tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13334129363992687492024-02-19T03:59:24.278-08:00Gulliver's NestAnecdotes of the New England outdoors and beyondUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-53295824515344885282016-06-27T11:32:00.013-07:002016-11-13T07:08:01.006-08:00Braddock and the River of Steel<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSTjsyJAahjXrZGvWyvFsbNyDWGH-pkPB8nr8vqk04v_AOzez55s8aH3Ua-OAAidLkE6Kdq-AT45WTIWhFzkmBq3hMKAjxx_y7kyledSh4hYKp4qxBJF-drgA8o4v8ljILkudv-WLxg0/s1600/IMG_3701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSTjsyJAahjXrZGvWyvFsbNyDWGH-pkPB8nr8vqk04v_AOzez55s8aH3Ua-OAAidLkE6Kdq-AT45WTIWhFzkmBq3hMKAjxx_y7kyledSh4hYKp4qxBJF-drgA8o4v8ljILkudv-WLxg0/s640/IMG_3701.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flaring gas at the ArcelorMittal Monesson coke plant.</td></tr>
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The regional landscape practically screams the reasons for Pittsburgh’s existence. Its rivers were vital arteries, bringing coal up from Appalachia to feed its vast industries, of which the base was of course steel. The factories needed so much energy that it made sense to locate them close to the coal mines, rather than the iron ore deposits up on the Mesabi Range in Minnesota. Along the rivers - the Monongahela, the Allegheny, and the Ohio - enormous manufacturing works grew up in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. The scale and integration of industry was stupendous, a tremendous agglomeration. It is nearly all gone now, as steel production and other heavy industry has moved abroad or to more efficient domestic plants. The old Homestead Works, site of one of the most consequential conflicts between management and labor, has been replaced by a giant strip mall. </div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">I visited in March, during spring break, when my colleague Brendan Moriarty volunteered to put me up with a friend, the retired actor David Conrad (you may remember him as Bradley Cooper’s sleazy friend in Wedding Crashers). Dave lives in Braddock, an old mill town east of Pittsburgh that has been about as hard hit as anywhere in the US due to outsourcing. It does retain the Edgar Thomson Works, US Steel’s last remaining plant in the Pittsburgh area.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Dave's porch.</td></tr>
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I drove into Braddock from the south, having spent the last thirty miles or so of my drive in the Mon Valley (short for Monongahela). I-70, which I exited just south of Monesson, crosses the deep, narrow valley via the Belle Vernon Bridge. Looking up at the massive, flaking girders from below, it proved an apt introduction to the place. The valley's steep walls give the floor an isolated feel<span style="text-align: center;">, which the economy's current status reinforces. On the winding route along the river toward Pittsburgh, I passed Glassport, Clairton, and McKeesport. The names hold clues to the past, but each city is extremely depressed, even those where plants still function. The population and the architecture is aging, much like nearby Appalachia. The signs on restaurants and social clubs suggest that ethnic white identity is still a significant source of pride.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">McKeesport lost two US Steel plants in 2014.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abandoned baseball field upriver.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coal train across the river from the Clairton coke works.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjGWaURbcKuIisKT0c_ixOcKFIFYrR8k4YMnQXF9ssXaIWpmZcw6hV8BxBqbZ61TTi0FjydKmkYs_3pISbZP3f964pGLZP13wFAW7fPYSWupJyrRB7EfTsV0HTuludUC0VYkInjqA4W14/s1600/IMG_3730.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjGWaURbcKuIisKT0c_ixOcKFIFYrR8k4YMnQXF9ssXaIWpmZcw6hV8BxBqbZ61TTi0FjydKmkYs_3pISbZP3f964pGLZP13wFAW7fPYSWupJyrRB7EfTsV0HTuludUC0VYkInjqA4W14/s640/IMG_3730.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Braddock Ave.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OY6jVuoz-BlFIOmDdjRgGoJSeze3C9UkRmU70Jswxtr4Bi53WDIkqkgKDIaoApqdz6KiRw7z1pECaJTufDx93MmJia8MDjCOJ8vcQWk13RFhzPyuvRcc733YLbpVjyrhNM55MWsjyo0/s1600/Main+Street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OY6jVuoz-BlFIOmDdjRgGoJSeze3C9UkRmU70Jswxtr4Bi53WDIkqkgKDIaoApqdz6KiRw7z1pECaJTufDx93MmJia8MDjCOJ8vcQWk13RFhzPyuvRcc733YLbpVjyrhNM55MWsjyo0/s640/Main+Street.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPnYLDuITNx-C05sa2cfkOD_onsag03MYAD7YungU2yfNcPhlpvyl7XEmWLDkibeAT5dkjpdkgp8qk6gvOV3J97yZ6e-ImbkJTfxSPSBidLNSdpvMUfialNvbOvd50DEdfUkmB7rI7UOU/s1600/IMG_3725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPnYLDuITNx-C05sa2cfkOD_onsag03MYAD7YungU2yfNcPhlpvyl7XEmWLDkibeAT5dkjpdkgp8qk6gvOV3J97yZ6e-ImbkJTfxSPSBidLNSdpvMUfialNvbOvd50DEdfUkmB7rI7UOU/s640/IMG_3725.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An original Carnegie library.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Braddock, a few miles and bridge crossings east of Pittsburgh, is an interesting town for several reasons. Its mayor, John Fetterman, has energetically pursued revitalization, winning him several admiring profiles in the national press. I didn’t get to meet him - he was in the closing stages of a doomed campaign for Senate in late March - but I did get a good look at his digs, since Dave’s pad, a converted priory, shares a driveway/courtyard with his residence. Fetterman has embraced public art, attracted a new health clinic, and sought to maintain the town’s once-proud collection of buildings, including one of the first four Carnegie Libraries. Without a reliable economic base, Braddock has a long, long way to go, but it is showing some signs of life, including a new and popular brewery called the Brew Gentleman. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Braddock, Friday night.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My trip began as an effort to explore Pittsburgh itself, and Dave, Brendan, Seth Tinkham (a pal of mine along for the first two days) and I did go for a long, engrossing walk around the downtown on Sunday morning, but the industrial history of the Mon Valley emerged as the trip’s key theme due to our base at Dave’s place in Braddock. On Monday morning, we visited the Carrie Furnaces, which are the last remaining blast furnaces in the area. The others were apparently bought up by Chinese businessmen, for whom it was cheaper to disassemble the existing infrastructure in Pittsburgh and ship it to China than build new works from scratch. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the two remaining Carrie Furnaces</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOYauTsRwTGszAxTKzuO74sz6eaxrhd3IP4UGOqI0jpa5rc1BJjLVG9r9XxGEuj2de0kbyKhUsV6hj1PKBl6376aiuwJdABAXRYx1pYiC_NXd_eZCP7KLtuzka351V8hm1Egry44CmGk/s1600/IMG_3792.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOYauTsRwTGszAxTKzuO74sz6eaxrhd3IP4UGOqI0jpa5rc1BJjLVG9r9XxGEuj2de0kbyKhUsV6hj1PKBl6376aiuwJdABAXRYx1pYiC_NXd_eZCP7KLtuzka351V8hm1Egry44CmGk/s640/IMG_3792.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abandoned gantry.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Carrie Furnaces once heated iron ore up to 3000 degrees, separating out the impurities that would weaken the metal after casting. Once purified, the molten steel was poured into modified rail tank cars, which would carry it across the river, to the Homestead Works, where it could be cast into ingots that could later be rolled and pressed into their final form. The liquid steel was so hot, however, that if it spilled as it crossed the Monongahela it would melt and destroy the bridge itself. Therefore, engineers devised a specially reinforced span known as a hot metal bridge, a terrifically expensive but vital innovation. </span><span style="font-kerning: none;">The Carrie Furnaces first went into use in 1884. In 1978, they shut down, in the midst of an industry-wide crisis due to foreign competition. For the most part, they have stood derelict since the early eighties, though the site was designated a National Historic Landmark a decade ago. Rivers of Steel, the National Heritage Area, plans to incorporate it into a regional museum on the history of the Mon Valley steel industry. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Current inhabitants.</td></tr>
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Dave arranged for Brendan and me to take an informal tour with the plant’s caretaker, a chatty and helpful fellow whose name I have forgotten. He explained to us how the furnaces worked and let us peer up close at the machinery. As you can imagine, the site was highly contaminated, though many of the most harmful chemicals have been removed. Currently, a flock of goats has the run of the place, munching on grass growing up from tainted soil. The furnaces have been a popular destination for graffiti artists since their abandonment, as well as an artists’ collective that clandestinely constructed a massive stag’s head from scrap metal and tubing in the interior of the plant. It’s forty feet tall, a massive and awesome monument that references the reclamation of the site by wild animals. More recently, as a broader swathe of Americans has developed a nostalgia for the days of heavy industry, it has gained some popularity as a site for offbeat gatherings, including weddings. <span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCLme1-BddInBdOPMGvi_ALPonx2TiUOHQdlyYtI3gW9phd9VHQtVYSRuE_t-ii91QFoH_DzweRBdmjcQO4d7c173GktnwBJSZpIQyChHbl9q8P3UR0c1DrjNW6xe5eYPrKBX_jzCabE/s1600/IMG_3778.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCLme1-BddInBdOPMGvi_ALPonx2TiUOHQdlyYtI3gW9phd9VHQtVYSRuE_t-ii91QFoH_DzweRBdmjcQO4d7c173GktnwBJSZpIQyChHbl9q8P3UR0c1DrjNW6xe5eYPrKBX_jzCabE/s640/IMG_3778.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Carrie deer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Like most cities that predate the automobile, Pittsburgh’s existence is intimately tied to its physical geography. Its rivers have waned in significance during the era of the postindustrial economy, to which it has adapted better than most of its Rust Belt peers, but the waterways retain a strong influence on local culture and identity. At some point, I hope to examine in a post two exceptional houses in the nearby Laurel Highlands: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater and Kentuck Knob. Their owners grew rich on Pittsburgh - one for its productive capacity, the other for its markets. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT964o5YgrAXV8BCxTmVXxr9vRdgcm_cUkTDfZiCheJ_D_ewJI1U0mP1AT_1ZbkAU_ZxRB7tv-vhdkp2_hZAvVCzPqml4m-CpKVgxbSgaw6ApSrzYaqz-vVVcZSG7iKliN82sIsslV9ZY/s1600/IMG_3753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT964o5YgrAXV8BCxTmVXxr9vRdgcm_cUkTDfZiCheJ_D_ewJI1U0mP1AT_1ZbkAU_ZxRB7tv-vhdkp2_hZAvVCzPqml4m-CpKVgxbSgaw6ApSrzYaqz-vVVcZSG7iKliN82sIsslV9ZY/s640/IMG_3753.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Along the Monongahela, in Pittsburgh.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-72887949184811088982015-11-30T16:12:00.005-08:002015-12-01T15:28:07.130-08:00Roan Mountain<!--StartFragment-->
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMni7eoc-qyKskbb9ef4vspvdzVtuC1L773-hZxkd8I5z0Plq9_kVkCZGHnqM3JsyO2qTbojV7TDEzr3oLsrDWfc2r6qs1_0uj5W6H8h5ARH1DkoiL3UayPAkyegSpimAy2vwKBifsfDM/s1600/RD+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMni7eoc-qyKskbb9ef4vspvdzVtuC1L773-hZxkd8I5z0Plq9_kVkCZGHnqM3JsyO2qTbojV7TDEzr3oLsrDWfc2r6qs1_0uj5W6H8h5ARH1DkoiL3UayPAkyegSpimAy2vwKBifsfDM/s640/RD+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Back in June, I spent about ten days down in the Smoky
Mountains. My old friend RD, whom longtime readers of this blog will recognize
from many posts but especially the summer of 2014 saga in the Hundred Miles
Wilderness, was along again, even joining me for the drive south from
Washington, DC. I enjoyed introducing him to the Bible Belt.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Someone has seen a bear, and RD is getting very frustrated.</td></tr>
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Unfortunately, our initial plan to do a substantial backpack
in the southeastern part of Great Smokies National Park was stymied by bear
activity. Rumor had it that one had mauled someone sleeping in a hammock tent.
Whatever the truth, many of the campsites we had planned to use were closed.
Instead, we decided to do a series of day hikes, with one overnight on Gregory Bald. So we did see a great deal of the park, but we never got
too far from the road, which was unfortunate because we shared it with a great
many Southerners who were very, very excited about spotting bears from their
cars.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flame Azalea.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast on Gregory Bald.</td></tr>
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As I fumble toward another
winter solstice, several memories in particular stick with me: the bright red azalea blooms on top of Gregory Bald (they're actually called Flame Azaleas), roaring
streams roofed by enormous rhododendron in full flower, and a sense of the deep
human history and isolation that still characterizes a few pockets of these
southern Appalachians. RD and I also spent a two very enjoyable nights in Asheville,
ending, as all good trips should, with a broad and deep exploration of local
beers.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great trail name. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rhododendron, but from the National Park, not Roan Mountain.</td></tr>
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By far the most spectacular day, both in terms of weather
and terrain, was on Roan Mountain, which was also our first hike of the trip. This long ridge, optimistically
described by Wikipedia as a massif, initially caught my attention because a nearby state park hosts a rhododendron festival in late June, precisely when we
hoped to visit. In fact, our arrival coincided with its first day. We enjoyed
looking at souped-up birdhouses and snacking on onion rings, but there was no trace of the flower the
occasion purports to honor. Instead, we drove to see it up on the mountain
ridge itself, where an extensive alpine “garden” is accessed via parking lots
and concrete wheelchair-accessible paths. The dark pink blossoms of the flowers were lovely, however, and with their twisted, gnarled branches and the heavy fog all around us, they seemed exotic indeed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the Roan Mountain locals.</td></tr>
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Roan Mountain also has the longest stretch of “grassy bald”
terrain on the Appalachian Trail, running for about four unbroken miles, with several more miles featuring significant exposures. I
hadn’t hiked on this kind of terrain before and so will provide a brief
explanation. Trees are absent from various southern summits, but it is
inaccurate to refer to these peaks as truly alpine because climatic forces
did not create the grassy balds. In fact, it’s not quite clear why they exist.
Weather may play a role, but fire, grazing, and human agency are also likely
factors. One source I read speculated that wooly mammoths once congregated near these peaks, feeding on their rich pasture.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This fence keeps cattle off of the balds.</td></tr>
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In any case, unlike the northern peaks on the AT, the grassy balds have
good topsoil, making the hiking easy and pleasant. The views are wonderful, and
lovely grasses and shrubs line the path. I didn’t have a guide to the local flora and
fauna, but it would be a marvelous place for some amateur botanizing. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very verdant.</td></tr>
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Our day actually began at the Mountain Harbor Hostel, a
welcoming spot where, for a modest fee, we could pitch our tent and have access to the bathrooms in the morning. Catering mostly to hikers, including a
great many folks who are on the AT for long haul, the place is surprisingly
well-known for its breakfast, which was indeed enormous and of excellent quality.
No oatmeal for us that morning. We also caught a shuttle ride to our trailhead,
up at Carver’s Pass, near the
rhododendron garden we had visited the previous day. Encounters with paved
roads are depressingly frequent in the southern Appalachians, at least along
the AT, but they can be convenient. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSUWJ2svF7CGBbtzlCtGYIf_vpGJJ2vQyZMpWfkz6hy1hCYhfvXuCclhRVZG2dkN7vFzMJQ8pUiO_8x2Or0NOz-m2N8STu0WxT0Kq01LGQ3xo647XrM3bOZPk0l1f-k__xdw5z68t_cA/s1600/Ridge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSUWJ2svF7CGBbtzlCtGYIf_vpGJJ2vQyZMpWfkz6hy1hCYhfvXuCclhRVZG2dkN7vFzMJQ8pUiO_8x2Or0NOz-m2N8STu0WxT0Kq01LGQ3xo647XrM3bOZPk0l1f-k__xdw5z68t_cA/s640/Ridge.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Might as well be Scotland.</td></tr>
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The trail began quite near the top of one of the balds, from
which we proceeded southwest over Round Bald, Jane Bald, and Grassy Ridge Bald,
gradually working our way back to the hostel. People along the trail were
friendly. We spoke to a mountain steward about some of the local plants, a dad
and his daughter out for a hike with his new girlfriend, and a former
thru-hiker who vividly remembered New Hampshire granite. We also came across a
group of SCA volunteers mowing blackberry bushes. If succession goes too far,
trees will replace these bushes and the balds will be lost. In fact,
the bucolic nature of the landscape was one the region's great charms, though development,
in the form of ridgeline trophy houses, is having a distressing impact on the
views and presumably wildlife habitat. The ridge is outside the Great Smokies National Park, lying several dozen miles to the northeast in the midst of Cherokee and Pisgah National Forests. This situation reduces the amount of tourist traffic but also weakens legal protections against development of various kinds.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hard work...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTzlFPgTBlvzZ78vafZ8trF6qayJNrMgIUg1tEal2O56SXEcVvNq4IIQ8PAxh21gyjv4Kv8NmfWEeUdQJ_aR6-ARBK1-k-xiXXyql_CAENxymYj_jUjKfTv_hPI0PWgAPLrBtuy_NJCa8/s1600/Mowing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTzlFPgTBlvzZ78vafZ8trF6qayJNrMgIUg1tEal2O56SXEcVvNq4IIQ8PAxh21gyjv4Kv8NmfWEeUdQJ_aR6-ARBK1-k-xiXXyql_CAENxymYj_jUjKfTv_hPI0PWgAPLrBtuy_NJCa8/s640/Mowing.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...with a long ways to go.</td></tr>
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We covered the 15 or so miles a lot faster than I expected,
especially for the first day of the trip (subsequent ascents, especially Gregory Bald, were considerably
more challenging for yours truly). In any event, we picked up the car early enough so that we
could explore some back roads on the drive to Asheville, where we pitched our tent at the French Bend campground. In the morning, we moved onto the National Park. I don't know that I need to return to the park again (I also visited during spring break of sophomore year in college, which was a memorably damp affair), but Roan Mountain is certainly one of the most distinctive and beautiful ridges I've ever hiked on. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a bad day.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-16083909857232189002015-08-07T07:10:00.001-07:002015-08-17T08:23:08.776-07:00William West Durant and his Adirondack Camps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main lodge at Camp Pine Knot.</td></tr>
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William West Durant was no choir boy. Despite being born into great wealth and receiving a fine education in England and Germany, he cheated his sister out of her share of the family fortune. She sued him, but by the time she won, he was so far in debt that nothing remained for her. Married to the daughter of old family friends, he philandered shamelessly until he and his wife divorced (he remarried, more happily, later on). His personal charm and family connections gained him the favor of several wealthy patrons. He relied on these men, some of whom remain household names today, to bail him out of debt many times over.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William West Durant in 1884.</td></tr>
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And yet, Durant’s legacy as the supervisor of a new style of architecture still reverberates, at least in the north woods. His father, Dr. Thomas Durant, a key player in the Credit Mobilier scandal that deeply tainted the Grant Administration, was one of the builders of the Transcontinental Railroad. The elder Durant had purchased land in the Adirondacks to aid the construction of a rail line from Saratoga to the St. Lawrence River, but when the Panic of 1873 ruined the project’s financing, he was left with hundreds of thousands of acres. He put his son in charge of developing tourism for the area, presumably to raise the value of land so that it could be sold off. Over the next fifteen years, the younger Durant developed a rustic architecture that uniquely mediates between the city and the wilderness.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Long Lake, only a short seaplane ride from Camp Pine Knot.</td></tr>
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In early July, I attended a week-long NEH workshop that allowed me to observe Durant’s designs close at hand, as well as consider the meaning and consequences of such architecture. We bunked at Camp Huntington, known as Camp Pine Knot until Collis Huntington, another railroad financier and a longtime Durant patron, bought the place in 1890, in part to relieve a portion of Durant’s debts. Each of the three camps that we examined – Camp Pine Knot, Camp Sagamore, and Camp Uncas – bear striking similarities, but it is possible to discern an evolution in Durant’s ideas about what constitutes a pleasant woodland retreat.<br />
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The era in which Durant built was one of rapid change, economic and social. Industrialism had created great fortunes for the Gilded Age elite, while cities grew crowded, noisy, and dirty. They were particularly objectionable in the summer; imagine the stench of horse manure rotting profusely in the streets. Moreover, attitudes about masculinity had shifted from favoring Victorian restraint to stress more aggressive character development, especially through outdoor recreation. Teddy Roosevelt’s exhortations on behalf of “the strenuous life” embody this new approach. Remarkably, concerns about deforestation, erosion, and violent flood and drought cycles, as well as a growing appreciation for the value of wilderness, convinced the New York State legislature to preserve the Adirondack region as “forever wild” in its revisions to the state constitution in 1885. Formerly inaccessible due to their rugged and remote terrain, the Adirondacks could now be reached in a day via railway, steamboat, and stagecoach from New York – and they beckoned to those with the money, drive, and leisure to reach them.<br />
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Thus Durant built in an era both dynamic and anxious, and his edifices reveal a great deal about how he and his patrons felt about these substantial societal challenges.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sagamore Lake.</td></tr>
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First of all, Durant intended his camps to be fun and restful refuges. Pine Knot is on Raquette Lake, a large, still lightly developed lake that must have been nearly pristine in Durant’s time. Uncas and Sagamore are built on their own ponds, entirely subsumed within the larger Durant properties. They remain the sole developments on the lakes, totally secluded. Much of the Sagamore property was subsequently given to New York State in the mid-twentieth century (after a stint of ownership by Syracuse University), but the constitution’s forever wild clause ensures that the view will remain pristine.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bed at Camp Pine Knot.</td></tr>
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Save for the chimneys, foundations, and various iron fittings, the structures are all made of wood, often embellished with birch bark and furniture fashioned from unmilled branches. The effect is rustic and elegant. Early on, Durant’s builders worked with whole logs, but eventually, they began to add log siding with milled lumber so that walls could be more efficiently built while retaining their rough character. Some structures, especially communal spaces for dining and entertainment, feature extensive glass windows, which had to be painstakingly carried by hand for the better part of a day from the nearest railroad depot. Foreshadowing a favorite strategy of Frank Lloyd Wright’s, Durant made sleeping quarters small, encouraging people to gather in larger spaces. They also needed to go outside to reach larger dining or recreational buildings. Consequently, the camps feel more like a village than a country manor in the style of the Biltmore Estate or mansions at Newport. The overall effect is one of close contact and interaction with nature.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs4x0E-PgsKMkpyydl5f6p5Lzit7vz4BHhhHtzJtk95D6jMIlXScdExffPEO5tJ3RMNnKH2Nw0-znKmpECEvL4-L3NKeE2gKCaSiVUBJYd8592T8IbPMw5LlPqOtWC4gcnBxtkADU9PcE/s1600/PK+Dining+Room.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs4x0E-PgsKMkpyydl5f6p5Lzit7vz4BHhhHtzJtk95D6jMIlXScdExffPEO5tJ3RMNnKH2Nw0-znKmpECEvL4-L3NKeE2gKCaSiVUBJYd8592T8IbPMw5LlPqOtWC4gcnBxtkADU9PcE/s400/PK+Dining+Room.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The original dining room at Camp Pine Knot. Note how close the lake is.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the outside.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM09_sWNZs6IvtJ-l5HDISrb-B_7fgIzRmDODEL3ejgXnuqNhd0-CARWLgsHRnu1lCAykakTlJazZ4JOfzeP_9Q7yjvOCdLvyRJpebYexWx8zwl39lLnRe8hguDS2561zwNhqF45-1ZZo/s1600/Breezeway.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM09_sWNZs6IvtJ-l5HDISrb-B_7fgIzRmDODEL3ejgXnuqNhd0-CARWLgsHRnu1lCAykakTlJazZ4JOfzeP_9Q7yjvOCdLvyRJpebYexWx8zwl39lLnRe8hguDS2561zwNhqF45-1ZZo/s400/Breezeway.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Durant included this breezeway at Camp Pine Knot, but he generally avoided using them because they allowed fires to spread between buildings.</td></tr>
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In contrast to architects who designed more opulent Gilded Age resorts, Durant took great pains to nestle his buildings within the larger forest environment. Neither Pine Knot nor Uncas has unrestricted views of the water; instead, they are mostly hidden in the woods, painted in dark browns and greens to blend in (Sagamore is a different story, and I’ll get to that). Durant may have operated under a different set of ethics than his peers in New York City in this rustic setting – or maybe he wanted the understated layout to make it appear that he and his patrons eschewed ostentatious displays of wealth, much as a tech mogul today might enjoy being photographed in a t-shirt and jeans.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigr7tPQaSg1fi2wimbPZD2rni1fWXeGXSUxbhzkAW_WbkAJG2SiO3-oPoYL9fuyf47R5xGnWXNLHKPekLn56BGO1OMYJcsJlhIu0_xyMsjXTdIYPJA3xwj2Jtw5XoWxMitj3Y9DJdbSQM/s1600/Alley+Exterior.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigr7tPQaSg1fi2wimbPZD2rni1fWXeGXSUxbhzkAW_WbkAJG2SiO3-oPoYL9fuyf47R5xGnWXNLHKPekLn56BGO1OMYJcsJlhIu0_xyMsjXTdIYPJA3xwj2Jtw5XoWxMitj3Y9DJdbSQM/s400/Alley+Exterior.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bowling alley exterior.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsmYX04owLWoeRmcf0beWo1VP3VyAi8aMF63q3Fa3G98QnTN8j2vugoAm22DCZbQ1p1ffukSf2O8GX-KjG9UgZjmvFCy0zD9M8vpLHUM0izAltJfrwri0z5TWvld39Tzi_dlXQs7Sd6Q/s1600/Bowling+Alley.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsmYX04owLWoeRmcf0beWo1VP3VyAi8aMF63q3Fa3G98QnTN8j2vugoAm22DCZbQ1p1ffukSf2O8GX-KjG9UgZjmvFCy0zD9M8vpLHUM0izAltJfrwri0z5TWvld39Tzi_dlXQs7Sd6Q/s400/Bowling+Alley.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lanes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FcCYmh8XF9CNw_ZNVEwqRB2IS5hHqSajZ3MmFGgRq9UxkwZY68vrIzSlnXFkESWpzfVEro8oIe_VV7puPEAreiCP_WoPy3Ees4kdUGKb9Ccd0Au2cIOedzArgAff5wGPfh3zbDDcWn8/s1600/Sagamore+Fireplace.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FcCYmh8XF9CNw_ZNVEwqRB2IS5hHqSajZ3MmFGgRq9UxkwZY68vrIzSlnXFkESWpzfVEro8oIe_VV7puPEAreiCP_WoPy3Ees4kdUGKb9Ccd0Au2cIOedzArgAff5wGPfh3zbDDcWn8/s400/Sagamore+Fireplace.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the smaller fireplaces at Sagamore.</td></tr>
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It goes without saying that these camps could not have operated without a small army of servants – at least three times as numerous as the people they served. Since the camps were so remote, they essentially functioned as self-sufficient farms, with vegetable gardens, dairy animals, forges, and carpentry shops on site, and they required year-round caretakers, in addition to the seasonal staff. Durant carefully placed the living quarters for servants away from the main buildings, an easy distance by foot but far enough to delineate social boundaries and ensure privacy. Interestingly, the drive to both Sagamore and Uncas goes right past all these auxiliary structures – a convenient arrangement for getting horses into their stables, to be sure, but also a surefire way to highlight the size of the domestic infrastructure, as well. Thus the layout and architecture of the later camps mixes restraint with reminders of affluence, signaling refined taste and education within a larger context of wealth.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mkUzh5ZN1YFFBrzL4x_9yQn6ZATMVT6YlbMRigFyo8-cAd4EtF_WQfCpbDHgfiLcTbYrURvqGDTaPj87dFe26rvTVIqwT1idxSH7ARv_X0E1ujOT56CmHL_QTmCwn0BRmh9uAhDNXEE/s1600/Sagamore+Chalet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mkUzh5ZN1YFFBrzL4x_9yQn6ZATMVT6YlbMRigFyo8-cAd4EtF_WQfCpbDHgfiLcTbYrURvqGDTaPj87dFe26rvTVIqwT1idxSH7ARv_X0E1ujOT56CmHL_QTmCwn0BRmh9uAhDNXEE/s640/Sagamore+Chalet.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Servants' quarters at Camp Sagamore.</td></tr>
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Sagamore, by far the grandest of the three camps, also includes a sort of recreation hall and a bowling alley, as well as a private retreat for male guests nestled on the edge of the woods. These features were added by Alfred Vanderbilt after he bought the camp from Durant in 1901 (JP Morgan purchased Uncas in 1896, as well. Durant simply could not help overspending wildly on his projects). Like many of Durant's original touches, they seem to have been designed with an eye toward male bonding and entertainment. At Camp Pine Knot, where Durant lived for several years, he gave his wife a houseboat via which she and her friends could escape the bugs. Apparently he took advantage of her absence by cycling off to visit his mistress at an adjoining property.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSIpM-XE5GEEuP1f5BwBC-qz8wtmtKCg7-LKFuZPApsc015mACZ7s6jkZyjFjX8r42KZLTCbbaNFCRteXFrpol-njump8Ljyty-9Yz7knaVediOEWGWZxJ-JvZCRfkMXJZFxkY9NKOnWU/s1600/PK+Chalet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSIpM-XE5GEEuP1f5BwBC-qz8wtmtKCg7-LKFuZPApsc015mACZ7s6jkZyjFjX8r42KZLTCbbaNFCRteXFrpol-njump8Ljyty-9Yz7knaVediOEWGWZxJ-JvZCRfkMXJZFxkY9NKOnWU/s640/PK+Chalet.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The chalet at Camp Pine Knot.</td></tr>
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Another of Sagamore’s most notable features is its Swiss-inspired main lodge, designed to resemble a chalet. In fact, Durant and his architectural collaborators – the exact process by which Durant translated his general ideas about landscape and building design into reality is obscure – had already experimented with a much smaller version at Camp Pine Knot. After constructing Camp Uncas, which is relatively stylistically understated, Durant returned to the Swiss theme on a much larger scale. We were only able to tour the lodge’s main room, notable for its fireplace and tree-trunk ceiling beams. Outside, bright red paint applied as trim to the window frames contrasts strikingly with the dark brown of the wooden siding. The overall effect is impressive; the camp is the grandest of Durant’s designs and lacks the more modest, richly sylvan character that distinguishes Pink Knot and Uncas. It looks and feels more like a hotel than a camp for a rich family.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZXId3H9mySNtQAJWeMC5OoRmpJBx_zbgxs1hyphenhyphenFk9zpDqRFM_6YCJQbonA6LrEXCzHYCxIetxjk4-9kneQI_omL-y3JZuPEkFEoTmdUJZ1ClEnhIW0WdbvhLdhlzGi3DcHaL-4iTNI_o/s1600/Sagamore+Lodge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZXId3H9mySNtQAJWeMC5OoRmpJBx_zbgxs1hyphenhyphenFk9zpDqRFM_6YCJQbonA6LrEXCzHYCxIetxjk4-9kneQI_omL-y3JZuPEkFEoTmdUJZ1ClEnhIW0WdbvhLdhlzGi3DcHaL-4iTNI_o/s640/Sagamore+Lodge.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main lodge at Sagamore. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZDmFQ7by25Kn_1C5EbToMdbAGWA9ddTh2qBi-hI6Sb83AtpGvKvAkabJSp1wuRIgihDYoQ63lig7qIATnYkPZ7v2U1tEy6zUkslb3OHWX2fJOFnzYbs9-90KfkaDtgWpkQzcjM8Nn7Q/s1600/Kitchens.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZDmFQ7by25Kn_1C5EbToMdbAGWA9ddTh2qBi-hI6Sb83AtpGvKvAkabJSp1wuRIgihDYoQ63lig7qIATnYkPZ7v2U1tEy6zUkslb3OHWX2fJOFnzYbs9-90KfkaDtgWpkQzcjM8Nn7Q/s400/Kitchens.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sleeping cottages adjacent to the main lodge.</td></tr>
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Many of my colleagues on the workshop were impressed by the illusion of wilderness that Durant created. At both Uncas and Sagamore, Durant even included lean-tos where people could go to snooze or enjoy a campfire (amusingly, they look exactly like the gritty specimens one sees at steady intervals along the Appalachian Trail). My own feeling is that Durant, Vanderbilt, and their buddies were well-aware of the artifice, and while they liked the proximity to the outdoors, they were fully conscious that they also appreciated luxury. It’s nice to enjoy fresh trout and the smell of pine needles without having to dig a hole to take a crap or actually cook the fish yourself. Whatever Teddy Roosevelt might have thought, for them, the intermediacy of the experience was exactly the point.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCQfKu9n2siYitdWtKfZKz1FYDeR1E71fZTp9MzMTg17ZtuEYqr2h85_NwABeNZdtQgPDqEyoyGKb3r5V403n8EhlBFjCuKwIqisZxYZ8EWwi0BEx-71GUl0xNx7vLkPv2AaLNBU4p8oQ/s1600/Lean-to.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCQfKu9n2siYitdWtKfZKz1FYDeR1E71fZTp9MzMTg17ZtuEYqr2h85_NwABeNZdtQgPDqEyoyGKb3r5V403n8EhlBFjCuKwIqisZxYZ8EWwi0BEx-71GUl0xNx7vLkPv2AaLNBU4p8oQ/s640/Lean-to.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A lean-to at Camp Uncas, evidently still in use.</td></tr>
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During our visits to these sites, and especially as we got underway on our analytical group projects, it was interesting for my program colleagues and me to negotiate our unease with the class and gender implications of the origins of these camps (as well as the Adirondack State Park itself, its founding deeply resented by locals and a continuing source of regional conflict) with our very real enjoyment of Camp Huntington. For our group, at least, Durant’s design worked as intended – we mingled in common spaces, wandered the woods and paddled the waters, and left in an excellent frame of mind. We enjoyed our hot showers and internet service, clean drinking water, and regular meals, even using Chinese-made, globally-sourced iPads to produce videos for our group presentations at the end of the week. The artifice of wilderness endures. In other words, even for a group of people who outspokenly profess to be progressive and highly invested in societal equality, it is hard to resist having it both ways, at least for a week. Ironically, two of these camps (Durant was involved in building several others that we did not visit) now serve educational and non-profit uses. I have not yet made up my mind if this twist, along with the general spread of tourism to the ‘Dacks, represents the democratization of the wilderness experience or fealty on the part of the middle class to lifestyles copied from the elite. Probably it is something of both.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvRPzs6_GCfS8JOcTJqg6wuVzYvmSzWmWvKbQ6zPyg_jU0RUgf9OqN-XhlNNz0quKWQJfy7Hd16FdW0nkpTC2ezUjJKt7fmiTP489EMR7P6zgHscRkjUDMeastZrIezkpOaj1Oyq_2vc/s1600/Uncas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvRPzs6_GCfS8JOcTJqg6wuVzYvmSzWmWvKbQ6zPyg_jU0RUgf9OqN-XhlNNz0quKWQJfy7Hd16FdW0nkpTC2ezUjJKt7fmiTP489EMR7P6zgHscRkjUDMeastZrIezkpOaj1Oyq_2vc/s640/Uncas.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main lodge at Camp Uncas - yours for $2.95 million.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQx5DCFk2WPxOpszlgxUACdh6Em6hYImcDxLiJfEfvYKoxGwVcI5C7QN4jhM06VboRVfK0nBU6vRUHGWvkS1awYN2eZheEXlRrvmKKuuqi6l9YQDdGqaOwOFSLEKwQas0A6YGcLFwHFJg/s1600/Kayak.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQx5DCFk2WPxOpszlgxUACdh6Em6hYImcDxLiJfEfvYKoxGwVcI5C7QN4jhM06VboRVfK0nBU6vRUHGWvkS1awYN2eZheEXlRrvmKKuuqi6l9YQDdGqaOwOFSLEKwQas0A6YGcLFwHFJg/s640/Kayak.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-35338693227440810772015-07-28T08:16:00.002-07:002015-07-28T08:33:25.553-07:00Notes on the Motor City<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpE16TW_f7FDiOihRVAJJJU__VGx-2C7_SiZLf929yZcgLDbCvwpxpg44zhqNM57KXMFUj07f6Iz4tiky1sd1IV_7z9r-0cfCMNEFAmPi4OMU8-wFhHgRRjTjlsNwhCO9_u2cfUqceU7E/s1600/IMG_2290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpE16TW_f7FDiOihRVAJJJU__VGx-2C7_SiZLf929yZcgLDbCvwpxpg44zhqNM57KXMFUj07f6Iz4tiky1sd1IV_7z9r-0cfCMNEFAmPi4OMU8-wFhHgRRjTjlsNwhCO9_u2cfUqceU7E/s640/IMG_2290.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Already overgrown.</td></tr>
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Detroit is a big place with a vastly smaller future ahead. Don’t get me wrong – I had a tremendously enjoyable time visiting in early July, meeting many interesting and friendly people. There are some signs of hope around downtown, where many of its stately skyscrapers have been or will soon be refurbished, and it seems that the auto industry, which is still fairly active around the city, has recovered from its nadir. But Detroit will never approach its past glories. The process of demolition has already gone far. Derelict buildings remain, but now, for the main part, they exist singly or in pairs. Their neighbors have already vanished, leaving the city’s inner ring a grassy checkerboard of streets. Here and there, enterprising homeowners, whose houses are also lightly sprinkled about, have annexed adjacent vacant lots. Mostly, however, the old city simply relapses into prairie.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corktown, north of I-75. Michigan Central Station is in the distance.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmrWM2hVKCuICJhw-kL4bhEpCuuawH8CPXZtvqSuxFSdjFIwKgRYIZINBL4nPTtCBCzAZ5XcWbtd10QGSQQ7GmgeCzVtaTswGgKcxk7OQHzGxYs2GxE4E8ipdX1SYtzN5ZwsRoRZtAjY/s1600/IMG_2286.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmrWM2hVKCuICJhw-kL4bhEpCuuawH8CPXZtvqSuxFSdjFIwKgRYIZINBL4nPTtCBCzAZ5XcWbtd10QGSQQ7GmgeCzVtaTswGgKcxk7OQHzGxYs2GxE4E8ipdX1SYtzN5ZwsRoRZtAjY/s640/IMG_2286.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Curb cuts.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUqsghwwmEAw1x_tZdkL4qtZmenBupH49q3LapCBqvXacFp-H2o_IT-YrXYTdJYIWeCC71xXEIuCuGMTbqP-jeTQg60nBaP-mChBbjpLtczEh2o7J1SdnfPYOHbe0yQupeDXXuED5bDJA/s1600/Streetscape.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUqsghwwmEAw1x_tZdkL4qtZmenBupH49q3LapCBqvXacFp-H2o_IT-YrXYTdJYIWeCC71xXEIuCuGMTbqP-jeTQg60nBaP-mChBbjpLtczEh2o7J1SdnfPYOHbe0yQupeDXXuED5bDJA/s640/Streetscape.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Telephone wires, street lights, and a fire hydrant.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another view of Michigan Central Station.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfu8RkPyrScE_z5z8rP7ajvCq6pvrDjBfT8kiAs6Nz6jbNL4jODSRrysIDIFhsS1qKZ1pCJO6XtzbZGi2gQt-ffgR6P27RY8QJ61FGyw2TUFJi9BF8Erh5eZUivIdIpm9yi2DYNOkSGq4/s1600/Book+Tower.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfu8RkPyrScE_z5z8rP7ajvCq6pvrDjBfT8kiAs6Nz6jbNL4jODSRrysIDIFhsS1qKZ1pCJO6XtzbZGi2gQt-ffgR6P27RY8QJ61FGyw2TUFJi9BF8Erh5eZUivIdIpm9yi2DYNOkSGq4/s640/Book+Tower.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Book Tower is entirely vacant.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFCtBZE4muammMckWgkfnjlXdLYgD4IJqcoUzotXGXjdsEBGt9cqazSX6fWZtCygmJNDXuE6L_FR5Zu-Olt7-YqEvAyNOHEl8i1LWaWvb3brFo2HDaBelzQyDB8Y0X1KxjsnFg_YzkXH0/s1600/Skyscraper+Lobby.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFCtBZE4muammMckWgkfnjlXdLYgD4IJqcoUzotXGXjdsEBGt9cqazSX6fWZtCygmJNDXuE6L_FR5Zu-Olt7-YqEvAyNOHEl8i1LWaWvb3brFo2HDaBelzQyDB8Y0X1KxjsnFg_YzkXH0/s640/Skyscraper+Lobby.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The base of the David Stott Building, almost totally unoccupied.</td></tr>
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Detroit is reminiscent of Le Corbusier’s Radiant City ideal – an ordered, austere theory that imagined towers of apartments, separated by swathes of open greenspace. His reaction against the cheek-by-jowl industrial squalor of nineteenth-century urbanism profoundly influenced mid-century modernism, but Detroit is not evolving into a Radiant City by design. As older, lower neighborhoods flicker out, they leave tall, compact areas such as Lafayette Park, New Center, and the downtown as the city’s functional remnants. The city's many highways, rarely clogged by traffic, are actually quite efficient at speeding cars around the metropolis, despite their usual pernicious effect on neighborhood cohesion.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimA3AnFsU919prDarz46FTgRNqkxXOuBLaryk44SwicOvrkpfWEOOYIF534D6K_gDcSZMnrwdisCxA3xDlrAtzPWZukrukgdiMTSp0CfXIjFl2wqAkknXeHhTunCDuL62c4Wtb71c9a0/s1600/RenCen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimA3AnFsU919prDarz46FTgRNqkxXOuBLaryk44SwicOvrkpfWEOOYIF534D6K_gDcSZMnrwdisCxA3xDlrAtzPWZukrukgdiMTSp0CfXIjFl2wqAkknXeHhTunCDuL62c4Wtb71c9a0/s640/RenCen.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Renaissance Center, built by GM in the 70s as a new headquarters and shopping center, is notoriously fortress-like.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An empty greenhouse. Several rows of vegetables were growing outside, however.</td></tr>
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Many writers have expounded on the potential for urban gardening and art spaces to provide an economic and social spark for the city. Few farms were actually visible during our visit. Apart from the difficulty of training urban gardeners, rural producers pose daunting competition, especially those already established as sellers at Eastern Market, Detroit’s weekly emporium of produce. There’s more to be seen in terms of art and design, though I remain skeptical about their potential to form a regional economic engine. What entrepreneurs gain in cheap land by moving to Detroit they lose in access and connections to their clients.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz0Y1_6unQSPk4MpCON5j1D_cuN8_GYEXGVX-G3Yp1cldiN8vQGzD0s-63sCTgDrpBjEBLvloLjHYcBCcT2T8ASw9e-Nyeu0nzg5qnMX0c9Dn777airI5GDyCyGygxkjXSfMioBcvjpko/s1600/Heidelberg+Project.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz0Y1_6unQSPk4MpCON5j1D_cuN8_GYEXGVX-G3Yp1cldiN8vQGzD0s-63sCTgDrpBjEBLvloLjHYcBCcT2T8ASw9e-Nyeu0nzg5qnMX0c9Dn777airI5GDyCyGygxkjXSfMioBcvjpko/s640/Heidelberg+Project.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This house is part of the Heidelberg Project, the brain child of a local man to reclaim several blighted blocks. Arsonists have lately torched over half of the buildings that he transformed.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8qHta1bXrOG4in6bsMVpGT0bht0aVxXiXBvqIs910IIG7rt3iEc3AXnBtPAAI8pooyg7Ev0CCdawABGW36BK9X7sLu17NaU7UAd8nj1jBBwgdu2gRgBjG0BEYgb4qoW5bLJuSyQOiw4/s1600/Bike+flip.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8qHta1bXrOG4in6bsMVpGT0bht0aVxXiXBvqIs910IIG7rt3iEc3AXnBtPAAI8pooyg7Ev0CCdawABGW36BK9X7sLu17NaU7UAd8nj1jBBwgdu2gRgBjG0BEYgb4qoW5bLJuSyQOiw4/s640/Bike+flip.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An artist's backyard. Note the full sequence of bike somersaults.</td></tr>
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If Detroit were a country instead of a city – and it certainly is an unusually large for an American urban center – most development theorists would suggest that its competitive advantage lies in an abundance of cheap labor. Textbook recommendations would feature attracting footloose industries that provide lots of poorly paying jobs. Indeed, GM survived beyond its bailout by slashing wages and health care packages for new employees. However, labor costs are prohibitively expensive for any businesses that seek to move there because of minimum wage laws and the expense of providing mandated health care. The auto companies remain only because their sunk costs are so high: no one will ever build another vertically-integrated auto factory like the Ford’s River Rouge Plant in the United States.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMscOjJV-LsY8k_VDngjk6Cy2-VjBL80UEun69Rgu_rcC_hpOMywOWOqc5du0tl0PLQkb6pv9l5iKBlCpx8x2g896qvgb3UAgB6QSopMZKS95mpWHAMbvbB0zXzKuHTBpO7HX9CQVTaAA/s1600/River+Rouge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMscOjJV-LsY8k_VDngjk6Cy2-VjBL80UEun69Rgu_rcC_hpOMywOWOqc5du0tl0PLQkb6pv9l5iKBlCpx8x2g896qvgb3UAgB6QSopMZKS95mpWHAMbvbB0zXzKuHTBpO7HX9CQVTaAA/s640/River+Rouge.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A small section of the River Rouge plant. Ford is very proud of its green roof, but the project only covers the top of the building closest to the visitor center.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXnnwA8KCO20NX-OL5qZ0wQs0tf35soo5t4Hn3cb5yzfny5zkFHuwAqXGrda0GoiWeA_SWCYTyd90x_y71MiDQYuKPdYZGK5jH82xLZ6BSc4nyxjzJhCMx02KvG-ljlPkQrpzcwLm-RI/s1600/Corktown+view.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXnnwA8KCO20NX-OL5qZ0wQs0tf35soo5t4Hn3cb5yzfny5zkFHuwAqXGrda0GoiWeA_SWCYTyd90x_y71MiDQYuKPdYZGK5jH82xLZ6BSc4nyxjzJhCMx02KvG-ljlPkQrpzcwLm-RI/s640/Corktown+view.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corktown's main drag, with downtown in the distance.</td></tr>
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One afternoon, Christopher and I visited Slow’s Barbecue, a relatively new joint in the Corktown neighborhood just west of downtown. Newcomers to the area will recognize the Michigan Central Station, at this point probably Detroit’s best-known landmark, which sits just across Roosevelt Park in a state of glorious decay. A pleasant, somewhat pricey spot, Slow’s anchors a block or two of new development that features prominently in documentaries and articles touting a Motor City turnaround. There’s a distillery, a chic second-hand clothing store, and a couple other restaurants that play heavily on historical themes. Close-up, this section of Corktown is on the move, and it’s a good thing that these businesses pull suburbanites back into the city. However, the block is simply a drop in the bucket – even within its immediate neighborhood.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiWMnkiNEX5IjSamoZK5CjCIZYkAlbk7ZoXChXZ-OmsBNz_S13xOF_ncId9KCDBXRUhCDDTZ4P9zDXvBdKdoFjtU-KQnq5rfhR6_i_ewKv-DD5j4_fWn_7TxPdngp5-RijdokT7zfEdLI/s1600/Michigan+Central.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiWMnkiNEX5IjSamoZK5CjCIZYkAlbk7ZoXChXZ-OmsBNz_S13xOF_ncId9KCDBXRUhCDDTZ4P9zDXvBdKdoFjtU-KQnq5rfhR6_i_ewKv-DD5j4_fWn_7TxPdngp5-RijdokT7zfEdLI/s640/Michigan+Central.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michigan Central Station up close. Note that workers are beginning to replace its windows.</td></tr>
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Detroit does have a few other things going for it, which should be noted as its residents forge a new future. First, the abundance of open space is an opportunity for hard-working and creative minds – especially the former. Next, the city’s legacy of Americana and industrialism gives it a strong sense of authenticity and character. We noticed a number of t-shirts and graffiti that read “Detroit Against the World”, an exceptionalist statement of solidarity that suggests considerable pride of place, if also a willful ignorance of challenges elsewhere in the Rust Belt.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7d96MpMS6a7tzNk_jwo-Km0O2YPbNsqlns8McaQbOdV69PwzikWFa8n6yhD3x05x2pnRFOmEweWNx3-JgqIAweLSlkXTvEqxll_fsYtDODOQD8LEPD-FcDTnDy-aovkE42uXwkqswUnU/s1600/Tiger+Stadium.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7d96MpMS6a7tzNk_jwo-Km0O2YPbNsqlns8McaQbOdV69PwzikWFa8n6yhD3x05x2pnRFOmEweWNx3-JgqIAweLSlkXTvEqxll_fsYtDODOQD8LEPD-FcDTnDy-aovkE42uXwkqswUnU/s640/Tiger+Stadium.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Comerica Park, a bulwark of the downtown.</td></tr>
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Finally, in the admittedly limited five days I spent there, I was taken aback by the placid, cooperative nature of social relations. I had thoughtful and candid conversations about race with several casual acquaintances, in a way that I could not in Washington, DC or Baltimore. Locals know well how much the city has suffered and realize there’s more than enough blame to go around among its many constituencies. A legacy of several decades of black leadership in city politics, as well as a population that is 80% African-American, also relieves tensions, though I should note that animosity between Detroit and its far whiter and more prosperous suburbs remains strong.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsDjgvMl1nZv1K9bMK5plR1P4zj7xLC_xXZ60abGoA30zQSl3A_Wu6U-fDGL44lFKg3grmfYChWnWhaC4l8_lI_cny20-GcSDd_J1xjiQl5KN2xjB0MQ1anEr2N3szESoHBXL2x9HPM3o/s1600/Packard+Plant.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsDjgvMl1nZv1K9bMK5plR1P4zj7xLC_xXZ60abGoA30zQSl3A_Wu6U-fDGL44lFKg3grmfYChWnWhaC4l8_lI_cny20-GcSDd_J1xjiQl5KN2xjB0MQ1anEr2N3szESoHBXL2x9HPM3o/s640/Packard+Plant.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Packard Plant, looking south. This is only about half of the complex.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Let me conclude by relating a specific case-study about why I am skeptical of a Detroit renaissance. One afternoon, we visited the old Packard Plant, which shut down in the fifties and has remained derelict ever since. A couple miles northeast of downtown, it’s totally open to the public, with only a single security guard who advised us about parking and safety (explore at your own risk). A couple other groups were climbing around on the structure while we were there – the place exerts a strong fascination for tourists and locals alike. The site is vast, with a series of five-story buildings stretching about three-quarters of a mile, and its interiors are totally open, stripped bare of wiring and anything else remotely valuable, while the walls are splattered with graffiti and rubble from decay and dumping. The hundred-year old factory is literally falling apart.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_FKMJ5jwHhpwu4oP8ELb42J96nExEPWmAo7T0ckFlop12ICCoEHfhXT2mbDATSkvJ8ptfciG05z5Z-8I29i7NCeCAN1GAzV-9Tqt9zUV9XBDwExHfyGpnGasWn0ypCRIqJFGEgld5D6g/s1600/White+Flight.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_FKMJ5jwHhpwu4oP8ELb42J96nExEPWmAo7T0ckFlop12ICCoEHfhXT2mbDATSkvJ8ptfciG05z5Z-8I29i7NCeCAN1GAzV-9Tqt9zUV9XBDwExHfyGpnGasWn0ypCRIqJFGEgld5D6g/s640/White+Flight.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local social analysis.</td></tr>
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Last winter, a Peruvian developer named Fernando Palazuelo bought the entire property for a few hundred thousand dollars, touting a plan to transform the complex into a mixed-use array of apartments, retail, art studios, and tech spaces (of course). Locals whom we met later on that evening were excited, or at least that was the impression they tried to give us. Palazuelo’s first project: draping fabric over a factory bridge so that it appears renovated. It’s only another $350 million, he estimates, to refurbish (refurbish?!) the whole plant. Good luck, Mr. Palazuelo.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_2Xpo5mFtaPjAXvO1WqjUJzHWKV4e8roVWDzsrfzEUBLyVROqkP1cKygBAJkeerKFOZRd7ireHpyDlmStz-6CLIvQIBbqNlWcrzNBZ7kckYWu4RunNOwFDMHNv1ST_CjrHtZaFAnHmw/s1600/Packard+Couch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_2Xpo5mFtaPjAXvO1WqjUJzHWKV4e8roVWDzsrfzEUBLyVROqkP1cKygBAJkeerKFOZRd7ireHpyDlmStz-6CLIvQIBbqNlWcrzNBZ7kckYWu4RunNOwFDMHNv1ST_CjrHtZaFAnHmw/s640/Packard+Couch.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An interior courtyard.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-59967261702808031142015-04-08T14:23:00.001-07:002015-04-09T15:07:01.913-07:00Moontowers<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisMwsZf2qbrb9Jo831yDW7dSm95mtKKuIad7lW1jOzqL_qKTFmwRiz9JZMR3KF1OYLyoqvyPQTJwztF75YtP49Lmut0gZfAjDJL7_A1W38NeX8kcgn9V0ltKrEAYyk81-obc9Cn0-_y54/s1600/IMG_1169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisMwsZf2qbrb9Jo831yDW7dSm95mtKKuIad7lW1jOzqL_qKTFmwRiz9JZMR3KF1OYLyoqvyPQTJwztF75YtP49Lmut0gZfAjDJL7_A1W38NeX8kcgn9V0ltKrEAYyk81-obc9Cn0-_y54/s1600/IMG_1169.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moontower in Zilker Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Strange to say, I never noticed
Austin’s moontowers during my two years in grad school at UT. Being a great fan
of </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dazed and Confused</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">, I knew exactly
what they were, and even that the movie’s director, Richard Linklater, used Austin
as the setting for his film. I guess I never thought to look up very much while
I was there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Before flying down for spring
break last month, however, I mentioned the visit to a friend of mine, who began
talking a blue streak about the spindly metallic structures. Between his enthusiastic
explanation of their technology and a thorough perusal of the relevant
Wikipedia Page, I learned just how odd the towers are. Originally relying on
arc lights, a form of electrical lighting that predated the incandescent light
bulb, several cities built the towers to illuminate whole neighborhoods. Those that
Austin put up, which the city acquired from Detroit, rise 165 feet high –
imagine looking up at their striking glow in the 1890s, before light
bulbs even featured in domestic settings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXhKPS-4BLJOqr6vH8pV3tU36tPgpQbBGC3xe1lZqqjyiTQiN9cEeabwH1gRO-trtMeeheS0PDxV4A1oNQVgvXpniVQBNoJRt5bGAmnZqrWSIjfL94otM-MSR7zj_7dqy8GeNH5vhvbM/s1600/IMG_1162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXhKPS-4BLJOqr6vH8pV3tU36tPgpQbBGC3xe1lZqqjyiTQiN9cEeabwH1gRO-trtMeeheS0PDxV4A1oNQVgvXpniVQBNoJRt5bGAmnZqrWSIjfL94otM-MSR7zj_7dqy8GeNH5vhvbM/s1600/IMG_1162.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chicon and MLK.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The towers became obsolete
quickly, presumably after streetlights became commonplace. They were
so bright that they must have become a nuisance to the people living beneath
after the initial excitement wore off; the glow stayed on all night. Austin,
which originally built 31 towers, took down fourteen and eventually moved all
but six. Still, they achieved listing as historic landmarks in 1970 and have
steadily gained appreciation in the decades since. The timing of their
recognition, in the midst of Austin’s metamorphosis into a center of
counterculture and general weirdness, seems appropriate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Moontowers became part of popular
culture’s vernacular due to a memorable party scene set at the base of a tower (specially
built for the movie, alas) in <i>Dazed and
Confused</i>. Early on in the movie, a much anticipated house party is spoiled
by a suspicious father. After several hours of cruising the town’s strips and
pool halls, Wooderson, played by Matthew McConaughey in his archetypal role,
rolls up in his car, the Melba Toast, to announce the party at the moontower to
an intrigued, bookish female. “I love them redheads,” he intones with wonderful
insouciance as he turns away, much to the disgust of her companions. Later on,
after the keg is well on its way to being tapped, several upperclassmen take
the movie’s freshman protagonist along with them as they climb to the top of
the moontower. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjfE6jViLzPsFkLAGHEx3KRmkavUzLFB5S3Z0fwNJS41edkkpRx-ZtLdxp7MGtrOe1V98ivaiPBa913V6TyjOuFDvxsUEG9OYQKWU0wgqaJbCSQPZO4No89o7prFHoC9MPkSQswTXLl0/s1600/IMG_1265.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjfE6jViLzPsFkLAGHEx3KRmkavUzLFB5S3Z0fwNJS41edkkpRx-ZtLdxp7MGtrOe1V98ivaiPBa913V6TyjOuFDvxsUEG9OYQKWU0wgqaJbCSQPZO4No89o7prFHoC9MPkSQswTXLl0/s1600/IMG_1265.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guadalupe and 9th. There's the state capitol to the right.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">With my mind on the moontowers, I
saw them everywhere on my recent visit. They’re all close to downtown, seeing
as Austin was a small city in the 1890s when they were built. There’s one right
in the middle of Zilker Park, where my host Tom and I tried to go swimming at
Barton Springs (closed for cleaning; we repaired to Deep Eddy Pool). One
cropped up just south of where I used to live in the Cherrywood Neighborhood.
And one afternoon, when Tom, Lynda and I went to the top of a parking garage
for a city view as part of the Servant Girl Annihilator Tour (don’t ask), we
came practically face to face with one on West Twelfth. The handful that remain
are like prehistoric beasts, lonely and somewhat ignored, at least in
day-to-day existence, but shining on despite their irrelevance to the modern
city.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMuJBw9tphAYyBBrm6yvHkIc9qBaCYx_TlU6Gq9A1CzEtdPqKsgyhSYn41-Myzxc3dHOMAKHDuqrMTcEh5Yol9bCAa1bqKIW-T71X04Xnl2xGDynyIc8o7JJEajc_XUXjTDvrFSFbTGmg/s1600/IMG_1272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMuJBw9tphAYyBBrm6yvHkIc9qBaCYx_TlU6Gq9A1CzEtdPqKsgyhSYn41-Myzxc3dHOMAKHDuqrMTcEh5Yol9bCAa1bqKIW-T71X04Xnl2xGDynyIc8o7JJEajc_XUXjTDvrFSFbTGmg/s1600/IMG_1272.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking towards the Hill Country. I believe the the moontower visible is at West 12th and Blanco.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-77761840561760117832014-12-31T07:55:00.001-08:002015-01-04T13:19:46.448-08:00Katahdin<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASxVC2xIJdsRsQ3ZyUs-1djW1CfPDZcQ_4wZJ1OOvQrB809bToBr8rmthP7w75thaCRdVmE6V24BNyH3TJeqZN6SIW8Fs5YXkiVultsDYISAlW8h3Cu6-biz-il198e8KMi1e38d-T4M/s1600/IMG_0435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASxVC2xIJdsRsQ3ZyUs-1djW1CfPDZcQ_4wZJ1OOvQrB809bToBr8rmthP7w75thaCRdVmE6V24BNyH3TJeqZN6SIW8Fs5YXkiVultsDYISAlW8h3Cu6-biz-il198e8KMi1e38d-T4M/s1600/IMG_0435.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Looking up at the Gateway.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our
ninth day, an eight or nine mile hike from Abol Bridge to the Katahdin Stream Campground
at the southwest base of Katahdin, was the shortest of the trip. The trail runs within the state park along
the east side of the Penobscot for three or four miles, but the west side is
private property, with a road only a short ways back from the river. We could
see private houses here and there along the riverbank and hear the occasional car
whooshing along. Eventually, the trail swung northeast along a tributary,
slowly climbing toward the base of Katahdin itself. We ran into the Machine and
her companion, ambling along nonchalantly with friends and relatives who had
gathered to support them on the final push. RD also made a remarkable and
unexpected comeback in our long-running fart competition, winning what was
essentially the deciding Game 7 after I had dominated in the middle innings of
our contest. In general, it was a quiet morning, however, as encounters with
day hikers, conversation with a friendly ranger, and the sounds of civilization
revealed </span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">that our time in the wilderness was over.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Katahdin
Stream Campground holds only twelve spots for long distance hikers, and we
hoped to arrive early enough to get a tent platform. In fact, we had actually
signed in at a waypoint at the park entrance, presumably so that rangers can
radio ahead to give their colleagues a heads-up about potential overflow. When
we checked in around eleven with a ranger at the campground office, he informed
us we were the first hikers to arrive. But as we walked the final quarter mile
to the campsite, who should fall in ahead of us but the Machine, trotting along
at a furious pace. Clearly, she been spooked when we passed by earlier in the
morning and now, worried that she wouldn’t find space in the campsite, had
skipped the ranger check-in. It turned out that there was only one spot to
pitch a tent, so RD and I resigned ourselves to sleeping <i>al fresco</i> in a lean-to – for the first time on the trip, in fact.
At least we would save time packing the following morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
campsite was shaded and chilly, so we returned to the campground’s central
meadow, which had picnic tables, fire pits, and a good view of a shoulder of
Katahdin that we would climb up on the morrow. Without any cares for the rest
of the day, we spread out our things and began to nibble at what remained of
our food supplies. Knowing that Rick, RD’s father, would join us with fresh provisions
the following morning, we tried to polish everything off. We ate well for most
of the trip but were now down to the dregs: nuts and seeds, carrots, a couple
bagels, and plenty of peanut butter and jelly. Nearby, the Machine and her
friends set up a real picnic; one woman kindly came over to give us some coke
and a couple s’mores. RD and I must have sat at the table for six or seven
hours, playing cards, daydreaming, and eventually building a fire (the rangers
had wood for sale) to cook our final night of mac and cheese. In the late
afternoon, several thru-hikers came off the mountain, delighted to be finished
but reporting clouds on the summit. Indeed, even in the valley, the weather was
a steady mixture of intermittent clouds, sun, and the occasional sprinkle of
rain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
gates to Baxter open at 6, so RD and I were waiting for Rick at the parking lot
by bright and early the next morning. The sky was totally clear and the air a
bit chilly – the best day for hiking of the entire trip. Soon, a long line of
cars arrived all at once. Rick showed up shortly afterward, bearing our daypacks
and food that seemed worth its weight in gold: sandwiches, two blocks of
cheddar cheese, swedish fishes, chocolate bars, and other assorted goodies. For
the first time in a week and a half, we could eat what we wanted, when we
wanted. I immediately scarfed down a package of potato chips, which drew a
quizzical glance from Jenkinson senior at this early hour. Then we hit the
trail. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Katahdin
has probably the most distinctive appearance of any mountain in the northeast
because it rises up out of flatlands, at least when viewed from south. Its
flanks are big and steep, but the top is actually quite broad and flat. I
assume that this distinctive topography, somewhat similar to the Presidentials
in New Hampshire, has to do with the thickness of glaciers that scoured the
sides of the massif but did not reach the top. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVsDnGzEwz5bIXdxsvRM88Ihsqy1frECCawKKTyzevsrqlXMfGeKdWkNXD_PuE6K7BOjC_EIQtMvMvqDrfZE3Enbt0rc9vR57Pe55wlnezPjk8RopRbmPNPyo0sZr-87dBp3lhxodi7o/s1600/IMG_0434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVsDnGzEwz5bIXdxsvRM88Ihsqy1frECCawKKTyzevsrqlXMfGeKdWkNXD_PuE6K7BOjC_EIQtMvMvqDrfZE3Enbt0rc9vR57Pe55wlnezPjk8RopRbmPNPyo0sZr-87dBp3lhxodi7o/s1600/IMG_0434.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">Nearing the Gateway, with the Owl in the background.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">In any
case, the ascent up the Hunt Trail was steep and unrelenting, but our legs were
now in great shape and particularly spry in the absence of our big packs. Rick,
a veteran of the CrossFit training program, moved along at an impressive clip.
The trail was crowded with people taking advantage of the fine weather and, as
it ascends over some very large boulders, we often got caught behind other
parties. Several times, we leapfrogged a young group of Mennonites, both men
and women, though hiking in separate groups. They moved quickly and had little
sense of trail etiquette, so we were glad to pass them for good about halfway
up, when we got to the first of the open ledges.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3vmvqjm23PmgpG40S_pqMB9tBEFUffNLLLFNiP4tLtBtbMHCguNTQdSfVEFORNJ3WZCATp7J9uGSqDA3omsU8VUDoNKiOFGcHtlFWvl3BaiVTxZteSv-7GjnnTNWlBLe_41Lk4uxn3oY/s1600/IMG_0467.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3vmvqjm23PmgpG40S_pqMB9tBEFUffNLLLFNiP4tLtBtbMHCguNTQdSfVEFORNJ3WZCATp7J9uGSqDA3omsU8VUDoNKiOFGcHtlFWvl3BaiVTxZteSv-7GjnnTNWlBLe_41Lk4uxn3oY/s1600/IMG_0467.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Looking back across some of the ground we had covered in the wilderness. Lake Nahmakanta is in the distance.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The
toughest part of the trail is the section known as the Gateway, which involves
a lot of exposed scrambling on and around various boulders. At points, the
climbing is semi-technical and is occasionally aided by iron rods that have been
placed in the rock. By this point, the views were superb and the exposure a bit
daunting. However, atop this section, we arrived at the Tablelands, a flat
alpine region a couple square miles large that is populated by fields of alpine
sedges and an indigenous butterfly, among other flora and fauna. The actual
summit of Baxter Peak was a mile or two distant to the east. We stopped once at
Thoreau Spring, where the writer/philosopher evidently tarried on his own visit
to the peak in the 1840s. He excitedly described his explorations in </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Maine Woods</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTl_h05MCRQ1b0r_eT7e1LlEbmgy1vH5PjkXtA1jhe9UlxCzDSNbTw918di9i2xjN98wj_s0HV32pLN22lbUeTHd68naqQ2qqU-4Z81N_yN-qsgwTBz0_ieQ8QHXSChcHBJWhN_WDda1A/s1600/IMG_0436.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTl_h05MCRQ1b0r_eT7e1LlEbmgy1vH5PjkXtA1jhe9UlxCzDSNbTw918di9i2xjN98wj_s0HV32pLN22lbUeTHd68naqQ2qqU-4Z81N_yN-qsgwTBz0_ieQ8QHXSChcHBJWhN_WDda1A/s1600/IMG_0436.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Tablelands, with the summit beyond.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgaEl8GmIk9TEst1zhxvtbiMPt0Bss9ijF01fyXhN4V4Rzkg6EKUZu24h6BNnZ-huTquCWeGxF7IQf56J_9DNqzeAvjJbMmlkxy1WUzws7y0vXQR3wzYRcuqZWXiufilqcJzNu_whPfb0/s1600/IMG_0440.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgaEl8GmIk9TEst1zhxvtbiMPt0Bss9ijF01fyXhN4V4Rzkg6EKUZu24h6BNnZ-huTquCWeGxF7IQf56J_9DNqzeAvjJbMmlkxy1WUzws7y0vXQR3wzYRcuqZWXiufilqcJzNu_whPfb0/s1600/IMG_0440.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Looking South from the Tablelands.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The summit was a lively place. Several thru-hikers, all of whom were by now acquaintances, including the Machine, had hiked to the top earlier in the morning. Now, sprawling around the summit, which is surprisingly broad and flat, they rejoiced at finishing their trek. Cigars were lit and whiskey bottles uncorked. The Machine smiled. Hoss, a friendly young Iowan whom we’d met a couple days earlier, announced that he planned to drink up all the beer in Millinocket that night. Rick, RD, and I decided to venture out to the Knife Edge, the famously exposed ridge that connects Baxter and Pamola Peaks. Hoss declined our invitation to come along, saying he didn’t intend to hike another step if he could help it.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">
</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapFs7-q5uL3EI9uFJGTIsnPcW1b1BABYKSCPs5Pje97lnt9RGoWDzeyCeEoR_071vEhuZeHxI6RPkNv04R0QBSzzgCjSISI3yYRsFIzXpCX-Mj93TAn-uWplrHOHP-0hFwsfcTnd4qUo/s1600/IMG_0444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapFs7-q5uL3EI9uFJGTIsnPcW1b1BABYKSCPs5Pje97lnt9RGoWDzeyCeEoR_071vEhuZeHxI6RPkNv04R0QBSzzgCjSISI3yYRsFIzXpCX-Mj93TAn-uWplrHOHP-0hFwsfcTnd4qUo/s1600/IMG_0444.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Chimney Pond from the summit, with Pamola Peak to the right.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjDa3RibWnYQSU9HFf5_JgNHWOQwYCH_as1iRoIrZGURmcACro_GAp4swhG6xpRjMVT8S8Ru_kvtKPUrtiUGaw7J0jTglO37q-B4FHTQYQ5svjpDNdz-5r2En3n_PbUl3W-P3sfGba7A/s1600/IMG_0463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjDa3RibWnYQSU9HFf5_JgNHWOQwYCH_as1iRoIrZGURmcACro_GAp4swhG6xpRjMVT8S8Ru_kvtKPUrtiUGaw7J0jTglO37q-B4FHTQYQ5svjpDNdz-5r2En3n_PbUl3W-P3sfGba7A/s1600/IMG_0463.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Pamola Peak and the Knife Edge</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">We
stopped for lunch at a small satellite peak on the Knife Edge itself. Our view stretched
far across the forest toward southern Maine and into the bowl that contains
Chimney Pond, as well as over the peaks that surround Katahdin itself. It is
wild, rugged country, uniquely rocky, steep, and exposed in the northeast. Not
wanting to have to climb back up, we decided to hold off on the rest of the
Knife Edge and just sat around eating and taking in our surroundings.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2FDiJwNFjjCb1hIkLHTehyT1coWh84YEuiz5RSF3MgHxw7qGBoHV9qYdNljRvy1Ft9fIZevU-6kYwdLvdcOBJCifW4UVBXE2TZJ_HnOOSrYfNXaZ8_mizc2vaE5R0fvACd3u4mgqWIU/s1600/IMG_0462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2FDiJwNFjjCb1hIkLHTehyT1coWh84YEuiz5RSF3MgHxw7qGBoHV9qYdNljRvy1Ft9fIZevU-6kYwdLvdcOBJCifW4UVBXE2TZJ_HnOOSrYfNXaZ8_mizc2vaE5R0fvACd3u4mgqWIU/s1600/IMG_0462.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Our destination for lunch.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Well,
there’s not much more to tell. By the time we returned to the summit proper, it
was swarming with several dozen hikers and had taken on a raucous atmosphere.
Hoss and the other thru-hikers were still on top, holding court while they
waited for a few other companions to join them. Rick snapped a picture of RD
and me standing on top of the Katahdin sign, and then we started down. The
descent was surprisingly quick and happened without mishap. I was very glad
that we had gotten up early to start the climb when I observed the bottleneck
that built up at the top of the Gateway. At the bottom, we had a small
celebration of our own over a few beers that Rick had thoughtfully brought. I
wouldn’t have trusted myself to climb down the mountain safely after one, to be
honest. I hope all those thru-hikers did okay after their nips of whiskey – we
never saw them again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbzhLvkemUjErJMiN5MImUUOnXJEC43wmMV39NGULoKpK3EeaHt2T2iYbkLQUS9iXzi2mTqV4yBenEjDsuiM2zj4MzD37CDcUUe52YyWlI15tgms2u-HF1Y9SRoklrifHXjPJz4J_pLus/s1600/IMG_4745.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbzhLvkemUjErJMiN5MImUUOnXJEC43wmMV39NGULoKpK3EeaHt2T2iYbkLQUS9iXzi2mTqV4yBenEjDsuiM2zj4MzD37CDcUUe52YyWlI15tgms2u-HF1Y9SRoklrifHXjPJz4J_pLus/s1600/IMG_4745.jpeg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The summit!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We spent
our final evening at the Moose Inn, in Millinocket, where I had stayed with my
brother on a trip to the north country perhaps 12 or 13 years earlier. It’s less
rustic and charming now but remains comfortable, with plenty of good food and
drink in the restaurant. We got off the mountain so early that we had plenty of
time to lounge around. We were all in bed not long after sunset, as had been
our habit on the trail. The Jenkinsons are an industrious pair, and we were up
only a little time past the usual hour in the morning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8ZHT4HT_KU3f6cs6dt3Q5u9oer3Kh7ILqH2U0cl7U0MZY70ARhN4MAx38sLAMcxjubq37BxQMi2eFO5mVWzXDM6p69y51S7-e1xAbyjU0Ds6kMpt8ZwXVZAodzwaqAlJl0JKUjSbHBg/s1600/IMG_0480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8ZHT4HT_KU3f6cs6dt3Q5u9oer3Kh7ILqH2U0cl7U0MZY70ARhN4MAx38sLAMcxjubq37BxQMi2eFO5mVWzXDM6p69y51S7-e1xAbyjU0Ds6kMpt8ZwXVZAodzwaqAlJl0JKUjSbHBg/s1600/IMG_0480.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Descending through the Tablelands.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Before
parting ways the next day, RD and I hatched some plans to do more backpacking
in following summers, perhaps in the southern Appalachians next summer. I hope
to include descriptions of those adventures here, as well. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq9M6e-Q_60vDU3iu7rI3GRGaziQYRkgh8G3P-6cm6Pgvl_K_hula_BgorVJBUROZvZL4ncdBC5o7cGm6VSnyWJr7BCNHoVFOqAdXPydGUE2UpjFRkT9K_avrvJ_rUmguSrsrkx8Atl0I/s1600/IMG_0478.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq9M6e-Q_60vDU3iu7rI3GRGaziQYRkgh8G3P-6cm6Pgvl_K_hula_BgorVJBUROZvZL4ncdBC5o7cGm6VSnyWJr7BCNHoVFOqAdXPydGUE2UpjFRkT9K_avrvJ_rUmguSrsrkx8Atl0I/s1600/IMG_0478.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hamlin Peak, Baxter's smaller neighbor.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-803801997896638802014-12-20T13:08:00.002-08:002014-12-21T09:17:00.180-08:00The Hundred Miles Wilderness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicatFiplZGV9fDLU2b4k4O5kE037QAZpmV2hlgz3L-XF2b64q_xeC8M5iBdKtAcv5etFGvZTXm8Jhvqa8PDwDvjQa__9V8PD4rXFbXwtgAQC8yOMq4HV3rhM45drghJvoJzdvl09m9c4M/s1600/IMG_0372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicatFiplZGV9fDLU2b4k4O5kE037QAZpmV2hlgz3L-XF2b64q_xeC8M5iBdKtAcv5etFGvZTXm8Jhvqa8PDwDvjQa__9V8PD4rXFbXwtgAQC8yOMq4HV3rhM45drghJvoJzdvl09m9c4M/s1600/IMG_0372.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view north from Chairback Mountain. The body of water in the distance is Long Pond, which I wrote about several years ago in <i>Appalachia Journal</i> as part of an article on the AMC's Gorman Chairback Camp.</td></tr>
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Last August, I backpacked Maine’s 100 Miles Wilderness with
my old friend from the AMC Huts, RD Jenkinson. This stretch of trail, which
sounds more remote than it actually is, runs from Monson to Abol Bridge, on the
border of Baxter State Park. It is not a federally-designated wilderness; instead, its name comes from its perceived remoteness. Its history of use by European-descended Americans goes back to the mid-nineteenth century and includes extensive logging and recreational activity. We covered the stretch in eight days and then
tacked on two extra so that we could summit Katahdin, accompanied by RD's
father on the final push.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmq_qncwLjW0aUge95s7op7LUmdumhDO6VzWoGqlYoVn9uJIPfzflJb-QjZmb4xEoO-IwIOHBBZCxUEe1OdDdZQ4jpgaMyU9moZaGZ8SZSWJr742VQet8sPWOFB2X0H8mV47XT8095RXQ/s1600/IMG_1589.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmq_qncwLjW0aUge95s7op7LUmdumhDO6VzWoGqlYoVn9uJIPfzflJb-QjZmb4xEoO-IwIOHBBZCxUEe1OdDdZQ4jpgaMyU9moZaGZ8SZSWJr742VQet8sPWOFB2X0H8mV47XT8095RXQ/s1600/IMG_1589.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Day one: RD at the entrance to the Hundred Miles Wilderness.</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuIbQniAUGyAKt84nDSKGtUFYY6vIGCYwLCI1CGhWBJe8QwA-Owvm1w2ra9a8gFuzmKbLivKHnawKIEINJ2NpSijKc4lXk2SLNFHUqmm2JREFh3henP4X8KyAIPZhteho53XvjGYKcdQ/s1600/IMG_1596.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuIbQniAUGyAKt84nDSKGtUFYY6vIGCYwLCI1CGhWBJe8QwA-Owvm1w2ra9a8gFuzmKbLivKHnawKIEINJ2NpSijKc4lXk2SLNFHUqmm2JREFh3henP4X8KyAIPZhteho53XvjGYKcdQ/s1600/IMG_1596.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The top of Little Wilson Falls, which cascades another forty or so feet into a striking slate gorge.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoOmH5wsVx7XiCy8EIQ0Zc6gd5dmhuon3Ezoi2f_Bqby12CSwK8atXNjMN4VcSibYbib0bOVMDOCCZfjNWlPhE1Nvi8Khuj2SO41pvh3Qql7QYxSmyPDRCmrGB8vQpPHIdgOqDUfRXi10/s1600/IMG_1601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoOmH5wsVx7XiCy8EIQ0Zc6gd5dmhuon3Ezoi2f_Bqby12CSwK8atXNjMN4VcSibYbib0bOVMDOCCZfjNWlPhE1Nvi8Khuj2SO41pvh3Qql7QYxSmyPDRCmrGB8vQpPHIdgOqDUfRXi10/s1600/IMG_1601.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Foolin' around on the one railroad line that cuts through the wilderness</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_5WW6Lh7XlgLPvuv2IjwQQfClnBEXKRxZhstaQqdenIVnmrDebk7hVdEMvtNKuyNOrfahmvN3uY-6gC8dTMSSJ0njQIWPBmHFlpsJaE5-9CWJ-IGzKPiyPVOkIg5VEQXmmmkgIIIPoo/s1600/IMG_1602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga_5WW6Lh7XlgLPvuv2IjwQQfClnBEXKRxZhstaQqdenIVnmrDebk7hVdEMvtNKuyNOrfahmvN3uY-6gC8dTMSSJ0njQIWPBmHFlpsJaE5-9CWJ-IGzKPiyPVOkIg5VEQXmmmkgIIIPoo/s1600/IMG_1602.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ledge near the summit of Barren Mountain.</td></tr>
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The trail separates into distinct segments, with logging
roads, peaks, lean-tos, and rivers forming boundary points. The first day was
deceptively easy, but then we started up over the Chairback Range, which for me
was the most challenging part of the trip. I wasn’t yet in backpacking shape,
and of course we had our entire food supply on our backs. We spent a beautiful
night at the Cloud Pond Campsite and took in some excellent views, especially
on the last peak of the range, Chairback Mountain, but I don’t think I really
believed I would get through the trip until we crossed the West Branch of the
Pleasant River late on the third afternoon. The fourth morning, a cloudy, windy occasion, saw us climb a series of peaks, culminating in Whitecap Mountain, which stands about 3,600 feet tall. Henceforth, our only really significant
challenge, at least in terms of elevation, would be Katahdin itself. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguEA6SYdpWqBxATv1nuBPg8GMmhNyannkiRxDsErXbz7arkhedJNyrA415VASS3PH2xzlLxpQzdQVWMNUQ7NNs2WVBXbq86QZFAwqA8pTuPQRek2Eva0LIcwJUYBEarUNKFOUukgYD124/s1600/IMG_1612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguEA6SYdpWqBxATv1nuBPg8GMmhNyannkiRxDsErXbz7arkhedJNyrA415VASS3PH2xzlLxpQzdQVWMNUQ7NNs2WVBXbq86QZFAwqA8pTuPQRek2Eva0LIcwJUYBEarUNKFOUukgYD124/s1600/IMG_1612.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cloud Pond.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdULKq2ij1YxAJVMEnCsvfYhZQfJb8O7QaVnTv0KoyoRSY8x0qrsfabHBw4VzyAxiFb0wXEJOWGdDqScMWu4lJbfIY_IVMXWncO8ODhcYhvtTyu8XksbI2Yd1MY1v7PCBdmEaozS2uaM/s1600/IMG_0374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdULKq2ij1YxAJVMEnCsvfYhZQfJb8O7QaVnTv0KoyoRSY8x0qrsfabHBw4VzyAxiFb0wXEJOWGdDqScMWu4lJbfIY_IVMXWncO8ODhcYhvtTyu8XksbI2Yd1MY1v7PCBdmEaozS2uaM/s1600/IMG_0374.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cooking area at our campsite along Gulf Hagas Brook. My vantage point was the floor of our tent; the division of labor ideal.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCyZj4qdg2NBU_saqDz0KSjewby5wQ6qQ-LE8NUZwTmj-_OR-iUQc9B5CRdmi0k99TKcXeJlgerSX2x7ApDbH0-sLQkDbXiGLuGVvnQFwROOSH1a5tu4TcQvcTjLdBGoNzRzPzj2OXAs/s1600/IMG_0376.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCyZj4qdg2NBU_saqDz0KSjewby5wQ6qQ-LE8NUZwTmj-_OR-iUQc9B5CRdmi0k99TKcXeJlgerSX2x7ApDbH0-sLQkDbXiGLuGVvnQFwROOSH1a5tu4TcQvcTjLdBGoNzRzPzj2OXAs/s1600/IMG_0376.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The veiled summit of Whitecap Mountain.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCQ9ku3t4iNFu3LVdRM4c56EE9lHPTlyw1XuQSQJ6fqL4CLr09-ayxIIsJzfRwK1vdTWej9_c9H_2whqQehMikK-udoqwFQCwV29raE8h9kAYPCgeSQGToZqSLElGn8NkjU94Yp73JP8/s1600/IMG_0377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCQ9ku3t4iNFu3LVdRM4c56EE9lHPTlyw1XuQSQJ6fqL4CLr09-ayxIIsJzfRwK1vdTWej9_c9H_2whqQehMikK-udoqwFQCwV29raE8h9kAYPCgeSQGToZqSLElGn8NkjU94Yp73JP8/s1600/IMG_0377.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swollen waters by Cooper Brook Falls</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBnvJVgCekDyTa83kRuNGeoKrVX8bZYXzJji9g3r1us2AM1dd325wU53FpUwHtAiHdJxRkL1mmC_TcFWVDhWOEOCuNSt5jm8NdhyphenhyphenSwZVzs42pxNLzs53urhTFoTQo8xRoX63Rhq56Q9k0/s1600/IMG_0381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBnvJVgCekDyTa83kRuNGeoKrVX8bZYXzJji9g3r1us2AM1dd325wU53FpUwHtAiHdJxRkL1mmC_TcFWVDhWOEOCuNSt5jm8NdhyphenhyphenSwZVzs42pxNLzs53urhTFoTQo8xRoX63Rhq56Q9k0/s1600/IMG_0381.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trying to dry out a little at midday.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
By this point in the trip, we’d developed a routine of
rising at six every morning, getting breakfast going quickly and packing up our
sleeping bags and tent. Most days we were on the trail by 7:15. It’s a good
thing that we were developing some trail discipline (and by we I really mean I,
as RD basically floats around effortlessly in the backcountry),
because just about the time we rolled into our campsite that afternoon, a
steady drizzle opened up. It got loud enough that night to wake us – no
thunder, just a deafening downpour that would not abate for hours. Thank
goodness for RD’s sturdy tent, which was equal to the challenge. Luckily, we
camped near the East Branch campsite lean-to, so we stayed dry while we cooked
breakfast, but once we were on the trail, there was no respite. Crossing the
shockingly swollen branch East Branch of the Pleasant River the next morning, the water was fast
and up to my waist. Lunch at another lean-to was our only significant break in
the day because pausing only made us cold. We covered more mileage that day
than any other. A ranger at Baxter State Park later told us that the Chimney
Pond Ranger Station recorded 7 inches of rain in that 24 hour stretch, an
astonishing accumulation in such duration of time. The 5.5 inches of rain in
Portland during the same period was the fifth-largest 24 hour rainfall locally
recorded; record-keeping goes back to the nineteenth century. In retrospect,
it’s surprising we didn’t encounter more problems that day.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREpjj2o_1SpsjqXiNt6VWRSW9oru6OX5m_68ATuK0U7ObovNnVCF9VZ2tYXGP093fty1gZUVHUwZNBF2_gqbWLjhH4S36Uetk1L4IeYf4bWMj_XFSlg7cRy0tIopt_he1zl9y8ZEbKmw/s1600/IMG_0387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREpjj2o_1SpsjqXiNt6VWRSW9oru6OX5m_68ATuK0U7ObovNnVCF9VZ2tYXGP093fty1gZUVHUwZNBF2_gqbWLjhH4S36Uetk1L4IeYf4bWMj_XFSlg7cRy0tIopt_he1zl9y8ZEbKmw/s1600/IMG_0387.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fetching water from the lake at the Antlers Campsite.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXQ3s_5awQtl-Oqmhas1OFsch-7jKhgWTuFIWfvKppLts0kj3acgnO7EFsM5GPn228FT32u9Fmh-lWW-DFF0C5JRqRua9CzygvXe3RiPhqYGj01xdWml2NycxlsHGJSUOs_V8PTcAyws/s1600/IMG_0385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXQ3s_5awQtl-Oqmhas1OFsch-7jKhgWTuFIWfvKppLts0kj3acgnO7EFsM5GPn228FT32u9Fmh-lWW-DFF0C5JRqRua9CzygvXe3RiPhqYGj01xdWml2NycxlsHGJSUOs_V8PTcAyws/s1600/IMG_0385.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our cooking area.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJZnFV8oZNYuMEEiELAeFq56gJ32r-oFwTCdxWLpRA9xNSm-Barc-0FpkKBGKjiz4fY0OKPZ_Xuzv93ybMkqcEywZJZ2MUCdLCHDFgopK0zBA7GTg2ffF3HRHbkCMjCaF3p9Dr_aWI05k/s1600/IMG_0386.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJZnFV8oZNYuMEEiELAeFq56gJ32r-oFwTCdxWLpRA9xNSm-Barc-0FpkKBGKjiz4fY0OKPZ_Xuzv93ybMkqcEywZJZ2MUCdLCHDFgopK0zBA7GTg2ffF3HRHbkCMjCaF3p9Dr_aWI05k/s1600/IMG_0386.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bedraggled but sturdy tent. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the late afternoon, we arrived at the lovely Antlers
Campsite on the shore of Lower Jo-Mary Lake. Though little trace is left now,
it was once the site of a hunting camp. We had just finished setting up our
tent when the rain stopped. RD, tired for once, entered the sanctuary of the
tent, but I felt an unusual energy, as often happens to me when in old, disused places. I went for a swim and talked for
some time with an austere man from Texas, who was camping out with his grandchildren.
The sunset was beautiful, so I roused RD, and then finding that we had cell
service, we looked up the weather forecast and texted his father with requests for
sandwiches and other goodies for our Katahdin ascent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6tCCP9Z7AsOq6DPKNXvtzQAriq3r18bNTX15IJixA-ESPMzMKpp1rAPVUoizW2fobycg_aqfUCZ-pM4gKo3ZqmuJLCLIBPAw6rqkRTgG1IycFgyeoS6iTV2i2wG-_2YbOz5ry1hw53Sc/s1600/IMG_0389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6tCCP9Z7AsOq6DPKNXvtzQAriq3r18bNTX15IJixA-ESPMzMKpp1rAPVUoizW2fobycg_aqfUCZ-pM4gKo3ZqmuJLCLIBPAw6rqkRTgG1IycFgyeoS6iTV2i2wG-_2YbOz5ry1hw53Sc/s1600/IMG_0389.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evening light on our point. The pine trees and gentle waves made the place feel very familiar.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylBSjgQp61ogSnxjjiQNr9RWRmXcUeKloztgV-NkLcyZgKHR8XlNEb5YyWcBY1BBOcm0AVnpIbHcXxpusSXDd3uF0jIQ3h6QmQXzVef6WyYTbxobQEwl7f8OtbMkqwyL0a991IxmAlvI/s1600/IMG_0391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylBSjgQp61ogSnxjjiQNr9RWRmXcUeKloztgV-NkLcyZgKHR8XlNEb5YyWcBY1BBOcm0AVnpIbHcXxpusSXDd3uF0jIQ3h6QmQXzVef6WyYTbxobQEwl7f8OtbMkqwyL0a991IxmAlvI/s1600/IMG_0391.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A beautiful morning on Lower Jo-Mary Lake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In the morning, the sun was out (for the last time until
Baxter) so we loitered in camp for a while, hanging our tent and clothes out to
dry. This provided a great boost to morale, as did another lengthy swim and
exploration around the point on which we had camped. However, we also discovered
in trying to warm up some oatmeal that my stove had ceased to work. In five or
so years of service, it had never given me problems, but it remained unusable
for the rest of the trip. RD became very proficient in cooking our mac and
cheese over a campfire, while I grew used to scrubbing out blackened pots. We
now ate our breakfast cold, without our bowl of warm tea prior to hitting the
trail in the morning, and it took us a couple days to grow accustomed to
building a fire every night. However, in the end, I think it made us more
confident in our woodcraft and ability to weather unexpected challenges.
Certainly, our dinners, already a high point in our day, became an even more
pleasurable, hard-earned experience. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqLR82D8Rme8uVWTorpWrNaN5A_bzPJD4r7MJ5Buhuu-AzBoUnD7l7lt-e4wDKoPPHq_X1G0z64Ti_Z5bdOoyIXOr5etUmXrL25OPi1p0lyApOo9ivIHYHU7Rb8kZM655H9iiisXcswc/s1600/IMG_0405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqLR82D8Rme8uVWTorpWrNaN5A_bzPJD4r7MJ5Buhuu-AzBoUnD7l7lt-e4wDKoPPHq_X1G0z64Ti_Z5bdOoyIXOr5etUmXrL25OPi1p0lyApOo9ivIHYHU7Rb8kZM655H9iiisXcswc/s1600/IMG_0405.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking toward our ultimate destination from Lake Nahmakanta.</td></tr>
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When the stove failed, I was worried that my partner would
be frustrated, but I need not have wondered. There are few people with whom I
would spend ten days in the backcountry. The physical and psychological
challenges stress the strongest of relationships. Luckily, RD and I have had
many adventures in the backcountry. I knew we could easily share the tight
space of the tent and that he rarely grows impatient or frustrated. In the
first half of the trip, when I moved slowly and rolled my ankle a few times, he
seemed happy to wait and comfortably resigned to whatever obstacles might stand
in our path. On one occasion, while I was resting in the tent after a long,
trying day early in the trip, he quietly passed me a Swedish fish through the
tent door. Such small moments of thoughtfulness mean a great deal in the woods,
just as the tiny, sweet fish provided me with a boost in spirits
disproportionate to its meager content. </div>
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As the trip wore on, I grew tougher and comfortable in our
routine. The effort of backpacking diminished, and while we still conversed on
a range of topics – long talks about the Keystone Pipeline, Wendell Berry, and
trail culture – we didn’t need to communicate much on the basics. The contents
of our packs slowly shrank, and we began to knock out the bulk of our mileage
before lunch, leaving us time to relax and really think during the late
afternoon and evening. I became perfectly confident in my abilities.
Focused on immediate challenges, trail life was simple and satisfying. I don’t
want my life to be like that indefinitely – it would grow monotonous and lack
meaning over the long haul, I think – but it was a delicious antidote to my
everyday experience for the rest of the year. </div>
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Beyond Lower Jo-Mary Lake, the trail remained mostly flat. Though the soles of my feet often grew quite hot from the friction
of constant walking, I would bathe them in lakes and streams. We camped by
lakes several nights in a row, and going for a swim in the evening put me in a
crisp, cheerful frame of mind. One afternoon, at a tentsite on Rainbow Lake, we found
a canoe a few feet back in the woods from the water, a battered old aluminum
specimen that I assumed was abandoned. We took it out for a paddle, though we quickly
retreated to the shore when the wind blew up. We did get a view of the lower
flanks of Katahdin, however, not so distant, now. In the evening, we heard the
sound of the aluminum scraping on rocks, and later the canoe was gone. We
guessed it actually belonged to a party camped around the next point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfnN05FjXnUKeH5CNuGu4if2UiucU1jdDULHEyTKkEnzXeyQRCrh9jSwpUx62HYcJxEjTaGcbzCe_mXfsEdeHJWOpyXs_w0wOMaieCj_qYE2SqV6dRx6Lo1ivVi6NsggBR39PFgYn-ME/s1600/IMG_0415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfnN05FjXnUKeH5CNuGu4if2UiucU1jdDULHEyTKkEnzXeyQRCrh9jSwpUx62HYcJxEjTaGcbzCe_mXfsEdeHJWOpyXs_w0wOMaieCj_qYE2SqV6dRx6Lo1ivVi6NsggBR39PFgYn-ME/s1600/IMG_0415.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rainbow Lake, with the lower flanks of Katahdin in the distance, from the canoe.</td></tr>
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On the trail, we passed and (more frequently) were passed by
many thru-hikers, all cracking along to get to the end of their several
month-long journey. Most ached to finish, so the Maine wilderness held little
wonder for them. This is one reason that hiking the whole AT has never appealed
to me. Most were friendly and complimented us on our audacity in hiking the 100
Miles. AT thru-hikers are a curious community, composed mostly of young men,
who rely on each other for news, amusement, and encouragement, especially at
the end of the day. By the end of their hike, many become myopic about the
trail and lose the ability to talk of anything else, but I admired their sense
of purpose and tight-knit camaraderie. Several hailed from the Midwest and
Upper South and took to the trail out of boredom and a desire to expand their
horizons. In some ways, they reminded me of the single young men who tried
their luck on the frontier in the mid-19<sup>th</sup> century. We also met several
women, hiking in pairs or attached to a larger group of guys. Two older ladies
made a remarkable partnership of convenience. One, a chipmunk-like retiree from
Tennessee, was full of energetic quips and cheer, while her companion was a
dour character, relentless on the trail, who fully earned her trail name: the
Machine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>RD and I were grateful
for conversation with these folks, most of whom generously accepted us into
their fleeting community. I’ll have more to say about them in my post about
climbing up Katahdin. </div>
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While we hobnobbed with the northbounders, we also passed a
few poor souls who had just started out on the journey in reverse. The contrast
between the hardened, trail-wise northbounders and some of these hapless
neophytes was humorous. Many still had a meandering, innocent gait, and one had
several bags dangling off of his pack. I can’t imagine he lasted long on the
trail.<br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOBw8wvxlfS6fRHjqea5gMni4Ormb7LXFFUlUYqIqcrEu0G2X4LGO-Oz4Q6Zh3TwZnL7ZWSu5yMPQye6U_mwq5TED11V_CA7awHYy1AVbumt4gvVdh8RaVdvabmjsUsjV9I6W8DI_nGV8/s1600/IMG_0413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOBw8wvxlfS6fRHjqea5gMni4Ormb7LXFFUlUYqIqcrEu0G2X4LGO-Oz4Q6Zh3TwZnL7ZWSu5yMPQye6U_mwq5TED11V_CA7awHYy1AVbumt4gvVdh8RaVdvabmjsUsjV9I6W8DI_nGV8/s1600/IMG_0413.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Atop Nesuntabunt Mountain, looking at Katahdin over Lake Nahmahkanta.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We pressed to reach Abol Bridge on the eighth day and made
it in the early afternoon. It is a raw, backwoods outpost on the East Branch of
the Penobscot River that mainly exists to serve rafting outfits and campers. It
does possess a restaurant that serves cheap grub and surprisingly good beer.
Upon arrival, I gleefully ordered poutine and an Italian sausage sub but could
not finish the latter. As the only other customers were other backpackers who
had just finished the 100 Miles, we sat around for hours, playing cards and
reading. Later on, we returned for dinner and caught a lovely view of Katahdin
at dusk. The clouds had cleared, promising good weather for the next couple of
days. I'll cover our last climb in a future post.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURH9URMxczTGjWxEBL-hVit2r13YLg7pRNP7hi6hhkP-fvY8AI2GxjRrSRpK8bl7uo4AHV3poe2MfH691J3FBzKxfRfAgaOc147bhJqHFVouFqOnW1Ez8FuHEL7hPWcB6PKOquraUdG8/s1600/IMG_0425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURH9URMxczTGjWxEBL-hVit2r13YLg7pRNP7hi6hhkP-fvY8AI2GxjRrSRpK8bl7uo4AHV3poe2MfH691J3FBzKxfRfAgaOc147bhJqHFVouFqOnW1Ez8FuHEL7hPWcB6PKOquraUdG8/s1600/IMG_0425.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. Katahdin from Abol Bridge.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWZqOFdVU1Nrl7izQG5JMs9N6b5iogDuXd5qkGwPz8yBbBFMHO7k8KcEsTbsT_NkiSi4r8ymm730Zfq5XC7WAQlcoKuiuO5DUZITPVFxt8cVPg1AVQkIvqSxB0iPbs5QLekx6Yv1EVqY/s1600/IMG_0420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWZqOFdVU1Nrl7izQG5JMs9N6b5iogDuXd5qkGwPz8yBbBFMHO7k8KcEsTbsT_NkiSi4r8ymm730Zfq5XC7WAQlcoKuiuO5DUZITPVFxt8cVPg1AVQkIvqSxB0iPbs5QLekx6Yv1EVqY/s1600/IMG_0420.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Sunset over the East Branch.</div>
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</tbody></table>
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<!--EndFragment-->
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-51779403988008383882014-09-01T15:56:00.001-07:002014-10-01T12:44:25.651-07:00Along the Old Crawford Path<!--StartFragment-->
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxeWki5N1ZklgXTHLCOtZWHYzbqfFl_lQNDg-fqbDaytp8mmibW8wGUyEBFhPmlBhrlyF4OLPQuLMP8AWdlRsVTuS7xLrX7SQIt1CNzhbdgswwi_AUREUYlnR-cWRbhqhBpB6mPKsmLw/s1600/Old+Path3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxeWki5N1ZklgXTHLCOtZWHYzbqfFl_lQNDg-fqbDaytp8mmibW8wGUyEBFhPmlBhrlyF4OLPQuLMP8AWdlRsVTuS7xLrX7SQIt1CNzhbdgswwi_AUREUYlnR-cWRbhqhBpB6mPKsmLw/s1600/Old+Path3.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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As ever, Lakes of the Clouds Hut provides a wonderful base
from which to explore Bigelow Lawn, the plateau that lies on the south side of
the Mount Washington summit cone. In late June, Ari Ofsevit, last fall’s
hutmaster at Lakes and an old hiking pal, and I hiked up the Ammonoosuc Ravine
Trail and then went on a leisurely botanical ramble around the summit. Despite
the scores of people coursing up and down the Crawford Path and Tuckerman
Ravine Trail, the Lawn, which lies between the two, was deserted.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXJZ33WiKGNzleG5Z2VgXOQ5ycCuEmH_ExbAkbzEDbkXgszBvbNB7WFfPLOeEn8vD6Hu-rAJ0egEx96cFn_TH-PwYeG-iA3U1xWQ7D4Y06uQ-OMRfy5s0ALU96KnYk83VYKq5mAKTtzY/s1600/Hut.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXJZ33WiKGNzleG5Z2VgXOQ5ycCuEmH_ExbAkbzEDbkXgszBvbNB7WFfPLOeEn8vD6Hu-rAJ0egEx96cFn_TH-PwYeG-iA3U1xWQ7D4Y06uQ-OMRfy5s0ALU96KnYk83VYKq5mAKTtzY/s1600/Hut.JPG" height="480" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></div>
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Ari suggested that we look for the old shelter that was
built in 1900 for William Curtis and Allan Ormsbee, two members of the AMC who
perished near the lakes the previous year on their way to the club’s annual
meeting at the summit. Both were known for their experience and fitness, so
their death convinced club members to construct a shelter in the vicinity of
the area where they expired. I had thought that the shelter was built on the
site of the current hut, but in fact the AMC placed it about a third of a mile
further up the ridge, well beyond the lakes. The picture above shows why: since
the original Crawford Path ran around Mount Monroe to the east, a trip to the
lakes would have necessitated a detour that included a slight descent (the precursor to the modern hut was built in 1915 - hundredth anniversary is next summer!). Indeed,
Ari speculated, rightly in my opinion, that much of the Dry River Trail’s route
before it ducks into Oakes Gulf, was probably once part of the Crawford Path.
Both trails have required rerouting to avoid the delicate habitat of the Dwarf
Cinquefoil on Monroe Flats, which was devastated by the foot traffic.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXgl7-12MZdYW4csMb1b8wRwTM2no7oK9jqS8vLT9mP-B216w2U02gbo65hWvR5yFtTBpr-h3icYtnExkVDCkncSyo2L5cFjI6sv-s4kpwAqROvz_7vaAA0gCUnBDRz7A7j5NwCe2ubE/s1600/Old+Path+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXgl7-12MZdYW4csMb1b8wRwTM2no7oK9jqS8vLT9mP-B216w2U02gbo65hWvR5yFtTBpr-h3icYtnExkVDCkncSyo2L5cFjI6sv-s4kpwAqROvz_7vaAA0gCUnBDRz7A7j5NwCe2ubE/s1600/Old+Path+2.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMRFQqkXSD3oTFIvj2JbL12E0OkG2-IZqu5ZCYErFeQoC0QLKGU2Z0mawGv0yHm7qDxXnOUCdibmn6XiVhghpg0v55xcMtUAvDHbcBP6d99MbOJqnJFHzRps5e-aTpF8et7OYtB7mQWcM/s1600/Old+Shelter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMRFQqkXSD3oTFIvj2JbL12E0OkG2-IZqu5ZCYErFeQoC0QLKGU2Z0mawGv0yHm7qDxXnOUCdibmn6XiVhghpg0v55xcMtUAvDHbcBP6d99MbOJqnJFHzRps5e-aTpF8et7OYtB7mQWcM/s1600/Old+Shelter.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Little remains of the original shelter save for a pair of
iron rods and bolts that reinforced the wooden structure. A couple piles of
rock that must once have been cairns lie nearby, as well. A nearby view towards
the lower lake provides a sense of size the watershed that is responsible for the upper lake’s
existence. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkSPlRXb8HcSYeZgRuZyoW4hybH9RrK4nLwL8tsN3Y4YDyS_GFB56rTnQ2EcND4Z8DP5h-JCOL6g3yu-4H5ybTmq8AbQPGwrOgltxFDbJg2scCOsZWPpVMNJ0eRFPYp2ABleIVBeSUNI/s1600/Monroe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkSPlRXb8HcSYeZgRuZyoW4hybH9RrK4nLwL8tsN3Y4YDyS_GFB56rTnQ2EcND4Z8DP5h-JCOL6g3yu-4H5ybTmq8AbQPGwrOgltxFDbJg2scCOsZWPpVMNJ0eRFPYp2ABleIVBeSUNI/s1600/Monroe.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Though Monroe, the hut, and the lakes are often photographed from higher up on the Crawford Path, I've never seen a picture from this perspective.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQejybAXpHTrlWKWqRG5c1Z-u46qReAl3OQoJj1_eyaTrZayl0kBIL_N02dCqzkWhuro-6BNxRmmcHC3VHhp31veLqN4j5olonqbiu0IOMp3LDHWD5Twh8lSaW9XDBd6htphf_sv_gpLM/s1600/Old+Path.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQejybAXpHTrlWKWqRG5c1Z-u46qReAl3OQoJj1_eyaTrZayl0kBIL_N02dCqzkWhuro-6BNxRmmcHC3VHhp31veLqN4j5olonqbiu0IOMp3LDHWD5Twh8lSaW9XDBd6htphf_sv_gpLM/s1600/Old+Path.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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Returning to the site of the old shelter, we noticed the
remnants of the old treadway, lightly overgrown but still
visibly impacted. It intersected very quickly with the Camel Trail. However, we
knew the concurrence could not last for long if the trail were to climb towards
Washington. Sure enough, we caught sight of the old Crawford Path splitting off
a few yards further on. We resolved to follow it, taking care to hop from rock
to rock.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJJRnEwMocjj6ErK3R4RuaVsDkwi-NqUNKyuT_7JTp62DxcKA4xclH7NvNHFA3_ucsUz0yp6VWG0INB-UGBNvtBV2DgYQWGAGSooL1r3pnMsT_e4rGkOXYLYs_DH2KY-sgxUQYZlWV8o/s1600/Ari.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJJRnEwMocjj6ErK3R4RuaVsDkwi-NqUNKyuT_7JTp62DxcKA4xclH7NvNHFA3_ucsUz0yp6VWG0INB-UGBNvtBV2DgYQWGAGSooL1r3pnMsT_e4rGkOXYLYs_DH2KY-sgxUQYZlWV8o/s1600/Ari.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhggoFFuCqMi8_Ja8qAzbKKkwSBvnR28fYL-DBhZXK0UC_VetxoEQc1CvSF01eQFiCnDNwgF1gLKhq8NDEpgRXPxrwTZ9SDxUVMbokUlLjk8A7z8A_fCrzFCpUEyKQeaKpvXpCepPSTehk/s1600/Fill+in.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhggoFFuCqMi8_Ja8qAzbKKkwSBvnR28fYL-DBhZXK0UC_VetxoEQc1CvSF01eQFiCnDNwgF1gLKhq8NDEpgRXPxrwTZ9SDxUVMbokUlLjk8A7z8A_fCrzFCpUEyKQeaKpvXpCepPSTehk/s1600/Fill+in.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Though we lost sight of the old trail here and there, we
were able to track it all the way to its old junction with the Davis Path, with
which it coincided, I believe, up to the summit. As the picture above shows, Diapensia and other species have filled in some of the path, but the trail is still bare in some stretches. Its endurance is a testament
to the harshness of the climate in the alpine zone and the need to minimize
human impacts. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxUfJtfEkt1KiANprYCiyFC9kXe6ZOhRfmlRio_4yfPqhm-Sv_1LZXbcJnFKj1Yh9UD7Tx80BAjkuBLogEyh14JXiLAwRRTh5cyrZBWFZpfz0do820JGliv0f2CN5qdh30oW7w6vLhM4/s1600/Soil+Striping.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxUfJtfEkt1KiANprYCiyFC9kXe6ZOhRfmlRio_4yfPqhm-Sv_1LZXbcJnFKj1Yh9UD7Tx80BAjkuBLogEyh14JXiLAwRRTh5cyrZBWFZpfz0do820JGliv0f2CN5qdh30oW7w6vLhM4/s1600/Soil+Striping.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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After a spell, we came across this bare patch, which to my eye is a less-developed example of the soil striping that characterizes Monroe Flats. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7S80uz-KWJpqYEClbhTXznyTO58d-WZ4rOf_Nj3ghQ5yV8MC5PzWTvoWoEewQjSCEKG_9UtwaXNtQr7tm9F7E79L5fTxFC9wHpHdZAADsdxGIwgBkR5X3Y6duS1rjkPjlLNMtYnc0N24/s1600/Old+Path+Arc.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7S80uz-KWJpqYEClbhTXznyTO58d-WZ4rOf_Nj3ghQ5yV8MC5PzWTvoWoEewQjSCEKG_9UtwaXNtQr7tm9F7E79L5fTxFC9wHpHdZAADsdxGIwgBkR5X3Y6duS1rjkPjlLNMtYnc0N24/s1600/Old+Path+Arc.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Interesting arc the old path cuts up this slope.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB4zL5iOtIg5Q3u0rWdYyUhTHnosA1jrGKiAJ4UQPI0cNiWZQAhhEDiQLkNEvH8qs8_pfdSNHDj2uwqXf42fVj_PvK0IYKEZBWyn6IMLSVSIF27HCVaaak2xky9TaBIthWBggtRAh0-Q/s1600/Destroyed+Cairn.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxB4zL5iOtIg5Q3u0rWdYyUhTHnosA1jrGKiAJ4UQPI0cNiWZQAhhEDiQLkNEvH8qs8_pfdSNHDj2uwqXf42fVj_PvK0IYKEZBWyn6IMLSVSIF27HCVaaak2xky9TaBIthWBggtRAh0-Q/s1600/Destroyed+Cairn.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcdoib8l-h47NztZ6XMhewDk3k_XyYVMdyjImxEWNJ2VNa_Q3jqd49mtrhbAovXezOtiL82C92JpNqzli3J_PgQIGvTkWa7L3pKHJD5s77j8iXqGicqusne9e5QH4YPCCHilsiw-E5_g/s1600/Davis+Path+Sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcdoib8l-h47NztZ6XMhewDk3k_XyYVMdyjImxEWNJ2VNa_Q3jqd49mtrhbAovXezOtiL82C92JpNqzli3J_PgQIGvTkWa7L3pKHJD5s77j8iXqGicqusne9e5QH4YPCCHilsiw-E5_g/s1600/Davis+Path+Sign.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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One of the distinct pleasures of carefully following this old path was to gain a new perspective on the alpine zone. Bigelow Lawn is a particularly beautiful area in the Presidentials - big, broad, and well-vegetated, unlike the summit cone of Washington. Ari and I had ample time to examine the local flora here and in the Alpine Garden farther on along the east side of the mountain. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUD8ez7TYUQkAdT2KQVYUdMHo2ghFKmCJiv8HPrhDRc7KrFwTNnYTtTQioqxnadE6nT3w02IZay9kWjw8qZpz3yoXYYfBHSFIBCL2lBgs1VhTNs7wLTKgGbSZyL0_QMvlBzntcInqXxY/s1600/Tuckerman+Crowds.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUD8ez7TYUQkAdT2KQVYUdMHo2ghFKmCJiv8HPrhDRc7KrFwTNnYTtTQioqxnadE6nT3w02IZay9kWjw8qZpz3yoXYYfBHSFIBCL2lBgs1VhTNs7wLTKgGbSZyL0_QMvlBzntcInqXxY/s1600/Tuckerman+Crowds.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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First, however, we needed to cut across the rim above Tuckerman Ravine. As we crossed the Tuckerman Ravine Trail, we looked up to see this queue of hikers running up to the summit. Ari counted seventy or eighty people in a brief glance. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSn7QHuIS2mzFPYptHzEyGHbMMfMEIHyPAXBalnB2nVORW_RZTJgfd7VF7ilxWnJac12rXQB-xWWR3vxR8V3qVC6sII4zvtfzjWN-cTjC0Xyu8UMN4B8GJ5vh89m7kdzA3lpfhndHX73c/s1600/Bog+Laurel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSn7QHuIS2mzFPYptHzEyGHbMMfMEIHyPAXBalnB2nVORW_RZTJgfd7VF7ilxWnJac12rXQB-xWWR3vxR8V3qVC6sII4zvtfzjWN-cTjC0Xyu8UMN4B8GJ5vh89m7kdzA3lpfhndHX73c/s1600/Bog+Laurel.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Further along, we came across Mountain Heath. I hadn't identified this plant before. Lovely, delicate flowers. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1JJNbPTt9PKh-jbjdVLSJftp285sX7zc-WzWvAIJiVjCGwypoj9Dvj_4TpBaDb3o2AUD35hjCC6STt2b4pO7GufZWpLz-P8WHdADGOgrH7cRRT5Sr4kwStxtMyoPMx0wWrMVezbDsmM/s1600/Diapensia.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1JJNbPTt9PKh-jbjdVLSJftp285sX7zc-WzWvAIJiVjCGwypoj9Dvj_4TpBaDb3o2AUD35hjCC6STt2b4pO7GufZWpLz-P8WHdADGOgrH7cRRT5Sr4kwStxtMyoPMx0wWrMVezbDsmM/s1600/Diapensia.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Good old Diapensia.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKwQ9OtJ8S5_cRlgtuM_1Tpy6gRkJHbUai7sGQLLq_STBWRQMYwVeoV7VhKiZiDWCdxuGvovct5llUQMJ0UhXDLpVVD6853qemx_vkCelg_8x7_oF9_73H_m9ejEWIDwHi88EPPDAqC0/s1600/Mountain+Heath.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKwQ9OtJ8S5_cRlgtuM_1Tpy6gRkJHbUai7sGQLLq_STBWRQMYwVeoV7VhKiZiDWCdxuGvovct5llUQMJ0UhXDLpVVD6853qemx_vkCelg_8x7_oF9_73H_m9ejEWIDwHi88EPPDAqC0/s1600/Mountain+Heath.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Mountain Heath. Such wonderful clusters of blossoms. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIFYB7sO_5hZHNTQSbeqE-9Tw7R75lPyQuQne_ZLYcp04w9qpbVAV7t95H8Mg3ULCYT2OZv8VsvLBxL4wkbuJno5D3FfEk7PN_uSKfxn8xxpbCGEJpjFxb1376iB3aFbBz06f2AjObx2s/s1600/MH+close+up.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIFYB7sO_5hZHNTQSbeqE-9Tw7R75lPyQuQne_ZLYcp04w9qpbVAV7t95H8Mg3ULCYT2OZv8VsvLBxL4wkbuJno5D3FfEk7PN_uSKfxn8xxpbCGEJpjFxb1376iB3aFbBz06f2AjObx2s/s1600/MH+close+up.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Ready for its close-up, apparently. It was too late in the season for Lapland Rosebay, but I was glad to see these pink beauties. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUT51Ql3R-tMpag7Ty2nJGc7WrI7-F3ghvBI-rB4bLa3zqVhyphenhyphenMfoR2t8mqGNVVne4qb5VquSHDCHXTFJmmuuvKTNUJ6VBWVGfq6_yePp34t5Oa2CMPg3Z1ZED8qOvaF9LtyZ6q7nde8LA/s1600/Sandwort.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUT51Ql3R-tMpag7Ty2nJGc7WrI7-F3ghvBI-rB4bLa3zqVhyphenhyphenMfoR2t8mqGNVVne4qb5VquSHDCHXTFJmmuuvKTNUJ6VBWVGfq6_yePp34t5Oa2CMPg3Z1ZED8qOvaF9LtyZ6q7nde8LA/s1600/Sandwort.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Mountain Bluets, which I first confused with the more common Mountain Sandwort.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqOqmUggWf7VomedszjIlBfQUw7dRLSEryngeSfq0grEopT-3-fF6kfGEQY2A6b82H7gDW7xlb-SWitwXPkMpWjeEviGtLoE6HCzp-kmtuRjkL8r8me4jmn4hNRreW3IQDZ9_aZsIw1B0/s1600/Mountain+Avens.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqOqmUggWf7VomedszjIlBfQUw7dRLSEryngeSfq0grEopT-3-fF6kfGEQY2A6b82H7gDW7xlb-SWitwXPkMpWjeEviGtLoE6HCzp-kmtuRjkL8r8me4jmn4hNRreW3IQDZ9_aZsIw1B0/s1600/Mountain+Avens.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Mountain Avens, which was in full bloom in the Alpine Garden. Spots of yellow everywhere. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKfuX4TGi0h5ywUnRn7JUO8tCugaqJZ8IQHNHzE-72o21Xi50_lIRHAIDOb_u6O8UYVeyztkgKlgmN0mzU4djzMcv4_Rkmdcd7Jx6RN7SJ6hT6oMpxwKHmB-8vdgo7_ax5wfSqqSMEls/s1600/Lush+stream+community.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKfuX4TGi0h5ywUnRn7JUO8tCugaqJZ8IQHNHzE-72o21Xi50_lIRHAIDOb_u6O8UYVeyztkgKlgmN0mzU4djzMcv4_Rkmdcd7Jx6RN7SJ6hT6oMpxwKHmB-8vdgo7_ax5wfSqqSMEls/s1600/Lush+stream+community.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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A very lush streamside community toward the north end of the Alpine Garden. It's right along the trail.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5jxfT4OR3xhsOfe0Pk6ztrh2BBrok7XWRBpJIjbdGgbR_qxSHo9PqaUyzeyuAC0CIUXySsqA6TA7EbMVEbyQPVsRCYAyy9yGi0zkn9gfpb_3O7WxirM_aTNTvt3vVo5I0DftdKQl3d3I/s1600/Little+Lake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5jxfT4OR3xhsOfe0Pk6ztrh2BBrok7XWRBpJIjbdGgbR_qxSHo9PqaUyzeyuAC0CIUXySsqA6TA7EbMVEbyQPVsRCYAyy9yGi0zkn9gfpb_3O7WxirM_aTNTvt3vVo5I0DftdKQl3d3I/s1600/Little+Lake.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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This vernal pool is actually on Bigelow Lawn, near the Camel Trail, but it's another interesting example of how plants cluster near water sources. We came across the Mountain Heath here, actually, rather than on the Alpine Garden. The pool was swollen with recent rain and probably often dries up by midsummer.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUvPhYjAjVmwh5_mNO2OSwmt2vk-WIhMb2_-pebkfBC9BKXL9Yoz7LXpVb-a4E8sfUkY7MjWEmqrlJw_3emBfU9g4NYAMbsIqXMVD5x68leM2FB0hQdXp07YaLOVsY4x_PS_KOym4tEA/s1600/Alpine+Garden.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUvPhYjAjVmwh5_mNO2OSwmt2vk-WIhMb2_-pebkfBC9BKXL9Yoz7LXpVb-a4E8sfUkY7MjWEmqrlJw_3emBfU9g4NYAMbsIqXMVD5x68leM2FB0hQdXp07YaLOVsY4x_PS_KOym4tEA/s1600/Alpine+Garden.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a> </div>
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Here we look back at the Alpine Garden as we began to hike up to Nelson Crag. This is one of the few spots in the Whites where the scenery gains an extra degree of scale, more like a feature that one would find out west or in the lower Alps. What a day! We had plenty more mileage to cover to return to our car at the base of the Ammy, but there were fewer points of interest to capture my camera's attention. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-35992108051166602302014-02-14T11:15:00.001-08:002014-02-15T07:51:20.724-08:00Stone and Snow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXAN_vbF9NvlHRe3Z9bGB2QcjZtkhjgkwqE-l8rfyY7ulmtBpQ4wiN633D-pGvyx-bVIXVYhJniUhqB47Xw77MJ7f6_kLOYcDSl8aMNC_ordXErnaMyDu0J0lDgzEEtVMa4AI-kVLoJow/s1600/IMG_1374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXAN_vbF9NvlHRe3Z9bGB2QcjZtkhjgkwqE-l8rfyY7ulmtBpQ4wiN633D-pGvyx-bVIXVYhJniUhqB47Xw77MJ7f6_kLOYcDSl8aMNC_ordXErnaMyDu0J0lDgzEEtVMa4AI-kVLoJow/s1600/IMG_1374.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
Over Christmas, my mother and I drove up to Montreal, which
neither of us had visited in wintertime. We arrived on a bitterly cold
Christmas Eve – the high the next day was 3 degrees, Fahrenheit – to a rather
deserted <i>Quartier Latin</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. French
Canadians take Boxing Day almost as seriously as Christmas, so little was open the
next two days, save some very good restaurants. We made sure we earned our
meals with a good deal of walking, both in the old city and up on the </span><i>Plateau
Mont-Royal</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxdqA8Wv6KKPiks0dvE5zq9kCtwb5tAFc2Rr4vIFmUhBfyfTFdYY7dk4OECjXZj1im1ayFpnEOikSsPV9oXOIAYmAE8I4uaje2YbzFk_1oXIvcj9TdL1X4ia8BL0CuLjA_ASCO7UQayQ/s1600/IMG_1365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxdqA8Wv6KKPiks0dvE5zq9kCtwb5tAFc2Rr4vIFmUhBfyfTFdYY7dk4OECjXZj1im1ayFpnEOikSsPV9oXOIAYmAE8I4uaje2YbzFk_1oXIvcj9TdL1X4ia8BL0CuLjA_ASCO7UQayQ/s1600/IMG_1365.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Montreal’s roots go way back into the seventeenth century,
but it experienced a resurgence during the Victorian era, while under British
rule. Great quantities of raw materials from the Canadian interior passed
through its port, and it became the country’s key center of finance, as well a
manufacturing powerhouse. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The period’s prosperity is reflected by the noble
architectural legacy that it bequeathed. Many of its great stone buildings,
domestic, commercial, and institutional, remain. Steeply shingled roofs, dormer
windows, and grey stone characterize the bulk of these edifices.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBK_-l0lL2ibW6YM65A1q2XrL9Tu1PwfR5qZyFdXwosF9jLsDnDMeqGfrdnWxDTpLeKX26YQkE_4vQ1pdOzs35xkmqMF49fjpb7oHEYZd3nwB532_uLppp6rWQv0bNPz-m0KF4vuaNnoE/s1600/IMG_1364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBK_-l0lL2ibW6YM65A1q2XrL9Tu1PwfR5qZyFdXwosF9jLsDnDMeqGfrdnWxDTpLeKX26YQkE_4vQ1pdOzs35xkmqMF49fjpb7oHEYZd3nwB532_uLppp6rWQv0bNPz-m0KF4vuaNnoE/s1600/IMG_1364.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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I was reminded of Melbourne, another city that came of age
in the late-nineteenth century. Though of course New South Wales has none of
Montreal’s French influence, its toponymy is also replete with the names of the
English, Irish, and Scottish men who made a fortune from the region’s
commodities. If I remember correctly, the Melbourne bourgeoisie built with
brick rather than granite, but the form of their houses is much the same as
those of their Montreal contemporaries (they also liked elaborate ironwork).<o:p></o:p></div>
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My favorite shot from our December trip was taken at the <i>Place</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Saint-Louis</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, a few blocks north of our auberge. Firmly on the plateau, it seemed
very removed from the scruffy blocks by the UQAM campus. The bold trim of the
houses stood out on a grey, snowy day. I’m certainly not the first to snap a photo
of this stately block.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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One other distinctive aspect of Montreal’s residential
architecture is the ubiquity of curving fire escapes in the rear of houses. I
wonder why this particular style caught on?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Next summer, we plan to return after our sojourn at Squam,
so I hope I can add a companion entry to this article. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-78191906605134733372013-11-30T09:01:00.002-08:002013-11-30T09:01:38.111-08:00The Great Wall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On my second to last day in China, I reserved a spot on a guided tour of a section of the Great Wall, which is a couple hours north of Beijing by bus. At this point on the trip, it was a real pleasure to leave the logistics to someone else and simply take in the sights. And, with the exception of the guide, everyone on this trip was European or American, so the trip was a sociable experience.<br />
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I chose one of the longer tours, which involved walking a few miles along the Wall itself. In retrospect, this was an excellent idea, but it did make for a few nervous moments in the morning as I waited for the staff in the adjoining restaurant to finish making me a sandwich. I just made the bus (a preview of another close call two days later, when I was literally the last person to check in to my flight home). In any case, the walk was hot and very hilly, as the Wall snakes along atop of a mountain ridge. Luckily, I had enough to eat, and had I been hungry, many guard towers had their own vendor selling a range of candies and sodas.<br />
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The fascinating thing to me about the wall isn't so much its incredible length but the fact that it was built so high up. As you can see from these photos, the views, though limited by the humidity of the day and general smogginess, are remarkable. The scale of the construction effort drives home two realities about China that endured through most of its dynastic history. First, the Chinese were really scared about incursions from the north. The steppe-dwellers were difficult to defeat as long as they remained on their horses. It's hard to imagine how the Mongols, resourceful and unrelenting as they were, could have scaled these heights with their horses, but a string of emperors and their advisors thought the risk justified all the effort and expense. Second, eastern China never lacked for labor, even 2500-2000 years ago. Apparently, much of the building was carried out by prisoners.<br />
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Walking along the Wall was challenging work because the slope of the wall mirrored the underlying steepness of the mountain. Every variety of leg muscle got a good workout, as we covered a full range of ascending and descending angles. The last picture in this series shows the most challenging section, which caused several in our group to gulp pretty hard. Climbing some of these sections with chain mail could not have been fun.<br />
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The Chinese have entirely restored some parts of the Wall, while other sections, especially the guard towers, are slowly crumbling. I suspect that the pace of rebuilding is picking up but hope that they don't restore the Wall entirely. Tourists are now allowed to wander around more or less as they choose. At the tower where my group peeled off to return to our bus, I met a pair of young Frenchmen, who continued on along the Wall on their own.<br />
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A number of people have asked me about air pollution in Beijing. I must admit that while the smog was bad, especially as we drove out through Beijing, it was not nearly as severe as the worst reports (in Hanjin in early November, most recently, for example). The problem gets worse in the winter when people begin to burn coal for heat.<br />
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Now for some more ruminating, as I'm in the midst of several weeks covering East Asia with my sophomores. There's not much question that the Chinese state is authoritative and, when threatened, brutal. In China, the ends justify the means. Just look at the rates of execution, for example: China leads the rest of the world by leaps and bounds. But I encourage western readers to consume our own media reports about China (and, for that matter, Russia) with skepticism. Regarding air pollution, for example, journalists conveniently forget the terrible side effects of American industrialization or existing issues with smog. In Austin, I remember how on certain hot summer days, the populace was warned simply not to go outside because the air quality was so bad. Or, take the current brouhaha over China's efforts expand its territory and influence in East Asia. I don't advocate that the US or China's neighbors acquiesce to its bullying. Yet I am astonished that so many journalists can report on these events without mentioning the Monroe Doctrine; in many respects, America's rise is the model that guides China's leaders.<br />
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This will be my last blog entry about the Trans-Siberian trip. I am sad to cease posting about it though, admittedly, the pace of entries has slowed dramatically since school picked up. As fall gives way to winter, these summer travels seem more distant. Happily, another summer vacation beckons.<br />
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I also want to point out that I marked my hundredth entry on Gulliver's Nest during this journey. The frequency of my writing has varied during the seven years since the site's founding, generally picking up during summers, for obvious reasons. The middle of last decade saw countless blogs launched, and in the years since, many have become more professional, while others faded as the novelty of online writing wore off. I hope I can continue to navigate an intermediate course because this blog is as much about recording the feelings and discoveries associated with travel for myself as it is to entertain readers. Anyway, thank you to those of you who continue to faithfully read my observations.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-87758849035680833732013-10-17T15:42:00.001-07:002013-10-27T07:44:54.804-07:00Soviet Architecture and American Echoes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Yekaterinburg</td></tr>
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If Siberia’s wooden houses possess a bucolic charm, its
mid-to-late twentieth century architecture lies at the other end of the
humanistic spectrum. Dull apartment blocks made of brick or concrete blanket many younger cities in Siberia, particularly Novosibirsk (though these pictures suggest that my eye was most intrigued while in Yekaterinburg).</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip4bkWIfkFuUt2vVmtMmHlJUD6VpBBFYwYYM-ATJNz35vOJA6zotWa7yhnngttBxQxvsqKTSrFLMuRhbml6TSxCGvJyR14SYM-QnwMhP9-dBGqnzp_AEekpHTn9xhB8C5Dp7vJ6gXWXXQ/s1600/Weird+Windows.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip4bkWIfkFuUt2vVmtMmHlJUD6VpBBFYwYYM-ATJNz35vOJA6zotWa7yhnngttBxQxvsqKTSrFLMuRhbml6TSxCGvJyR14SYM-QnwMhP9-dBGqnzp_AEekpHTn9xhB8C5Dp7vJ6gXWXXQ/s640/Weird+Windows.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An odd, interesting geometry up close.</td></tr>
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Many Americans associate this type of building with Stalin,
but it was actually adopted during the Krushchev era. Stalin preferred a more
conservative, classical style of architecture, often on a massive scale. To my
eyes, the austere structures that became so ubiquitous in the Second World
denote a more sober phase of Communism. After World War Two, Russian planners
accepted that worldwide socialist revolution was not just around the corner
and began to pursue a shrewder architectural strategy, avoiding the grand
and terrible projects of the Stalinist period. Concrete, due to its low cost and malleability, played an important role in the effort to build quick and cheap (as it did in the West). While party director in Moscow,
Nikita Krushchev presided over a meeting of planners at which efficiency in architecture was declared paramount. The resulting prefabricated
structures, usually five stories tall but sometimes as many as twelve, became
known as <i>krushychovka</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical <i>krushychovka</i> in Yekaterinburg</td></tr>
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<i>Krushychovka</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> are much
maligned for their utilitarian appearance, and perhaps justly so. While there are
variations in the buildings I observed, they certainly do share a repellent uniformity
and absence of color. On the other hand, interiors appeared cosy and
well kept, at least from the outside. Many </span><i>krushychovka</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> have built-in porches, some of which inhabitants
turn into greenhouses. Others are used simply as storage. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The exterior to my hotel room, a converted flat, in Novosibirsk</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBHA70crJo6A87KtioHRpNdxuk-KYjHBrQ-vKS_YZ5484pIuxKx-B8TsbGwtym14X-1U7e33THouSvj0mmo_w2KOTjYcoJQTq4cHfMe18u5GRNk3kf-EUSBwv5whv9teTLir_ps-Avls/s1600/Flowerpots.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBHA70crJo6A87KtioHRpNdxuk-KYjHBrQ-vKS_YZ5484pIuxKx-B8TsbGwtym14X-1U7e33THouSvj0mmo_w2KOTjYcoJQTq4cHfMe18u5GRNk3kf-EUSBwv5whv9teTLir_ps-Avls/s640/Flowerpots.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A more modern <i>krushychovka</i>.</td></tr>
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Anticipating Communism’s future triumph, architects designed
the <i>krushychovka</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to last twenty-five
years. Whoops. Nevertheless, while the style of these buildings might have fit with St. Louis' Pruitt-Igoe
or the Robert Taylor Homes in Chicago, they have outlived their counterparts in the west by
decades, largely remaining functional today. They were designed for the urban
proletariat, which, if it did not love the structures, respected and maintained
them. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outskirts of Prague<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Modernism. Not pretty, but it works in this setting.</td></tr>
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I remember taking the metro out to <i>Jižní Město</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, a neighborhood at last stop of Prague’s C Line, in May 2006, where I observed </span><i>p</i><i>anelák</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, the Czech version of </span><i>krushychovka</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. How surprised I was to see laundry hanging
neatly from balconies and the closely cropped grass out in front. Czechs
rejected Communism, but they don't mind cheap, abundant housing atop
dependable public transportation. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Novosibirsk</td></tr>
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In the sixties and seventies, Soviet architects applied concrete
on a grander scale to public buildings, many of which are truly elephantine.
While there is no stylistic parallel for the <i>krushychovka</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in the United States, Brutalism looks much the same
in the First and Second Worlds. Its massive, hulking creations first captured
my attention during the college campus tours I took as a teenager. Huge swathes of
the American architectural profession succumbed to the influence of Bauhaus and
Le Corbusier during the fifties and early sixties. Modernism remade American architecture just in time to allow Brutalism, a virulent strain within the wider movement, to sweep
campuses as universities expanded to serve the baby boomers. The individualism
inherent in the American private housing market limited Brutalism’s reach, but
the movement’s characteristic concrete monoliths are the key feature in
institutional and government structures from the period, as they are in the
former USSR.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A building on <i>Ul Lenina </i>in Yekaterinburg.</td></tr>
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Why did the west embrace a style that is widely reviled by
the contemporary public? (In <i>The Geography of Nowhere</i>, James Howard Kunstler refers to modernism as "a crisis of the human habitat".) Brutalism does have a sleek, futuristic beauty that is
today just barely discernible, despite decades of abuse and accumulating grime.
Despite Vietnam, public confidence in the expertise of elites was not yet
shattered during the era when these behemoths were erected, and Americans still aspired to sophistication, which they found, for a time, in modernism. In their simple
humility, they seem to have lacked any regard for their own traditions.
Ironically, it took the destruction wrought by urban renewal for modernist
projects to wake Americans up to their considerable architectural inheritance.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Yale Arts and Architecture Building.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKR6LykiOztKhdhizlAtmq3llFD1uvIrGU9zSTCSVXALQ044qCd5_c0s36C2nAIfsh4DXmvVt4N8N3QPlTTJ6p4s7cIrQhUnQ8DLWhtP8dI9DvWuYW_hAO45980jh7XdEIemG3hOchbw/s1600/800px-Barbican_towers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKR6LykiOztKhdhizlAtmq3llFD1uvIrGU9zSTCSVXALQ044qCd5_c0s36C2nAIfsh4DXmvVt4N8N3QPlTTJ6p4s7cIrQhUnQ8DLWhtP8dI9DvWuYW_hAO45980jh7XdEIemG3hOchbw/s640/800px-Barbican_towers.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbican Towers in London, part of a large public housing project.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-64780548887156952692013-09-30T18:27:00.002-07:002015-02-25T12:29:03.127-08:00The Wooden Houses of Irkutsk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgit4ug4Ar-Xj3nOxdJdmzj_5x9djIGSBTWnG-CrM9L7dSQWwPQrYeISe1XEuqlhA_ZvxcIJnzIE55jHPK_12zuqC1pX0LjZ3h2UjQ_itnEIJT9EMuYj3Op8pMbiAEsMfJWrzBYFBnQI/s1600/IMG_0756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgit4ug4Ar-Xj3nOxdJdmzj_5x9djIGSBTWnG-CrM9L7dSQWwPQrYeISe1XEuqlhA_ZvxcIJnzIE55jHPK_12zuqC1pX0LjZ3h2UjQ_itnEIJT9EMuYj3Op8pMbiAEsMfJWrzBYFBnQI/s640/IMG_0756.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Irkutsk was nicknamed "the Paris of Siberia" in the nineteenth century. Today, its charm is rather faded, but beneath its slightly seedy surface lies a wealth of beautiful architecture, both commercial and residential, from its heyday. In particular, I was taken with the many wooden houses that dotted the older parts of the city. I had noticed a few earlier on in the trip, particularly in some older sections of Yekaterinburg, but in Irkutsk they were thickly scattered.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcdOpWwZRS6KCnc2OyMp0shR7v1oPFZ35XicRssCOau835qgPXIeKUA5Fg2ns_nKv3noiI_isCeBSfFEC1vLZpWkHFtZOEn4_dkZuV1MxzwKgnWg9dUAglIOd6Yo5HqlpDRVb21PbVPc/s1600/IMG_0776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcdOpWwZRS6KCnc2OyMp0shR7v1oPFZ35XicRssCOau835qgPXIeKUA5Fg2ns_nKv3noiI_isCeBSfFEC1vLZpWkHFtZOEn4_dkZuV1MxzwKgnWg9dUAglIOd6Yo5HqlpDRVb21PbVPc/s640/IMG_0776.JPG" height="480" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a><br />
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Novosibirsk is unquestionably the first city of Siberia nowadays, and Irkutsk, while a major destination for backpackers because it is the easiest place from which to access Lake Baikal, has not experienced the kind of growth that would obliterate this layer of culture. A few of these houses (not pictured here) belonged to Decembrist exiles and were turned into museums by the Soviets, but most remain private. As you can see, a fair number are falling apart.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Jo0_c5c6U6uMUI_DBuyWBraIwGkvIr6NslBYCe3mD9r287_lqMmGGZh4ZrFAPTs87Eqpt_Aol5zZpJH5qSxlngy8YHerPD-OP0KBJ8Y-BwMC0TaZecqowyfwYzXcS-Eqd3hXiF3qmrw/s1600/IMG_0851.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Jo0_c5c6U6uMUI_DBuyWBraIwGkvIr6NslBYCe3mD9r287_lqMmGGZh4ZrFAPTs87Eqpt_Aol5zZpJH5qSxlngy8YHerPD-OP0KBJ8Y-BwMC0TaZecqowyfwYzXcS-Eqd3hXiF3qmrw/s640/IMG_0851.JPG" height="480" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a><br />
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The skill that went into carving the trim on these houses must have been tremendous. Few are painted extensively, which allows the beautiful brown of the wood to stand out, and some owners use small accents of color on shutters or trim to emphasize the intricacy of the detail. A few streets were full of these houses, often with flowers in the windowsills testifying to the attentiveness of the inhabitants. But in many cases, especially when standing alone on a commercial street, the structures were falling apart, leaning crazily into the ground, or missing windows and bits of roof.<br />
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I had a full day in Irkutsk on both sides of my excursion to Olkhon Island on Lake Baikal, so there was plenty of time to take these houses in and photograph them. Many fascinating types of architecture exist in Russia, and I hope I can discuss more of them in future posts. These old houses, however, seemed to be the old souls of pre-Soviet times, battered yet enduring, welcoming yet forlorn.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-84637507845247347702013-09-16T18:44:00.000-07:002013-09-20T05:38:49.541-07:00An Evening in Yekaterinburg<!--StartFragment-->
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbztcddVev_4Y5Jf9eqEkR9oXzspK7uKIYQlqWa-v0o3sesdQTQbdNaZMxfERxX9FDG-AfuMt9BW9uxv1AD6o-CKTjY6PVzt_lWljqBBAprsJxzZV27GtjGRv-ujt3d-l1iVBaEDsX4k8/s1600/IMG_0548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbztcddVev_4Y5Jf9eqEkR9oXzspK7uKIYQlqWa-v0o3sesdQTQbdNaZMxfERxX9FDG-AfuMt9BW9uxv1AD6o-CKTjY6PVzt_lWljqBBAprsJxzZV27GtjGRv-ujt3d-l1iVBaEDsX4k8/s640/IMG_0548.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The entrance.</td></tr>
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In Yekaterinburg, I ate one night at a restaurant called
<i>Dacha</i> (pronounced Dahsha). The name refers to the country homes that are so
popular with Russians. They range from very modest wooden cabins, clustered
along streets that are really exurban rather than rural in character, to
exclusive estates. Dachas have significant meaning within Russian culture,
representing simplicity and tradition. In many ways, they are similar to
American summer homes, but they are much more common, and, given the relative uniformity
of the Russian landscape, their setting is comfortably familiar.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJPzic8qYmU-nEkbOyzKjxc5JoRx8yqIykz9q8SseL1pWb_3W6YeM6w4jfJh_kdHLBPumVnYWZWYrtNw0GGeUTiX6xcnti00H2yT3Ude2vTztNdopgTkoqkyjEqpsp8MaqQ8ZQQYK5O8/s1600/IMG_0547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJPzic8qYmU-nEkbOyzKjxc5JoRx8yqIykz9q8SseL1pWb_3W6YeM6w4jfJh_kdHLBPumVnYWZWYrtNw0GGeUTiX6xcnti00H2yT3Ude2vTztNdopgTkoqkyjEqpsp8MaqQ8ZQQYK5O8/s640/IMG_0547.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Due to my own family’s tradition of getting away to the
north woods, not to mention my fondness for Domku, a similarly themed
restaurant near my apartment in DC, Dacha appealed to me immediately when I
read about it in The Lonely Planet. I saved it for my last night in
Yekaterinburg, a splurge before embarking once more on the train. On the
afternoon before the meal, I walked past the restaurant, which occupied the
first floor of a modern office building. It didn’t look like much from the
outside, but the neighborhood was promising, being well away from the most
commercialized part of the center city. Dacha is just south of <i>Ul Lenina</i>, a
boulevard traversed by trams and bisected by a leafy walkway that leads from
the City Hall to a square at the western edge of downtown. Many of the
buildings, two-story ornate brick affairs, are survivors from the nineteenth
century, and even the big old Soviet apartment buildings have homey touches around the windows
that soften their austere facades. The neighborhood might as well have been
somewhere in Central Europe, but here I was on the cusp of Asia.</div>
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When I arrived at Dacha to eat, I was quickly taken by
the décor, which is wooden, simple, and mismatched. A smattering of rustic
objects from the mid-twentieth century lay around the various rooms, no doubt
designed to evoke nostalgia among older Russians. The lighting was pleasantly
low, too. My waiter, a young, eager chap, placed flags at every occupied table according
to the nationality of the occupants, an odd if friendly gesture that some of
the other diners, all Europeans, snickered at. </div>
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The menu had all sorts of options (beefsteaks for the trio
of Italians to my right), but I chose whatever seemed most authentic to the
setting, and my selections, I was pleased to observe, met with approval from the waiter. I began with a glass of prosecco, accompanied by bruschetta, topped with goat
cheese and raspberries – a special for the evening. It was a simple combination
of flavors but one I had not encountered before, fresh and substantial enough
to take the edge off my appetite. Like the following courses, it was served on
a sliver of slate. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfeIXYAMYmcexsJ7CWqA942fH0dzIcA8Yxr8k96mMEWAPbVlyTceav-ITO_pJSLsgJ6Lo6Pbdq4jILS_2n2PbfmWezP-1sAEamfUzyYRW0xXnFtByr88z2qrYLsy-AodiliklkSxP8rog/s1600/IMG_0543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfeIXYAMYmcexsJ7CWqA942fH0dzIcA8Yxr8k96mMEWAPbVlyTceav-ITO_pJSLsgJ6Lo6Pbdq4jILS_2n2PbfmWezP-1sAEamfUzyYRW0xXnFtByr88z2qrYLsy-AodiliklkSxP8rog/s640/IMG_0543.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Next, I had what turned out to be the main course, though the menu referred to the dish as a salad. Half-sour cucumbers and
pickled mushrooms joined warm fingerling potatoes, garnished with salt,
pepper, butter, mayonnaise (on the mushrooms) and liberal amounts of dill. Some
might find the dish bland; I delighted in the understated flavors and the
contrast in the earthy, crunchy, and slick textures. And, to the side, I had a
bacon and onion pierozkhi, which was small but also tasty. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-09O1hNLzIWJZMbJWtAzLsQRh_ocqNjDBvA3EbRWnZ5MpjhOphfJJNaILhFkQts4sJO5oHaWbyMhQOrePaKMKZVL_LoQjYS0L-pA5pgLRo2ZJOJBbQRXf_q_3gWvD_roi2dpnpvEKtNw/s1600/IMG_0545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-09O1hNLzIWJZMbJWtAzLsQRh_ocqNjDBvA3EbRWnZ5MpjhOphfJJNaILhFkQts4sJO5oHaWbyMhQOrePaKMKZVL_LoQjYS0L-pA5pgLRo2ZJOJBbQRXf_q_3gWvD_roi2dpnpvEKtNw/s640/IMG_0545.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Next came a cold summer soup. The liquid itself was only
water, filled with cucumber, onion, chives, ham, and a couple other ingredients
I have forgotten. In addition to the bowl, the slate came with three small
vessels containing sour cream, mayonnaise, and ginger paste. As the diner mixes
these ingredients into the soup, he can achieve the desired proportions. The
overall effect was cool, crunchy, and rich.</div>
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For dessert, my server tried to convince me to try some
Russian cake, but I was very full after the last of the soup, so I
chose mint sorbet in a strawberry sauce, along with a pot of tea. I could
barely finish but savored the sweet flavors while lingering over my journal.
Some of the other diners were worth observation, particularly a Russian family
in an adjacent room. One of them, a thirtyish woman, was clearly English – the
first native speaker I’d encountered since leaving Moscow five days before. She
was minding two young children, while the father and what I took to be an older
daughter sat and chatted as they waited for their food. As I watched, I
realized that the older daughter was in fact the man’s wife – it’s not unusual
to for Russian couples to be separated by a decade or two – and the husband,
a plump white-haired fellow, was clearly rich. The Englishwoman must have been
an <i>aupair</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, hired for her facility in
English.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBr-kFFIfcDyNjJGQZ9l8F1BkurJZFmSA46r37yqcT0HH4cu2YjjYlVWEkEnFX1TmM8fjaU-i2awf6mLMRM5bDwRzzJMKHZ1xe74uBtAVtlNrBRjig9ZPPFhtYcUbHKCm-BK_tRWoqx4/s1600/IMG_0546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBr-kFFIfcDyNjJGQZ9l8F1BkurJZFmSA46r37yqcT0HH4cu2YjjYlVWEkEnFX1TmM8fjaU-i2awf6mLMRM5bDwRzzJMKHZ1xe74uBtAVtlNrBRjig9ZPPFhtYcUbHKCm-BK_tRWoqx4/s640/IMG_0546.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Eventually, I left and instead of heading straight back to
the hotel, wandered down to the west end of <i>Ul Lenina</i>, enjoying the fading
light (it was getting on towards 10, at this point). A pink tram trundled past
at one point. As the city lights came on, they lit up some of the most
prominent buildings, deepening the blue of the walls. In this light, the
stature of Lenin, across from the city hall, seemed a familiar, friendly
landmark. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNBGYY8E01JTRiYRxaRQyV_dO1HDyC3ijOopBJZbUkl9u6ZICdGsT_hLzsaAfiqqQAFEv0Mp-PyiI45XYO6cbaejpSw567iZL6sP-eyF5k02L0N10sUENYT1v0LVZI9oRKCIC1LEmkbI/s1600/City+Hall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNBGYY8E01JTRiYRxaRQyV_dO1HDyC3ijOopBJZbUkl9u6ZICdGsT_hLzsaAfiqqQAFEv0Mp-PyiI45XYO6cbaejpSw567iZL6sP-eyF5k02L0N10sUENYT1v0LVZI9oRKCIC1LEmkbI/s640/City+Hall.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">City hall.</td></tr>
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</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGa__zA4esTAD53NBVPqC8vJmTANGNJA6YL_0QqdS6L99_XIiRmOyl_9knpKZYjbCRgGKUNlGOsGL454YDZH3O06BlEyBVTH-yBYnmA5S8zqyQFa5vqBMtOT3P5wD2kfAHJdX5_mkGwQ/s1600/Lenin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGa__zA4esTAD53NBVPqC8vJmTANGNJA6YL_0QqdS6L99_XIiRmOyl_9knpKZYjbCRgGKUNlGOsGL454YDZH3O06BlEyBVTH-yBYnmA5S8zqyQFa5vqBMtOT3P5wD2kfAHJdX5_mkGwQ/s640/Lenin.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Across the street.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPg7NZ11Q6QJuua19J4-3gnpvl2V6m8RLuuUiMqf_QnAEiCXRy6xlLsea2DxLGjgnXRGxobQHJ5qs2OWTm0Sp0_Cnv9JK4cT21KX6Wd_E_xMn12sOAZKAIqJNTKJ2OeVIANuh9KjOs86Q/s1600/Lenina.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPg7NZ11Q6QJuua19J4-3gnpvl2V6m8RLuuUiMqf_QnAEiCXRy6xlLsea2DxLGjgnXRGxobQHJ5qs2OWTm0Sp0_Cnv9JK4cT21KX6Wd_E_xMn12sOAZKAIqJNTKJ2OeVIANuh9KjOs86Q/s640/Lenina.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walkway in the middle of <i>Ul Lenina</i>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEW_Ip4o9BUmzgLjLp96til2xTVyYPXv_fprSbE4gCLh5gmytWY_HuRvuRrzzOhPGa2Sn2b294OKmAJqTnq5HmR_vaT4MtfxZigvp95P5NBzLYTk_1J6R5GGU8n2EWKMKrMynP04aoCQ/s1600/Ornate+Building.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEW_Ip4o9BUmzgLjLp96til2xTVyYPXv_fprSbE4gCLh5gmytWY_HuRvuRrzzOhPGa2Sn2b294OKmAJqTnq5HmR_vaT4MtfxZigvp95P5NBzLYTk_1J6R5GGU8n2EWKMKrMynP04aoCQ/s640/Ornate+Building.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I never figured out what this building is.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaYzzjgb52xIhotVPDVVyF-wdpqmWnZNXRebltlvXSKxQt2bjmEudlGwyp5OKdnsG3NnURSSmVCKXX0QM6QRziH14tX6NA3tyViS7haZ1lVye7KQp1_Dx_9syuSvlzxYe8F9YVjsAo98/s1600/Pharmacy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUaYzzjgb52xIhotVPDVVyF-wdpqmWnZNXRebltlvXSKxQt2bjmEudlGwyp5OKdnsG3NnURSSmVCKXX0QM6QRziH14tX6NA3tyViS7haZ1lVye7KQp1_Dx_9syuSvlzxYe8F9YVjsAo98/s640/Pharmacy.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An old pharmacy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffNvbfQcdCXoE1qduRjg3MphF3N79qP4tSf4BkkHm3l4GnBmmo06Rnj8yYwrVRrXp_WtUAbX0PmX5yj5OhSkxc9PUShk1sYHdFT10i1JYBoFJSCffgFHIFU8VjmRO_6uvNqCj1kj8ttM/s1600/Post+Office.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffNvbfQcdCXoE1qduRjg3MphF3N79qP4tSf4BkkHm3l4GnBmmo06Rnj8yYwrVRrXp_WtUAbX0PmX5yj5OhSkxc9PUShk1sYHdFT10i1JYBoFJSCffgFHIFU8VjmRO_6uvNqCj1kj8ttM/s640/Post+Office.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The central post office. It had an internet cafe and thus was the scene of my first blog post from the road.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-61697317566462268822013-09-08T16:50:00.000-07:002014-02-21T08:04:17.576-08:00The Moscow Metro<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYRosx1VvI8X3pgChNwNS9VuvGoaL2bXLk2sHwJBo89V5rqW-wqZy61oC1pMIfdLy_7yG6rHO3qeBw0gwJgCk3i4PxAX__c3tXnHte_7FWla7qUJwPeagE4JQ5_jpk-aXBebUlrqE5C8A/s1600/StationOrnate.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYRosx1VvI8X3pgChNwNS9VuvGoaL2bXLk2sHwJBo89V5rqW-wqZy61oC1pMIfdLy_7yG6rHO3qeBw0gwJgCk3i4PxAX__c3tXnHte_7FWla7qUJwPeagE4JQ5_jpk-aXBebUlrqE5C8A/s640/StationOrnate.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">One of the original stations from 1935.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Moscow Metro is justly famous, one of the great systems
of the world and among Stalin’s more enduring contributions to Russian
society. While it serves as a formidable system of functional infrastructure, its purpose is multifacted. Stalin wanted a tangible example of development that he
could show off to the proletariat, who had endured the strain of the first Five Year Plan, meanwhile proving that the Soviets could outdo
the West. British engineers were actually responsible for much of the original
design. Many were arrested and deported on trumped-up charges of spying.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAINJGz5Yga_6rIDoHcPiJDo6JRBbZlJJzom9KPGtTVS4bpRGhWUefB3VS2x9JvFF0jCvJy9vXie3MZQV9_sGe7utBe55qqM61Mdr8WtK5ppVMGRRYe-7LeKt5Y_sSTyNepsDqUOaGGnI/s1600/Descent.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAINJGz5Yga_6rIDoHcPiJDo6JRBbZlJJzom9KPGtTVS4bpRGhWUefB3VS2x9JvFF0jCvJy9vXie3MZQV9_sGe7utBe55qqM61Mdr8WtK5ppVMGRRYe-7LeKt5Y_sSTyNepsDqUOaGGnI/s640/Descent.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crowded at rush hour.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJatiphE8SNwg-AVu6ipNeQYAMDERcJWqFsX3IoYFHfFKt0JmVMEEGFcoT78LGZ_VbKteZMLnPX3zhR3iFWK7XsgaFkIcPXAtHNKyfHP5mRCHiDdMPO06q7LqWS0e3d-rCaY11JQrikOw/s1600/Looking+Up.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJatiphE8SNwg-AVu6ipNeQYAMDERcJWqFsX3IoYFHfFKt0JmVMEEGFcoT78LGZ_VbKteZMLnPX3zhR3iFWK7XsgaFkIcPXAtHNKyfHP5mRCHiDdMPO06q7LqWS0e3d-rCaY11JQrikOw/s640/Looking+Up.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't slip.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first thing I noticed upon entering is just how deep the
system is. Thousands of Muscovites took refuge in the
stations during Nazi air raids (as Londoners had in the Tube a couple of years before), and parts of the government relocated into the depths, as well. The
escalators do descend steeply. Some of the later lines were built even deeper
in case of nuclear attack.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSlhqNmwbqeQ0Rdoxfcqv_pWL1Yf3zPRaRbeJ9LGklqUi1DxXZbftem3AGx_UQ_wf_ezg1bEj8H_84iWU4m-M0vm67Y2L-d9p8AiYrjeJNugKKLiPbPIhVVbt5j5d44LUwQcRumdE5woU/s1600/Moscow+Map.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSlhqNmwbqeQ0Rdoxfcqv_pWL1Yf3zPRaRbeJ9LGklqUi1DxXZbftem3AGx_UQ_wf_ezg1bEj8H_84iWU4m-M0vm67Y2L-d9p8AiYrjeJNugKKLiPbPIhVVbt5j5d44LUwQcRumdE5woU/s640/Moscow+Map.gif" height="530" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All stations are drawn according to relative location, interestingly - no external geography included whatsoever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The network is more than three hundred kilometers long. Eleven lines crisscross the
city, unified by a circle line that allows riders to avoid going all the way
downtown before changing. Currently, the system is in the midst of a
vast project to extend its length by nearly 50%. The rolling
stock itself appeared old and sturdy, sometimes lacking air-conditioning. I’m
sure that newer lines have more up-to-date cars. A single ride costs 30 Rubles,
or a little less than a dollar, and generally, cars were crowded, despite the picture below.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDWK0tJqRAkJabTsatPLaraOBR02sbjOpI9tphTp02Nl_-OgdEDIRmSTL1M3N9GcZOjdrVIgJAtzaGiguJY3CGY5nQ70GEFc2hJYgd2EDlAgy5t9JhinZ3WggSwuqvCGxZdawkaG3m80/s1600/Cars.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDWK0tJqRAkJabTsatPLaraOBR02sbjOpI9tphTp02Nl_-OgdEDIRmSTL1M3N9GcZOjdrVIgJAtzaGiguJY3CGY5nQ70GEFc2hJYgd2EDlAgy5t9JhinZ3WggSwuqvCGxZdawkaG3m80/s640/Cars.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stations are noticeably clean.
Clearly, the system remains a substantial source of civic pride, although the
automobile seems to be the vehicle of choice for Russians with money. Rather
than build all the stations according to static criteria, as, for example, the
DC metro does, many lines have a distinctive architectural aesthetic. One can
tell more or less when a line was built by its design. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfq7k07SGFO_gfVApYXZd2dFlaPqkOJyXVhpW7LhomRGKkcWrKknqJ8yDvssN9N9DItw9ymQJ0hJnFh_rrNBaOXRUkEUEl3ZoMg5larHJ3RYOtsUJQhaCALz08Ibw476MhJQMFumU33g/s1600/Station+Big.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfq7k07SGFO_gfVApYXZd2dFlaPqkOJyXVhpW7LhomRGKkcWrKknqJ8yDvssN9N9DItw9ymQJ0hJnFh_rrNBaOXRUkEUEl3ZoMg5larHJ3RYOtsUJQhaCALz08Ibw476MhJQMFumU33g/s640/Station+Big.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the marble pillars.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4sgkN5U5dl5vsLgLNw-hbbgJmTkOISJWU5tzzVuhHBYQS1AOo-Z7eW58lKkGG1I_LEIGGsnwvq-osJ_1jsl_YmGBogKJnIIR51v3tkmxPblKJTSZfnAsWSb63etA9UQNBoBg3wbWf6ww/s1600/Station+Hexagons.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4sgkN5U5dl5vsLgLNw-hbbgJmTkOISJWU5tzzVuhHBYQS1AOo-Z7eW58lKkGG1I_LEIGGsnwvq-osJ_1jsl_YmGBogKJnIIR51v3tkmxPblKJTSZfnAsWSb63etA9UQNBoBg3wbWf6ww/s640/Station+Hexagons.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hexagons! Just like the DC metro.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreW28Zni1ptEVlA-e7tKd4gKPDX7m0iZlF6u5r3kmSlEbzEAnywGICCY7W429ekSv6Bm4lCTHjHSOpu2dHmTpGfAgrAASIZpECjDdE32Q9zDWeNEjbyepLgjr7QJBotJieKpcIIIizzQ/s1600/Subway.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreW28Zni1ptEVlA-e7tKd4gKPDX7m0iZlF6u5r3kmSlEbzEAnywGICCY7W429ekSv6Bm4lCTHjHSOpu2dHmTpGfAgrAASIZpECjDdE32Q9zDWeNEjbyepLgjr7QJBotJieKpcIIIizzQ/s1600/Subway.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lighting in this station is remarkable.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkViL5HcIaNw3fmcnFXhMwDqFVFXIfiJ6fZvLaMcBMf1LngOZ5hyphenhyphenrAnZUnFWSOu9Y3GKFCKO99q0c5fj3whR6jOazOaIMML9dE2D4jz1vHL8hdJcqPjde7XEEYZ0mb8Weoefco2Mijing/s1600/IMG_0479.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkViL5HcIaNw3fmcnFXhMwDqFVFXIfiJ6fZvLaMcBMf1LngOZ5hyphenhyphenrAnZUnFWSOu9Y3GKFCKO99q0c5fj3whR6jOazOaIMML9dE2D4jz1vHL8hdJcqPjde7XEEYZ0mb8Weoefco2Mijing/s1600/IMG_0479.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I believe this decor is intended to celebrate scientific achievement.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The original stations
accord to an ornate, classical style that Stalin preferred, while those built
in the sixties and seventies have a much more modern look to them. In most
cases, the tracks run through the station in their own corridors on either side
of the station, separated from a long central hallway by a wall with archways.
This gives the stations considerable elegance. The eye is purposely drawn upward to
ornate chandeliers and elaborate artwork that lines the central hall.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9L9E_uc4aqZOs10oO5EYENhpodNlOJaqHXi4pMcNChP8Rc79ZNxHRQ4ubGK558G_yRpAdGyArI7u5y0FaLItf7s3HbDhcLUsbPnP8ILQhRV6P2zz0lHb1wemijpj_8jRNTu5cqOweVvA/s1600/Mosaic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9L9E_uc4aqZOs10oO5EYENhpodNlOJaqHXi4pMcNChP8Rc79ZNxHRQ4ubGK558G_yRpAdGyArI7u5y0FaLItf7s3HbDhcLUsbPnP8ILQhRV6P2zz0lHb1wemijpj_8jRNTu5cqOweVvA/s640/Mosaic.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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As one would expect, much of the art celebrates Soviet themes.
However, the medium varies from fresco to mosaic to bas-relief to stained
glass. The chandeliers, in particular, are magnificent and must have been
especially impressive in the days when electricity was relatively rare. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_UrCmWyAQADQbJ0ozHizqYptnApUMPcqN8TIMwS6rAYAloGWUDnVzHAzzipOrsbLtyFdRvDakkMQonk2kT66q2S5Wc-1uJG1XrmIq_GCUPshP__62PfN83mrsPeF1BAmM8HKxp4fW2Q/s1600/Chandelier.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_UrCmWyAQADQbJ0ozHizqYptnApUMPcqN8TIMwS6rAYAloGWUDnVzHAzzipOrsbLtyFdRvDakkMQonk2kT66q2S5Wc-1uJG1XrmIq_GCUPshP__62PfN83mrsPeF1BAmM8HKxp4fW2Q/s640/Chandelier.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A soaring interior.</td></tr>
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Unfortunately, my camera had a hard time with the lighting
conditions underground (I turned my flash off to avoid attracting attention).
However, I hope that these pictures convey the utilitarian splendor of the
stations.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqw2hB-rowz9pZi6B_V5jmRrMBSNESRLNFV0tA7NN1cJwy3qRQcXqcuGe9tYTWo87HMEazoNrWV48oxD8UQzRNgK1RJTV_Fn5F0ll-Pf2DQ_3RKj7JkXxD-wVXyNYVaDbSZMqMr0uax44/s1600/Girl+Posing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqw2hB-rowz9pZi6B_V5jmRrMBSNESRLNFV0tA7NN1cJwy3qRQcXqcuGe9tYTWo87HMEazoNrWV48oxD8UQzRNgK1RJTV_Fn5F0ll-Pf2DQ_3RKj7JkXxD-wVXyNYVaDbSZMqMr0uax44/s640/Girl+Posing.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Russian women love posing for photos. Apparently they start young.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vhtjdwW5tKfoJ5T0h69d2YuSgPYqHz2U3Lo4kShUR8jSCjDPmyisFeSflfRQa6EGtKNGdHBZZSsKbd8MTX71nlVNZCD62WXHLHYaHoEIWf2jRy2Lb9k1ELTUm-a4-dTvlQh0HP_UoNg/s1600/Entrance.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vhtjdwW5tKfoJ5T0h69d2YuSgPYqHz2U3Lo4kShUR8jSCjDPmyisFeSflfRQa6EGtKNGdHBZZSsKbd8MTX71nlVNZCD62WXHLHYaHoEIWf2jRy2Lb9k1ELTUm-a4-dTvlQh0HP_UoNg/s640/Entrance.JPG" height="480" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Odd, elaborate entrance.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-1227602002900611232013-08-30T05:55:00.002-07:002013-08-30T08:49:33.073-07:00Beijing at Night<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HH0XlVSf0h7FAYdqlqpnzs9sSHS8QT-Fb9SflJveZpjNMr3-0co1pxdv4GjpGrsQ5Ma4Cgh6536OhRrA6wjN8TMiJ_IzY2oavptWew1nC6UyHBzdwfOPLycUZ6tz2qZNN7bAYrVl2Wk/s1600/Ghost+Street.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HH0XlVSf0h7FAYdqlqpnzs9sSHS8QT-Fb9SflJveZpjNMr3-0co1pxdv4GjpGrsQ5Ma4Cgh6536OhRrA6wjN8TMiJ_IzY2oavptWew1nC6UyHBzdwfOPLycUZ6tz2qZNN7bAYrVl2Wk/s640/Ghost+Street.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bright young things.</td></tr>
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Three full days in Beijing allowed me time to wander. I found the city to be particularly beautiful at night, when it is lit up by old iron lampposts and dusky Chinese lanterns. You don't notice the air pollution at night, and the hutongs - old Chinese streets - are quite safe, at least in the bourgeois neighborhood around my hostel. Wandering allowed me think through the events of the day while encountering new sights at a reduced pace. One evening, I wandered over to Ghost Street, a large thoroughfare that is wall-to-wall restaurants for about a quarter of a mile. The name apparently refers to a sort of bamboo bowl that sounds like the word for ghost in Chinese. Most customers are Chinese, and the folks in the picture above are sitting around chewing sunflower seeds, the shells of which were thick on the ground.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDn-sE51CG5PZ390NCdneox4rw8pnIWrsPM13jya7Hg6Sm968nVzozA82D0jolFkc_AnpLWOpi4U2JjjNN-akwh66xyPxSw0vHmmEQUdml8qx0BelS_1IMjnRqdNeeVrkIZ3ocWyg_38w/s1600/Fishes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDn-sE51CG5PZ390NCdneox4rw8pnIWrsPM13jya7Hg6Sm968nVzozA82D0jolFkc_AnpLWOpi4U2JjjNN-akwh66xyPxSw0vHmmEQUdml8qx0BelS_1IMjnRqdNeeVrkIZ3ocWyg_38w/s640/Fishes.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here, fishy fishy!</td></tr>
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Ghost Street is a well-known destination, and the restaurants compete with each other by creating ever more striking displays of light. The effect is sometimes tacky but always draws attention. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOmmaWF5yAsAji6IeuI75fIz4Dxxq-3hP0kAWCyfGiY09jZA7G8JmGOi4dgdaiud5-v9Hke3PhWicZhlP7HYv_2Fyx0hlv013MsjFkDOmq3avLgWyIqUQLDhoC2pwMgIaPyoH8Pn53Oak/s1600/Diners.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOmmaWF5yAsAji6IeuI75fIz4Dxxq-3hP0kAWCyfGiY09jZA7G8JmGOi4dgdaiud5-v9Hke3PhWicZhlP7HYv_2Fyx0hlv013MsjFkDOmq3avLgWyIqUQLDhoC2pwMgIaPyoH8Pn53Oak/s640/Diners.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of countless little cafes.</td></tr>
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I stayed just off of Nanluoguxiang Hutong, an old street that was built during the Yuan Dynasty (think Kublai Khan). Nanluoguxiang serves as the "trunk" street for a substantial residential neighborhood and has been transformed into a pedestrian mall, complete with scores of small stores selling hip knickknacks. As you can see in the picture above, a great many food purveyors located here, as well. Nanluoguxiang is consquently one of the most popular destinations in Beijing for the young and well-to-do.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6gfzS0QIoYC8FXo9ZOId_yfthKtdy0Jy7VwR2Z8sjRsV0JiVmQy3B7mAzhyphenhyphenXdnI20XUs1pa13ICfCVA1cza1ejMMZ59rHfjlmIgkZNIGkhtZFTaruYpitZZsNrgQ9luQ1qwzYeiSDoaM/s1600/Hostel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6gfzS0QIoYC8FXo9ZOId_yfthKtdy0Jy7VwR2Z8sjRsV0JiVmQy3B7mAzhyphenhyphenXdnI20XUs1pa13ICfCVA1cza1ejMMZ59rHfjlmIgkZNIGkhtZFTaruYpitZZsNrgQ9luQ1qwzYeiSDoaM/s640/Hostel.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peking International Youth Hostel</td></tr>
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Here is the entrance to my hostel, on a smaller hutong off of Nanluoguxiang. The owner loves plants. I don't know if I have stayed at a hostel that is better run or situated.<br />
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Nearly a quarter of the population in Beijing lives in hutongs, but these streets are dwindling, succumbing to western-style development. For centuries, people lived cheek-by-jowl in one story dwellings, complete with a courtyard, developing a complex web of relationships in their tightly-packed neighborhood. The hutongs wind around a lot, and I would often come upon people eating dinner or playing dominoes at the edge of the street, which essentially served as a front porch. This pattern of relaxation played a social function, too, as news and gossip clearly passed quickly from group to group. The pattern of life bore some resemblance to tenement housing in American cities a century ago.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqkECggUmZ1ug0Gy4FXQQNN7DLti4A6laiLnS7XC1PMSsievVY7sdQho6H2sdOCwyg9SLwlpBHKrNfmKsrkbHxFVpAx4gzEMFS3t2xskHHlvaChcWwPPOTxblp6nQx7sZ9zAjI0Psx25k/s1600/Fire.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqkECggUmZ1ug0Gy4FXQQNN7DLti4A6laiLnS7XC1PMSsievVY7sdQho6H2sdOCwyg9SLwlpBHKrNfmKsrkbHxFVpAx4gzEMFS3t2xskHHlvaChcWwPPOTxblp6nQx7sZ9zAjI0Psx25k/s640/Fire.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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It seems to be acceptable for people in Beijing to dispose of paper trash by burning it. At night, I frequently came across men and women squatting over small fires in the street of their own making. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgld_XfVfbVwFHgiYKzTYf4ynJaJDCWylvAHX2Qj41lTHhHpKVAf7CTtVYdY3ZaaaERVYna2uUPzxBhlNtVAcr3OxmbAc-hjN-KYKgJhuf6lS213CQZmmRCBH258Hjwm5_xERPhKEJw-FQ/s1600/Vendor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgld_XfVfbVwFHgiYKzTYf4ynJaJDCWylvAHX2Qj41lTHhHpKVAf7CTtVYdY3ZaaaERVYna2uUPzxBhlNtVAcr3OxmbAc-hjN-KYKgJhuf6lS213CQZmmRCBH258Hjwm5_xERPhKEJw-FQ/s640/Vendor.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skewered meat ready to sizzle.</td></tr>
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Street food on Nanluoguxiang Hutong.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqS0OdBi3UyIGRBOP0wi_v8jryZoStI6PnglXXtxjy2xRS72JJMqKrv6enVl4lP7JYPTzV2iAPX8T_mKnObm_znTMycbKNiILn51_D6aLxFwrsmat_wIbHnpT1pyXWK4jvCMzI2xtamU/s1600/Water.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqS0OdBi3UyIGRBOP0wi_v8jryZoStI6PnglXXtxjy2xRS72JJMqKrv6enVl4lP7JYPTzV2iAPX8T_mKnObm_znTMycbKNiILn51_D6aLxFwrsmat_wIbHnpT1pyXWK4jvCMzI2xtamU/s640/Water.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canal near Nanluoguxiang</td></tr>
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On my last night, I went walking along some hutongs west of my hostel, intending to dine on a busy street I had scouted out the previous evening.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ozEFyf8k58iWAsZ_U2EvRUh4S3aDG-IiDAhbMLDy3fjt-rTMMeZ9EFwM31pZ9cIuKsvmroVI2vPSsyHeQ4NnaEE5c-h3aY1EfKI8qc9t77z99psHRUI8uGnHQTVuN_WfST_cDGvGWg8/s1600/Entrance.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ozEFyf8k58iWAsZ_U2EvRUh4S3aDG-IiDAhbMLDy3fjt-rTMMeZ9EFwM31pZ9cIuKsvmroVI2vPSsyHeQ4NnaEE5c-h3aY1EfKI8qc9t77z99psHRUI8uGnHQTVuN_WfST_cDGvGWg8/s640/Entrance.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandma's Creative Cooking.</td></tr>
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Instead, I ended up poking my head into the doorway in the picture above, which had a sign outside advertising that it was a restaurant. The ambiance created by the Chinese lanterns and the sense that I would be eating in someone's house was too intriguing to pass up. Indeed, the house turned out to be owned by a couple whose main business is a tea company. I dined on duck-fried rice and received a long lecture (translated by another young customer who, with his girlfriend, were the only other patrons that night) on the origins of their company, which aims its products at higher-end consumers in China and Europe. The husband seemed to be something of an art collector and had also made all the artwork for their packaging and ads. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRzXJ7Xx1ZcUHV78rOmBON_RNq3XTwQ44HE4vzdwrWcFcKTLAPxWuLD3mfhhM-Y9xjDdbS18-AbIW0wL9V6Y4tW7PSDJPLvbvMZPGZJmD6lM0q1HW_z8jGd7S8mM0t36Ebxm1wP6mNWk/s1600/IMG_1254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioRzXJ7Xx1ZcUHV78rOmBON_RNq3XTwQ44HE4vzdwrWcFcKTLAPxWuLD3mfhhM-Y9xjDdbS18-AbIW0wL9V6Y4tW7PSDJPLvbvMZPGZJmD6lM0q1HW_z8jGd7S8mM0t36Ebxm1wP6mNWk/s640/IMG_1254.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a bad last dinner in China.</td></tr>
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This was my second duck-based meal of the day. On both occasions, the accompanying broth was delicious. Note also the beaker of cold white tea. At the end of the meal, my hosts pressed a couple of small packets into my hand. Clearly, they are as much interested in creating an aesthetic as in making money.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhav8lzs562kZmp1Ym83M3-ndhkcGN1s79kiDO-8k8Tbn2VrZu5ObQWP-bcNbQEhLYw4tI6eL8qh6oBx8RLhpOYgmBWI2j_wYxpyvQK85gU8l5MJUvrzKdx6xPfBFZ04PY4zpgFyElwcQY/s1600/One+light.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhav8lzs562kZmp1Ym83M3-ndhkcGN1s79kiDO-8k8Tbn2VrZu5ObQWP-bcNbQEhLYw4tI6eL8qh6oBx8RLhpOYgmBWI2j_wYxpyvQK85gU8l5MJUvrzKdx6xPfBFZ04PY4zpgFyElwcQY/s640/One+light.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the way back to my hostel.<br />
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Of the places I visited during these travels, I am most eager to return to China. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-7450465596733087712013-08-26T04:55:00.002-07:002013-08-26T07:48:14.239-07:00Fifth Leg: Ulan Bataar to Beijing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d; font-family: Tahoma;">It was easy to find my train at the Ulan Bataar station - much less traffic out here than in Russia - and was first arrive in my compartment, but a troop of six Finns soon arrived, filling the adjacent cabin and two bunks in my own. These two promptly went off to hang out with their friends, leaving me with the compartment to myself. This was pleasant for a while, affording me some time to catch up with the Rostovs and Bolkonskies, but a little tangible company is nice on these long stretches of railroad. Indeed, we only made a couple more stops before the border. During the morning, the train wound through a low mountain range, which sometimes was high and thus wet enough to support trees. The rains must have been steady this year, as the grass was flourishing, and I could always see horses, often in large herds. At road crossings, Mongolians waited in their SUVs for the train to pass. Apparently, they prefer these vehicles to pickup trucks. Towards the end of this stretch, we passed by a wind farm, its turbines towering up in the hills above the train. Mongolia must be an ideal landscape for this technology, though I wonder if they keep the energy or sell it to China (the next day, I saw more turbines in northern China).</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">After a few hours and a stop or two in the most deserted, dusty stations of the entire trip, the landscape became drier and quite flat. From time to time, I roused myself from my bunk to gaze out the window. The attendants - no longer <i>provodnitsa</i> since we had left Russia, and now entirely male - didn't care at all about open windows, except when the wind whipped up the dust. I spent a good deal of the afternoon resting my elbows on the sill, poking my head out the window. Animals were rarer in the Gobi, but horses still did appear, and so did the Bactrian Camel, distinctive from afar because of its double humped back. In many ways, the landscape, as well as the type of land use, was reminiscent of West Texas, where I did some of the research for my Master's Thesis. Tumbleweed, which we identify with the American west, is actually a group of invasive species native to Russia. As I mulled this over, a Greek couple, apparently on their honeymoon (second-class and its four-bed cabins was an odd choice), amused themselves by taking photos of each other's heads sticking out of the windows. This was great fun until the husband's glasses dropped off. I also passed time by going to the dining car with an English neighbor. This spot served about a tenth of the dishes offered in its menu, but it was decorated extensively with wood carvings, and it served as a watering hole for the more social passengers, especially those who needed to wet a whistle.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">My companion, a recent college graduate from Sheffield named Lucy, was planning to trek around east Asia until December. Whew. I love to travel, but such a long stretch without a home base or constant companions sounded exhausting. Perhaps it was simply because I'd ridden the train for so long at this point, but I think it's important to limit my trips so that they don't lose their excitement. Indeed, when I compare my attitude toward new places now to ten years ago (a diligent supply of travel journals helps with this exercise), I discern that my experience is less exciting than it once was. Partly, this is a result of age, growing recognition of the universality of human experience, and the reality that tourism and commercialism are ubiquitous across the globe. I have fewer moments of anxiety when traveling, and I still do love the sense of unknown, obviously, but freshness of the adventure has waned.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">We arrived at the Chinese border around eight. Leaving Mongolia was easy, but the People's Republic kept us waiting while its officials examined our passports. However, this crossing took half the time that it did to move from Russia into Mongolia, and it was not without its moments of humor. As the train pulled into the first Chinese station, where the large buildings and bright lights appeared to be designed to impress tourists, the loudspeakers began to play a stirring military march. The customs folks stood at attention in a line, but then when the train was stopped, they all spread out to board the separate cars. Everyone inside the train was sleepy, but laughter broke out up and down the corridor at this greeting. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d;">The Finns, Joni and Sana (I'm pretty sure I've misspelled their names) had returned to the compartment for customs, and they turned out to be an interesting couple. Their group had traveled all the way from Finland by rail, playing a card game that kept group spirits high. In fact, Joni told me that I was the first person they had spoken to at length on the entire trip. His father, though a Finn, had grown up in Tucson, so his English was excellent, and Sana's, though more heavily accented, wasn't bad either. Later on, in Beijing, these characters stayed at another hostel just a few hundred yards up Nanluoguxiang Hutong from me, so we kept running into each other, including during a hike along the Great Wall. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d;">From the next cabin came strains of a guitar lament - Joni explained that his pals were lamenting their inability to get off the train to buy a beer. I eventually dozed off, but I do believe that the Chinese eventually let people off the train, to much rejoicing. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d;">I didn't sleep very well and became conscious of a minor upset in my intestines, which put me in a sour frame of mind in the morning. However, the landscape had gotten interesting again after we exited the Gobi. Trees had reappeared, and mountains, too. We rode through some long terraced valleys, full of ripe corn. For a stretch of about twenty kilometers, the Great Wall was visible to the north, rising and falling with the mountain ridges. At points, it seemed to vanish entirely, probably due to erosion over the centuries. We also passed by an old earthen-walled village, a remnant of more turbulent, feudal times.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">At the border, we had been provided with vouchers for breakfast and lunch in the dining car. I skipped breakfast, having some of my own and being suspicious of a Chinese train breakfast, anyway, but I did investigate lunch. Predictably, the dining car was swamped, but the kitchen was equipped to do takeout. I took my pork, dumpling, and rice, back to my compartment. While I was waiting, I saw the biggest power plant I've ever observed out the window. Seven cooling towers, of the type that you see around nuclear plants in the US, surrounded a central cluster of conventional smokestacks.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;">There's not much more to tell of this last leg. Around 2:15, we arrived in Beijing. The suburbs looked modern and bland, their size and the number of construction sites hinting at the density of population and pace of development. I put on my pack and descended onto the platform, when one of the Finns brightly suggested that I should have a picture taken by the train. So we posed by the sign on the carriage that displayed the names of the three capital cities I had passed through (can't resist: it was a Finnish finish), and then melted away into the vast crowds of pushy locals. That was it! I was very happy to arrive in Beijing, as I needed a good sleep and some solid grub. In fact, the city was absolutely fascinating, and I have a lot to say about it. But that will have to wait for another post, as this travelogue has primarily concerned the train journey itself. What a long way! I am still amazed when I look at the route on a map. Train travel is curious mixture of relaxation, anticipation, boredom, and, somewhat more infrequently, exhilaration. I think the best travel writing dwells on the mundane and comic as much as the thrills, and I have tried my best to emphasize this balance in these accounts. In the coming weeks, when I can get away from schoolwork, I will post a few more entries on aspects of the places I visited that I found particularly engrossing.</span><br />
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</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-43191868916851862892013-08-24T14:25:00.001-07:002013-08-30T05:08:46.667-07:00Fourth Leg: Irkutsk to Ulan Bataar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #222222; font-family: arial;">The train for Ulan Bataar left Irkutsk at 10 PM. I walked over to the station, crossing the large Angara river on my way, to catch the evening light. Dusk continues on until 10:30 or so at this time of year in these latitudes, which made for some lovely walks at dusk, though it also made getting to sleep harder. When I got onto the train, I knew immediately that this ride would be different from the first three. First of all, Michiel, the affable Dutchman who I'd spent some time with on Olkhon Island, was in my compartment; secondly, the entire carriage was full of backpackers. In fact, there was only one Russian passenger in any of the 36 beds. Thus, a good deal of banter extended up and down the corridor, though neither night turned into the rolling party that I thought might start up. My other cabin mate, a Bavarian transplant named Simone, said that her compatriots took their holidays far too seriously to go to bed late (though I later met another German, fresh from military service, who professed to like Shanghai because "Dey make beeg pahty!"</span><br />
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In any case, I slept well the first night, as we happened to be riding in a more modern and comfortable car, with soft, regular bunks. Around midnight, we could see the southern tip of Baikal out the window. At first, I was sorry that the sun had gone down, but the glow from the moon gave the water a beautiful luminescence. This was really fun train travel - fine sights viewed in comfort and good company. We passed Ulan-Ude sometime in the night - no need to worry about new passengers coming into our full cabin - and when I awoke, around 9:30, we were slowly passing through a much more steppe-like region, clearly close to the Mongolian border. There were still trees, but they were separated by large expanses of grass. The train began to stop briefly but frequently at a number of small, poor towns, where none of the residents appeared to be ethnically Russian. For much of the way, our tracks followed the valley of the Selenga River, which drains much of northern Mongolia. Birds were flocking on its banks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrdoY0KrlCKSDr-0yLRmoulqqXRs3xGiiTwyWA23dtZjwChP-9osrQi0o3kuCrbgXWX-AslemQCySkizWSfxtGovk_l9MC4GmO-o7G8G8IudPqt8dmN7C_IuKfiiE_O4uBogHj1LUVbn8/s1600/Timber.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrdoY0KrlCKSDr-0yLRmoulqqXRs3xGiiTwyWA23dtZjwChP-9osrQi0o3kuCrbgXWX-AslemQCySkizWSfxtGovk_l9MC4GmO-o7G8G8IudPqt8dmN7C_IuKfiiE_O4uBogHj1LUVbn8/s640/Timber.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Longer than that apartment block in Novosibirsk!</td></tr>
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Around one, we reached the border. Here, the train pulled up (we had lost about half our carriages in the night, probably at Ulan-Ude), and Russian customs officials came on board, first for a cursory glance, then to actually collect our passports. Passengers then disembarked, having been informed by the <i>providnitsa</i> (one of whom was actually male) to return in three hours for further questioning. Michiel, Simone, and I took the opportunity to explore the town of Naushki, which diverted us for about thirty seconds, and grab a little food for a picnic lunch in a filthy park outside the station. Simone had a bag of cucumbers with a deliciously subtle, sour taste, while Michiel had some sweet apricot bread. I doled out some little sweets from a company called Alenka. Its logo is a girl with a headscarf, staring straight out at you with big blue eyes and rosy cheeks. She is supposed to look classically Russian and cute, but her eyes are so wide that the overall effect is rather eerie. Stray dogs hung around us, hoping for a taste of our bread, and we eventually acquiesced, mostly out of boredom.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPs93lPAz-BuHYzpx3GsxbpwZKuMTkLlAR_nye67iRyN_AT39WTxFYKBrSWnBLIwy4JDKDBiURorudg_aU3RpODjhvm-IKDUSTtiDc56ONzfSD94A1bX8eTnlZ_WakLOqPKxqQxDofXJc/s1600/Feed+me.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPs93lPAz-BuHYzpx3GsxbpwZKuMTkLlAR_nye67iRyN_AT39WTxFYKBrSWnBLIwy4JDKDBiURorudg_aU3RpODjhvm-IKDUSTtiDc56ONzfSD94A1bX8eTnlZ_WakLOqPKxqQxDofXJc/s640/Feed+me.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very persistent.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJ-kyrqCTfPsSATdWm0Abt5ZnPS4vtBaGkYPta9tKHSI9QfKwxeQg4qeAAlqQVBOfGLhFFcHhrLiyDMT_ST4_QdQZdbl9AZnpiRrvZxf-lTfWZSLJip9HejnEM8gbtY7oX5t-9iEbt5g/s1600/Mates.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJ-kyrqCTfPsSATdWm0Abt5ZnPS4vtBaGkYPta9tKHSI9QfKwxeQg4qeAAlqQVBOfGLhFFcHhrLiyDMT_ST4_QdQZdbl9AZnpiRrvZxf-lTfWZSLJip9HejnEM8gbtY7oX5t-9iEbt5g/s640/Mates.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Cabin mates.</td></tr>
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After lunch, we still had lots of time to burn. All the foreigners sat around on the station platform, chatting, reading, staring into space. Several enormous freight trains, loaded entirely with timber, both raw and finished, passed by. Our carriage, now totally alone, sat in front of us, a little international orphan. Eventually it gained two new Mongolian engines, old blue and yellow workhorses that had been decorated on one side with a couple of ponies tossing their manes. The coupling precipitated a lot of photo-snapping, which also led to some spontaneous silly shots next to the customs signs. It was very hot out. Some folks retired into the carriage itself. Customs came back to hand out our passports and make a cursory investigation into our baggage. Then we still sat. I began making a chess set from paper ripped out of the back of my journal.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjES3_kA0GRhThXDqIJ8Pn9ryxQhubprbcXp_lRSevd7hVQbYpgNJKLL1zuneFSl8QOMjxqNeM0Un_jHuQvXUuvfKdYrdiRAhjC5fPppH785Uxhyo_SAblNAEB3-kN1Pd3_K4wqZVGf7Xc/s1600/Border.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjES3_kA0GRhThXDqIJ8Pn9ryxQhubprbcXp_lRSevd7hVQbYpgNJKLL1zuneFSl8QOMjxqNeM0Un_jHuQvXUuvfKdYrdiRAhjC5fPppH785Uxhyo_SAblNAEB3-kN1Pd3_K4wqZVGf7Xc/s640/Border.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Attaching the new engine.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JuiwXD-3swlFII2uAdVDtFwbIknep2AOl_AqamxsjfH2Vj9Q3OAhO5hM5TS7JWHusl5TGIwjgZoownJc1VoSlpVpoCJUlRxq2iszxoybirhuVNiPrY903kSdelFIEimlDbaP8-TcJTc/s1600/Yurt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JuiwXD-3swlFII2uAdVDtFwbIknep2AOl_AqamxsjfH2Vj9Q3OAhO5hM5TS7JWHusl5TGIwjgZoownJc1VoSlpVpoCJUlRxq2iszxoybirhuVNiPrY903kSdelFIEimlDbaP8-TcJTc/s640/Yurt.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Just over the border in Mongolia.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><div style="text-align: left;">
In the early evening, we finally crossed over into Mongolia. One of my first sights of the new country was a distant yurt sitting by the river, surrounded by several grazing horses. However, the Mongolian border town, Sukhbataar, was uninspiring. Its customs officials gave us a hard look as they passed through and provided us with a new set of paperwork to complete. One tough old lady inquired why I didn't have a visa - when I replied (Americans don't need a visa for Mongolia), she nodded in assent and moved on. Was this a test? We watched people outside on the platform, which Michiel compared to a theatrical stage. The players included street vendors, money changers, idle kids, the police, and various smaller roles of people rushing too and from their trains. When the chess set was done, Karim, the one Russian passenger, beat me in about ten moves. The internationals in my carriage went out to get a snack after we were finally released, but the chips I hurriedly bought were some sort of pineapple steak flavor, which I was not yet hungry enough to eat.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-XzgQSdB-7d_a0bDDMH0xds6GIc0LZVR0qZtgVcCcpBmAFrg8rioPvcvF6BVrB3XP1I_dxvi21wr9Z_x1us4vIFHvyjTZdYtt0Q0o9Y8_jh4QFnt2ZrCAwAEh-7xNZ26HLJ7rJXwAXk/s1600/Chess.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-XzgQSdB-7d_a0bDDMH0xds6GIc0LZVR0qZtgVcCcpBmAFrg8rioPvcvF6BVrB3XP1I_dxvi21wr9Z_x1us4vIFHvyjTZdYtt0Q0o9Y8_jh4QFnt2ZrCAwAEh-7xNZ26HLJ7rJXwAXk/s640/Chess.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fruit of my labor.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiey8vUZo5lpr7Q1m6Qg5qMN7hLm_Koq4Hy0cd9mgEEfXkSxr_CuYgb10CgmmFMCfeTYndilWCa77P8PKsZeCaVbuSeyDWjjgSpsE4HanobnxHaHj9g_PAu4cIhcuD0-u6Gn7CHal64W_4/s1600/Dinner.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiey8vUZo5lpr7Q1m6Qg5qMN7hLm_Koq4Hy0cd9mgEEfXkSxr_CuYgb10CgmmFMCfeTYndilWCa77P8PKsZeCaVbuSeyDWjjgSpsE4HanobnxHaHj9g_PAu4cIhcuD0-u6Gn7CHal64W_4/s640/Dinner.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dehydrated noodles are popular on the Trans-Siberian. Michiel was a fan.</td></tr>
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We finally got going not long after it was dark. The carriage quieted down quickly, as everyone anticipated the dawn arrival. Indeed, at 5:30, the Germans promptly queued for the bathroom. The landscape was now entirely steppe - green, endless grass undulating across rolling hills. Concrete paddocks announced the Ulan Bataar suburbs. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtKG-RM9b0PmyhG93TTyGexYIj0RLir6VQqqKaup3zB5pACte3AaHAp86rPbFyWq738iN3u_0nCWyNeY37Fh0kDOSaNld4aCRF6eDPfnRQzRqUtYOP4JKERFiFV28MuEf62rl4dGxIrAY/s1600/Tanks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtKG-RM9b0PmyhG93TTyGexYIj0RLir6VQqqKaup3zB5pACte3AaHAp86rPbFyWq738iN3u_0nCWyNeY37Fh0kDOSaNld4aCRF6eDPfnRQzRqUtYOP4JKERFiFV28MuEf62rl4dGxIrAY/s640/Tanks.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset while waiting for Mongolian customs.</td></tr>
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When you're in Mongolia, the thing to do is to get out into the countryside to camp and explore the country's nomadic roots. This was my original plan, but because trains run only once a week from Ulan Bataar to Beijing and the schedule changed after I had gotten all the other tickets, I only had twenty-four hours before catching the next choo-choo. Perhaps I will return and gain a better sense of the country's vast, restless hinterland that I've heard about from several friends who speak passionately of it. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdCqvV7nC9-5dd_s0v3YtZTpjsfqxPXsbufXnbtfKbtQ3fPmMAP8MtvHLfZYElSfsmKYUdUECuefanx1G-A0xNsrHZOekAyVNJGOGKYxzORCImzIMHAGWDF_qvwBO_T0QrTr5qqJ15eM/s1600/Mongolia.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdCqvV7nC9-5dd_s0v3YtZTpjsfqxPXsbufXnbtfKbtQ3fPmMAP8MtvHLfZYElSfsmKYUdUECuefanx1G-A0xNsrHZOekAyVNJGOGKYxzORCImzIMHAGWDF_qvwBO_T0QrTr5qqJ15eM/s640/Mongolia.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mongolia is a strange land.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwtjRtn-b4V2q09pTHvtMF4HxkOx8mByRVVeYFZz-5_fua7n9zPIBYFoq2NGvkvelxfHx1kMWfuoK9EPxWpn8uc5xdtSXnDuGspCqqYHnmuSOM3lZvCxQftlI3Yh2GSYhbF1lWv4ofRKQ/s1600/Billboard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwtjRtn-b4V2q09pTHvtMF4HxkOx8mByRVVeYFZz-5_fua7n9zPIBYFoq2NGvkvelxfHx1kMWfuoK9EPxWpn8uc5xdtSXnDuGspCqqYHnmuSOM3lZvCxQftlI3Yh2GSYhbF1lWv4ofRKQ/s640/Billboard.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Very strange, indeed.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><div style="text-align: left;">
In any event, my day was occupied with finding my hostel (no, Lonely Planet, Zaya Backpacker is not in a 12 story, orange building - it is 8 stories tall and yellow and next to a tall glass skyscraper that you strangely did not mention as a landmark), seeing a Buddhist monastery, the National History Museum, and Sukhbataar Square. Michiel came along for these adventures, which made for a pleasant time. We did some shopping in the cashmere stores, and I had a very amusing time at the State Department Store (motto: "where every need is satisfied), but my general impression of the place was similar to that of most cities in less developed countries. One interesting note was that English-speaking Mongolians talk with an American accent, which was a surprise after several weeks of the English-accented variety among foreigners. My hostel manager was thoroughly American in his demeanor, slouching and wearing a ballcap low over his eyes. My sense is that Mongolians see the United States as a lever to ward off excessive Chinese and Russian influence, which of course they have suffered from considerably (and vice versa, but you have to farther back for that!). </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pigeons come to pay their respects to the Buddha.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgssmHTSY1Frn8agZZo19TVVD5YgNhk8pVwxiUs65Ha_STr1pAd98UQMjT_i0__t-L_WvdUifVTg4SvhlwtlWO2PwGmk3WOXiaQLXc1ipl-GFqwi8OGFm6IfHVy1Hf23nen6cX8g3ynMyg/s1600/Sukhbataar+Square.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgssmHTSY1Frn8agZZo19TVVD5YgNhk8pVwxiUs65Ha_STr1pAd98UQMjT_i0__t-L_WvdUifVTg4SvhlwtlWO2PwGmk3WOXiaQLXc1ipl-GFqwi8OGFm6IfHVy1Hf23nen6cX8g3ynMyg/s640/Sukhbataar+Square.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">What was it with the Communists and their squares?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Mongolian youth.</td></tr>
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I got up at 5:40 the next morning and walked a mile or two to the station to catch my 7 o'clock train to Beijing. All this constant movement and sleeping in different beds was beginning to take its toll, as I felt very exhausted after I had gotten board. That's where I'll leave things for now. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-29832437911334443842013-08-15T01:37:00.002-07:002013-08-30T05:10:49.887-07:00Third Leg: Novosibirsk to Irkutsk/Lake Baikal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Novosibirsk station, on a lovely night.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the station.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I arrived in Irkutsk very early on the morning of the twelfth. The journey from Novosibirsk was relatively easy; I now know what to expect from the train and my fellow passengers, and I also found it easier to sleep, as the train's motion has become soothing rather than distracting. In general, I've had difficulty falling asleep on this trip due to the excitement and stresses of traveling but also because it stays light out until 10. Also, since you don't do anything on the train all day except read, eat, chat, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and doze, you're not very tired when bedtime finally rolls around.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Maxim, a friendly cabin-mate.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My little nook.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There were fewer passengers getting on and off during this more remote stretch, and I shared my cabin with only one other guy, a young Russian named Pavel. Two people rather than four makes for a more relaxing ride. For much of the day and a half, I dug into </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">War and Peace</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">, livening things up by taking pictures of the taiga through the window. The reflection kept sabotaging my shots. While returning from the bathroom sometime in the afternoon, I unexpectedly came upon an open window and began to snap shots of the birch forest. Then, I felt </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">provodnitsa's</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> tap on my shoulder, like a matron correcting a schoolboy who has stepped out of line. She briskly closed the window and scuttled off without a word. Another silent battle took place over the curtain arrangement on the window outside my compartment. When my door was open, I would pull the drapes back as far as possible to maximize my view. But when the door closed for one reason or another, the curtains always were rearranged neatly in the old pattern! In general, the </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">provodnitsas</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> have been very kind, making sure that I know when my station is coming up or letting me know when it's time to get back on at a long stop. In the middle of the afternoon, you hear a tap on the door, and in she comes with a vaccuum to clean the little rug in between the bunks. These women work hard and probably don't get much thanks for their trouble.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Savannah-like taiga.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of wildflowers in bloom.</td></tr>
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Around 10 o'clock on the second evening, Pavel, who had been absent from the compartment for several hours, returned with new friends from the restaurant car. This jolly crew, consisting of three well-primed, loquacious Russians in their twenties, could not restrain themselves from coming in to meet the Americanski. They were very curious and friendly, and they spoke just enough English to make for an animated exchange. Some beer and Johnnie Walker helped move things along. Apparently, this crew was headed to Irkutsk as well, where they would represent their company in a bowling tournament. Three hours later, they were convinced to depart. I did enjoy their visit, however, and the chance it offered to get beyond the reserve that I've encountered in many Russians.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Nighttime stop.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Best friends.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pavel was up early the next morning, as well, blasting what I think he thought was a cheerful salvo of techno from his cell phone. An unhappy newcomer to the cabin groaned from the top bunk to no avail. I got off in Irkutsk around 7:30 and navigated the tram to my hostel, Baikaler, where I opened the door to find several young Frenchmen in sleeping bags sprawled across the living room floor. Evidently, it had been a memorable Saturday night. I decided to let the place wake up a bit and left to wander around the deserted town and get some much-needed breakfast. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hallo Comrade!</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Baikaler ended up being a lot of fun. I hadn't had a real conversation for a week, but Irkutsk is firmly on the backpacker circuit, so I've been surrounded by a shifting mix of western Europeans in the days since. I've only run into two other native English speakers since leaving Moscow, but English is the lingua franca for travelers, conveniently enough. French has also come in handy on a couple occasions. The first day, I roamed around Irkutsk with a Portuguese psychologist, S<span style="color: #444444; line-height: 16px;">ó</span>nia, who is also doing the Trans-Siberian. We checked out a musuem dedicated to the Decembrists, ate at a restaurant called Mamoschka's, dedicated to Russian kitsch, and took in the big Angara River. The highlight, however, was sitting under the Lenin statue in a park, drinking beer and spitting sunflower seeds (the hostel is on Lenin and Karl Marx Streets). Finding that I had one more day than expected before departing for Ulan Bataar, I signed up for a trip out to Olkhon Island, which lies about halfway up the western side of Lake Baikal. My companion for this venture, Damiano, was an Italian fellow in his mid-thirties, very amiable and droll. He works for a movie distribution company in Rome and apparently meets all sorts of stars, yet remains very down-to-earth.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of many old wooden houses in Irkutsk. More on them in separate post to come.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We headed out in a packed <i>marschrutky</i> the next morning around 9. The ride involved a lot of zipping around slow trucks and bumping over washed out roads, but we made it to the ferry in time and eventually arrived at U Olgi, our bucolic hostel, around 2 or 3. Khukir, the town where we were staying, is a very strange place, a sort of hybrid tourist destination for international backpackers and affluent Russians. It's developed very quickly in the last decade or two, in large part because of a huge wooden hostel complex run by a former Russian table tennis champion. This compound is complete with several cafeterias and facilities for organizing tours, and it has a somewhat cultish feel because of the hippie-ish, global seeker atmosphere...e.g. lots of young earnest yoga types prancing around in bright tights. It is the social center of the island and provided a convenient way to organize a visit to the northern, less developed regions. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Relieved to no longer be on the move.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Despite the chaotic, sprawling nature of the town, the lake was only a short walk away, and indeed, I went for a couple of dips. It's an enormous body of water, very blue, and quite clear. The temperature on the eastern side of the island, open to the main part of the lake, was comparable to a New Hamsphire lake in early June. Our tour took us to some remarkable promontories, well-trodden but still spectacular, rising several hundred feet above the water. In the back of our van, gripping each other as we bounced along the extremely rutted roads, sat two Italian couples. As we rode through pine forest, we would hear murmurs of "Bello, bello...Bellisimo!...<wbr></wbr>Fantastico." At one point, the road was so bad the driver asked the men to get out, while the women (ladies, I should write) could stay in. Interestingly, the German woman disembarked, but the Italian females remained. Here was Russian and European gender culture in a nutshell.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rocky point.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Our driver, an ethnic Buriyat, wore a hat that said, in English, "Native Pride", His ancestors occupied the region around the lake before ethnic Russians turned up a few centuries ago. Unfortunately, he spoke no English, so a Russian woman sitting up front translated all his points about flora and island culture into English. For lunch, he made us a fish soup over an open fire. I was a bit dismayed to see a fish head peering up at me from within my bowl, but the dish was actually very tasty...or at least, as we would say in the huts, hot and salty. As the meal was dispatched, everybody got quite chatty. The Italians rolled cigarettes while the English-speakers chatted about the ubiquity of techno in Russia and other such engrossing topics. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The night's activities included more international chatter over dinner, this time with a more Teutonic flavor, and a subsequent search for an elusive bonfire on the beach. We did come across a number of Russians camping out, some of whom were blasting - what else? - techno from a car stereo as they sat outside their tents. Loud music and a campfire seem to be the two essentials in Russian camping (glamping?).</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">All fruits.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All melons.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nuts and dried fruit.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In the morning, it was time to return to Irkutsk. Tonight, I embark on the train to Ulan Bataar, which despite being relatively close in mileage, will take two nights to reach. Apparently the stop at the Russian-Mongolian border takes several hours, with the police coming through the train to look at passports, etc. This morning, I went the city's central market, where a remarkable bounty of summer Siberian produce was changing hands. I bought tomatos, cucumbers, radishes, carrots, blueberries, and pine nuts for the journey. One can purchase pine nuts already shelled or the entire cone, which, like a squirrel, one picks apart to get at the nuts. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sadly, Damiano flew back to Moscow this morning. Along with Michiel, a Dutch fellow who came along on our tour of Olkhon Island, we went out for Mongolian last night (all three of us passed on horse meat but got a meaty dish called The Nine Warriors of Chengis Khan) and then hit an Irish pub to for some vodka. I actually had only drunk vodka once before this on the trip, in Moscow, and that was of a Danish variety. Clearly, I needed to sample the real thing, and I can affirm that this has now been satisfactorily accomplished. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Damiano gets down to business.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It's been a lot of fun hanging out with other backpackers this week. These fleeting connections, forged in absorbing, unfamiliar situations, leave significant impressions, as I can attest from previous trips. The experience of traveling alone is really important to me, but I will miss these folks as we all move off in our own directions. Apparently, the Trans-Mongolian has quite a few backpackers on it - many more than the railroad that continues across Siberia to Vladivostok - so I'm sure that the next few days will bring some new interesting characters across my path. For the time being, I feel that I am in-between chapters of this journey. It's wonderful to have taken in so many sights and to have met some fascinating people, but I am also wistful because the experience is so fleeting. </span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-40413902794166578442013-08-09T03:27:00.002-07:002013-08-29T19:08:40.186-07:00Second Leg: Yekaterinburg to Novosibirsk<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taiga, through a rainy window.</td></tr>
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After a considerable amount of searching about, I've finally unearthed an internet cafe in Novosibirsk. My train to Irkutsk doesn't roll out until eleven tonight, so I've got some time to kill. There don't seem to be any other tourists here, and none of the locals I've encountered speak more than basic English. This has given occasion for some pretty amusing pantomime sequences during the past 24 hours. At restaurants, I'll ask for a menu in English, more likely than not in vain. A good deal of chuckling ensues; I helplessly flip back and forth between the Cyrillic menu and the Lonely Planet language index, while the waitresses huddle. Eventually something recognizable is offered, and I reconcile myself to my culinary fate, ruing my failure to get the Rosetta Stone discs like everyone suggested.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Afternoon stop</td></tr>
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The second leg of the train journey went more quickly than the first. My cabin mates during the latest stretch on the train included a father and son, the latter of whom was probably about 8 years old and the apple of his father's eye. They spent most of the time playing video games together. In the bunk above mine was a leggy young woman whom I at first assumed was the mother, but due to her total lack of interaction with the other two, I eventually figured out that she was unrelated (confirmed by warm reunion with gentleman friend at the Novosibirsk train station). Her activities were confined to applying makeup and toying with her cellphone. In fact, everyone seemed most interested in keeping to themselves, so it seemed a good idea to follow their example. Despite the squawk of unending disco and pop that was piped into each cabin, I buried myself in a collection of Russian magic tales. My favorite involved a young malachite worker. Until visiting a geology museum in Yekaterinburg, I had forgetten that this stone, one of my favorites, is plentiful in the Urals. In any case, the worker, Danilushko, becomes so obsessed by his craft that he forsakes his wife to carve amongst a shadowy group of masters under the auspices of the "mistress of the mountain". His wife misses him so much that she takes up his old trade, seemingly guided by fate. Eventually, her loyalty moves the mistress of the mountain to allow the husband escape his obsession and return home.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yum - in earnest, this time.</td></tr>
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For most of the journey, we passed through a sort of taiga-savannah landscape. Marshy grasses, with yellow, white, and indigo flowers, surrounded clumps of birch. The name Pasquaney might apply better here than to the shores of Lake Newfound. The train stopped infrequently, and some of the more remote stations that we passed were simply referred to by their distance in kilometers from Moscow. Still, the line in the opposite direction was very busy due to a steady steam of freight trains bringing coal to the heavy manufacturing plants of the Urals. In the afternoon, we stopped at a town called Babinsk, where several babushkas prowled the platform, selling dried fish, fur hats, and various fresh fruits and vegetables. A cup of raspberries cost me 100 rubles. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wow, that is a long block!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very inviting.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHVLP4MT4_y_womdPsM66gT4ewcEb6y4rPyEvVoEnoOEui1PA-soHZrSaKbaUbjAR_PkDEdGC3fA6iKRN6JCBJIE8RloSi4dkxI6Yc6J4rWuFpYKa9nigqYfFIBkdh6DrEngQqvo-lBZs/s1600/Flowers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHVLP4MT4_y_womdPsM66gT4ewcEb6y4rPyEvVoEnoOEui1PA-soHZrSaKbaUbjAR_PkDEdGC3fA6iKRN6JCBJIE8RloSi4dkxI6Yc6J4rWuFpYKa9nigqYfFIBkdh6DrEngQqvo-lBZs/s640/Flowers.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Small adjustments.</td></tr>
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I'm looking forward to moving onto Irkutsk and the companionship of the hostel where I'll be staying. Novosibirsk has little in the way of conventional tourist attractions, though it does have plenty of enormous Soviet apartment blocks that give it a dingier, slightly more austere quality than Moscow or Yekaterinburg - which is why I arranged to stay here in the first place. One does get a sense, from the little details that are just visible on balconies and inside windows, that the interiors are very lovingly looked after. Human will adapt to the most spartan of circumstances. But beyond this whiff of the USSR, there's not much to do. I've now been a while without a real conversation, and I expect I'll run into some other international types on Lake Baikal. Between now and then, however, I have two nights on the train. The first thing to do after boarding is to make your bed with sheets and a mattress provided by the <i>provodnitsa</i> - the lady (they work in shifts of two, actually) who takes care of each carriage, generally ruling with an iron fist but keeping things far cleaner than anything Amtrak offers. At 11:30, it may be difficult to enter a compartment discreetly. I spent some of the morning at a produce stall (they seem to be everywhere, while supermarkets are comparatively scarce) by my hotel, stocking back up on apples, cucumbers, and tomatoes to get me through the next day, along with the supplies I still have from Moscow. These trips are sort of like going on a series of brief camping trips with strangers, only there's no need to worry about the elements.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwib2LLlj9LUOd653FHV7pkdvYMNfvSdCZfwTRIAxw6z7vnzbDhENeCfN2HfqwFL728LbBsylHeBig6vd6MlTR8O0sLEJyPxGrvytlmuUs_6F6l9LujpXrnvKID0cmk74rQkG1OFu-Nds/s1600/Merchant.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwib2LLlj9LUOd653FHV7pkdvYMNfvSdCZfwTRIAxw6z7vnzbDhENeCfN2HfqwFL728LbBsylHeBig6vd6MlTR8O0sLEJyPxGrvytlmuUs_6F6l9LujpXrnvKID0cmk74rQkG1OFu-Nds/s640/Merchant.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Produce for sale in Yekaterinburg.</td></tr>
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I'll get to Irkutsk in two days and will be staying there and in a town called Listvyanka on the lake for a total of three nights. Tschuss!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-48936916810747637022013-08-07T02:25:00.001-07:002013-08-29T18:49:53.576-07:00First Leg: Moscow to Yekaterinburg<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rNCkcqrTBIxSFPht7otX-BuAYL4zyhyP2ZM-FubvGmKr-mWeW2QA-S2zjnjwzWnuKjBOcVJAJfC8c52zUxBYsRZoECZ7frfr3FDyvV5NFPgahfWCHo5u8JSxg-fmPy2muiB1ypwCTrY/s1600/Station.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rNCkcqrTBIxSFPht7otX-BuAYL4zyhyP2ZM-FubvGmKr-mWeW2QA-S2zjnjwzWnuKjBOcVJAJfC8c52zUxBYsRZoECZ7frfr3FDyvV5NFPgahfWCHo5u8JSxg-fmPy2muiB1ypwCTrY/s640/Station.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Farewell at Kazansky Station</td></tr>
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First of all, I should note that pictures will have to wait until I'm back in the States, unfortunately. I'm going to try and update my account at each stop, but no promises. The next entry should come from Novosibirsk, a couple days from now. To begin, I'll start at Kazansky Station in Moscow where, after several days getting over jetlag and skulking around Moscow with Cole Akeson, my old friend from Macalester, the real adventure began.</div>
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The care with which Cole and Inga, his Russian girlfriend tucked me into my cabin on the train at its very beginning drove home the scale of this journey. They probably understand the distance and conditions better than anyone else I've talked to since I hatched this plan last year, and they made sure I got exactly the right bunk and had my backpack safely stowed away beneath my cabin before taking their leave. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyl_cLbS1fiUfesinwv06QM5339K3kAc68zamPOoGz2IzR0CfDDAAU4BsEiRq47G050qgSsuCxB6aUIvE4WmFK6B3Z81enT02BGCD4LC4feLA4tGXY2oiSO1ybJkVgLAPsiWI69T5GwqE/s1600/Feet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyl_cLbS1fiUfesinwv06QM5339K3kAc68zamPOoGz2IzR0CfDDAAU4BsEiRq47G050qgSsuCxB6aUIvE4WmFK6B3Z81enT02BGCD4LC4feLA4tGXY2oiSO1ybJkVgLAPsiWI69T5GwqE/s640/Feet.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Settling in.</td></tr>
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Traveling in a second-class <em>kupe</em> involves getting comfortable with tight space. As befits someone who likes apartments and reads Napoleonic era naval fiction, I generally enjoy this sort of thing, but it would be very difficult to stay cooped up in a compartment for a week, which is the length of the journey if you go straight across from Moscow to Bejing. There are four bunks to a cabin, two below and two up top, with about as much space in-between as the width of another bunk. Generally, I spent a good deal of time on the first leg of the trip considering the relative merits of sitting upright, lying down, or curling up in a three-quarters position. I read the guidebook and a travel book that I brought along, <em>In Xanadu</em>, practically cover to cover, and also wrote up four separate entries in my journal. This urge occurred not because I had particularly interesting things to jot down, but because writing provided a welcome break from reading. I noted minor triumphs, such as discovering that the toiled flushed via a foot pedal, or that you have to press the bottom of the tap in the bathroom for water rather than fiddling with the knobs on the wall. I am actually a little concerned that I may run out of things to read, but since I have not yet broached <em>War and Peace</em>, it probably won't be a problem.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdM3A6bdtSVayyGxElualB2MRKPmfT2xE7PfgMzyY8Ows6qiYiHEaXR27vsZEy_DxFNHLEvpN2gkGkn0GZ6xTEPSPqZirUj9rnv_F9kLQUfnGiBCrRvxBn_bbr03fjT4EJ42qpMxe21u8/s1600/Ivan+and+Oleg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdM3A6bdtSVayyGxElualB2MRKPmfT2xE7PfgMzyY8Ows6qiYiHEaXR27vsZEy_DxFNHLEvpN2gkGkn0GZ6xTEPSPqZirUj9rnv_F9kLQUfnGiBCrRvxBn_bbr03fjT4EJ42qpMxe21u8/s640/Ivan+and+Oleg.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oleg and Ivan.</td></tr>
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Gradually, over the course of the first afternoon, I made the acquaintance of the other guys in my cabin. Across from me was a silent fellow whose name I never did catch, though he did extend a helping hand when I needed to prop up my bunk to get at my backpack. He spent the ride watching American action movies on his laptop and listening to his iPod, and he disappeared during the night as I dozed off. On the top bunks were two chattier characters, especially Oleg, who, along with his buddy Ivan, was off to Lake Baikal for eight days of backpacking around the shores. When the stewardess came by to take our orders for meals, these two helped decide what I should have, and then took me along to the restaurant car when it was time to actually eat. This carriage was deserted except for the second morning when a couple of young policemen sat at the table across from us. They avoided any eye contact and sat staring miserably out the window, on the verge of tears or a temper tantrum, I couldn't tell which. Nearby, the stewardess and her friends were carving a deliciously fresh watermelon into generous slices, which I eyed greedily, to little avail. Our own two restaurant meals consisted of meat, a grain (pasta or barley), and some canned vegetable, all floating in a sea of grease. At least it was filling. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47pfWWMq_yHMhm6Az6CVXnmcVUnhTnPOrABnMg-3iEVWFpGNx-QkNImr_H2cubR902ZQQEY6qRNl0vPIXl2KbzIeJoHzU3NM3tOBJZXotBaIMBGAkTleLa8c1jibJh4gZeWlKi0iupI8/s1600/Lunch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47pfWWMq_yHMhm6Az6CVXnmcVUnhTnPOrABnMg-3iEVWFpGNx-QkNImr_H2cubR902ZQQEY6qRNl0vPIXl2KbzIeJoHzU3NM3tOBJZXotBaIMBGAkTleLa8c1jibJh4gZeWlKi0iupI8/s640/Lunch.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yum.</td></tr>
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Cabin meals, by contrast, were much more pleasant. The second morning, having slept deeply until 9:30, I woke to some shifting around in the bunk on top of me. Oleg's legs were soon snaking down from above; next, he was encouraging me to join him for breakfast and asking if I wanted some hot water for tea from the samovar at the end of the corridor. Thanks to Cole and Inga, I was prepared with some food of my own, so we shared bread, sausage, cucumber, tomato, and some nuts and dried fruit. Between Ivan's Kindle's Russian-English translation capabilities and some shared rudimentary German, we established some basics of background and interests. By the afternoon, when the train stopped for a half-hour at a deserted station to attach a new engine, Oleg was escorting me around the platform as if I was a younger, foolish cousin. Ivan even gave me an ice-cream, one of a sack that he had purchased at a kiosk on the platform. For some reason, Russian ice cream doesn't seem to melt.</div>
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An hour or two later, after passing by more of the rolling, green forest that seems to be a mix of deciduous and conifers, we came to the Yekaterinburg Station. 1500 kilometers complete - the first of five legs. In all, it took about 27 hours. For the time being, I'm cooling my heels in cafes and wandering around town, trying to stay fully hydrated and well-fed to make the next stage of the train as pleasant as possible. I head off for Novosibirsk tonight around 6 PM. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2EUwuJfK4X_ITbMX4tRsJ0qOYefU6ZMWyi5ZkPMe4HT33CPlZQDTV6pj7OiDsMekWrNoLSR5Tzj8jHyi8404L2js_EvsVFgyBWhtBwqpmUpyhH3WrcknFB3AsyqIlS5Reoax_ftSVTo/s1600/View.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2EUwuJfK4X_ITbMX4tRsJ0qOYefU6ZMWyi5ZkPMe4HT33CPlZQDTV6pj7OiDsMekWrNoLSR5Tzj8jHyi8404L2js_EvsVFgyBWhtBwqpmUpyhH3WrcknFB3AsyqIlS5Reoax_ftSVTo/s640/View.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A brief stop near Yekaterinburg.</td></tr>
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A last note: I have never before visited a country where postcards are so scarce (plenty of magnets and Soviet-era pins, however). So, unfortunately, those of you whose addresses I asked for before my departure may not get anything in the mail after all.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLx5Ht1YtnV-ysySEGZbmwYiWr7_WmIGWKc_tu112n_G1GEgw4kIp-AzaXdcwgkeif1TqmdoHwb7m81AUH5-ErKGWnNYjcUEeWVkBArYnbC3C_KvVosYJG1B_nOT8JwhJ5dXtHIKG2qxc/s1600/Yekaterinburg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLx5Ht1YtnV-ysySEGZbmwYiWr7_WmIGWKc_tu112n_G1GEgw4kIp-AzaXdcwgkeif1TqmdoHwb7m81AUH5-ErKGWnNYjcUEeWVkBArYnbC3C_KvVosYJG1B_nOT8JwhJ5dXtHIKG2qxc/s640/Yekaterinburg.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In front of the Yekaterinburg city hall.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-40556863225811357112013-07-01T07:52:00.001-07:002013-07-03T11:08:17.807-07:00Apple and Aggregate Demand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJin_WudjBNRxT2Jq60F73jmW7e-xX2BPHc6uwqppMQay0bUOiEPrHMFvVR1_fgxtsZHuXWd_0vSRoTV11pwnA9tvlTwZY9FH6shZq9TrRB-PT79-8AWILVdyysMnoUBj1dH1JKMJIuU/s605/washington.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJin_WudjBNRxT2Jq60F73jmW7e-xX2BPHc6uwqppMQay0bUOiEPrHMFvVR1_fgxtsZHuXWd_0vSRoTV11pwnA9tvlTwZY9FH6shZq9TrRB-PT79-8AWILVdyysMnoUBj1dH1JKMJIuU/s400/washington.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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A couple of weeks ago, I came across two articles that I found in combination to make about the most insightful point about sociology and economics that I’ve seen in a couple months. The first was a post on the website AtlanticCities.com that displayed the geography of cellphone use in several major American cities, comparing iPhone and Android users (Blackberry, too, but they barely show up). In <a href="http://www.theatlanticcities.com/jobs-and-economy/2013/06/map-iphone-users-any-city-and-you-know-where-rich-live/5961/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">these maps</a>, the red dots are iPhone users and green Android.</div>
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The correlation between affluence and choice of phone, as author Emily Badger points out, is strongly positive. For instance, iPhones are common in Northwest DC, while Androids turn up in great numbers in Prince Georges County. </div>
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I don’t know a lot about the functionality of either gadget, but they both seem to satisfy the basic requirements for a Smartphone, while Apple has a major advantage in style and cachet, much as their computers do over PCs. Whatever their incremental advantages in capability, iPhones do not on their own warrant the enormous premium that consumers are willing to pay. In short, iPhones – like Apple products in general – convincingly demonstrate the limitations of economic rationality. </div>
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As luck would have it, Paul Krugman published <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/21/opinion/krugman-profits-without-production.html?_r=0" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">an op-ed</a> about Apple a couple days after the AtlanticCities post made the rounds on Facebook. Krugman is interested in the reasons why economic recovery has been so slow, and in this particular column he ruminates about how our recent crisis, while quite similar to a couple of other depressions in the twentieth century, might be different. He suggests that in Apple’s case, its profits have more to do with market dominance than actual investments in production (this observation would not have applied several years ago). Unlike earlier corporate giants – GM is Krugman’s example – Apple employs a tiny number of American workers. Even though plenty of Chinese people do manufacture the parts, their take, as well as that of their employers, is marginal. Apple, however, reaps extraordinary profits because their market allows them to divorce the price for their products from their costs.</div>
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In short, Apple no longer really needs to compete with products like Android to remain in a dominant position. While this will likely have devastating effects for the company over the long term – eventually it will be superceded by a scrappy competitor that takes the risks that Apple eschews – in the meantime, Apple sits on a vast pile of cash that would have a stimulative effect if the company was compelled to invest it. The longer middle and upper-income consumers succumb to marketing and peer pressure, however, the longer Apple can delay putting its reserves to work.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-59821180689272995932013-04-13T15:48:00.004-07:002013-04-13T17:58:10.141-07:00The Warped Geography of Game of Thrones<!--StartFragment-->
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I am devoted to Game of Thrones. Somewhere,
deep within my imagination, it strokes an enduring fantasy of achieving order
through medieval valor and romance. This is an old fascination of mine that was
most fully realized during my childhood through the Narnia and Lord of the
Rings books. Though the plot and characters in these series held an appeal, it
was their nuanced place-making that captured me for good. As the stories unfolded,
their landscapes became as fully formed as any character (more so in the case
of Lord of the Rings, in which nearly all the members of the Fellowship are one-dimensional). Consider <u>The Last Battle</u>, C.S. Lewis’
conclusion to the seven-part series, when the remaining Pevensie children romp
across nearly the entire length of Narnia as they transcend death and ascend to
Aslan’s country, an allegory for heaven.</div>
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Game of Thrones is heir to this fantasy tradition of
geomorphological complexity, though R.R. Martin’s motive is purely to
entertain. The HBO series makes an explicitly geographical appeal to its
audience through its title sequence, a fevered birds-eye journey across
whichever cities figure prominently in a particular episode. The modeling of
the landscape is exquisite, with cities that literally unfurl before the
viewer’s eyes, while the inverted curvature of the land is shrewdly bizarre.
Most intriguingly, viewers are treated to sights of new cities, as the close-up
of the map of Westeros and its twin continent across the Narrow Sea, Essos,
shifts from one episode to the next. I am usually up and about during title
sequences, but I watch closely during Game of Thrones for new landmarks. </div>
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Curiously, the basic geography of the worlds in these three
enormously popular series is consistent in its elemental form, both
physical and cultural. The heroes of each story – Starks, Pevensies, hobbitses
– share a deep attachment to some territory in the northwestern reaches of the
known continents. In these cool, stimulating latitudes, existence is simple,
modest, and just. Food is abundant but wealth not too excessive, while
spiritual fulfillment is within reach if characters attend to community and
religion. To the south and east, however, lie treacherous lands, where dusky
inhabitants are primitive and hedonistic, yet skilled in warfare.
Calormen and its perfidious Tisrocs and Tarkaans become the chief villains in
the later Narnia books, while Khal Drogo and his savage Dothraki horde menace
Westeros in Game of Thrones. Beyond Mordor, itself occupying the southeast
corner of Tolkien’s map of Middle-Earth, live the Haradrim, who wear turbans
and fight atop M<span style="color: #3a3a3a;">û</span>makil, a larger, more
aggressive cousin to the elephant. </div>
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Many observers flatly accuse the creators of these stories of racism. I prefer to emphasize the role that environmental
determinism, the simplistic but alluring notion that human temperament and
behavior is shaped by physical geography, plays in constructing an inherently problematic setting. The concept has an ancient, resilient
history. Aristotle theorized about the existence of frigid, temperate, and torrid
zones, speculating that humans could only survive in temperate regions. These
ideas became particularly prominent among western academics in the nineteenth
and early twentieth century, when leading geographers Friedrich Ratzel, Ellen
Churchill Semple, and Ellsworth Huntington developed a counterfeit scholarship
of determinism to buttress the systemic racism upon which western imperialism
rested. </div>
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Given the context that Tolkien and Lewis wrote in, it is not
surprising that their stories reflect underlying white anxieties about
decolonization and the world order. However, in recreating their basic
geography, particularly its cultural aspects, Game of Thrones perpetuates these discredited, corrosive theories of racial hierarchy. Their subtlety makes them
all the more insidious. No doubt, for a white viewer like myself, the show’s
geography appeals to the insecurities fostered by our deeply engrained
discourse of race. When the reign of Robert Baratheon, King of Westeros at the
beginning of the first season, dissolves in a haze of drink, whores, and boar
hunting, the geographic origin of his downfall is implicit. King’s Landing,
the capital, is a humid, languid place, home to a scheming elite and its
wretched underclass. Living in so permissive a clime, the once lean and fierce
king naturally succumbs to his baser
instincts.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-16509891897491853272012-09-08T13:24:00.000-07:002012-09-08T13:24:14.085-07:00Popery and Tweed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ireland! At times like this, I wish I had four stomachs. Between Belfast and Dublin, we drove across Northern Ireland to County Donegal, the northern outpost of the Republic. It was once part of Ulster, but like two other counties in the old province, it became part of the Republic because most of its inhabitants were Catholic around the time of independence. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixIRFWLkqzV9ZE1G-psJnuIWtkZIoEABU4GJ82SFHshajeYEgfp17-JoR5CUZL_7DnmUrV6xG9ZLnMxKFZRAAZgoJoP1CCe-3TWPez4q6jf6UWIV7af6j9KAUa-dDQYUN-Ab7Y-hi0Uh0/s1600/Fields.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixIRFWLkqzV9ZE1G-psJnuIWtkZIoEABU4GJ82SFHshajeYEgfp17-JoR5CUZL_7DnmUrV6xG9ZLnMxKFZRAAZgoJoP1CCe-3TWPez4q6jf6UWIV7af6j9KAUa-dDQYUN-Ab7Y-hi0Uh0/s400/Fields.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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This hilltop, just west of Derry, is the site of a Celtic fort called Grianan Ailigh. Apparently the name means stone fort. The restored structure is a only simple stone ring perhaps 150 feet in diameter, but apparently it was significant enough in the second century to be included in Ptolemy's world map. The earliest fort was built in 1700 BC. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_O6CTj_vyG92SXH6dd1wfl64e0bA8zad_uiOA2PPyLwfVD7T71A1ls7wO0aV6QpVAFNGQBqZrH40WNnBW7Jdu2yortJhlK_U-tqrJXc3OTTj6puJzX9bP4Xi18TMDjblfuK1ejB9kPg/s1600/Town.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_O6CTj_vyG92SXH6dd1wfl64e0bA8zad_uiOA2PPyLwfVD7T71A1ls7wO0aV6QpVAFNGQBqZrH40WNnBW7Jdu2yortJhlK_U-tqrJXc3OTTj6puJzX9bP4Xi18TMDjblfuK1ejB9kPg/s400/Town.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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This is the village of Ardara, which is known for woolen textiles. Donegal is fairly rugged country, swarming with sheep. I found myself a lovely tweed vest that still smells of mutton.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTG7S0Fx0fGA26ZCZL9zqj9TLrlzPjSLJQjK5HTBI-nHDRWsHi-qaRJVTiPGl42Qi9SCRE57YGDSAm2bRd9mHxXdrE_0ywwzZPlr2F40TPkVp_BetUjxdbYDcjZ_FWqizmjIzuxnUNLw/s1600/Weaver.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTG7S0Fx0fGA26ZCZL9zqj9TLrlzPjSLJQjK5HTBI-nHDRWsHi-qaRJVTiPGl42Qi9SCRE57YGDSAm2bRd9mHxXdrE_0ywwzZPlr2F40TPkVp_BetUjxdbYDcjZ_FWqizmjIzuxnUNLw/s400/Weaver.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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This fellow was working in the upstairs of factory in the tiny village of Killybegs. His son is a fisherman in Gloucester. He was quite a chatty fellow and happy to be photographed. The exposure is overly long but at least you can get a sense of the shuttle's movement on the loom.</div>
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Destined to become a blanket. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0YweipnAoTH6iwYnNXZYnLD_fteUhns4JHgXSAdyvWYvhzEg-CXrYzV32WWu7d_4m2d_UGLXGSNWrI-pCw1t3_KrhP8KixT3iTYvwX4hQkcx0kRNfP2hCZ_F7c-z7Hu1h5djs5n-YHc/s1600/Slieve+League.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0YweipnAoTH6iwYnNXZYnLD_fteUhns4JHgXSAdyvWYvhzEg-CXrYzV32WWu7d_4m2d_UGLXGSNWrI-pCw1t3_KrhP8KixT3iTYvwX4hQkcx0kRNfP2hCZ_F7c-z7Hu1h5djs5n-YHc/s400/Slieve+League.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div>
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We stayed in a b & b on Muckross Head, on the north shore of Donegal Bay. Behind me is Slieve League, the biggest coastal cliff in Europe. Christopher and I had hoped to climb it, but the weather was wetter than we were willing to endure. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAmrlF48ivs3vd8tf4yCctday-u7_1emt73FJ0IJgJIiM1kSBe_5PxfZME2Jo7L38IcXynXzpt-ZvGfyULHywS8UOtv6DJakJU_H3CA1y4JD8REoZMFyL7Gk7iwz14AZJ5hu4jV1qdGo/s1600/Cave.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAmrlF48ivs3vd8tf4yCctday-u7_1emt73FJ0IJgJIiM1kSBe_5PxfZME2Jo7L38IcXynXzpt-ZvGfyULHywS8UOtv6DJakJU_H3CA1y4JD8REoZMFyL7Gk7iwz14AZJ5hu4jV1qdGo/s400/Cave.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div>
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Tide was luckily out when we inspected the tip of the head. Our b & b was on the peninsula on the right of the photograph below. </div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-11308433206973268262012-09-02T15:21:00.002-07:002012-09-02T15:23:04.704-07:00Viaduc Millau<!--StartFragment-->
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ndbFaIgyultDxz_6NB_-zXfmzAHZD4IzW3gOBF14oBZZUjNZmXWlVyoWH4qbQmOtNSr0MqdEkv-tyySuHL_fcKKn-0T6244CSKY45QaghxuyX27cv3AZkkAi-zQeO2IkuEaUJq3VEHw/s1600/IMG_5686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ndbFaIgyultDxz_6NB_-zXfmzAHZD4IzW3gOBF14oBZZUjNZmXWlVyoWH4qbQmOtNSr0MqdEkv-tyySuHL_fcKKn-0T6244CSKY45QaghxuyX27cv3AZkkAi-zQeO2IkuEaUJq3VEHw/s400/IMG_5686.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div>
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While staying in the Corrèze this summer, I took our rental
car out for a spin through the Massif Central and, eventually, south to the Viaduc
Millau. It was a good deal longer of a drive than I anticipated but well worth
it. Remembering the splash it made in international news pages when it opened
in 2004, I particularly wanted to see the bridge. Until then, the Tarn Valley
in southern France slowed traffic between Paris and the Mediterranean
tremendously, as its walls are so steep that cars could only descend and ascend
on steep switchbacks. Now, he viaduct simply leaps a mile and a half across the
gorge. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BYdedH1vdZP_oZ1WgsBCuMO71dGkIOdjf-sVvcgyhP2CmDiyTCgkpTnSE2cEV2AiJtLpSNmQOr3ZYLaXL96ftdhSXQqTpStHGa-mltx38CShDGRVUfvX3bkmM9yYjOYmMhUWXh4SRE8/s1600/IMG_5693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BYdedH1vdZP_oZ1WgsBCuMO71dGkIOdjf-sVvcgyhP2CmDiyTCgkpTnSE2cEV2AiJtLpSNmQOr3ZYLaXL96ftdhSXQqTpStHGa-mltx38CShDGRVUfvX3bkmM9yYjOYmMhUWXh4SRE8/s400/IMG_5693.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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While it is difficult to appreciate the height of the bridge
in person because of the scale of the surrounding landscape, it is the tallest
in the world (though other spans cross deeper chasms). The piers rise higher
than the Eiffel Tower.</div>
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Its symmetry, gentle curve, and white color give the bridge
an almost dreamlike quality. It is slender and elegant. Apparently there was
some concern that motorists, distracted by the architecture or blinded by fog,
would be prone to accidents on the bridge.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYMzOO7zZbQk8N4ZUq_09FB-wzBkp9cOisSgJwBTmwQdQLVK8oUA8U19oBelmrwiEiS7Qu9cBK1MgGPDrt7HErYSsuVgeHbh18eNjT0UnKkBbV5lV0_hQfT3PEJzmzDC0z_ZBu8Wzv6TQ/s1600/IMG_5700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYMzOO7zZbQk8N4ZUq_09FB-wzBkp9cOisSgJwBTmwQdQLVK8oUA8U19oBelmrwiEiS7Qu9cBK1MgGPDrt7HErYSsuVgeHbh18eNjT0UnKkBbV5lV0_hQfT3PEJzmzDC0z_ZBu8Wzv6TQ/s400/IMG_5700.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The architect was Norman Foster, but the engineers were
French, to the pride of the locals. The bridge cost 400 million Euros to
construct; the toll to cross was 7 Euros. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghPSckfa8WRXhQW3R36dXS_-UxRuGEtB9VsLxKo9MquOpURv0BJENgIf32LMIMDehAPaxE7oi1H32pzSNKgFL38zJbsEmmEwmxhq8TWvCwa6eiOur74s5fVgu2bBZLEGje1GAfqF1HQiI/s1600/IMG_5694.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghPSckfa8WRXhQW3R36dXS_-UxRuGEtB9VsLxKo9MquOpURv0BJENgIf32LMIMDehAPaxE7oi1H32pzSNKgFL38zJbsEmmEwmxhq8TWvCwa6eiOur74s5fVgu2bBZLEGje1GAfqF1HQiI/s400/IMG_5694.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333412936399268749.post-45850750494386477802012-08-21T14:30:00.000-07:002015-03-25T09:52:38.815-07:00The Troubles Writ Large<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYujZ0FTciwv2viZxEQLEJFMD1_z3yvMB2L_h-246Nnl45LgfnBfr7DgLtEzhQ9WR_2JLjImYwOQSSeCxN2zk93C1m_OFa4YlpxjE6zNWsCwzvTnTCrKl7EkbopHW8M4dyl-xWndrcLXI/s1600/IMG_5784.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYujZ0FTciwv2viZxEQLEJFMD1_z3yvMB2L_h-246Nnl45LgfnBfr7DgLtEzhQ9WR_2JLjImYwOQSSeCxN2zk93C1m_OFa4YlpxjE6zNWsCwzvTnTCrKl7EkbopHW8M4dyl-xWndrcLXI/s400/IMG_5784.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I recently spent a few days in Belfast, an austere and
shabby city that is nonetheless in its best shape in a half-century. Tensions
between Unionists and Republicans still run high, but the violence that wracked
Northern Ireland for so long is over, at least for now.</div>
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The conflict has dramatically affected the city’s physical
landscape, especially in the poorer Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods that
directly abut each other. Both groups use murals, as political propaganda and to relieve the drab expanses of brick that characterize
much of the city’s housing stock. Let’s start with Sandy Row, a Unionist
stronghold only a stone’s throw from the pubs and gin palaces frequented by the
students at Queen’s University.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB50K1Ab3r-8rKEPIVr1-moFqRc1KF7F_4DZiSEx9P7j0030wczdEbeHzKawmULBSBaWJpkXwXpwUqy1bGg9gvKinL85wB16vNGuLZzn-4pC9WlBT5psAqxZUw4Z4DU44D2SQQUDIZpVY/s1600/Queen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB50K1Ab3r-8rKEPIVr1-moFqRc1KF7F_4DZiSEx9P7j0030wczdEbeHzKawmULBSBaWJpkXwXpwUqy1bGg9gvKinL85wB16vNGuLZzn-4pC9WlBT5psAqxZUw4Z4DU44D2SQQUDIZpVY/s400/Queen.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNTCkVbxJ7C3vmNVFL4vHUiC1P-ri-4hRpkaazhW-Ti2nJuiuq_1qE1vmUD2dPQKtbbCi0nvb0eMqY1_MTDvFt6E78yP5WbkfbvpFX2toVoxCKniFPzm1mDI3qgGfpLhCXlF0samYJdQ/s1600/King+Billy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNTCkVbxJ7C3vmNVFL4vHUiC1P-ri-4hRpkaazhW-Ti2nJuiuq_1qE1vmUD2dPQKtbbCi0nvb0eMqY1_MTDvFt6E78yP5WbkfbvpFX2toVoxCKniFPzm1mDI3qgGfpLhCXlF0samYJdQ/s400/King+Billy.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The Unionists, who have festooned their neighborhood with
Union Jacks, revere Queen Elizabeth for obvious reasons, but the ubiquity of
William of Orange in their murals seemed more obscure until I remembered that
he quashed hopes for Irish independence at the Battle of Boyne. The above shot of the
Queen is intended to suggest how down-at-heels the neighborhood is. The
architecture is typical of UK “estate” housing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8i0J0Twl1ZYSnuFHEWk-JzyTq3nz67YBx9RMpn7Fglwm9Qheg3lcz7ZIe7qCe_vxS-Rt97vJVUWoCOKC-7VdtH2XLRy8midFOYgEZnHKX3EVuiiXG_YZupJjHEfllBlkxPAtbGPrKM0Y/s1600/Martyrs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8i0J0Twl1ZYSnuFHEWk-JzyTq3nz67YBx9RMpn7Fglwm9Qheg3lcz7ZIe7qCe_vxS-Rt97vJVUWoCOKC-7VdtH2XLRy8midFOYgEZnHKX3EVuiiXG_YZupJjHEfllBlkxPAtbGPrKM0Y/s400/Martyrs.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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These four paramilitary members are Protestant martyrs,
memorialized here along the Shankill road, which is separated from downtown
Belfast by an entrenched highway (similar to the Cross-Bronx Expressway,
actually). Shankill Road gave its name to the eponymous Butchers, a gang that
tortured Catholics (and a few Protestants) with butcher knives before killing them.
Most members were caught and put away, but the leader, Lenny Murphy, evaded
capture until a Provisional IRA hit squad got him. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUcJLiufBrgwAKacPCtNnpL7s2WWMrmrcRpA9sRwL7gnmdX-xaPyik_4KCaKsZaWnwEHcFTDc5mL8uhARg2tDiUoRKVXaNqroavoAQzBnlZt5G3s7TM1x1kk0SuaIAVCZIWFGM7sfWFg/s1600/Red+Hands.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUcJLiufBrgwAKacPCtNnpL7s2WWMrmrcRpA9sRwL7gnmdX-xaPyik_4KCaKsZaWnwEHcFTDc5mL8uhARg2tDiUoRKVXaNqroavoAQzBnlZt5G3s7TM1x1kk0SuaIAVCZIWFGM7sfWFg/s400/Red+Hands.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The Red Hand is a symbol of Ulster that is traced back to
Gaelic culture and the O’Neill clan, who were the last Catholics to rule the
area until they fled in 1607 to seek help from the Spanish against the English
invaders. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6OoOHmAoDGfS9i17CION4qdODP2xhH1RY2Z8GWJu_pu9BTG4OEwa9tvgeClXJnCrg4otk3zENA5EnEd6qs0LeyzvVPEfp3aQkA3eUuxxLdvVUuIJi3EQUYX_QbfKoH0saQwx8TJP0IDE/s1600/Peace+Line.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6OoOHmAoDGfS9i17CION4qdODP2xhH1RY2Z8GWJu_pu9BTG4OEwa9tvgeClXJnCrg4otk3zENA5EnEd6qs0LeyzvVPEfp3aQkA3eUuxxLdvVUuIJi3EQUYX_QbfKoH0saQwx8TJP0IDE/s400/Peace+Line.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The Peace Line, as the wall running behind these houses is called, divides Shankill
from the Catholic Falls Road neighborhood. First built to provide a temporary
reprieve from the violence that erupted in the sixties, it has endured. Belfast
has recently opened more gates in the wall, and there is serious talk about
dismantling it altogether. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjIT8cQmSnfG476ep7iGsvqMZMhQjh-d9QfRWSGD0mWdLFDZ54fD4u4dWB230MHmAJ5uf9hDxJDWL8aa5UW9EWmU0WAiTnALHsZnn3Ou8hR0E9jw7O4LigSXC9yqqSzfvKbO7JirTo0S0/s1600/IRA+PLO.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjIT8cQmSnfG476ep7iGsvqMZMhQjh-d9QfRWSGD0mWdLFDZ54fD4u4dWB230MHmAJ5uf9hDxJDWL8aa5UW9EWmU0WAiTnALHsZnn3Ou8hR0E9jw7O4LigSXC9yqqSzfvKbO7JirTo0S0/s400/IRA+PLO.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGWDRc3916lGO6k0fXgkmRYYRddt33dyDFulv3JvGxHL3_Uidku9vz74h7iwvIGmMmbvKW-1RdAUutm0d6WrcNp8WwUOqstvaaxUdqksV0qsKP0xGVZXG81KlxBPt-HSfPAgWttFL_zfI/s1600/Douglas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGWDRc3916lGO6k0fXgkmRYYRddt33dyDFulv3JvGxHL3_Uidku9vz74h7iwvIGmMmbvKW-1RdAUutm0d6WrcNp8WwUOqstvaaxUdqksV0qsKP0xGVZXG81KlxBPt-HSfPAgWttFL_zfI/s400/Douglas.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The murals on Falls Road are more sophisticated artistically
than those of the Unionists and, to my mind, more effective as propaganda. They
aim to justify the Republican cause by emphasizing persecution and expressing
commonality with other liberation movements. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPQ7xBNBIujyRNzGRuLUigCEwD2PlkZsopJ-7w16dA5Y4EGD_GIqZ4GCBV5dBtYpJyZHNQLhLF860DvsI5tZh2KqfcPioyTaJI0hyphenhyphenunQ42XY4y_KAcpOqZ2zQ9zS29Hc45fbPvuffr1U/s1600/Bobby.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPQ7xBNBIujyRNzGRuLUigCEwD2PlkZsopJ-7w16dA5Y4EGD_GIqZ4GCBV5dBtYpJyZHNQLhLF860DvsI5tZh2KqfcPioyTaJI0hyphenhyphenunQ42XY4y_KAcpOqZ2zQ9zS29Hc45fbPvuffr1U/s400/Bobby.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Bobby Sands was a Republican martyr who died on a hunger
strike to protest the UK’s failure to treat IRA inmates as political prisoners.
Eleven other men met the same fate. Subsequently, the UK changed its policy.</div>
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These next shots are from Derry, near the border with the
Republic on the north coast. Derry is much smaller than Belfast but was another
site of conflict during the Troubles. Bloody Sunday, in which British
paratroopers killed thirteen unarmed Catholic marchers in 1972, took place
here. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn34E2z4Piz4WRB0qYzc9Zi2oiIWI_LuAz3f1HxNz55n5J6kxFQSbXXQR6OdHW6mI0DCwR0yCYbn1WWz8e6AqByOUb4uxfw5Ak5LNOZ-ylwJlO0Yj6Roe0EjpoBsGTVOlz7RWaFccFS40/s1600/Derry.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn34E2z4Piz4WRB0qYzc9Zi2oiIWI_LuAz3f1HxNz55n5J6kxFQSbXXQR6OdHW6mI0DCwR0yCYbn1WWz8e6AqByOUb4uxfw5Ak5LNOZ-ylwJlO0Yj6Roe0EjpoBsGTVOlz7RWaFccFS40/s400/Derry.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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From the old city walls, I took these shots of the Bogside,
one of the city’s Catholic quarters. As you can see by the architecture, it is
a working-class place, and for a couple of years in the early seventies, it was
beyond the reach of the UK security forces. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCjAj5i82CKP5YULOsVyQhBeTWTpfjkb2Wdq80ljJeXLShx7hUQFiHnjFXzYpj2bcV07RRYoxURHZ3XPhOZjZM4MQJcBVkBs8cWBF7_V9xCO0gGypHSNLJ0iNZRwsPdQSEqqwji4reo8/s1600/Free+Derry.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCjAj5i82CKP5YULOsVyQhBeTWTpfjkb2Wdq80ljJeXLShx7hUQFiHnjFXzYpj2bcV07RRYoxURHZ3XPhOZjZM4MQJcBVkBs8cWBF7_V9xCO0gGypHSNLJ0iNZRwsPdQSEqqwji4reo8/s400/Free+Derry.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The woman holding the microphone, Bernadette Devlin, was a
Republican MP from the area in the seventies. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhkV-1wCzlSPLg6kkkuCuWt67j8umFjrzVZA-qtEN5ooUYOygdl-8Ck5ENtr96oc4k29t3_-2tsZAKEeUaB9E_7VdBOrepXF8l153vbC1P8vvQIBlltf2-h5IvYmki38VsdT3G8kvIqo/s1600/McGavigan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhkV-1wCzlSPLg6kkkuCuWt67j8umFjrzVZA-qtEN5ooUYOygdl-8Ck5ENtr96oc4k29t3_-2tsZAKEeUaB9E_7VdBOrepXF8l153vbC1P8vvQIBlltf2-h5IvYmki38VsdT3G8kvIqo/s400/McGavigan.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The schoolgirl is Annette McGavigan, a fourteen year old who
was caught in crossfire in 1971. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh06afq3vI97MtWt467qdSLUE8G6jH4yOdqDEnegF8PML9NGrkFSAYLE1mY98rO3rpY3F6eXSkRlX-FZ_l6QDkezIbfjEQpS6boJ4gqmW57nZ9NbtHkWudSWu1OdcGIq1sEUJcHExtiIT0/s1600/Trooper.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh06afq3vI97MtWt467qdSLUE8G6jH4yOdqDEnegF8PML9NGrkFSAYLE1mY98rO3rpY3F6eXSkRlX-FZ_l6QDkezIbfjEQpS6boJ4gqmW57nZ9NbtHkWudSWu1OdcGIq1sEUJcHExtiIT0/s400/Trooper.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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A British soldier breaks down a door during Operation
Motorman, the 1972 campaign that allowed UK forces to take control of the Bogside.
They subsequently leveled much of the housing close to the downtown and
replaced it with far more porous structures, as you can observe in the picture
of the Bogside. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkCBuDwfk05K40k30rRbTnJaSlkSkAhWGqJh1mANZdfmVcx-H7vuJTBFwTl_C8z0n68zpjuHdTpCGeOG4hSeWa8KnYNoAWT7t4fclA4QDB9Uh4mzsarI2rtj_tmXXakAqNHqQpNidQbXo/s1600/Saracen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkCBuDwfk05K40k30rRbTnJaSlkSkAhWGqJh1mANZdfmVcx-H7vuJTBFwTl_C8z0n68zpjuHdTpCGeOG4hSeWa8KnYNoAWT7t4fclA4QDB9Uh4mzsarI2rtj_tmXXakAqNHqQpNidQbXo/s400/Saracen.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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A boy faces off against a British Saracen
armored vehicle. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_rffhLrlcHEGR6fMpIsPVIp6QPTdrKF1PjehK1DGs8jLvKo0qHPMMYqvO8lQ_hMbMDFNU2lZVSZC4knkKq03s_heT7VFC-xBsHVq10OvUBwDSuw0M1yZscLGn94bos8sxpzsg8GajTCQ/s1600/Police.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_rffhLrlcHEGR6fMpIsPVIp6QPTdrKF1PjehK1DGs8jLvKo0qHPMMYqvO8lQ_hMbMDFNU2lZVSZC4knkKq03s_heT7VFC-xBsHVq10OvUBwDSuw0M1yZscLGn94bos8sxpzsg8GajTCQ/s400/Police.JPG" height="260" width="400" /></a></div>
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In this shot, back in Belfast, you can make out a police
car. Note how a sort of modern chain mail extends down from the sides of the car nearly to the ground, protecting the chassis. This adaptation is to guard the undercarriage against Molotov cocktails.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVkUJz1Gzgd1GT3S83khFtRWn56L4_RzORLReCM_ub5G-DpVU1o-Y9kRU-_ackVsc8xwQZOEnuZSaRasz8lVNA9MFekOLcTpFeX1Nqc6PayhrWD-URwvnI7FPSx25_sJEA3CXHgnm76ng/s1600/Bird.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVkUJz1Gzgd1GT3S83khFtRWn56L4_RzORLReCM_ub5G-DpVU1o-Y9kRU-_ackVsc8xwQZOEnuZSaRasz8lVNA9MFekOLcTpFeX1Nqc6PayhrWD-URwvnI7FPSx25_sJEA3CXHgnm76ng/s400/Bird.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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As my presence suggests, the murals have gained a new
function as tourist sites. Tour buses actually blocked me from photographing
some of the murals along Falls Road. The city is still poor, especially in
contrast to bustling Dublin, which I visited later on in the week, but it is
safe. I watched several British and Irish athletes compete on a big screen by
the city hall, and although the crowds were substantial, cheering seemed
consciously muted. There was some trouble in Derry a few days before we arrived
– offense was given to a Catholic storekeeper on a Protestant march – but no
blows were exchanged. I hope the truce endures. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLych6LQVu89ge2TV9StkpqYMXCW1Chsvw-y0PXupQMadqSxH88oijIWbLfL3OrFeEzOOBFlL_RH9SP-L3diB0rfm60wWo7aY-Pqn-bkiQRnejFUIj9zWu63cLb3Y2Y9U42D47UtveZkA/s1600/IMG_5822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLych6LQVu89ge2TV9StkpqYMXCW1Chsvw-y0PXupQMadqSxH88oijIWbLfL3OrFeEzOOBFlL_RH9SP-L3diB0rfm60wWo7aY-Pqn-bkiQRnejFUIj9zWu63cLb3Y2Y9U42D47UtveZkA/s400/IMG_5822.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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