Street Art in the Cherrywood Neighborhood

As a follow-up to my last post, here are some rather less controversial examples of street art in my Cherrywood neighborhood, an enclave of grad students and young families on the western edge of the East Side. The artist has painted over the Neighborhood Watch signs. I like the color and cheekiness, and also that the artist is content to anonymously adorn the local neigborhood.


To me, Austin's charm lies mainly in those of its residential neighborhoods that maintain an unassuming and relaxed atmosphere.


I took this photo in the Blackland neighborhood, a few blocks to the south. What a vehicle!

Gentrification and Weirdness in Austin

There are many blue college towns in mostly red states, but people in Austin are particularly aware of their plight. In the 2004 election, Travis County was one of a handful in Texas that Kerry carried. The city’s motto, “Keep Austin Weird,” is partially a commentary on the perceived homogeneity of the rest of the state, while also referring to the city’s status as a center for hippies, alternative country music, and racial openness during the sixties and seventies.

In 1984, Michael Dell began selling computers out of the Dobie Center, UT’s skyscraper dormitory that looks as if it belongs on the set of Blade Runner. Nine years later, he moved the company to Round Rock, a northern suburb, where it matured into one of the largest corporations in America.

Austin has experienced enormous growth since Dell expanded the city’s economy beyond the administrative and academic spheres. Austin is not a town with a rich legacy of historical architecture, but even so, the proliferation of one-story houses in sprawling suburbs is remarkable. The city has made some sustained attempts to foster tighter development, including preserving the marvelous riverside Zilker Park and, more recently, building a light rail line between the northern suburbs and downtown, but opposition to zoning is so vehement that development continues apace. The most rampant construction has occurred to the west of the city, in the Hill Country, where views and lake access have drawn many of Austin’s wealthiest citizens. Meanwhile, on the East Side, in a geographic region known as the Blackland Prairie due to its rich soil, property values have until recently stayed quite low, despite the excellent access to downtown. The inhabitants were mainly black and Latino.

City-wide property values rose so high, however (housing prices have fallen less in Austin than in most cities; there is little evidence of recession here), that some affluent Austinites, especially those with a taste for the urban and hip, began pushing into new real estate territory. Their energy is transforming the city. A bevy of new condominiums, as tall as anything on the skyline, have ascended over the past two years, leading locals to quip that the town bird is “the crane.” They are thickest in an area near the river known as the Warehouse District, which has outlived its appellation and centers on a cluster of new retail developments, including the headquarters of Whole Foods.

Meanwhile, the East Side is transforming, lot by lot, into a center for contemporary architecture. Dusty old Victorian shacks sit across the street from plastic and glass cubist creations. While the money that has moved into the downtown condos is ostentatious, the East Side has acquired a hipster veneer. Tattooed bicyclists wait in line at East Side Pies, while old black folks eat barbecue in the shade outside Louie’s on MLK.

These two new housing trends have caused quite a bit of consternation among native Austinites. Concentrated housing is demonstrably healthy for so sprawled and parched a city, but on the other hand, the locals like their yards, and they resent the nouveau-riche atmosphere around the condos. On the East Side, things are uglier due to the racial and class nature of the competition. A number of graffiti have appeared, warning yuppie whites to keep out, but migration has not been staunched. The new light rail, which was built on an existing right-of-way, actually travels through the East Side, oddly missing such obvious destinations as the University due to its eastern arc. It is, however, attracting new development to the East Side, as new condo complexes, with their signature New Urbanist combination of commercial and residential space, are springing up around stations such as the rather conscientiously named Saltillo Plaza.

It has been intriguing to watch white Austinites, usually a very proud species, struggle to reconcile the tensions between their liberal impulses toward environmentalism, multiculturalism, and fairness that are, in this instance, competing. My own feelings are that while gentrification is causing a great deal of disruption on the East Side, it benefits those locals who are willing to sell out, since the property values are now so high. Austin is a surprisingly segregated city, and the mixing that is going on among blacks, whites, and Latinos, is probably a good thing, though it may be short-lived. Change is inevitable; stasis is impossible, though that does not condemn the East Side to becoming an enclave for the rich and hip.

In any case, Austin may have been “weird” back before Michael Dell got started in Dobie, but these days, it faces the same raft of challenges as all other western American cities that are coming of age. Last November, Obama managed to capture Harris (home to Houston) and Dallas Counties, as well as a wide swathe of counties in the Rio Grande Valley, but Austinites almost seemed miffed that the blue of Travis County was not alone in a sea of red.

The Guadalupes

In mid-May, I spent a few days in the Guadalupe Mountains and Carlsbad Caverns to kick off the post-Masters era (let us hope that my affinity for blogging revives). Tom Barnett, with whom I traveled to Big Bend after the fall semester, joined me, while Professor William Doolittle came along in spirit.


Guadalupe Peak is the highest summit in Texas. Like the Chisos Range in Big Bend, its ecosystem changes with elevation, becoming far wetter and more forested as one ascends.


I hiked to the Basin shortly after we set up camp. It is the only area in the range high and flat enough to support alpine meadows.


We camped at a site called Pine Top, about 8000 feet high and across the valley from "Guad" Peak. I did not bring enough water and spent a rather parched night.


The next morning we descended and drove west, passing some salt flats.


On Googlemaps, I had noticed a lush patch of green to the west of the Guadalupes. It is Dell City, an isolated farming town of about 500 people. On our way through the outlying fields (all watered by pivot irrigation), we passed several abandoned cotton gin mills. Many fields lay fallow. But in most cases, the desert still blooms, and the enchiladas at the Spanish Angels cafe downtown were the best I have had in Texas.

Red Rock Basin: glacial cirque or fluvial ravine?

According to Richard Goldthwait (as he expounded in his 1970 paper, Mountain Gaciers of the Presidential Range in New Hampshire), late geologist of Ohio State University, there are nine "steep-walled cirques" in the White Mountains, three “incipient basins” that were “ice-deepened,” and several other “névé basins holding firn”—an intermediate material between snow and ice.


As this map shows , Goldthwait believed all of these alpine glaciers, which he established were active before the onset of continental glaciation (a topic of great academic controversy a century ago, Woodrow Thompson tells in History of Research on Glaciation in the White Mountains), lay in the Presidential Range, with the possible exception of one or two on Moosilauke. Alex MacPhail’s recent series on glaciation beginning with this post on his excellent blog, White Mountain Sojourn, highlighted Goldthwait’s work and spurred my interest in the subject.

Goldthwait omitted one or two ravines that are strikingly similar to glacial cirques in their morphology. In particular, Red Rock Basin, as Alex calls it, a massive bowl on the west side of Guyot, has typically steep sides (note the fresh slides in the photos) and a relatively flat bottom. I wrote about bushwhacking up to and out of the ravine in my June 2007 post, Finding Red Rock Pond. It is far larger and more carved than any fluvial ravine I can think of in the Whites, and it splits into two distinct lobes. The photo at the top of the post, taken from West Bond's summit, clearly shows the bifurcation. Within the northern ravine sits a small, shallow body of water, Red Rock Pond, possibly a small tarn (cirque lake). Indeed, just below it, there is a “little headwall” similar to that found below Hermit Lake in Tuckerman’s Ravine.

Problematically, Red Rock Basin, opening to the southwest, lies in the opposite direction to which most local glaciers formed, which is probably why Goldthwait discounted it. Goldthwait diagrammed the direction of glacial movement in the accepted White Mountain cirques around the points of the compass, finding that they are distributed from northwest to southeast, on average pointing northeast. Consequently, prevailing winds usually blew from the opposite direction, the southwest (today it usually blows from the west or northwest), when these alpine glaciers formed. The wind pushed snow off the ridges into the ravines, where it accumulated until the pressure and cold transformed snow into ice, creating the alpine glaciers. Tuckerman Ravine’s enormous powder stash derives from the same circumstances. If Red Rock Gorge was glaciated, then how did it accumulate enough snow to create its glacier?

I propose two possible solutions: either the wind was more variable than Goldthwait believed, or perhaps snow was transported off the unnamed ridge to west into the Basin. These are both precarious hypotheses; there needed to be a great deal of snow consistently blowing into the ravine to cause glaciation. For example, Goldthwait speculates that the Valley Way on the north side of the northern Presidentials never developed into a cirque because nearby feeder ridges were too small to provide sufficient snow, whereas King’s Ravine, just to the west, gorged on the drifts blown off massive Durand Ridge and the large alpine expanse just south of Mt. Adams’ summit. The unnamed ridge may not have enough surface area or to have provided sufficient feeder material to Red Rock Basin.

Nonetheless, the physical evidence of the ravine—i.e. the U-shape rather than the V-shape typical of fluvial erosion—still supports glaciation. I like this final picture, taken by Alex two winters ago from Lafayette, because it contrasts the minimally eroded, clearly fluvial ravines on the north side of West Bond in the center of the photograph with the far grander Red Rock Basin on the far left. Perhaps significantly, all the major ravines on the west side of the Twins and Bonds - the Twin Brook valley, Red Rock Basin, and Hellbrook Ravin - are far more developed than their cousins on the east side of the Franconias.

Cannon’s plans to reopen the old Mittersill resort

From the current issue of Appalachia, and the fruit of a much smaller post written two years ago...

Cannon Mountain is spacious, uncrowded, and reliant on a local clientele—an unusual set of circumstances for a New Hampshire ski resort. To purists, it is a skiing Shangri-La—and for those who crave off-piste terrain without a strenuous ascent, the state-run resort adjoins the defunct Mittersill ski area. Using the Cannon lifts, skiers can trek across the mountain’s northern ridge to a patchwork of winding, deserted trails and then loop back to catch the Cannon lifts at the base.

But led by Commissioner George Bald of the New Hampshire Department for Resources and Economic Development (DRED), Cannon is considering expansion into the neighboring area. Facing criticism from conservative state legislators, who laud the 1998 leasing of Mt. Sunapee, New Hampshire’s other state-owned resort, to private operators, these officials hope to increase attendance and revenue for the ailing resort. In 2007, thanks to excellent snowfall, Cannon ran in the black for the first time since 2002. To backcountry skiers, conservationists, and a small bird named the Bicknell’s Thrush, the alteration of the historic and ecologically sensitive Mittersill landscape demands scrutiny. What is the proper balance between recreation and conservation?

Cannon was among the first American mountains that ski pioneers colonized. They cut the Taft Slalom Trail, the country’s first racing trail, in 1933. Five years later, the resort opened its aerial tramway (replaced in 1980), infusing the mountain with a European flavor. Being state-owned, Cannon is free of slopeside condos and most non-ski related activities, and it lacks the commercial tackiness that pervades comparable resorts at Loon and Waterville Valley.

These days, most of Cannon’s cachet comes from its association with Bode Miller, Franconia native and bad boy of the US ski team, who grew up on its slopes. Furthermore, the views might be as good as the skiing. The massive eastern cliff face (the northeast’s only true “big wall”) forms the western side of Franconia Notch, and lifts on the upper half of the mountain provide a fantastic panorama of Franconia Ridge. On the “front five,” the steep trails visible from Route 93, skiers plunge toward frozen Profile Lake. The only resort in New England with comparable scenery is Wildcat.

Mittersill has less scenic grandeur but a formidable pedigree. The founder was an Austrian émigré, Baron Hubert von Pantz, whose family made a fortune in iron mining. The baron was a lively aristocrat with an oversized ego; in his 1986 memoir, No Risk, No Fun!, he thanked “the disappearing species of waiters, barmen, maitres d’hotel, concierges, chauffeurs, barbers, and others who with their expert professionalism helped make that [carefree and glamorous] life even easier to enjoy.” A bon vivant, he admitted being “indebted to all the ladies whose favors I enjoyed throughout my young manhood. Without their kind cooperation this period would have been pretty arid.”

In 1935, the baron had bought Schloss Mittersill, a castle in the Austrian Tyrol, transforming it into a base for hunting and skiing. Shortly after the Anschluss, Nazi Germany’s annexation of Austria, the German SS confiscated the castle and the baron, like the Von Trapps of The Sound of Music, fled first to Switzerland and then to America to escape conscription.

The tram on Cannon attracted the baron to Franconia. After buying 550 adjacent acres, he opened the Mittersill resort in 1945. Though possessing only a small T-bar known as the “alpine lift,” Mittersill did boast a striking base hotel. Complete with overhanging eaves, stained pine wood, and decorative shields painted on the shutters, the lodge’s design was loosely based on the baron’s Schloss Mittersill in Austria. Indeed, the baron made a post-World War II visit in 1950 to examine his European property, which suffered damage from research by a Nazi doctor trying to justify their ideology of racial superiority. The baron restored the old club, and today, Schloss Mittersill is a Christian study center.

Though small, the American Mittersill exuded glamour. The baron and his wife entertained various European royalty, including the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Patti Page was a regular, and Bob Hope visited, though he preferred golf to skiing.

Mittersill was the first American resort to sell slopeside condos and develop an alpine-style “village,” which may be its true legacy to American skiing. Nancy Drourr, now Director of Development at the Brimmer and May School in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts, grew up skiing at Mittersill in its heyday. “It was idyllic,” she told me. “We had great instructors—Austrian Olympic skiers, Paul and Paula Valar. She was the first person I ever saw doing freestyle—eight months pregnant and doing flips.” As for the baron and his wife, “he’d walk around in lederhosen, and she’d wear a long skirt. They’d make sure we weren’t misbehaving.”

The baron sold the resort in 1969, and the new owners added a double chairlift and expanded to nine trails, increasing vertical elevation to 1400 feet. The terrain was challenging for such a small resort. Mittersill’s heyday was short-lived, however, for by 1978, the ski area had closed. It could not compete with Cannon Mountain, itself small compared to the best-known resorts in New England. Over the past couple of decades, the lodge has served as a center for the surrounding condos and time-shares.

During this time, the forest has encroached on the old trails, which were never wide, and the old lift towers, still holding up a rusty cable, felt slightly macabre when I skied through. The abandoned trail complex has an aura of mystery and loneliness, especially in the long shadows of the late afternoon. Still, skiers have made an effort to keep the paths free of dangerous snags. On the trek across the ridge from Cannon, someone has left a chair where the view opens up, and on clear weekend days, this satellite peak can take on a carnival atmosphere. Fresh powder does not last long at Mittersill.

In the meantime, Cannon has not sat on its plans for expansion, first outlined in its 1998 Master Development Plan. Presciently, the resort bought the old Mittersill property and now lacks only the sliver between the Hardscrabble Trail and the top of Mittersill, which is owned by the Forest Service. As this piece of land, about 100 acres large, controls access from the larger resort to the top of the smaller, it is critical to redevelopment. Its fate will be determined by the outcome of a land deal between the Forest Service and the state, which has proposed giving up 230 acres of land surrounding the Appalachian Trail in Sentinel Mountain State Forest in exchange. According to John Devivo, Cannon’s General Manager, a combination of operating funds and bonded capital funds will pay for the restoration of the Mittersill slopes. Via email, he added, “Mittersill will not be run or managed as a separate identity but as simply another lift and trail pod at Cannon Mountain, though offered in a much ‘rougher’ state than its other terrain.”

An earlier version of this plan ran afoul of USFS officials due to its possible impact on the Bicknell’s Thrush, most easily identified by its complex, burry, four-part song. Named for an American amateur ornithologist who observed the bird in the Catskills in the late nineteenth century, the bird was identified as a separate species from the Gray-cheeked Thrush only in 1995. It winters in the Antilles but returns in the summer to breed in the spruce-fir forest. The bird favors disturbed habitats such as fir waves and ridgelines. Acid rain has plagued the bird, and global warming has begun to shrink habitat that is sufficiently cool for breeding. In the White Mountains, the AMC has begun an annual survey to observe whether the thrush is shifting to nest at higher elevations.

Concerns about the thrush have influenced plans for expansion at Whiteface Mountain in the Adirondacks. In 2004, The Olympic Regional Development Agency (ORDA) declared its intent to develop the Tree Island Pod, a series of trails expanding Whiteface’s terrain by nearly 40%. By 2006, however, it had prepared an environmental impact assessment amending its plan, and since then, in tandem with groups such as the Audubon Society and New York State Department of Environmental Conservation, it has sought ways to minimize pressures on the thrush.

Conservation biologists at the Vermont Institute of Natural Science (VINS) assisted ORDA, using data collected over ten years at Stowe and Stratton ski areas in Vermont. The VINS team did not find that the thrush population at those areas had suffered; nevertheless, in a 2004 report, it made several recommendations to mitigate potential impacts. These included halting construction during the breeding season (May 15-August 1) and moving the proposed trails away from exposed and disturbed terrain. Once construction was completed, they advised maintaining undergrowth in glades, discouraging skiers from cutting their own trails, and continuing surveys to monitor the thrush.

DRED and officials at Cannon are aware of the environmental sensitivity of their own project. Luckily for them, Mittersill’s northeastern orientation means that redevelopment will occur on the mountainside away from most windstorm disturbance. “We’ll be working actively with the Audubon Society to monitor the species' habitat,” wrote Devivo, “and have agreed to sign a Memorandum of Understanding that prohibits us from creating any net loss of its habitat in the area to be exchanged (if the deal succeeds).” Regarding the expansion of facilities, “a retrofit or replacement of the existing double chair, parking lot upgrades, a small base facility, associated lift ops and patrol structures, and very small-scale snowmaking facilities are planned…[We are] flexible at this point, and growth in that area may take shape over the next 5-10 years, and is largely dependent on the land exchange.”

In short, Cannon plans to restore Mittersill to its extent when closed in 1978. Beyond existing trails, no development will take place above 2500 feet. In a proposed revision to the Master Development Plan, DRED suggests managing the area as “intermediate advanced terrain with a backcountry feel”—implying that most crowds will remain on the existing trails. Cannon has already opened up a small beginner’s area, Tuckerbrook, that was once part of Mittersill. In my experience, this pod is relatively uncrowded. The resort also includes the derelict Mittersill trails in its trail map, piquing skier interest.

Mittersill aficionados diverge in their opinions on the proposed Cannon expansion, as I discovered through my inquiries at telemarktips.com, a popular site for backcountry enthusiasts. Rob Means, of Melrose, Massachusetts, began skiing at Cannon in 1968. “If they keep the original character and take advantage of all the tight glades by simplifying access and exit—well, that's great,” he wrote. Mike Gaughan, of Bristol, Connecticut, who has also skied Cannon since childhood, responded in kind. “If anything it will be a shot in the arm to a struggling ski area. As much as I hate to say it, Cannon needs a little development to remain relevant…Snowmaking and grooming have degraded of late; perhaps the income generated by additional skier visits resulting from the opening of Mittersill will allow for better services.”

Still, the redevelopment of Mittersill’s quiet and evocative terrain will be a loss for the adventurous and self-reliant spirit that makes off-piste skiing so compelling. Stephen Jevons of Claremont, New Hampshire, who avows planning his life around skiing, summed up these sentiments. “It pains me to think of that area becoming part of Cannon proper. Mittersill offers…secret glades and chutes cut into and around the trails. Opening this area will take away the uniqueness [and from] a growing dynamic of ski culture, which is ungroomed, unmanicured runs. It is one of the few areas in New Hampshire to offer competition to the glades and untamed terrain of Mad River Glen and Stowe. A true loss of a gem…at my favorite New Hampshire resort.”

Big Bend Country

Sunrise in the desert after a frigid night.


The Santa Elena canyon from the north. The Rio Grande makes a dramatic exit, turning sharply to the east (left) in the beginning of the "Big Bend."


The canyon is about 1500 feet deep, with sheer sandstone walls.


Looking north into the desert as the Rio Grande changes course.


Tom does Clint by a silty bank.


The sandstone dips quite sharply in the opposite direction from the river's flow, creating the illusion that the water flows steeply but smoothly downhill. We could only walk about a half mile into the canyon before the banks ran out.


The Chisos Range framed by the canyon walls.

Two more days in the Chisos

Juniper Creek Canyon.


The South Rim.


Casualty of the wind.


A perfectly flagged tree.


The Boot, with the Sierra del Carmen and Mexico in the distance.


Though December, the trees in the High Chisos were still changing. Texas does have a few pockets of autumn color.


This javelina and his companion were all too familiar with our campsite.


My companion, Tom Barnett, and a post-hike treat. Tom promptly retreated into his tent for a nap.