For Grist
Eating the right seafood can be a tricky thing. You don’t have to look too far to find examples of species that have been overfished to satisfy our hunger, or creatures that are unintentionally threatened by our nets, or our bad habit of shuffling species and ecosystems together. But ocean advocate Jennifer Dianto Kemmerly still wants you to indulge in the good stuff — so long as it comes from the right sources. She’s the executive director of the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s Seafood Watch, the country’s leading program for sustainable seafood. Seafood Watch is based on the premise that consumers, armed with the right information, have the power to drive change. The SFW website, app, and handy pocket guides provide info so that shoppers and diners can decide what seafood to order based on its environmental impact. Kemmerly’s not asking you to give up lox for breakfast or sushi for dinner; she just wants you to ask where it came from. “Change happens when people are persistent,” Kemmerly says. “We want people to make a little noise and show the business community that this is an important issue. Ask where that seafood comes from. Ask if they have a sustainable seafood program where you shop. And if they do, say thank you.” We got Kemmerly to give us the scoop on sustainable fishery management, the rising role of aquaculture, and how, in the face of wide scale ocean woes, we fish eaters have the power to turn the tides. Here’s what she had to say. For Grist
“Ocean explorer” sounds like a pie-in-the-sky job description, like “adventure archaeologist” or “Jedi.” But for David Gruber, it’s his actual title. A 2014 National Geographic emerging explorer who studies bioluminescence and fluorescence, Gruber hones in on the areas of the world that are still big unknowns and dives deep into them — way deep. Over the years, as Gruber has studied what goes on hundreds of meters below the surface of our seas, he has discovered hundreds of species and even identified entirely new marine phenomena, including some that could lead to breakthroughs in medical research. A deep thinker, Gruber brings a philosophical approach to his science. He was first drawn to study bioluminescence because it was “an area that was artistic and beautiful to me, and that was really unknown.” Plus, he has an eye for the big picture: “It’s not like we’re just looking at it right now at this moment in time, we’re seeing the ocean as a compilation of genes and organisms that took millions of years to get to this place we’re at now.” And that, he says, gives us a context to understand how we’re changing things now. We talked with Gruber about his explorations and discoveries, what it’s like to see in a primarily blue world, and what it means that we’re still, today, plumbing the unknown depths of our oceans. Here’s an edited and condensed version of what he had to say. For mental_floss
Their howls pierce the night air in a declaration of wildness. This call, when it sweeps across the rolling hills of Appalachia or the Mojave flats, resonates with the romance of the backcountry. But when it's heard by someone walking down Broadway, it seems eerily out of place. Opportunities to experience nature are not usually why people choose to live in New York City, but that's what many New Yorkers have been experiencing now that coyotes are taking their best shot at adopting the cosmopolitan lifestyle of the Big Apple. This past spring the canines were spotted atop a Long Island City bar, strolling down the Upper West Side and throughBattery Park, and even at LaGuardia Airport. The sightings spurred something of a coyote frenzy in print, with articles appearing everywhere from National Geographic to The New Yorker. Not because this is the first time the species has ventured into cities—in fact, just about every city in North America has a population of coyotes within, including an estimated 2000 that now call downtown Chicago home. But if there’s a symbol of the concrete jungle, it’s New York. The fact that carnivorous wildlife is making its home on the mean streets is like taking down the fence posts of the constructed boundary between what we consider manmade and what we consider wild. If the coyotes can make it here, they'll make it anywhere. For Seattle Weekly.
Governor Jay Inslee’s recent declaration of a statewide drought emergency may have left some Seattle residents perplexed. The evergreens are still lush, the views of Rainier are still so often obscured by cloud, and the winter rains came down in their usual bouts. Emergency seems like a strong word to describe a phenomenon that most of us have hardly noticed. But the drought is no surprise to Charlie de la Chappelle, a Yakima Valley apple grower who, as a junior water rights holder, has kept a wary eye on his water sources for his entire farming career. “If you’re a junior irrigator like me, it’s on your mind the whole time,” Chappelle says. “In the wintertime we’re always hoping it snows, and when it rains instead of snows, you start to worry.” Rain versus snow: different reservoirs, different sources Chappelle’s concerns arise from the fact that, when it comes to Washington’s water sources, not all reservoirs are equal. When those of us in Seattle turn on the taps what comes out is stored rainwater—and meteorologists report that Washington did get close to its normal share of rain this year. But the past year was an unusually warm one, which means that precipitation at higher elevations in the Olympic and Cascade Mountains also came down as rain, instead of the usual snow. Because much of eastern Washington relies on mountain snowpack to feed their water reservoirs, lack of snowfall means problems for Yakima Valley farmers like Chappelle. This year, snowpack is now at just 16 percent of normal. “As that snowpack melts, that’s what gradually feed the reservoirs and rivers—that’s how we keep a nice, continuing irrigation through the season,” Stephanie Chance, of the Washington State Tree Fruit Association, explains. The gradual melt-off is necessary because the capacity of these reservoirs is limited to only about half a year’s worth of water. Chance continues, “Because a lot of the snowpack is already melted, there isn’t anything else to melt off into the reservoirs and rivers this year.” Which means: throughout the summer, the rivers could run increasingly dry. For Seattle Weekly.
Sasquatch: mythical beast, elusive recluse, or something in between? The questions linger as fascination with the thought of wild humanoids living out their secretive lives just beyond our reach refuses to die—but even after all these decades of campfire debate across the globe, the question of Bigfoot’s existence is often left at that: all speculation, no rigor. David George Gordon, Seattle-based author of the newly released Sasquatch Seeker’s Field Manual, thinks it’s high time we change the conversation. Doesn’t an idea so deliciously outlandish deserve equally exceptional examination? This is the question that Gordon brings to the table with his new book, which aims to arm the Bigfoot-curious with the power of citizen science. There is no one better to lead the Sasquatch-seeking brigade. The author of 20 books about nature and the environment, Gordon has become somewhat of a specialist on topics that attract ideological intrigue, wavering doubt, and steadfast skepticism. His most popular book to date is The Eat-a-Bug Cookbook, with recipes to help you include things like spiders and crickets in your diet. While, understandably, your first reaction might be no way, Gordon, who sports a white beard and round spectacles, presents his quirky fixations with such a wholesome curiosity that they become irresistible. It can be hard to tell how seriously he takes any of it; his arguments are largely sensible, but all delivered with a playful gleam in the eye. Does Gordon himself believe in Sasquatch? “I actually say I’m a fence-sitter. I’m not going to say there isn’t a Sasquatch—because people could find one tomorrow, and I’d be wrong,” he tells me. “But the bottom line is I wouldn’t go to court with any of the evidence people have gathered so far.”
For Fix.com
While it is hard to imagine how a simple roll of gray tape could be so mighty, duct tape is famous for its uncanny ability to fix just about anything. If you’re planning some quality time outside – where you may be far from the conveniences of modern life – having the necessary supplies for self-reliance is a must. Throw some duct tape in your pack and you’ll be prepared for everything from clothing repairs to first aid solutions and fire starters, with a catchall survival tool for whatever sticky situations may arise. A History of AdherenceWhat we now call duct tape was first developed during WWII as a handy way to seal cases of ammunition (soldiers wanted a waterproof material that was strong, easy to slap on, and quick to tear off). It didn’t take long for soldiers to experiment with uses of the new invention, which they nicknamed “duck” tape (both because it is waterproof, like a duck, and because it’s made from duck cloth). Soldiers reportedly used it for vehicle and aircraft repair, as a temporary means to close wounds, and as a general all-around quick fix-it. After the war, the soldiers brought their love of duck tape from the battlefields to the home front. For Jungles in Paris
In Colombia's Cocora Valley, clusters of slender palm trees stretch through the mist to touch the clouds. The elongated trunks, striped with intermittent leaf scars, rise to nearly 200 feet. The tree is the Quindio wax palm, or Ceroxylon quinduiense. It is, you might say, a very rooted tree, for the Cocora Valley is the only place on earth where it grows. It's an acutely narrow range for a plant species, this sliver of verdant Andean foothills. And while it makes the Quindio wax palm special, the tree's limited domain also renders it particularly vulnerable to the dangers of diminishing habitat. Cocora Valley is named after a princess of the pre-Colombian Quimbaya civilization whose name meant “Star of Water." The name makes sense: the valley gets 70 inches of rain a year on average, as well as additional moisture from an often-present mantle of mist and fog. The trees are situated at an intersection of tropical jungle and sparse alpine biomes, within the “cloud forests" of the Andes, where they grow out of the Cocora Valley's acidic, sandy soil. For centuries, people have made ample use of this native palm, turning its wax into candles, its wood into buildings, and its fruit into livestock feed, and distributing its waving fronds for Catholic celebrations of Palm Sunday. The tree was on the verge of extinction when, in 1985, the Colombian government—with the backing of the Catholic Church—stepped in and created a wildlife sanctuary in Cocora Valley. The rampant felling of the Quindio wax palm ended, and it was declared Colombia's national tree. For Jungles in Paris
Hindus throughout the world observe Holi, an annual celebration of the victory of good over evil; of colors, spring, and love—including the special love between Krishna and Radha, the deities said to embody absolute truth. The festival has acquired a special significance in Vrindavan, a city in Uttar Pradesh built upon the ancient pastures where the god Krishna spent his boyhood days. Chronicles of Krishna's youth are full of lila—a Sanskrit word that approximately means “divine play." During Holi, which takes place around the vernal equinox, celebrants engage in mischievous fun themselves. Inspired by a tale of Krishna painting Radha's face, they drench each other with colored water and throw fistfuls of gulal – brightly tinted powders, traditionally made by dyeing arrowroot starch with spices, leaves, and flowers. (These days, it is more often chemically pigmented cornstarch.) At Vrindavan's Banke Bihari temple, which is among the most sacred places to worship Krishna, eruptions of red, yellow, and magenta waft down from the roof, landing on the sea of ecstatic faces in the courtyard. While much of India observes Holi for one or two days, the festivities in Vrindavan go on for 16 days. They are a time to come together, to repair broken relationships, and to forgive for oneself for past errors. In a caste-bound society, Holi is also a time when inhibitions are lost, and everyone stands on more equal footing. For Jungles in Paris
For the Moken people of Southeast Asia, the sea provides nearly everything a person might need. It offers food to eat, a comfortable place to live (assuming one owns the appropriate vessel), and, sometimes, love. Members of this ocean-faring ethnic group – often called “Sea Gypsies" – roam the Andaman Sea off the coasts of Thailand and Myanmar. The Moken travel on small, handcrafted wooden boats called kabangs, from which they skillfully procure fresh meals of fish, scallops, and clams, using nothing more complicated than a simple spear and a remarkable ability to hold their breath. Moken people often wed when they are still teenagers—a woman is considered to be of marriageable age upon her first menstruation—and stay together for life. Before he marries, a Moken man must first prove himself to his intended wife and her parents, in a ritual that requires him to build his own kabang. Traditionally, he might have met his wife-to-be on the water. But things are changing. Tightened immigration and fishing laws, as well as the growing the tourism industry, have all but forced the Moken community to trade their houseboats for more permanent coastal settlements. (Even so, their marriage rituals have largely stayed the same.) Around Myanmar’s Mergui Archipelago and Thailand’s neighboring islands, a tiny minority of Moken still lead the nomadic lifestyle for much of the year. (In the traditional manner, they make brief shore visits when necessary and dwell on land during the rainy monsoon season.) Gone, though, are the extended-family flotillas of previous times. And with so few of Moken now actually living at sea, a young man or woman's chances of finding true love on the water are not what they used to be. |
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