steers, a quick clap of horns and hoofs from far within the herd, a tremor of the plain, a roar, a surging mass—and Wade was riding the flank of a wild stampede. Before him, behind him, beside him, pressing hard upon his horse, galloped the frenzied steers, and beyond them a multitude borne on, and bearing him on, by the heave of the galloping herd.

Wade was riding for his life. He knew it. His horse knew it. He was riding to turn the herd, too, back from the rim, as the horse also knew. The cattle were after water—water-mad—ready to go over the precipice to get it, carrying horse and rider with them. Wade was the only rider between the herd and the rim. It was black as death. He could see nothing in the sage, could scarcely discern the pounding, panting shadows at his side. He knew that he was being borne toward the rim, how fast he could not tell, but he knew by the swish of the brush against his tapaderos and the plunging of the horse that the ground was growing stonier, that they were nearing the rocks.

To outrun the herd was his only chance for life. If he could come up with the leaders he might not only escape, but even stand a chance of heading them off upon the plain and saving the herd. There were cattle still ahead of him; how many, what part of them all, he could not make out in the dark. But the horse knew. The reins hung on his straight neck, where his rider had dropped them, as, yelling and firing over the wild herd, he had given this horse the race to win, to lose.

They were riding the rim. Close on their left bore down the flank of the herd, and on their right, under their very feet, was a precipice, so close that they felt its blackness—its three hundred feet of fall! . . .

. . . Then Wade found himself racing neck and neck with a big white steer, which the horse, with marvelous instinct, seemed to pick out from a bunch, and to cling to, forcing him gradually ahead, till, cutting him free from the bunch entirely, he bore him off into the swishing sage.

The steers coming on close behind followed their leader, and in, after them, swung others. The tide was turning from the rim. More and more were veering, and within a short time the whole herd, bearing off from the cliffs, was pounding over the open plains.

Whose race was it? It was Peroxide Jim’s, according to Wade, for not by word or by touch of hand or knee had the horse been directed in the run. From the flash of the lightning the horse had taken the bit, had covered an indescribably perilous path at top speed, had outrun the herd and turned it from the edge of the rim rock, without a false step or a tremor of fear.

From “The Spirit of the Herd” by Dallas Lore Sharp—Public Domain

tablelands: plateaus, flat areas of land sharply elevated from the surrounding area
tapaderos: leather covers for stirrups

A Miracle Mile

In the 1950s people compared running one mile in four minutes to scaling Mount Everest and nicknamed the feat a “dream mile.” Although such an accomplishment was considered humanly impossible, several elite runners aimed to break that supposedly impenetrable barrier. One of them was a twenty-five-year-old medical student named Roger Bannister.

Roger Bannister had tasted failure during the 1952 Olympics. There, he was favored to win the 1,500-meter competition, a distance slightly shorter than a mile, but he finished in a dismal fourth place instead. Bannister’s performance was a disappointment for him and his country, Great Britain. Determined to redeem himself, Bannister postponed his plans to retire from racing and focused on the ultimate prize—breaking the four-minute-mile barrier.

Bannister attacked the elusive milestone with a positive attitude and logical planning. The amateur athlete decided to use intensive interval training to develop endurance and speed. For these workouts, Bannister ran an interval of ten consecutive laps on a quarter-mile track, aiming for sixty seconds each lap. In between intervals, he let his body recover for two minutes.

By early 1954, Bannister had succeeded in lowering his quarter-mile pace to sixty-one seconds, but he had to shave off at least one more second in order to reach his target. Frustrated by the plateau he had reached, Bannister took a break from training and went mountain climbing for three days. The rest from running permitted his muscles to recuperate and left him feeling refreshed. When Bannister returned to the track, he completed ten quarter-mile-long intervals at fifty-nine seconds each. He finally felt prepared to attempt to break the world record.

As a member of the Amateur Athletic Association (AAA), Bannister joined the AAA team for a track meet against Oxford University. The event took place on a cinder track in Oxford on May 6, 1954. Bannister and his two AAA teammates, Chris Chataway and Chris Brasher, were close friends and frequent running partners. Chataway and Brasher agreed to help Bannister accomplish his goal by being his “rabbits.”

In track and field, rabbits are runners who enter the race solely to pace a teammate for a segment of the course. Typically, a runner settles in behind the rabbit and allows the rabbit to set an appropriate tempo. Additionally, by running behind the rabbit, the runner conserves about 15 percent of his or her effort. When the starting pistol fired, Brasher pounced into the lead, and Bannister followed behind his first rabbit.

Propelled by the excitement, Bannister lost his instinctive feel for his pace and shouted “Faster!” at Brasher. Brasher, however, remained composed and maintained his current steady but grueling pace, completing the first two laps in a desirable one minute and fifty-eight seconds. Then Chataway surged forward, leading Bannister at this same punishing rate for another lap and a half. At the beginning of the back straightaway of the track, Bannister bolted past Chataway. Bannister said, “I felt that the moment of a lifetime had come. There was no pain, only a great unity of movement and aim.” Bannister crossed the finish line in 3 minutes 59.4 seconds. The ecstatic crowd erupted the moment the timekeeper announced the word “three.”

Soon after Bannister’s achievement, four other athletes matched his performance. A new mindset had taken root among runners. Over the years, the record continued to fall. However, the current record, 3 minutes 43.13 seconds, has stood unbroken since 1999. Some question whether this record represents the limits of human ability. But perhaps there is another Bannister, an athlete who, with willpower and dedication, will accomplish the miraculous.

Excerpt from In Search of the Unknown

by Robert W. Chambers

It was at that time the policy of the trustees and officers of the Zoological Gardens neither to employ collectors nor to send out expeditions in search of specimens. The society decided to depend upon voluntary contributions, and I was always busy, part of the day, in dictating answers to correspondents who wrote offering their services as hunters of big game, collectors of all sorts of fauna, trappers, snarers, and also to those who offered specimens for sale, usually at exorbitant rates.

To the proprietors of . . . mangy lynxes, moth-eaten coyotes, and dancing bears I returned courteous but uncompromising refusals—of course, first submitting all such letters, together with my replies, to Professor Farrago.

One day towards the end of May, however, just as I was leaving Bronx Park to return to town, Professor Lesard, of the reptilian department, called out to me that Professor Farrago wanted to see me a moment; so I . . . retraced my steps to the temporary, wooden building occupied by Professor Farrago, general superintendent of the Zoological Gardens. The professor, who was sitting at his desk before a pile of letters and replies submitted for approval by me, pushed his glasses down and looked over them at me with a whimsical smile that suggested amusement, impatience, annoyance, and perhaps a faint trace of apology.

“Now, here’s a letter,” he said, with a deliberate gesture towards a sheet of paper impaled on a file—“a letter that I suppose you remember.” He disengaged the sheet of paper and handed it to me.

“Oh yes,” I replied, with a shrug; “of course the man is mistaken—or—”

“Or what?” demanded Professor Farrago, tranquilly, wiping his glasses.

“—Or a liar,” I replied.

After a silence he leaned back in his chair and bade me read the letter to him again, and I did so with a contemptuous tolerance for the writer, who must have been either a very innocent victim or a very stupid swindler. I said as much to Professor Farrago, but, to my surprise, he appeared to waver.

“I suppose,” he said, with his near-sighted, embarrassed smile, “that nine hundred and ninety-nine men in a thousand would throw that letter aside and condemn the writer as a liar or a fool?”

“In my opinion,” said I, “he’s one or the other.”

“He isn’t—in mine,” said the professor, placidly.

“What!” I exclaimed. “Here is a man living all alone on a strip of rock and sand between the wilderness and the sea, who wants you to send somebody to take charge of a bird that doesn’t exist!”

“How do you know,” asked Professor Farrago, “that the bird in question does not exist?”

“It is generally accepted,” I replied, sarcastically, “that the great auk has been extinct for years. Therefore I may be pardoned for doubting that our correspondent possesses a pair of them alive.”

“Oh, you young fellows,” said the professor, smiling wearily, “you embark on a theory for destinations that don’t exist.”

He leaned back in his chair, his amused eyes searching space for the imagery that made him smile.

“Like swimming squirrels, you navigate with the help of Heaven and a stiff breeze, but you never land where you hope to—do you?”

Rather red in the face, I said: “Don’t you believe the great auk to be extinct?”

“Audubon saw the great auk.”

“Who has seen a single specimen since?”

“Nobody—except our correspondent here,” he replied, laughing.

I laughed, too, considering the interview at an end, but the professor went on, coolly:

“Whatever it is that our correspondent has—and I am daring to believe that it is the great auk itself—I want you to secure it for the society.”

When my astonishment subsided my first conscious sentiment was one of pity. Clearly, Professor Farrago was on the verge of dotage—ah, what a loss to the world!

I believe now that Professor Farrago perfectly interpreted my thoughts, but he betrayed neither resentment nor impatience. I drew a chair up beside his desk—there was nothing to do but to obey, and this fool’s errand was none of my conceiving.

Together we made out a list of articles necessary for me and itemized the expenses I might incur, and I set a date for my return, allowing no margin for a successful termination to the expedition.

“Never mind that,” said the professor. “What I want you to do is to get those birds here safely. Now, how many men will you take?”

“None,” I replied, bluntly; “it’s a useless expense, unless there is something to bring back. If there is I’ll wire you, you may be sure.”

“Very well,” said Professor Farrago, good-humoredly, “you shall have all the assistance you may require. Can you leave to-night?”

The old gentleman was certainly prompt. I nodded, half-sulkily, aware of his amusement.

“So,” I said, picking up my hat, “I am to start north to find a place called Black Harbor, where there is a man named Halyard who possesses, among other household utensils, two extinct great auks—”

We were both laughing by this time. I asked him why on earth he credited the assertion of a man he had never before heard of.

“I suppose,” he replied, with the same half-apologetic, half-humorous smile, “it is instinct. I feel, somehow, that this man Halyard has got an auk—perhaps two. I can’t get away from the idea that we are on the eve of acquiring the rarest of living creatures. It’s odd for a scientist to talk as I do; doubtless you’re shocked—admit it, now!”

But I was not shocked; on the contrary, I was conscious that the same strange hope that Professor Farrago cherished was beginning, in spite of me, to stir my pulses, too.

“If he has—” I began, then stopped.

The professor and I looked hard at each other in silence.

“Go on,” he said, encouragingly.

But I had nothing more to say, for the prospect of beholding with my own eyes a living specimen of the great auk produced a series of conflicting emotions within me which rendered speech profanely superfluous.

From IN SEARCH OF THE UNKNOWN by Robert W. Chambers—Public Domain

Audubon: John James Audubon, an ornithologist and artist who created scientific illustrations of birds
dotage: a loss of reasoning brought about by old age

Looking for the Smallest Spark of Everything

Located underground near Geneva, Switzerland, the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) helps scientists study and understand how the smallest particles of matter interact with one another. The LHC propels atomic particle beams along a 17-mile-long ring.

There are the things the world is made of,
things we can see and feel, and then
there are the things even smaller, things that seem
to exist only when we are looking right at them.

So beneath the level of molecules are atoms,
and beneath the level of atoms, we find
protons, electrons, neutrons; and beneath that—
what, exactly? Because we are talking about
everything here: your fingernail,
the candy at the back of your mouth,
the coffee your teacher drank this morning,
your little sister, and the stuffed dog
she used to carry around with her everywhere.
And everywhere.

Everything and everywhere
are made up of the same stuff, whatever
it is. How do we find it? We can listen for it
in the wavelengths from deep space,
talking back to us from unimaginable
distances. Or we can build long,
deep circular tunnels beneath the surface
of this Earth and race particles
(like racing cars, only very tiny cars
flashing along at close to the speed of light)
until everything we think we know
bangs against everything else we know.

And there, in the explosion, in the darkness,
briefly incandescent, they appear:
the quarks, the leptons, and the bosons;
the baryons and the mesons. Their names
sound like dinosaurs or maybe bands
playing terrible music in someone’s garage.

The one thing we know for sure
is that they spin. This is how gravity
enters our world, how our world is held
both together and apart, what keeps
together the pencil in your hand right now
as well as separate from, say,
Jupiter. They spin, and it is only down there
in the darkness—in the vast garage
where physicists jot down
what they can, whatever seems most real—
that they let us perceive their wild dancing,
combusting to the music they make.

Bird Talk

by Carl Sandburg

And now when the branches were beginning to be heavy,
It was the time when they once had said, “This is the
  beginning of summer.”
The shrilling of the frogs was not so shrill as in the
  first weeks after the broken winter;
The birds took their hops and zigzags a little more
  anxious; a home is a home; worms are worms.
The yellow spreads of the dandelions and buttercups
  reached across the green pastures.
Tee whee and tee whee came on the breezes, and the grackles
  chuzzled their syllables.
And it was the leaves with a strong soft wind over them
  that talked most of all and said more than any others
  though speaking the fewest words.
It was the green leaves trickling out the gaunt nowhere
  of winter, out on the gray hungry branches—
It was the leaves on the branches, beginning to be heavy,
  who said as they said one time before, “This is the be-
  ginning of summer.”

We shall never blame the birds who come
  where the river and the road make the Grand Crossing
  and talk there, sitting in circles talking bird talk.
If they ask in their circles as to who is here
  and as to who is not here and who used to be here,
Or if instead of counting up last year as against
  this year, they count up this year as against next
  year, and have their bird chatter about who is here
  this year who won’t be here next year,
We shall never blame the birds.

If I have put your face among leaf faces, child,
Or if I have put your voice among bird voices,
Blame me no more than the bluejays.

“Bird Talk” by Carl Sandburg—Public domain.

Excerpt from “Growing Peppers on the ISS Is Just the Start of Space Farming”

by Melanie Canales

The author, Melanie Canales, is a first-generation Peruvian American farmer and beekeeper based in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, on lands of the indigenous Monacan and Manahoac tribes. Her work focuses on creating healthy relationships between people and their surrounding ecosystems.

Unburdened by the constraints of gravity, red and green peppers jut out at 45-degree angles inside the Advanced Plant Habitat (APH), a sort of space terrarium not much larger than a microwave. Four chile pepper plants stand effortlessly upright, despite the dozens of glossy fruits weighing them down. These plants have lived entirely in space; their leaves have never been chewed on by insects or rustled by a summer breeze, [and] their stems are unfamiliar with bending toward the sun’s arc across the sky. Scissors glint under the tank’s white and blue lights as astronaut Mark Vande Hei and his team snip the stems of those that are ready for harvest. The peppers whirl around their heads until the astronauts catch them and tape them against a board to photograph.

Back on Earth, the Plant Habitat-04 team of engineers and plant scientists are observing and conferring with the astronauts. Of the 26 peppers in this batch, only the 14 finest will stay on the International Space Station [ISS] for consumption. The rest will be wrapped in foil, sealed in a Ziploc bag, then frozen at a brisk −80 degrees, until they can come roaring back to Earth in the next cargo capsule to be studied later. Now, after a 137-day growth cycle, the astronauts remove the plants from the module and trash them. Project Plant Habitat-04 is complete. It’s taco night on the ISS.

Since 2014, NASA¹ has experimented with growing lettuces, brassicas,² and zinnias³ in space, an endeavor that relies on highly specialized technology over 50 years in the making. [Fall 2021’s] two successful pepper harvests . . . will provide data on the nutritional and psychological benefits of growing vegetables on-craft, as well as a crop’s ability to reliably produce long-term in microgravity. While controlled environmental agriculture is not new, the APH experiment represents an evolution in specialized growth habitats. It doesn’t aim to re-create Earth’s conditions, but to perfect each isolated variable of plant growth in the clinical environment of a spaceship.

“The Advanced Plant Habitat is the most complex plant growth system on orbit today,” says Lashelle Spencer, a plant scientist at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center. Its more than 180 sensors control and monitor temperature, humidity, and carbon dioxide. The astronauts can adjust the color and intensity of the light, and how much moisture the plants’ roots are getting. It waters itself.

It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and Spencer has been at Kennedy since 5 a.m. to facilitate the peppers’ final harvest. As part of the project team, she played a crucial role in preparing the seeds that were sent hurtling into space in June and guiding the astronauts through maintaining the plants in orbit. . . . Though astronauts can spend upwards of 100 days in space, their on-mission meals come dehydrated and pre-packaged; their vitamins and minerals are isolated in supplements, which lose nutritional value the longer they’re stored. Spencer’s goal is to create the conditions necessary for cultivating healthy plants in space, so those plants can sustain healthy astronauts on long-term missions. Astronaut food is great, she says—“especially the shrimp cocktail. But you’re missing that crunch. You’re missing that fresh pop of flavor, the green flavor that’s not there in that packaged food.”

The sensory experience of growing productive crops can also help mitigate⁴ the psychological effects of long-term space travel. . . . Spencer says the team cracked open the door of the APH every day to observe their vegetable companions with all the tenderness of home gardeners. When harvest day came, they batted their bounty around the ISS, taking selfies and delighting in watching the fruits pirouetting around the spacecraft. . . .

“We were thinking no heat, so that [the peppers] wouldn’t be dangerous, but maybe the astronauts need a little spice in their life,” says Paul Bosland, who along with his colleagues at the Chile Pepper Institute genetically engineered⁵ the NuMex Española Improved chile pepper seeds grown in Plant Habitat-04. . . .

Working with NASA, Bosland cultivated a variety that could accommodate both the nutritional needs of astronauts as well as the logistics of growing a plant in space. . . .

. . . The experiment is helping gather the data necessary to determine the nutritional content of crops grown in space, and therefore how many people they can feed, and for how long. Though much is still unknown, Spencer is certain of one thing that future astronauts will need to do: “I think in an optimal world, a scientist like me would say that they would be growing plants from day one. From the day they left to the day they came back, they would be growing them.”

From “Growing Peppers on the ISS Is Just the Start of Space Farming” by Melanie Canales from WIRED, December 21, 2021. Copyright © 2021 Condé Nast. All rights reserved.

¹NASA: National Aeronautics and Space Administration

²brassicas: a large genus of herbs, such as broccoli and cabbage

³zinnias: a genus of herbs and low shrubs that have flowers at their heads

⁴mitigate: to make something less severe or harmful

⁵genetically engineered: combined parts of DNA from different plants to produce a new plant

A Memory Revolution

A high school senior logs on to a computer at the library to double-check the application due date listed on a college admissions website. Nearby, a librarian helps a group of biology students use a database to search for recent studies about mammals. In the past few decades, the Internet has become an integral component of daily life for many people. The seemingly limitless power of search engines made the Internet search extremely common, and today people increasingly rely on the Internet’s vast accumulation of sources to access all types of information. Scientists are beginning to examine how this reliance is modifying the strategies people use to store and prioritize information in their mind.

A Dependable and Valuable Asset

Psychologist Benjamin Storm from the University of California, Santa Cruz, and researchers Sean Stone and Aaron Benjamin devised an experiment to study students’ tendency to depend on the Internet for facts. To begin, the scientists divided sixty participants into multiple groups, including an “Internet” group and a “memory” group, and placed them in front of computers. The Internet group was required to use the search engine Google to answer eight challenging trivia questions. In contrast, participants in the memory group were permitted to use only their personal knowledge to answer the questions. In the second round, the researchers administered notably easier questions. This time, they allowed each group the option of using Google as they answered. Their results showed that 83 percent of the Internet group continued to consult Google in the second round, while only 63 percent of the memory group chose to do so.

People’s growing inclination to rely on the Internet in order to retrieve information, particularly facts and figures, is called cognitive offloading. Canadian researcher Evan F. Risko and British researcher Sam Gilbert, who have written extensively about the topic, say a similar process has been taking place for centuries. In the past, people used resources like encyclopedias to assist their memories; however, today the Internet, serving as a vast extended memory, allows people to digitally access and retrieve much larger volumes of information. Consequently, people’s minds are free for other cognitive feats, such as connecting data, learning new information, or solving problems.

Filing Information Away

The use of the Internet also appears to be modifying the strategies people use to store information in their mind. Researchers Betsy Sparrow from Columbia University, Jenny Liu from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and Daniel Wegner from Harvard University conducted several studies to discover how people efficiently manage their information intake.

To begin, the researchers examined how people evaluate which information deserves their effort to remember. For this experiment, participants read forty trivia facts, such as “An ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain,” and typed the statements into a computer file. Half the participants had been previously told the file would be saved, while half believed it would be erased. Next, the participants wrote down every fact they could recall. Those who believed the information would be erased and no longer available could recall 40 percent more facts than those who thought the information would be saved.

In another experiment, the same researchers tested the ability of study participants to remember where to access information. For this trial, participants read and typed trivia statements, which they saved in folders with generic names such as “Facts” and “Items.” After spending ten minutes writing down all the facts they could recall from memory, participants were asked which folder contained a particular fact based on a keyword. For example, “Which folder has the fact about ostriches?” Overall, participants recalled the information’s location more often than the content itself, correctly identifying 49 percent of the folders for specific facts while remembering only 23 percent of the actual trivia. The researchers concluded that our memory is adapting to the Internet age by prioritizing where to locate information even when the specific details are forgotten. According to Sparrow, the Internet has become an important form of transactive memory, an external source of the recollections and associative networks that constitute memory.

As the Internet’s resources continue to expand our “external” memory, some question whether the process may cause people to depend too heavily on technology. However, Steven Pinker, a professor of psychology at Harvard University, says, “Knowledge is increasing exponentially; human brainpower and waking hours are not. Fortunately, the Internet and information technologies are helping us manage, search and retrieve our collective intellectual output at different scales, from Twitter and previews to e-books and online encyclopedias. Far from making us stupid, these technologies are the only things that will keep us smart.”

Wolves of the Sea

The cool and misty landscape of the Great Bear Rainforest can be found along the coast of British Columbia, Canada, and its nearby islands, from Vancouver Island to the Alaskan border. Within this protected area, wolves roam the forests, islands, and beaches. When biologist Chris Darimont began to study these wolves, he wanted to confer with local First Nations groups, as aboriginal Canadians are known, in order to learn what they knew about these wolves. He spoke with Chester Starr, an elder of the Heiltsuk Nation that has occupied the Great Bear Rainforest for thousands of years. What Starr had to say about the wolves changed Darimont’s perception of the animals.

Starr asked Darimont which wolves he and his team were going to study—the timber wolves (mainland wolves) or the coastal wolves on the islands. The question took Darimont by surprise. Biologists had always believed that the wolves that are sometimes spotted swimming between islands and eating salmon are the same wolves that live on the mainland. Darimont was intrigued by Starr’s classification of the wolves as two different groups. At first, he was hesitant to accept the idea. The distances between the mainland and the islands are small, less than a mile. Why would the wolves on the islands be any different from the wolves on the mainland? To find out, Darimont and his research team studied the wolves on the islands and in the densely forested territory of the Great Bear Rainforest for ten years.

Throughout the study, Darimont recorded several significant, observable differences between the “sea wolves,” as they are nicknamed, and the mainland wolves. Compared with the mainland wolves, the sea wolves are smaller in size and are strong swimmers. In 1996 sea wolves were spotted on an island nearly eight miles from any other land formation. While mainland wolves almost exclusively eat meat, such as deer and elk, and teach their young to hunt for land animals, sea wolves get as much as 90 percent of their nutrition from the sea and teach their young to dig for clams and to catch fish. Sea wolves regularly swim between islands and have been known to sneak up on a seal sunning itself on a rock and make a leaping attack from the water. Some salmon-eating mainland wolves come and go from the islands with the fish-spawning season, but the sea wolves are full-time island residents. Darimont suspects that some sea wolves live their entire life on the islands.

The sea wolves displayed not only physical and behavioral differences but also genetic variations from the mainland wolves. After collecting and analyzing the DNA in 800 samples of gray fur and wolf waste, researchers could produce hard biological evidence that sea wolves had genetic markers that made them distinct from the mainland wolves. A genetic marker is a variation in a DNA sequence that can be used to identify individuals or a species because it is passed down to offspring. Darimont hypothesizes that a change in habitat led to the eventual genetic differences between sea wolves and mainland wolves. Many years ago, loss of habitat and food sources forced some mainland wolves out to the islands. They learned to eat everything from kelp and fish eggs to the remains of sea creatures that washed up on the beach. Wolves living on the islands and mainland wolves became more isolated and rarely mated with each other. Over time the two types of wolves became more distinct.

It turned out that Chester Starr was right all along. “It sounded totally bizarre at first,” admits Darimont, “that there could be two versions of the species.” But he now realizes that this skepticism “definitely reflected my ignorance of indigenous knowledge at the time.” Learning to trust the wisdom of the Heiltsuk people opened Darimont up to knowledge accumulated over millennia and positioned him so that he could gather new scientific evidence about one of British Columbia’s most elusive species, the sea wolf.

Ode to Fireworks

In autumn my mother drove us to the edge of the field
where the fair was set up year after year:
the carousel, the bumper cars, the long, low sheds
filled with prizewinning animals.
We—my sister, my cousin, and I—were ready for bed,
already in our pajamas. This was a treat we waited
all year for. We waited in the darkness
for the first low, dull thwumps, like someone
beating an old, filthy rug hung on a wash line.
Then we counted the seconds between the lightning
and thunder, as we also used to do, until the sky
lit up: red, blue, green, gold. In my mind’s eye
I can still see the straggly, ancient oak whose branches
reached up past the exhibition halls, silhouetted
against the spectrum of stars that cascaded behind it.

It was one thing to look up into the sky
and imagine yourself in it or to make out pictures
among the clouds, which my sister liked to do.
No, I would tell her, that cloud
does not look like an elephant, a hat, an umbrella.
But it was another thing to see
the sky at night written upon
with those jewels. (We lived in the country:
night was night.) All around us, crickets
stridulated in the stubble of what had been
somebody’s cornfield, their song rising and falling.
You could smell winter on the air’s edge.

Now, in the city, when the sky dips into shadow
at New Year’s or on the Fourth of July, I find myself
craning my neck upward at odd moments.
The city sky is always lit up. This is where we live now,
and it is how we live now, awash in light
of every hue. Everything is a constant celebration:
picking up washing at the cleaner’s or stopping by
the corner market for a loaf of heavy bread.
And the music around me is the music of people,
their voices rising and falling in a hundred languages.
But beneath the yellowish glow deep in the sky
of all our city lights pelting out into the universe,
I remember the feel of the pickup truck bumping
across the ridged field, as I kept waiting for those
childhood bursts, watching as they escorted us home.

Excerpt from “Impressions of an Indian Childhood”

by Zitkala-Sa

Zitkala-Sa (Gertrude Simmons Bonnin) was a Native American writer, musician, teacher, and political activist who was raised on the Yankton Sioux Reservation in South Dakota. In 1900 she published “Impressions of an Indian Childhood” (the term Indian was commonly used at the time to refer to Native American people) to expose readers to what life is like on a reservation.

Soon after breakfast Mother sometimes began her beadwork. On a bright, clear day, she pulled out the wooden pegs that pinned the skirt of our wigwam¹ to the ground, and rolled the canvas part way up on its frame of slender poles. Then the cool morning breezes swept freely through our dwelling, now and then wafting the perfume of sweet grasses from newly burnt prairie.

Untying the long tasseled strings that bound a small brown buckskin² bag, my mother spread upon a mat beside her bunches of colored beads, just as an artist arranges the paints upon his palette. On a lapboard she smoothed out a double sheet of soft white buckskin; and drawing from a beaded case that hung on the left of her wide belt a long, narrow blade, she trimmed the buckskin into shape. Often she worked upon small moccasins for her small daughter. Then I became intensely interested in her designing. With a proud, beaming face, I watched her work. In [my] imagination, I saw myself walking in a new pair of snugly fitting moccasins. I felt the envious eyes of my playmates upon the pretty red beads decorating my feet.

Close beside my mother I sat on a rug, with a scrap of buckskin in one hand and an awl in the other. This was the beginning of my practical observation lessons in the art of beadwork. From a skein³ of finely twisted threads of silvery sinews my mother pulled out a single one. With an awl she pierced the buckskin, and skillfully threaded it with the white sinew. Picking up the tiny beads one by one, she strung them with the point of her thread, always twisting it carefully after every stitch.

It took many trials before I learned how to knot my sinew thread on the point of my finger, as I saw her do. Then the next difficulty was in keeping my thread stiffly twisted, so that I could easily string my beads upon it. My mother required of me original designs for my lessons in beading. At first I frequently ensnared many a sunny hour into working a long design. Soon I learned from self-inflicted punishment to refrain from drawing complex patterns, for I had to finish whatever I began.

After some experience I usually drew easy and simple crosses and squares. These were some of the set forms. My original designs were not always symmetrical nor sufficiently characteristic, two faults with which my mother had little patience. The quietness of her oversight made me feel strongly responsible and dependent upon my own judgment. She treated me as a dignified little individual as long as I was on my good behavior; and how humiliated I was when some boldness of mine drew forth a rebuke from her!

In the choice of colors she left me to my own taste. I was pleased with an outline of yellow upon a background of dark blue, or a combination of red and myrtle-green. There was another of red with a bluish-gray that was more conventionally used. When I became a little familiar with designing and the various pleasing combinations of color, a harder lesson was given me. It was the sewing on, instead of beads, some tinted porcupine quills, moistened and flattened between the nails of the thumb and forefinger. My mother cut off the prickly ends and burned them at once in the centre fire. These sharp points were poisonous, and worked into the flesh wherever they lodged. For this reason, my mother said, I should not do much alone in quills until I was as tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin.

Always after these confining lessons I was wild with surplus spirits, and found joyous relief in running loose in the open again. Many a summer afternoon a party of four or five of my playmates roamed over the hills with me. We each carried a light sharpened rod about four feet long, with which we pried up certain sweet roots. When we had eaten all the choice roots we chanced upon, we shouldered our rods and strayed off into patches of a stalky plant under whose yellow blossoms we found little crystal drops of gum. Drop by drop we gathered this nature’s rock-candy, until each of us could boast of a lump the size of a small bird’s egg. Soon satiated with its woody flavor, we tossed away our gum, to return again to the sweet roots.

From “Impressions of an Indian Childhood” by Zitkala-Sa—Public Domain

A BRIEF HISTORY OF BEADWORK IN SOUTH DAKOTA

Date	Event
1500s	The Dakota use beads made from bones, shells, stones, and animal teeth. European traders bring glass beads to North America.
Late 1600s	The Dakota begin trading with the French in Minnesota.
1830s	The Dakota begin using glass beads in clothing, artwork, and decorations in place of Native-made beads.
1862–1865	The Dakota are expelled from their homelands in Minnesota as a result of the U.S.-Dakota War.
1900s–1920s	The Dakota create items to sell outside their community.

Source: MNopedia

¹wigwam: hut with an arched framework of poles covered with bark, mats, or animal hides

²buckskin: leather made from the skin of a male deer

³skein: coiled length of yarn or other thread loosely wound on a reel

At Dusk

by Natasha Trethewey

At first I think she is calling a child,
my neighbor, leaning through her doorway
at dusk, street lamps just starting to hum
the backdrop of evening. Then I hear
the high-pitched wheedling¹ we send out
to animals who know only sound, not
the meanings of our words—here here—
nor how they sometimes fall short.
In another yard, beyond my neighbor’s
sight, the cat lifts her ears, turns first
toward the voice, then back
to the constellation of fireflies flickering
near her head. It’s as if she can’t decide
whether to leap over the low hedge,
the neat row of flowers, and bound
onto the porch, into the steady circle
of light, or stay where she is: luminous
possibility—all that would keep her
away from home—flitting before her.
I listen as my neighbor’s voice trails off.
She’s given up calling for now, left me
to imagine her inside the house waiting,
perhaps in a chair in front of the TV,
or walking around, doing small tasks;
left me to wonder that I too might lift
my voice, sure of someone out there,
send it over the lines stitching here
to there, certain the sounds I make
are enough to call someone home.

“At Dusk” from NATIVE GUARD by Natasha Trethewey, published by Houghton Mifflin Company. Copyright © 2006 by Natasha Trethewey. All rights reserved.

¹wheedling: speaking in a flattering manner

Champion of the Channel

In 1926 an editor at the London Daily News predicted that Gertrude Ederle, an American swimmer with eighteen world records and three Olympic medals, would fail in her attempt to swim across the English Channel. He claimed that “even the most uncompromising champion of the rights and capacities of women must admit that in contests of physical skill, speed and endurance they must remain forever the weaker sex.” Yet, at only nineteen years old, Ederle not only became the first woman to accomplish this feat, she also broke the men’s record by two hours. Gertrude Ederle’s triumphant swim across the English Channel was a testimony to her determination, innovative spirit, and passion for swimming.

Crossing the English Channel is a daunting task for any swimmer. At its narrowest point, the channel measures twenty-one miles across. Its icy waters hover around sixty degrees Fahrenheit, and its unruly tides and currents toss swimmers about like bobbing corks. Stinging jellyfish, seaweed, and floating debris from shipwrecks and lost cargoes present added hazards.

For decades the channel’s perils have defeated countless swimmers. Ederle, too, failed in her first attempt to cross the channel in 1925. Just six miles short of finishing, she became ill, and her coach had to haul her out of the water. Undeterred, Ederle decided to try again. Ederle knew that if she did not complete the challenge this time, she might never get the opportunity to set this record, because a rival female swimmer was preparing to make her second attempt at the crossing as well.

To prepare for the marathon swim, Ederle found ways to improve her equipment. She and her sister Meg discovered that melted candle wax perfectly sealed goggle edges, effectively waterproofing Ederle’s goggles against hammering waves. The sisters also designed a two-piece silk swimsuit for Ederle. During her first channel-crossing attempt she had worn a standard one-piece swimsuit that, after the lengthy hours of swimming across the channel, had stretched out, filling with water and creating drag, making an already challenging task almost insurmountable. Unlike the cumbersome typical bathing suit, this silk invention weighed little and allowed for easy movement.

On August 6, 1926, Ederle waded into the channel near Cape Gris-Nez, France. At first she shivered in the bone-chilling water even though she had covered her body in eight layers of grease for insulation. Her limbs felt stiff. Her strokes were irregular. Driving forward, she fought to clear her mind and find what she called her “sphere,” a place where the sea became her only companion and the shrieks of gulls and the humming of boat engines faded away. Using a new overhand stroke called the American crawl, Ederle eventually settled into a steady pace, briskly breaking through waves.

Throughout Ederle’s swim, two tugboats accompanied her. One carried newspaper reporters who wired dispatches of her progress to shore. The other, displaying a sign that read “This way, ole kid!” with an arrow pointing forward, transported her coach, family, and friends. Her coach played songs, such as “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” on a phonograph so that Ederle could time her strokes to the rhythm. Using a net, her coach also passed her baby bottles of broth for nourishment.

For hours Ederle swam, dodging debris with an amused smile. However, as she neared the English shore, a sudden fierce storm erupted. The tides and waves forced Ederle backward, and she fought the stubborn swells for several hours. The salty water caused her tongue to swell and inflamed her ears. Yet Ederle felt indescribably happy as she churned through the sea. Finally, as she neared the English shore, the storm abated, and the tide turned. No longer fighting against her, the sea pushed her toward the shore and victory.

After fourteen hours and thirty-one minutes, Ederle, on wobbly legs, stepped onto the English shore. The waiting crowd roared, honked their automobile horns, blasted their tugboat whistles, and set off flares that flashed in the sky. Ederle had swum into history.

When Ederle returned to New York, she received a parade, where thousands of people shouted “Trudy!” Not only were everyday American citizens proud of Ederle, but she also inspired them to be more active. Over the next few years, more than 60,000 people credited her with motivating them to earn their American Red Cross swimming certificates. Gertrude Ederle’s accomplishment proved to the world that with determination and passion, it was possible for a person to achieve his or her goals.

SOLO SWIMS ACROSS THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

Earliest Speed Records
Year	Swimmer	Time
1875	Matthew Webb (M)	21 hours, 45 minutes
1923	Enrico Tiraboschi (M)	16 hours, 33 minutes
1926	Gertrude Ederle (F)	14 hours, 31 minutes
1926	Arnst Vierkotter (M)	12 hours, 38 minutes
Current Speed Records
Year	Swimmer	Time
2012	Trent Grimsey (M)	6 hours, 55 minutes
2006	Yvetta Hlavacova (F)	7 hours, 25 minutes

Excerpt from The Highest Tide

by Jim Lynch

The narrator’s summer job is collecting marine specimens in Puget Sound, Washington. In this excerpt, he is looking for specimens in the mudflats before daybreak. Mudflats, or flats, are coastal landforms created when sediment and silt from tides are deposited as the tides recede.

I rounded the oyster beds, to the far side. . . . It was low tide by then, and I saw the water hesitating at its apex, neither leaving nor returning, patiently waiting for the gravitational gears to shift. Dozens of anxious clams started squirting in unison like they did whenever vibrating grains of sand warned them predators were approaching. I stopped and waited with them, to actually see the moment when the tide started returning with its invisible buffet of plankton for the clams, oysters, mussels and other filter feeders. It was right then, ankle deep in the Sound, feet numbing, eyes relaxed, that I saw the nudibranch.¹

In all my time on the flats I’d never seen one before. I’d read about them, sure. I’d handled them at aquariums but never in the wild, and I’d never even seen a photo of one this stunning. It was just three inches long but with dozens of fluorescent, orange-tipped hornlike plumes jutting from the back of its see-through body that appeared to be lit from within.

Nudibranchs are often called the butterflies of the sea, but even that understates their dazzle. Almost everything else in the northern Pacific is dressed to blend with pale surroundings. Nudibranchs don’t bother, in part because they taste so lousy they don’t need camouflage to survive. But also, I decided right then, because their beauty is so startling it earns them a free pass, the same way everyday life brakes for peacocks, parade floats. . . .

The dark mudflats loomed like wet, flattened dunes stretching deep into Skookumchuck Bay in front of our house. From a distance, they looked too barren to support sea life. Up close, they still did, unless you knew where to find the hearty clams, worms and tiny creatures that flourish in mud. . . . I’m not sure why I decided to take a look. It was still an hour before sunrise, and I knew exactly what the bars² looked like in the moonlight, but for some reason, I couldn’t resist.

I heard it long before I saw it. It was an exhale, a release of sorts, and I instantly wondered if a whale was stranded again. We had a young minke³ stuck out there two summers prior, and it made similar noises until the tide rose high enough for rescuers to help free it. . . . I looked for a hulking silhouette but couldn’t find one. I waited, but there were no more sounds. Still, I went toward what I thought I’d heard, avoiding stepping into the mud until I had to. I knew the flats well enough to know I could get stuck just about anywhere. The general rule was you didn’t venture out past the shells and gravel with an incoming tide. I sank up to my knees twice, and numbing water filled my boots.

. . . I kept stepping toward the one sound I’d heard, a growing part of me hoping I’d find nothing at all. When I stopped to rest and yank up my socks, my headlamp crossed it. My first thought? A giant octopus.

Puget Sound has some of the biggest octopi in the world. They often balloon to a hundred pounds. Even the great Jacques Cousteau⁴ himself came to study them. But when I saw the long tubular shape of its upper body and the tangle of tentacles below it, I knew it was more than an octopus. I came closer, within fifty feet, close enough to see its large cylindrical siphon⁵ quiver. I couldn’t tell if it was making any sounds at that point, because it was impossible to hear anything over the blood in my ears. . . .

The creature’s body came to a triangular point above narrow fins that lay flat on the mud like wings, but it was hard to be sure exactly where it all began or ended, or how long its tentacles truly were, because I was afraid to pry my eyes off its jumble of arms for more than half a second. I didn’t know whether I was within reach, and its arms were as big around as my ankle and lined with suckers the size of half-dollars. If they even twitched I would have run. So, I was looking at it and not looking at it while my heart spangled my vision. I saw fragments, pieces, and tried to fuse them in my mind but couldn’t be certain of the whole. I knew what it had to be, but I wouldn’t allow myself to even think the two words. Then I gradually realized the dark shiny disc in the middle of the rubbery mass was too perfectly round to be mud or a reflection.

It was too late to smother my scream. Its eye was the size of a hubcap.⁶

From THE HIGHEST TIDE by Jim Lynch. Copyright © 2005 by Jim Lynch. Used by permission of Bloomsbury USA. All rights reserved.

¹nudibranch: type of sea slug

²bars: sandbars

³minke: species of small whale

⁴Jacques Cousteau: renowned French oceanographer

⁵siphon: tube-like organ that is used for drawing in or removing fluids

⁶hubcap: removable cap over the end of a wheel axle

Excerpt from “The Food Business Incubator”

by Mandalit Del Barco

“La Cocina” means “the kitchen” in Spanish. It’s also the name of a business incubator¹ based in San Francisco’s Mission District. Since it began in 2005, it’s been helping local food entrepreneurs, many of whom are low-income immigrant women, develop their small businesses.

Over the years, many of its alumni have found success: more than 50 chefs in its program have become self-sufficient business owners, and many of them have opened their own brick-and-mortar restaurants. Two alumnae of its culinary program . . . were even recognized as semi-finalists for prestigious James Beard awards.²

A new cookbook, We Are La Cocina: Recipes in Pursuit of the American Dream, tells some of their stories.

Executive director Caleb Zigas says the nonprofit La Cocina grew out of two grassroots economic development organizations³ who found many people cooking at their homes and selling food on the streets. The vendors needed an affordable commercial kitchen space and technical assistance in order for their businesses to be legally viable. La Cocina provided just such a space, in addition to helping them develop business plans, pull city permits and more.

Zigas says as many as eight businesses can work in the kitchen space at La Cocina at any one time. Some can prep for a farmers’ market sale, corporate catering gigs or weddings, while others might be making and packaging their food products.

“It’s just an incredible and exciting range of techniques, flavors, perspectives, age, language. And that’s a really beautiful thing,” he says. . . .

Twice a year, La Cocina hosts “F&B: Voices from the Kitchen,” a storytelling project where their chefs can tell their own stories, as they do in the new cookbook. Some of the chefs will be on tour to promote the book, whose proceeds will go to support La Cocina entrepreneurs.

NPR⁴ caught up with . . . La Cocina chefs, who shared their stories:

Mariko Grady, Aedan Fermented Foods

At La Cocina, you can often hear Mariko Grady singing or humming as she prepares miso, koji, and amasake. Her fermented products come in four different flavors, including mushroom and chicken, to be used in soups and sauces. She originally brought the fermenting rice and barley koji seeds from Japan, where she had a 30-year career as a singer and dancer with the prestigious modern theatrical dance group she founded, Pappa Tarahumara. They performed around the world, and 16 years ago, had a one-night show in San Francisco. The man who would become her husband was in the audience. She soon joined him in San Francisco, often returning to Tokyo to rehearse. But after the earthquake and tsunami hit Japan in 2011, her company disbanded. . . . Grady focused on nourishing her family and creating a line of fermented products that she sells online, at local Bay Area stores and at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market. She began at La Cocina in 2012 and named her business after her son, Aedan. (Written in Kanji characters, the name means “wisdom” and “handed down from generation to generation.”) . . . Her fermented products are “also full of wisdom about how to relate to nature and how to create a healthy life,” she says. . . .

Shani Jones, Peaches Patties

Shani Jones is a native San Franciscan. Her father was born in New Orleans, her mother, in Jamaica. She says their home was always filled with a variety of spices and dishes like jerk chicken and Jamaican patties—savory pastries filled with beef or chicken. Jones says she learned to cook from her mother, whose nickname was Peaches. After returning from college in Atlanta, Jones worked on her doctorate in organizational leadership and management while driving a Lyft⁵ car. She often told passengers about her idea of opening a catering company with her mom’s recipes. They steered her to La Cocina, where she developed her own business, named after her mother. Five years later, she caters and runs a kiosk⁶ at a small food cooperative in Bernal Heights, where some of her handmade patties have an Ethiopian twist, “because my husband is Ethiopian.” Jones has big aspirations for Peaches Patties: “The ultimate goal,” she says, “is to be the patty kingpin⁷ of the West Coast.”

From “The Food Business Incubator That Helps Immigrant Women Pursue The American Dream” by Mandalit Del Barco from WEEKEND EDITION SUNDAY, June 19, 2019. Copyright © 2019 NPR.

QUALIFICATIONS FOR LA COCINA APPLICANTS

Level of Income	La Cocina considers assets and access to opportunity when screening applicants. La Cocina’s mission is to support entrepreneurs who face barriers to becoming successful in the food industry. Applicants must be classified as low- or very-low-income earners according to the Housing and Urban Development (HUD) Guidelines for San Francisco.
Business Plan	Applicants must have a business plan that is ready to be put into action. La Cocina will help applicants refine an existing business plan. Applicants without a business plan should contact one of La Cocina’s partner organizations for guidance in developing one.
Viable Product	The applicant’s food must not only be delicious but also stand out. For a business to make a profit, there also has to be a market for the food.
Entrepreneurial Work Ethic	La Cocina is excited to work with entrepreneurs who are motivated and passionate about growing their business. Succeeding in the food industry requires a lot of heart and hard work.
Community Spirit	The 30+ entrepreneurs who share La Cocina’s kitchen are from many different backgrounds. La Cocina values the community it has created and expects each entrepreneur to be active in bringing the spirit of La Cocina to the wider world. In order to succeed in the La Cocina kitchen, accepted applicants must be flexible and willing to work closely with others.

Source: La Cocina

¹business incubator: company that helps new and startup companies develop by providing services such as management training and office space

²James Beard awards: an award named after American cook and author James Beard, considered one of the highest honors in the culinary industry

³economic development organizations: organizations whose mission is to promote economic improvement within a specific geographical area

⁴NPR: National Public Radio, a nonprofit media organization that produces and distributes news and cultural programming

⁵Lyft: ride-sharing company where people use their own cars to provide rides to customers

⁶kiosk: cart or small structure with one or more open sides that is used to vend merchandise or services

⁷kingpin: the leader in a group or undertaking

An Early Warning

One of the books that has done the most to alert the world to the dangers of environmental degradation is George Perkins Marsh’s Man and Nature. Its message—that Western society is in the process of causing irreparable harm to the environment—greatly influenced ecologists during the beginning of the modern environmentalist movement in the 1960s. Marsh was not, however, part of this movement. Surprisingly, Man and Nature was first published in 1864.

Marsh first observed the environmentally destructive effects of human activities while growing up in Vermont in the early nineteenth century. The heavy demand for firewood had depleted the forests, and extensive sheep grazing had stripped the land. The result was flooding and soil erosion. Furthermore, streams were fouled by wastes dumped from numerous mills and dye houses.

Much later in his life, after careers in law, business, farming, and politics, Marsh served as ambassador to Italy. There he noticed land abuse similar to what he had seen in Vermont. Overgrazing and forest mismanagement had rendered areas that had been productive farmland since the days of the Roman Empire desolate. Marsh attributed this to what he called “man’s ignorant disregard for the laws of nature.”

In Italy, Marsh began to organize his observations and theories. He wrote in a way intended to educate readers about the impact of industrial and agricultural practices on the environment. In Man and Nature, he evaluated the important relationships between animals and plants, discussed forestry practices in great detail, and analyzed the ways natural water supplies are affected by human use.

Man and Nature challenged the popular belief that nature can heal any damage that people inflict upon it. Marsh argued that people may use and enjoy, but not destroy, the riches of the earth.

Furthermore, he asserted that everything in nature is significant and that even the tiniest organism affects the fragile environmental balance. His belief that drastic alteration of this balance would be dangerous is now accepted as a fundamental principle of modern environmental science.

Although he pointed out environmental damage caused by irresponsible human activities, Marsh did not oppose every human alteration to the environment. To him, the goal was proper management, not a return to wilderness conditions. People should consider the consequences of their actions, he wrote, and become “co-worker[s] with nature.” Marsh praised the Suez Canal, the human-made waterway between the Mediterranean Sea and the Gulf of Aden, as “the greatest and most truly cosmopolite physical improvement ever undertaken by man.” He believed that the advantages of the canal— improved transportation and commerce—would outweigh any environmental damage. Yet he also warned of possible unintended consequences, such as destructive plants and animals spreading from one body of water to the other.

Marsh was considered a radical thinker during his lifetime. By the late nineteenth century, however, his writings, along with those of John Muir, Henry David Thoreau, and others, had inspired what became known as the conservation movement. The conservationists of that time sought to educate the public that wilderness areas were worth preserving and were responsible for creating the National Park Service and the National Forest Service.

Champion of the Channel

In 1926 an editor at the London Daily News predicted that Gertrude Ederle, an American swimmer with eighteen world records and three Olympic medals, would fail in her attempt to swim across the English Channel. He claimed that “even the most uncompromising champion of the rights and capacities of women must admit that in contests of physical skill, speed and endurance they must remain forever the weaker sex.” Yet, at only nineteen years old, Ederle not only became the first woman to accomplish this feat, she also broke the men’s record by two hours. Gertrude Ederle’s triumphant swim across the English Channel was a testimony to her determination, innovative spirit, and passion for swimming.

Crossing the English Channel is a daunting task for any swimmer. At its narrowest point, the channel measures twenty-one miles across. Its icy waters hover around sixty degrees Fahrenheit, and its unruly tides and currents toss swimmers about like bobbing corks. Stinging jellyfish, seaweed, and floating debris from shipwrecks and lost cargoes present added hazards.

For decades the channel’s perils have defeated countless swimmers. Ederle, too, failed in her first attempt to cross the channel in 1925. Just six miles short of finishing, she became ill, and her coach had to haul her out of the water. Undeterred, Ederle decided to try again. Ederle knew that if she did not complete the challenge this time, she might never get the opportunity to set this record, because a rival female swimmer was preparing to make her second attempt at the crossing as well.

To prepare for the marathon swim, Ederle found ways to improve her equipment. She and her sister Meg discovered that melted candle wax perfectly sealed goggle edges, effectively waterproofing Ederle’s goggles against hammering waves. The sisters also designed a two-piece silk swimsuit for Ederle. During her first channel-crossing attempt she had worn a standard one-piece swimsuit that, after the lengthy hours of swimming across the channel, had stretched out, filling with water and creating drag, making an already challenging task almost insurmountable. Unlike the cumbersome typical bathing suit, this silk invention weighed little and allowed for easy movement.

On August 6, 1926, Ederle waded into the channel near Cape Gris-Nez, France. At first she shivered in the bone-chilling water even though she had covered her body in eight layers of grease for insulation. Her limbs felt stiff. Her strokes were irregular. Driving forward, she fought to clear her mind and find what she called her “sphere,” a place where the sea became her only companion and the shrieks of gulls and the humming of boat engines faded away. Using a new overhand stroke called the American crawl, Ederle eventually settled into a steady pace, briskly breaking through waves.

Throughout Ederle’s swim, two tugboats accompanied her. One carried newspaper reporters who wired dispatches of her progress to shore. The other, displaying a sign that read “This way, ole kid!” with an arrow pointing forward, transported her coach, family, and friends. Her coach played songs, such as “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” on a phonograph so that Ederle could time her strokes to the rhythm. Using a net, her coach also passed her baby bottles of broth for nourishment.

For hours Ederle swam, dodging debris with an amused smile. However, as she neared the English shore, a sudden fierce storm erupted. The tides and waves forced Ederle backward, and she fought the stubborn swells for several hours. The salty water caused her tongue to swell and inflamed her ears. Yet Ederle felt indescribably happy as she churned through the sea. Finally, as she neared the English shore, the storm abated, and the tide turned. No longer fighting against her, the sea pushed her toward the shore and victory.

After fourteen hours and thirty-one minutes, Ederle, on wobbly legs, stepped onto the English shore. The waiting crowd roared, honked their automobile horns, blasted their tugboat whistles, and set off flares that flashed in the sky. Ederle had swum into history.

When Ederle returned to New York, she received a parade, where thousands of people shouted “Trudy!” Not only were everyday American citizens proud of Ederle, but she also inspired them to be more active. Over the next few years, more than 60,000 people credited her with motivating them to earn their American Red Cross swimming certificates. Gertrude Ederle’s accomplishment proved to the world that with determination and passion, it was possible for a person to achieve his or her goals.

SOLO SWIMS ACROSS THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

Earliest Speed Records
Year	Swimmer	Time
1875	Matthew Webb (M)	21 hours, 45 minutes
1923	Enrico Tiraboschi (M)	16 hours, 33 minutes
1926	Gertrude Ederle (F)	14 hours, 31 minutes
1926	Arnst Vierkotter (M)	12 hours, 38 minutes
Current Speed Records
Year	Swimmer	Time
2012	Trent Grimsey (M)	6 hours, 55 minutes
2006	Yvetta Hlavacova (F)	7 hours, 25 minutes

Ruins of a Fabled City

The African country of Zimbabwe took its name from the Shona word meaning “stone enclosures” or “venerated houses.” In fact, today dozens of stone ruins are scattered throughout Zimbabwe and other areas in southeastern Africa. One of these ruins, known as Great Zimbabwe, was once a fabled city that inspired tales that circulated throughout Europe. Where was this remarkable city, and who had built it? For centuries the mystery occupied the minds of explorers and treasure seekers.

The first reports to Europeans of Great Zimbabwe were spread a thousand years ago by Arab traders sailing between the Middle East and the east coast of Africa. The traders told of the fabulous wealth of a mysterious stone city in the African interior. In the trader’s tales, that city became associated with the Europeans’ understanding of Middle Eastern history—the Queen of Sheba, King Solomon and his legendary gold mines, long since lost to the world. By the sixteenth century, Portuguese explorers regularly visited East Africa, searching for King Solomon’s gold, but they never found Great Zimbabwe. In 1552, a Portuguese historian, João de Barros, recorded a story told by Arabs about a city with a “square fortress of masonry within and without, built of stones of marvelous size, and there appears to be no mortar joining them.”

In fact, Great Zimbabwe was a marvel. In one area a massive wall more than thirty feet high and twenty feet thick created a great enclosure. Another area contained a fortress-like series of walls, corridors, and steps built into the bluff that overlooks the ruins. Throughout the city, each stone was precisely fitted to the others without the use of mortar.

In the 1870s Karl Mauch, a German geologist, was the first European to see Great Zimbabwe, by then in ruins. Mauch realized that he had “rediscovered” the fabled city from de Barros’s story. He jumped to the conclusion that Great Zimbabwe had been built by the Queen of Sheba. British authorities sent a British journalist, Richard Hall, to Great Zimbabwe to investigate Mauch’s report. Archaeology was still in its infancy, and Hall, convinced that the structures had been built by ancient people from the Middle East, dug up and discarded archaeological deposits that would have revealed much about the true history of Great Zimbabwe. Later European excavations destroyed even more valuable evidence.

In the twentieth century, after excavating areas that had not been disturbed, David Randall-MacIver, a Scottish Egyptologist, and Gertrude Caton-Thompson, an English archaeologist, concluded that the ruins were unmistakably African in origin. Great Zimbabwe was most likely built during the fourteenth or fifteenth century by the ancestors of the present-day Shona people. Recent carbon-14 dating supports their conclusion. Great Zimbabwe was once home to an estimated 20,000 people, the center of a great Shona kingdom. Wealthy Shona kings traded their ivory and gold in coastal towns for other goods, thus accounting for the discovery of beads and other foreign wares in the ruins.

One mystery of Great Zimbabwe had been solved. Another mystery remains: why was the settlement at Great Zimbabwe abandoned, leaving the magnificent stone architecture to fall into ruins?

The Tunguska Fireball

On June 30, 1908, an enormous fireball shot across the sky and exploded high above the remote Tunguska River Valley in the Siberian region of Russia. Twenty miles away, huts were flattened and people were flung into the air. Villagers 40 miles away felt the heat and heard explosions, and tremors were recorded at a German seismic station more than 3,000 miles away.

What caused the intense light and the horrendous destruction of the Tunguska Fireball, as it came to be called? Scientists and laypeople have debated the question for over 100 years. Not until 1927 did a scientific expedition, led by Russian scientist Leonid Kulik, reach the remote site. Kulik discovered a vast region of scorched and downed trees, their trunks pointing away from the center of the blast. Convinced that a meteorite was responsible, Kulik searched for evidence—a crater, a buried meteorite, even fragments of the exploded mass. He never found it.

Other scientists, amateur astronomers, and the public suggested alternative theories of what had happened. Some thought it was an earthquake. Perhaps, others said, a black hole—a theoretical object in space where gravity is so strong that even light cannot get out—had collided with Earth or an alien spaceship carrying nuclear material had crashed.

For many years Russian scientists believed that the Tunguska Fireball was a comet—a cluster of dust and frozen gases—that had exploded a few hundred feet above the ground. They pointed to the lack of meteoric evidence and the June 30 date, a time of year when Earth was passing through cometary debris. Other scientists disagreed, arguing that a comet would have burned quickly in Earth’s atmosphere and could not have created such a blast.

Many Western scientists believed that a meteorite was responsible, despite the lack of evidence. The pattern of fallen trees suggested that they were knocked down by a blast about 4 miles above the ground with an energy of 15 megatons of TNT, consistent with a meteoric blast. Yet repeated searches of the surrounding forest and wetlands revealed no evidence of a meteorite.

During the 1990s an Italian physicist named Menotti Galli became interested. Galli had previously investigated whether particles from outer space can add carbon atoms to the cellulose in trees. Perhaps the trees at the Tunguska site hid evidence of such extraterrestrial material. Galli and his colleagues traveled to the site by helicopter to gather core samples from spruce trees that had lived through the blast. They analyzed the particles trapped in the trees’ resin, and the results were remarkable. Based on studying the trees’ rings during the time period when the Tunguska Fireball occurred, the researchers found that the resin contained high levels of high-proton elements, such as copper, gold, and nickel. In fact, it contained ten times more such particles than resin dating from either before or after that time period. Some previously discovered meteorites had also contained elevated levels of these elements, suggesting that the particles had an extra-earthly origin. But then where is the crater? Is it nearby Lake Cheko, as some claim? Or was the meteorite reduced to dust in the atmosphere? Can scientists rule out a comet carrying those elements? The mystery remains unsolved.