The Family Sighthounds

Happy New Year, y'all! I'm home in Georgia this week, firming up family ties and rediscovering my accent (pronounce it: ax-sant).

Eight days under one roof with my parents and own children offer plenty opportunities to ponder genetic determinism. There have been few surprises along those lines this week, but one of them was Mom's choice in a new puppy: a borzoi she calls "Barrie," after the celebrated author of Peter Pan. (The dog's given name is Russian, Nevskyi Barhat Chernyi, for which perhaps Steve or another reader can provide a good translation?)

Mom and Dad have often expressed an appreciation for the shape and demeandor of my whippets, but they've never owned a sighthound. Their last dog (a yellow lab) died six years ago, and I wasn't even aware they were in the market for a puppy. In their so-called retiring years, I expected maybe they'd get a lap dog of some kind and tote it around with them between the distant homes of their two sons. A giant sighthound seemed unlikely...but maybe running dogs run in the family.

Here's Barrie (not much of a runner just yet):

And here's a picture of my own hound Rina (no longer a puppy):

And one I found online, a postcard from 1776, Russia, maybe a distant relative of Mom's:

"Australian" Funeral hoax

I usually stay out of the journalistic mainstream in favor of things that interest me. But given all the noise about blogs vs Mainstream media lately, this is utterly irresistible.

This morning, Libby, wandering around the web in search of news, came upon this story in the Australian. It begins:

"WASHINGTON: George W. Bush sent his apologies - he was too busy cutting wood and riding his bike - and almost 500 of the 535 members of Congress also had more pressing engagements, as the state funeral for Gerald Ford, the 38th president of the US, was held in Washington yesterday."

But guess what? His funeral isn't until Tuesday, and hundreds have already paid their respect!

Sure, Mr Rago (who said that blogs are "Written By Fools To Be Read By Imbeciles"). The Mainstream Media are ALWAYS more accurate than blogs.

New Year's Bleg

(That is, a Blogger's beg)..

Do any of my readers have or know of a "Baby Bretton" French over- and- under shotgun that I could borrow, shoot, and photograph for a series of articles on French shotgun design?

They are rare in the States and I have never even seen one. Like many French inventions they are unique-- they have a sliding opening system, and are the lightest in the world.

All shipping and insurance to be paid by me, of course.

New Mexico is snowed in today-- pics later perhaps. We have a foot-- at Peculiar's in Santa Fe, three hours north, they got THREE last night. We were intending to go there for New Year's and Mr. P's birthday, but the highway between is closed in at least two places, so I suspect we are housebound.

Update: so are the P's. Go here for pics.

Christmas Ornaments

Here's a picture of the Christmas tree that we have up this year. Connie despairs of me sometimes because I don't get as excited about Christmas as she does. She does such a superb job decorating the tree and inside the house.

But I didn't really want to write about the tree so much as the ornaments that we use.

I've inherited them from my grandmother. These were all handmade by her and my mother nearly 45 years ago. As I recall they got the idea from a women's magazine. They bought fabric-covered styrofoam balls at craft stores and went to work. They never had designs to copy but made up their own as they went. For a couple of years in the early 1960s, I remember my mother and grandmother working on these as we watched television as a family. They had big plastic bins of pins, ribbon, lace, sequins and beads they would pull material from. They would buy cheap costume jewelry at yard sales and use their components as well.

They lived 60 miles apart so they mostly worked separately. They would make multiples of designs they liked and trade back and forth. There's no way I can tell now who made what. My sister has my mother's collection.

My mother died in 1984 and my grandmother died last year. When I see these ornaments now it is a great reminder of them and their ability and creativity.

Programming Note

Due to delays in getting photos loaded to Blogger, three new posts by Steve - Pupdate, One Purely Silly One, and Working Wolf Dogs - came up today "under" his post 'The Goshawk' Redux - that appeared Saturday.

Just want to make sure you don't miss anything!

Christmas Day Sunset

Hendry's Beach, Santa Barbara.

'The Goshawk' Redux

Poet and all- round brilliant writer Pluvialis has been given a Finnish Goshawk. She is thinking of retreating somewhere and writing a book on its training, a meditation, a look at T. H. White, who wrote the original book of that title during another dark and chaotic time. As White said: "These efforts might have some value because they were continually faced with those dificulties that the mind has to circumvent, because falconry was an historic but dying sport [perhaps more in the Thirties than today-- SB], because the faculties exercised were those that throve among trees rather than houses, and because the whole thing was inexpressibly difficult".

I think we need Pluvialis' reaction to this book, and to that of crusty old Edmund Bert, who wrote the best Goshawk training manual ever in 1619.

Why? Here is Pluvi on a wild Gos in Uzbekistan:

"...Halimjan made soup for lunch; there it was, bubbling in the cast-iron pot over the gas flame and we were sitting around our red plastic table chewing on stale bread waiting for the soup, and all our heads went up at once. A noise like ripping, tearing hessian, like a European Jay, only with real terror in it, was coming towards us right there and we watched — and slow as syrup and fast as a blink all at once, came the male gos trying his damnest to catch a magpie; they flashed right through the trees in front of the table, and gos nearly had a foot to the magpie before he saw us — five humans and a fire and a truck and a Giant Red Table right below him — ack! — wave off! wave off! — and the magpie dove downwards to the fork of a branch, crouching like a man avoiding a blow, and the gos spooled away through the trees. He looked like a coin falling through water, flashing silver and grey. Some kind of metal. A very fierce one. Potassium, Sodium, Goshawk."

More, please.

Pupdate

Just a couple of pics of the dogs now known collectively as the BabyGirls-- fuzzy Larissa, who looks a bit Afghani in her winter coat, and big shy Roza, with her brindle forehead.

One Purely Silly One..

Just before I got ill we were shopping in Albuquerque. We were in the checkout line at the Asian market when I spotted this can:




That's right: a soft drink made from the nest of Asian swiftlets.

I don't know if you can read the list of ingredients below:



But they include, in order: "Water, Jelly, Granulated sugar, BIRD'S NEST FLAVOUR [emphasis mine], Ginseng flavouring, Genuine Bird's nest, No preservatives".

It tasted of tart fruit, and was full of a substance like rice noodles (Libby says translucent worms)-- I assume the fragments of bird's nest. It did not taste of ginseng.

Working Wolf Dogs

It is the common wisdom that wolf- dog hybrids are spooky creatures, alternately shy and aggressive, that do not make good working dogs. So it is with fascination that I bring you this report from a friend, cynologist Vladimir Beregovoy, about a correspondent of his in Russia.

"I wanted to share with you a few pictures which I just received from my Internet friend Mikhail Ovcharenko. He lives near Ulyanowsk, on the Volga River. He was involved in a wolf control job and became fascinated with this animal. Now, his obsession is keeping wolves and West Siberian Laikas, interbreeding them and hunting with Wolf/Laika mixes. He does not keep them locked up for life, but really hunts them like he would hunt dogs, and he is very happy with his results.... Here are some pics of his mixes of the second through third generations. They really hunt well, like good dogs. They retrieve ducks from water and track and bay wild boar for him."

I'm Baaaack! (2)

Coughing, hacking, but a hell of a lot better than a week ago, I return. I saved a lot-- way too many-- links for you despite the fact I couldn't spend much time in my Blogger seat-- physical visitors may recall it is a long way from the woodstove or the bedroom. So I think I'll just do a few of the best, post some silly pics of a soft drink and a "pupdate", and wish you all a Merry Christmas, a happy Hanukah if appropriate, and a happy New Year (it is too late for the Solstice-- sorry Chas) If I hear the @#$%^&* word 'holiday' one more time I am reaching for the red- hot tongs...

This story about bedbugs in the Village Voice seems to show us that our civilization, at least its urban variety, has finally reached terminal wimpiness. The reporter interviews people who have totally given up their lives, possessions, marriages, and even contact with other humans, because they MAY have been bitten by bedbugs. On one level, hilarious; on another, end- of- the- world- as- we- know- it scary. I find it hard to believe that such people exist and demand to be taken seriously.

Michael Blowhard delivers some advice to aspiring writers. I completely agree on the realities of publishing but would add two things: (1) One should write because one must write, not for any of the (common) reasons he gives; and (2) Anyone discouraged by his admonitions shouldn't be writing anyway.

For those of us a bit nostalgic for the glory days of Victoria's Empire: Tam shows us Pooh with a Martini (no, NOT a drink!) HT Chas.

Sorry, Ted: darting is not hunting. "One does not hunt in order to kill, but one kills in order to hunt", as Ortega said. (And to eat, as Bodio says). Of course I also think most catch and release fly fishing-- that is, the kind where eating is never contemplated, not the kind used as a conservation tool) is politically- correct fish torture. How much worse p.c. elephant torture?

Virgin Komodo dragons can give birth! Apparently a different process is involved than in the Cnemodiphorus lizards down here, whole species of which are virgin females who give birth to female clones. The big monitors young are all male-- in dragons, males are homozygous "ZZ", and according to the article, "all surviving offspring created by doubling up half of the female's genes must be males". Nature-- "What it cannot do?"
(Special blog notice to anyone-- Sorry, Peculiar, you can't play-- who gets this citation).

Patrick NAILS dog show culture. Read, laugh, weep for the dogs.

Steve's Books and Kiran Over Mongolia Make ESPN

Last month we spotted ESPN outdoor correspondent James Swan recommending Steve's books in his column here. Today our falconer friend in Japan, Isaac Nichols, forwarded another of Swan's pieces; this one describes falconry as the "ultimate interspecies cooperation" and features the movie Kiran Over Mongolia (reviewed first at Querencia!).

Once again, Swan takes the opportunity to talk up Steve's books Eagle Dreams and A Rage for Falcons. Let's hope a couple million sports fans can read!

Bird flu?

Probably not. But Steve's got something of a nasty respiratory thing to deal with. He sends his apologies for not posting and asked that I spread this to everyone.

Um, maybe that is not the best way to put it. Convey the news, I mean.

(cough)

Big Snakes

A news item I found earlier this week, describing how a man in Cincinnati had been strangled by his 13-foot pet boa constrictor, elicited some comments and reminiscences from the crew here.

Steve:
A thirteen- footer can kill you and it doesn't even have to be aggressive.When I was at the zoo we didn't let people-- keepers-- handle anything above ten feet alone. You could get them over your shoulders like a yoke and then if anything startled them... not long before the pressure on the arteries inyour neck renders you unconscious

My old acquaintance Danny McCarron's 15- foot Burmese python would STALK people when it was hungry, especially at night. It had reinforced glass inits huge custom tank so it wouldn't come out through the front at you. Of course a mature 15- footer weighs a lot more than two tenners. Just because it couldn't eat you doesn't mean it wouldn't try. Scary.

Matt:
Our animal trainer friend, Steve, used to keep a 9-foot burmese that was a very nice snake but scary for all the obvious reasons. One of the many nights I ferried Steve around to various shows (animal trainers are paid less well than writers), I woke in the hotel to find the snake in bed with me. It had worked its way out of the custom carry bag (handles for 4 people to carry) and slipped beneath the covers. I don't even want to think about what I might have dreamed before waking.

The same snake got loose again and ate another friend's two baby great horned owls. Ooops!

Reid:
I just stay away from big snakes

Paleontology Christmas Cards

I would urge you all to see Darren Naish's post on paleontology-oriented Christmas cards. I must admit these paleontologists are more creative than us archaeologists.

Andean Bats

More bats! The NY Times brings us the story of this nectar-eating bat from Ecuador. The 2-inch long bat has a tongue 3.3 inches long! This is proportionally the longest tongue of any mammal and the second-longest (behind the chameleon) of any vertebrate. This bat keeps the tongue in its chest - it is anchored between the heart and the sternum. RTWT

New Orleans Writers

A friend from Idaho asked me this week, "What's the deal with New Orleans? We get conflicting reports up here."

I told him what I could, which isn't much, since we get conflicting reports down here in Baton Rouge, just an hour away.

I posted earlier on some of the Crescent City's musicians here and here, and a little about the fate of St. Bernard Parish, where I used to hunt and suffer from hangovers. But I haven't written about New Orleans lately, and I haven't been there in a while.

New Orleans, of course, never needed bloggers from Baton Rouge to tell its story. Some of the best and most original writing ("regional" or otherwise) was created there or inspired by the city in some way. The question asked in this recent piece by Reuters' Jeffrey Jones is whether New Orleans will continue to attract and nurture its writers.

"Quirky characters, raucous music, jazz funerals, a warm climate and plenty of service-industry jobs made New Orleans an ideal base for writers and a rich backdrop for their work.

"But, 16 months after Hurricane Katrina, the southern city that inspired Mark Twain, Tennessee Williams, John Kennedy Toole and Anne Rice risks losing its unique place on the literary landscape. The city's recovery is plodding and many writers remain in exile around the United States."

One writer who stuck around for the worst of it was Times-Picayune columnist Chris Rose, who shipped his family out of state and set up a bunker-style newsroom to report on what remained of his city. A collection of those reports (funny, sad, conversational essays) was recently published under the title "1 Dead in Attic," a reference to messages spraypainted on the sides of houses by emergency workers.

I received this small paperback as a gift from friends who lost their home in the storm. I read it in the marble-lined lobby of the Peabody Hotel in Little Rock during a conference I attended in October. I recommend this book if you want to know "what the deal is" with New Orleans and all the people who used to live there. Just don't read it when you're homesick in a strange city.

Reid is Moving

I wanted to make a public announcement about something I've told a few privately. Connie and I have accepted transfers from our current employer and will be moving to work at their Denver, Colorado office. Our move will most likely take place in January, but timing will be conditioned by the move-in date of the house we buy there. We're still looking, so that's still up in the air.

We'll miss Santa Barbara and our friends here, but Colorado is a kind of second home to us. I went to graduate school at the University of Colorado - Boulder, and worked at the University of Northern Colorado for a while after graduating. Connie and I lived in the Denver area the first seven years of our marriage and both children were born there. Connie also has family living in town. We haven't lived there for almost 20 years, but we have visited often and Denver has a familiar homey feel for us.

So there won't be as many posts from me on beach subjects, but lots more on the Southern Rockies and the High Plains.

Whale Vomit

I had to post this one just so I could use the title. It's actually an interesting story from the NY Times on what is thought to be a piece of ambergris found on a beach in the eastern US. With the general demise of whaling, this story points out that it is difficult to find anyone now who can reliably identify ambergris. Striking picture!

Gnatcatchers

Despite environmental gloom and doom, sometimes things do get better. The LA Times brings us the story of habitat restoration resulting in the rebound of endangered Gnatcatcher populations in the affluent LA suburbs of the Palos Verdes Peninsula.

Yet More Neanderthal News

We've had quite a few posts on the explosion of new findings on Neaderthals lately, and I thought I'd bring these two to your attention. One claims to have proof that Neanderthals engaged in cannibalism. The other presents the theory that Neanderthal women and children took part in hunting, and that there perhaps was not a gender-based division of labor as seen in most modern human populations. Recent chemical studies have demonstrated that Neanderthals subsisted on an almost total meat diet, so we know their females weren't out gathering plant foods. But it is a very indirect argument, as the researchers admit.

Airport Bats

Connie and I were trudging through the Phoenix airport week before last, when I was amazed at this sight on the wall of one of the concourse stores.

A whole roost of bat sculptures. These fruit bats are made of rusted steel and I was told the artist is a gentleman named Henri Dupree who lives in New Mexico. Here's a close-up to show more detail.

They have a rather ingenious hanger and the use of ball-bearings for eyes is very effective. Look how they reflect the light and appear to glow. The bats come in 14- and 18-inch sizes and also with wings open or folded across their chests.

As you may recall I find bats quite interesting, and was very charmed by these. After finding the gate for our next flight, I came back to take these pictures and decided I just had to have one. I got a 14-inch fellow with his wings folded who was my bubble-wrapped "carry-on bat" for our flight. He currently occupies a place of honor on the wall in my office.

These fruit bats also reminded me of a children's book titled Stellaluna that my children enjoyed. The title is the name of a baby fruit bat who accidently falls into a bird nest. The mother bird tries to raise Stellaluna along with her new bird "siblings" and all sorts of strange miscommunications ensue. Stellaluna can't understand why the mother bird keeps bringing her nasty bugs to eat and she teaches her new siblings how to hang by their feet off the edge of the nest, causing parental panic. All is put right in the end of course, but it is a fun entertaining read for small children. We often buy it for gifts these days - we certainly recommend it.

Podcast with Darren Naish

Fans of Dr. Darren Naish and his frequently-highlighted blog Tetrapod Zoology will enjoy hearing him "in person," in a podcast interview by George Kenny of Electric Politics.

Beyond the nature of the topics discussed (origin of dogs, Bigfoot, being a "famous scientist"), I was fascinated simply to experience the podcast itself. Here blogging and broadcasting meet in a very professional, polished way; a sort of personalized NPR, if you'll permit my leftist analogy. One can't help but to see this as the shape of things to come.

Once more around the web

Still busy, but reading...

Terrierman shows us that despite hysteria, Lyme disease is hard to catch.

Gun Nut Dave Petzal reminds us that "outmoded" equipment often-- isn't. Good firearms and optics should outlive their owner-- I shoot one shotgun made in the (18)70's.

Has Hell frozen over? Peter Singer gives support to animal medical experimentation!


Chas has a link to this interesting link to predator prey conceptions in Medieval European culture. He and Pluvialis have recently taught me that fascinating information can lurk behind a scrim of academic terminology.

Referencing the wonderful Colin Tudge on farmers, Neanderthals and bandits, Prairie Mary argues that we should be lazier.

Carel remembers the greatest artist of underwater life ever, Stanley Meltzoff.

I had been slow linking to Carl Buell, the wonderful artist who calls himself 'Olduvai George', because he wasn't posting much, but now he is. Here is his take on Ambulocetus. Matt, another for the Blogroll!

I hope Darren, who sounds as though he is as broke as we are, isn't commiting professional suicide by rationally analyzing the Patterson sasquatch film.

True story from Libby: in 1972, in her Himalayan guiding days, she and her late husband Harry came upon a set of striding tracks across an impassable roaring river on the hillside, above the timber line near the village of Pangboche. When they asked their Sherpa friend Ang Zambu what made them he said 'yeti'. When asked how he knew he grinned and said 'Nothing else would go over there'.

Terrierman on Condors

Patrick Burns gives us his thoughts on California condor conservation and species loss. This post sort of got kicked off by an e-mail discussion that he, Steve, and I had about a lawsuit in California that seeks a ban on lead bullets. The plaintiffs maintain that many condors die after feeding on the carcasses of deer and other wildlife killed with lead bullets or buckshot.

In another post, Patrick congratulates Matt and his whippet Rina on her success in her first season hunting.

Finally, I had thought of doing a post entitled "Terrierman Gets Skunked." Though it sounded good, that wouldn't have been technically correct as it wasn't Patrick, but terriers Moxie, Mountain, and Pearl who got sprayed. I have to say I was very impressed at how matter-of-fact Patrick was in dealing with three skunked dogs.

Post-Card From Above

Rebecca O'Connor's essay "Post-card From Above" was in today's issue of West, the LA Times Sunday magazine. It gives her perspective as a falconer on the expansion of suburban development in the area of Southern California where she lives. Also take a look at West's editor, Rick Wartzman's, comments on Rebecca's work. Congratulations, Rebecca!

The Antikythera Mechanism

The BBC, New York Times, and LA Times all have fascinating accounts of an ancient "computer" used to predict astronomical phenomena. This ancient Greek device dated to about 100 BC was salvaged from a Roman shipwreck off the island of Anikythera between the Greek coast and Crete. Over eighty fragments have been found that represent 30 hand-cut bronze gears.

These were originally found by sponge-divers early in the 20th century and have been the source of much study since. They were recently reexamined using an x-ray tomography machine, similar to that used for human CT scans. The researchers were able to image the bronze gears more clearly and were able to decipher twice as many inscriptions on the casting.

From the LA Times:

"They concluded that the device contained 37 gears, about 30 of which still survive.

It was originally housed in a wooden case slightly smaller than a shoebox.Two dials on the front show the zodiac and a calendar of the days of the year that can be adjusted for leap years. Metal pointers show the positions in the zodiac of the sun, moon and five planets known in antiquity. Two spiral dials on the back show the cycles of the moon and predict eclipses.

The complicated meshing of the gears is a physical representation of the so-called Callippic and saros astronomical cycles. In the Callippic cycle, for example, the sun, moon and Earth return to the same relative orientations four times in 76 years minus one day.

The saros cycle predicts that, following a solar or lunar eclipse, a similar eclipse will occur 223 lunar months later.

By turning the gears with a hand crank, the user could select a specific day in the past or future and observe the positions of the heavenly objects on that day."

This is an unexpectedly high level of sophisticated technology for the Hellenistic world, and begs the question of what other sophicated geared calculating devices could have been used for other purposes. Nothing else this technologically complex was was seen in Europe for another 1400 years, and gives a reminder of how much was lost when the Western Roman Empire fell in the 5th century.

RTWT and look at pictures of some of the reconstructed devices.

This news came at a good time for me as I have just completed reading The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization by Bryan Ward-Perkins and am in the midst of Peter Green's survey of the Hellenistic world, Alexander to Actium: The Historical Evolution of the Hellenistic Age. Green does a good job detailing the achievements (and failures) of the Hellenistic age. This find obviously adds more to the technological luster of the period. The LA Times article for example, points out that the famous Roman Cicero wrote of a device such as this one, but historians have always dismissed it as exaggeration or a myth. Perhaps other Classical writings should be reexamined for such "exaggerations."

Ward-Perkins' book is a corrective to recent trends in scholarship on Late Antiquity. A whole school of revisionist historians over the last 20-30 years have rejected the position that the Western Roman Empire was destroyed by barbarian invasions. They use less judgemental language and say that the 5th century was a "period of adjustment" where Germanic tribes who had been "invited" to settle in the Empire for "defensive purposes" assumed regional soverignty by taking over the existing Roman administrative structure. They say it was not an abrupt change, just new bosses taking over the old political establishment. It is true that the Germanic tribes did take over that structure, but the Western Empire and the Roman and Gallic populations fought it every step of the way.

Ward-Perkins shows through documentary and archaeological evidence, that commerce, culture, technology, and standards of living very quickly fell from levels in the Late Empire that were not regained for a thousand years in Europe. The Antikythera Mechanism is another example of how far that fall was.

More Pack Rats!

One more footnote from my trip west might be appropriate, given Querencia's recent pack rat-related posts, here and (Yum!) here. Reid reported on the value of the Neotoma as archeo-climate-geological index and even as a human food item. The natural history of the pack rats (or wood rats) deserves plenty of attention, and maybe we can get Darren to supply us with some cool data. That there is also a sporting angle to this silky-furred rodent shouldn't surprise any Q. readers...

Although we have a version of this animal here in the southeast, and sometimes encounter it hawking rabbits or squirrels in mixed woodland, I still think of the pack rat as a quintessential "western" critter. Their large dens, spiked with prickly pear and deep set into thick cholla cactus bushes make safe havens for rabbits, quail and small desert birds, in addition to the rodents who build them. My right hand (ungloved while hawking) has numerous embedded spines now from the painful but commonplace work of flushing game from pack rat mounds.

The funny thing is that we rarely catch the builder of the mound while trying to flush the rabbit or quail that took refuge in his home. There must be a cozy antechamber or two for the rats to bunker down in when under attack.

Nonetheless, in pursuit of a scaled quail with our friend's good goshawk, Vinney, we happened to flush both the quail and rat. Ordinarily, the hawk would only account for one quarry at a time (and this gos would probably choose to chase the bird). But on that day our efforts were bolstered by another falconer's gamehawking terrier, who leaped at the chance to do the job for which he was bred.

Here are a few pics from the hunt. In the first, you can see Jimmy holding the gos, who leans forward in anticipation of the flush, while we poke at the den with long-handled hoes (only partially effective at saving hands from spines). At some point the action gets a little more chaotic; there's a complicated reshuffling of the players in this drama, then the curtain closes for two of them.

Coincidentally, we caught another pack rat later in the week, this time with a Harris hawk, a bird with little preference for fur or feather and plenty happy with both. Though neither rodent made it into the "rat brine" recipe Reid shared with us, both made good meals for the hawks (served, rare).

Once more around the web

I just finished an article on Turkish pigeons for the excellent online pigeon mag Aviphilia and am getting caught up,so will I hope soon return to real blogging. Meanwhile, a roundup of things serious and trivial..

At Three Martini Lunch, Roseannn-- between recipes!-- has just posted on her recent diagnosis with breast cancer. That such a post can be brave, sane, and funny all at the same time is a tribute to this woman I am proud to call a friend. She writes:

"So as this new odyssey unfolds for me I’ll try to report the interesting stuff without turning it into a life obsession - rather, it will be a life-lesson.

"And besides, I’ve decided that if I have to have a mastectomy instead of a lumpectomy, maybe I can get insurance-covered reconstruction and order 36Cs on both sides - start a new career as a Victoria’s Secret model . . ."

RTWT. And don't forget to look at this recipe below as well.

Speaking of recipes, Pluvialis has returned to blogging after a patch of overwork and illness-- and she is recipe blogging-- "PLOV" blogging at that. I had this wonderful dish of rice, sheep, and vegetables in Kazakhstan but had no idea how to make it. I suspect the secrets are to wash much of the starch out of the rice, and this:

"Pour far too much oil into the base of a very heavy pan (I use an enamel french casserole; in Uzbekistan a giant iron Plov pot). When I say too much, I mean far too much. I reckon two and a half good ladlefuls. Then heat it until it is very, very, very, very hot."

We in the west are far too afraid of fat, as Roseann also observes.

Fear of Bird Flu is making the Koreans kill dogs (not that they have ever had many objections). HT Dog Politics.

James Swan gives Eagle Dreams a nice compliment in his ESPN column. I hope to be in his forthcoming anthology.

Last, fans of Vadim Gorbatov and Q. should check out his journey and art at the REF. Scroll down to see us and more tales of the Spur and click on the hyperlinks for art, including a sketch of Gambel's quail he made on Lee Henderson's rannch as we watched them, and the resulting watercolor.

Scenes from Magdalena

For the best words on Magdalena and thereabouts, I recommend you first to Steve. His vivid descriptions of the place--his base camp for more than twenty years--provide evocative settings for many of his published works.

Though Steve travels widely, his frequent musings on what's familiar or different about each place he visits suggest his mind is never far from home. He sees high, dry, wild Central Asia in the Magdalenian countryside, for example, and shades of Magdalena elsewhere.

I knew from reading him that when I saw his New Mexican village, I would recognize it instantly. Libby's directions seemed to anticipate that I would:

"Way easy to get here: Go to Socorro. The main street through Socorro is California Street. If you are coming form the north, get off at the second Socorro exit, which is at the south end of town. It will loop you around to the north. At the first stoplight, take a left. That will put you on Highway 60 heading to Magdalena. It's about 26 miles -- just keep going across La Jencia Plain, which is quite gorgeous. Go into the middle of Magdalena.

(Snip)

"If you get messed up for some reason, ask. But you won't."

I didn't have to ask. But as I discovered later, anyone in town could easily have directed me to Casa Bodio, no street names or house numbers needed. They might have said, "The rock house, across from the Spur. With pigeons."

When I pulled up, I could see Steve through the window, reading. We met at the door and shook hands, which clambered into a kind of awkward hug. Steve and I are friends and partners in the virtual world; but in the real world, virtual strangers. Odd how the Internet can do that.

No photos inside the home.

It's permissible, I think, to be a tourist and a pilgrim (I was), but unpardonable to make a curio of your host. Still, it was hard to resist taking photos. The Bodio place is just too cool.

Imagine a wizard's cottage (oldschool, like 15th Century) with wood plank shelves packed tight with great books, bottled spices, animal skulls and small, hand-carved totems. Beautiful and bizarre art hangs on the walls, and rugs like tapestries. Each room is small and distinct and seems to contain its own spirit. Or maybe, if Rebecca O'Connor is right, its own ghosts. I am not exaggerating: the Bodio home is unique.

Release the hounds!

I know he told me, and I met them, but I forget exactly how many dogs Steve and Libby have. Maybe six or eight, most of them sighthounds, with the notable exception of the ancient, saintly Dachshund, Lily.

All are loved, but there are favorites: Ataika, the whippet-sized Tazi and the much larger Lashyn are mostly indoor dogs, as is the Dachs. The rest of the pack lives (happily, riotously) in the fenced backyard with the garden, shade trees and the pigeons. I received aloof scrutiny from the three indoor animals and then a wild reception from the pack outside, an almost-attack led by Plummer, the very macho lurcher.

Back in the kitchen, Steve tended a dish of braised oxtail in reduced wine sauce, a Bodio specialty that he describes as "coming from the damndest part of the cow." Libby whipped up mashed potatoes ("Nothing fancy," she insisted--but there were at least half a dozen ingredients.) Later, as the vodka settled and the sauce cooled on the plates, all that remained of the meal were large, disarticulated vertebrae.

The Golden Spur.

Steve wonders what the fascination is. It's just a bar. But a man's watering hole is a special place, and all of us who frequent one can appreciate that. Mine is in New Orleans, an inconvenient eighty miles away. Steve's is right across the street. When I offered to drive us, Steve just laughed and pointed.

The interior was a surprise. It was...nice. Not fancy, but refurbished, and this was a great disappointment to the regulars, who would rather have it like it was.

Steve explained that the old bar was under new management, which opened a discussion on the nature of "Nuevos," new New Mexicans who bring to town their own ideas of how the place should be. Steve pointed out that most everyone was an immigrant anyway, but still, that was generations ago. This is different. True nativity depends on your objectives and where your loyalties lie. It proved a hot topic at the Spur and lasted us most of the night and any number of drinks.

Around 3AM the following morning, long after leaving the Spur, I woke shaking in the guesthouse next door. The immaculate little cottage is run as a renter by the Bodio's next-door neighbors. It is better than any hotel, and I highly recommend it. It is also haunted.

Rebecca O'Connor shared the story with me once in Amarillo. She has slept in the same guesthouse three times now and with a straight face claims the place has ghosts. One of them woke her late in the night, pressed its face to hers and whispered some cryptic apology. Scared the hell out of her. My own ghost, I swear it, sat at the kitchen table, solemnly smoking a cigarette in the dark.

Since I was up, I went outside to check the truck. I had embarrassed Steve earlier by locking it as we left for the bar. I'm from a part of the country that rewards good will with grand theft auto; securing my possessions is a natural precaution, like living in bear country. Of course, the truck was unmolested, locked in a seamless layer of frost. Looking up, I faced a shocking field of stars. The nearest one was nearly close enough to touch.

First light found us in the backyard with dogs pressing in and out of our legs and pigeons wheeling overhead. Libby's strong coffee, the first brew with any body I've tasted west of the Mississippi, scalded my hand when Plummer pushed against me for attention.

"We have a friend just like him," said Libby.

We spent the rest of the morning outdoors. Steve and I loaded Lashyn and Ataika and drove them to the hills for a run. The dogs bounced lightly on their hydraulic struts, covering the country with a gait that might take them miles without perceptible effort. Steve's own step was lively, and he gave running commentary on the dogs' behavior as I huffed along behind him. I was ashamed to find myself falling behind. There's less air up there than I'm used to breathing.

We didn't flush any jackrabbits (Steve calls them hares, which is more correct) but had a good walk and a photo op. We drove then to a rise at the rim of La Jencia Plain on a ranch owned by a friend. The spot wasn't very far away, by truck, but impossible to cover on foot in less than a day, which I didn't have. Note: Everything "out west" is easier to reach in a truck.

At the top of the rise in the middle of the Plain was a cattle tank, surrounded by a panorama of rolling hills and mountain peaks. Inside this tank, unaccountably, swims a school of giant goldfish. Steve was as delighted to show me those fish as to show off the view. I should have taken their picture, and realize now that by shooting the panorama instead (merely breathtaking), I marked myself a tourist. Next trip I'll shoot the fish.

Steve had much more to show me: a peregrine eyrie on a far peak, rare books and monographs, more hills, another crack at the hares and more vodka. I could have stayed but had left my own dog and hawk with friends in Albuquerque.

We lingered after lunch, looking at digital photos of trained eagles and old friends, some of them mutual. A couple years ago, the same computer screen delivered to Steve my first emailed "Hello" and his gracious reply. We shook hands again at the door and said goodbye, for now. The second hug was easier.

Back Home

Composite of Magdalenan landscape and a trio of Steve's pigeons in flight

Just a quick note with more (and worse) to follow. I'm back in from a record-breaking November hawking trip: 3,000 miles over nine days and from Zero to 7,000+ feet of elevation. Lungs, butt and truck all still feeling the trip!

As mentioned below, I swooped (swung? swang?) through the Bodios' mountain hideaway on Monday evening. It was a ridiculously short visit, but---I hope---not the last.

Uploading pics today. Here's a snippet of Steve's Tazis (two, anyway). See how they run...

Rock Art Convergence

A while back Steve and I posted on some common features that we had seen with regard to representations of shamanism in rock art. I shared pictures from Little Petroglyph Canyon in Inyo County, California, and Steve showed his from the site of Tamgaly outside of Almaty in Kazakhstan.

Steve sent me this picture of a petroglyph of a line of dancers that he took at Tamgaly. You can see them in the lower right corner of the image.

It immediately reminded me of this line of dancers that I had seen in Little Petroglyph Canyon. If you look closely you can see that this line of stick-figures is pecked into two faces of rock and wraps around the corner of the exposure.

Accounts of shamanistic visions often describe a dance or ceremony where the shaman receives his power - all part of the trance as the shaman is alone. Another interesting point is that the dancing figures are very small. A common condition reported in the shamanic trances is the perception of very small hallucinations - "Lilliputian hallucinations." Perhaps the figures' small size is reflective of that effect.

Humpbacks

One interesting thing you can easily do here in Santa Barbara is whale watching. Gray Whales, Blue Whales, and Humpbacks all migrate through the Santa Barbara Channel at various times of the year and there are a number of boats out of the harbor here and down in Ventura who will take you out for half-day tour. We try to go once a year or so. You can also often see them from shore if you keep a sharp eye.

I was rummaging around in my picture files and found found these shots that I took on a boat outing three or four years ago. On this particular day, the boat was "mugged" by three Humpbacks, who spent about half an hour bobbing around the boat engaged in various antics. The one in the picture above was so close that I probably could have touched him if I had laid down on the deck and reached out my arm.

Gray and Blue whales don't seem to want to engage in these interactions and tend to just push on past the boats. Humpbacks do all sorts of things. These three did lots of big tail-slaps. They also did what is called "sky-hopping" where they sort of tread water to get their eyes above the water's surface and watch the boat. One of them also breeched about 100 feet from the boat - shot completely out of the water to a height of about 10 feet - and crashed back down into the sea. I of course, watched in amazement with my mouth open and my camera idle in my hands.

At one point, the three whales came up on the up-wind side of the boat and spouted - exhaled actually. The spray drifted over the boat and it was my first encounter with whale breath. Imagine the smelliest, nastiest, most sulphurous fart you've ever smelled with strong overtones of rotten fish. That is whale breath!

Around the Web

Not much time to blog-- Matt just swooped through (and I expect will have pics and maybe video soon) and guests plus Mr. and Mrs. Peculiar are coming for Thanksgiving. But here are a few tidbits to tide you over.

Attention houndmen: PETA is trying to steal your dogs. HT Patrick of course.

As I have always suspected, evolution works faster than you may think.

Some people are really too dumb to live; David Zincavage at Never Yet Melted links to one here.

Larissa has written a hilarious but ultimately serious defense of vanity. She begins by remembering that when she was little she actually watched herself cry:

"There’s a story from my babyhood that I often ask my mom to repeat, partly because it’s so damn cute, but mostly because it’s about me, and I like hearing stories starring me. She says that whenever I cried, she’d hold me, and I would angle myself to face the large antique mirror that hung on the door in our kitchen and then just watch my reflection as I cried. She’d have to hold me up in front of the glass for a good twenty minutes while I sniffled and sobbed until I started kicking her in the chest, which meant I was finished and now hungry. If I was in another room at the time of an upset, she’d pick me up, and I would twist and strain in her arms as she held me, and instead of the usual uninhibited wailing, my sobs had a hesitant, questioning quality--my perceptive mother would then carry me to my favorite spot in the kitchen where I’d finally let it all out “on camera.” "

RTWT, of course.

Andrew Stuttaford points us to a reissue of a cookbook I suspect I'll be getting: the politically incorrect- but- green Countryman's Cookbook from England. In addition to prescience about polluted rivers and such, and some really good recipes, it includes a (parodic) recipe for cormorant (I lost it and will try to find a link) that includes setting the carcass on fire to remove the feathers, burying it for thirty days, and worse...

More to come. You might check out the remarkable blog Rants and raves, especially the post on fictional and imagined religions that begins with Kipling's Mithraic hymn-- I'll be commenting on it at lenghth soon I hope. Another for the blogroll...

Happy Thanksgiving!

Another Quiz

Anyone want to try and identify these three crania? That is a centimeter scale for reference.

ANSWERS
From left to right:
Golden Eagle (Aquila chrysaetos)
Red-tailed Hawk (Buteo jamaicensis)
Barn Owl (Tyto alba)

Very good everyone and thank you! "In vino veritas," eh, Pluvialis?

Mercy

Falconer, author, blogger, and Team Red proprietor Rebecca O'Connor has had her essay "Mercy" published in the South Dakota Review. Congratulations Rebecca!

Betsy

Twenty years ago Saturday, Betsy Huntington died. She accompanied me from Boston to New Mexico, where we made a home,and where I still live. She was the first person I knew to use the word "querencia", and she is the single biggest influence on who I am today.



I am not sure how much I can add to the many words I have written about her. The book Querencia-- here, -- is her memorial, as is the kind of life I live.



The summer after her death, Tom McIntyre wrote a memorial essay in Gray's Sporting Journal. I can't improve on it.

"As much as she wanted to - and as fiercely as she tried - Betsy couldn't be here this summer.

"You know Betsy Huntington. If you've ever read Steve Bodio, you know her. For nearly a decade she and Steve were friends, partners, accomplices, secret sharers. On the Plains of St. Augustin they kept a blue adobe house that was home to them, as well as itinerant friends, hawks, bird dogs, gazehounds, pigeons, insect collections, books, shotguns, rifles, fishing tackle, riding tack, typewriters, a bulletin board posted with crazed memos, a telephone for making and receiving of midnight calls, the echoes of sporting-writing-living conversations that were never conducted at a level below a howl, wreaths of dried chilis, a Cape buffalo skull...in short, the bare necessities of life. Whenever you read Steve, those words are a direct result of Betsy's life with him, and his with her.

"If you want "facts" about Betsy, she came from a family of soldiers, divines and farmers. Born in China to an Episcopal bishop, she and her family were forced to flee the country ahead of the invading Japanese. She was schooled in the Northeast, traveled through Europe like the women who both intimidated and allured Hemingway, lost no small amount of money without ever feeling the least bitterness or rancor, became a journalist, then a breeder of rare margay cats, then met Steve and lived, as a matter of fact, happily after.

"Those are the facts. But you already know Betsy.

"In the late fall of last year, when there was snow to push elk out of the high country, and after her hard fight, Betsy Huntington died, in sleep. She was buried in the East with a thick coyote pelt to keep her warm, and Steve carried a lock of her hair back to the New Mexico she loved. And now because of all she meant to so many people, it is time to say goodbye to her here and to tell her how much she will be missed this summer, and after. She enjoyed summer, as she enjoyed all the seasons, and no doubt she would have liked this one, too, very much."

Annie Davidson, frequent commentor here and old friend, introduced us. She adds:

"I liked being with Betsy. She had been on great adventures but
somehow managed to make everyday, boring, mundane stuff feel like
adventures too. She saw potential, expanse, and details everywhere.
And she liked me.

"When I wanted a maroon cableknit sweater, we'd walk in the store, and
there it was. On sale. Ditto, when I said I needed a wingback chair
to make my life complete--she'd seen an ad, and we went and got it,
and it was perfect.

"In my mind she is tall, taller than me, but in inches she was much
smaller. We couldn't trade clothes. I wanted so much to look like
she did in her French whore dress, but just looked silly.

"Before they were illegal, Betsy had (nearly unheard of) breeding pairs
of margays. I met her when one mother refused to allow her baby to
nurse, so it needed to be bottle raised. She impressed me by how
keenly she intimately knew and understood each animal. I realized
that 'I need to know everything' approach reflected very much who
Betsy was. She lived in her interests, and she was interested in
everything.



"I never actually met her bobcat, who allegedly socked anybody new just
once in the face. But I don't like to get socked. And Betsy didn't
insist, and she still liked me.



"I liked her approach to life, of 'Let's try it' 'Want to go?' 'Might
be interesting', and I still try to emulate that.

"Maybe I was an interest. Becoming friends stretched me. And
comforted at times I needed it. I still miss her."



Sleep, Bets. We remember you well.

Packrat Middens

Earlier this week, the New York Times had an article on the use of packrat middens as sources of proxy data for climatic reconstruction. These middens have been an important source of data in the western US for decades, but I can't remember seeing another piece on this in the popular press. From the article:

"Packrats, which look like brown squirrels with Dumbo ears, are skilled home builders, and their massive nests, known as middens, can last 10,000 to 20,000 years (though they are not usually inhabited the entire time).

For that reason, the middens serve as time capsules of desert ecology. By analyzing preserved ancient plants and scat from a variety of middens dating back 12,000 years, Dr. Cole recently proved that a miniature ice age known as the Younger Dryas, long thought to have been confined to the North Atlantic, was also felt in the American Southwest.

The analysis demonstrated that after the Younger Dryas, average temperatures in the area climbed about 14 degrees Fahrenheit in just a few hundred years — a precipitous rise that is lending insight into the effects of today’s warming trends on desert ecosystems.

“After the warming period, you notice that fewer tree and shrub species appear in the middens,” Dr. Cole said. “That’s exactly what’s happening in the Southwest now.”

The middens are full of pollen and other plant data and the preserved organics are easily radiocarbon dated. The structures of the middens are cemented together with dried rat urine and picking them apart to gather data is a smelly and unpleasant job - but apparently not bad enough to make the list of the 10 dirtiest jobs in science.

One of the earliest effective practitioners of this form of analysis is Paul Martin author of Twilight of the Mammoths, a book we much admire. Martin was dissertation committee chairman for Steve's brother-in-law, David Adam, and a colleague of a graduate school friend of mine, Steve Emslie.

A review of the ethnographic literature shows that packrack middens sometimes served other purposes for Native Americans.

White Rats

Patrick Burns tells us the story of how British Victorian terriermen and ratcatchers paved the way for advances in modern medicine.

Animal, Vegetable, Mineral, Or...?

I know a number of accomplished naturalists and science-types browse this blog---at least two of them write this blog! So I am putting to you all a Challenge of Identification From The Natural World (...or not). Actually, one of my daughters is putting you up to it: She found this interesting item in a pile of gravel and asked me what it is.



I have no idea. Could it be a fossil? The inner portion of a mollusc's or snail's shell? Is it an artifact? A part of some commonplace, modern day contraption, or maybe an ancient tool?

I can tell you that on close inspection, it seems too symmetrical and contrived to be natural. It looks machined, but for what purpose? There is a very fine threading, suggesting an embedded screw, in the middle segment. But the "screw" seems to be made of the same material as the rest of it. On the whole, it looks and feels like natural river rock, tumbled smooth.

The Prize: In hopes of spurring you on to great feats of scholarship on this matter, I propose to award the producer of the most plausible theory of origin for this item One Year's Free Subscription to this blog!*

*Must be present to win. Not valid in all States. Prize to be received via hyper-text transfer protocol only; the receipt of no material goods is implied by the rules of this "contest."

More Neanderthal News

As I mentioned in a post last week, news accounts have been hinting that more reports on Neanderthal DNA research were due out shortly. Nicholas Wade of the New York Times breaks one of these today, with a progress report on the Neanderthal genome mapping project that I posted on in July.

From the article:

"One million units of Neanderthal DNA have already been analyzed, and a draft version of the entire genome, 3.2 billion units in length, should be ready in two years, said Dr. Svante Paabo, the leader of the research project at the Max-Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology in Leipzig, Germany."

snip

"Dr. Paabo has shared some of his precious sample of Neanderthal DNA with Edward M. Rubin of the Joint Genome Institute in Walnut Creek, Calif., whose team has identified 62,250 units of Neanderthal DNA by a different method. The two teams report their results in the journals Nature and Science respectively, saying they have independently demonstrated that recovery of the Neanderthal genome is now possible."

snip

"From the data already obtained, Dr. Paabo and his colleagues estimate that the ancestral Neanderthal population was very small, perhaps less than 10,000 individuals. Since the ancestral population of modern humans was much the same size, it seems that all populations of early humans were tiny, expanding only after the ice age ended."

snip

"Dr. Bruce Lahn, a geneticist at the University of Chicago, published a report earlier this month suggesting that one of the two principal versions of the human gene for microcephalin, which helps determine brain size, came from an archaic population, presumably the Neanderthals.
His analysis suggested that the two versions of the gene had existed separately for a million years. This, Dr. Lahn argued, most probably happened because one version had belonged to Neanderthals during this time.

So far neither team has analyzed enough Neanderthal DNA to test Dr. Lahn’s suggestion. Dr. Paabo said at a news conference that he had obtained "snippets of genes involved in skin and hair color" but that the information was not yet sufficient to draw any conclusions about the Neanderthals’ physical appearance."

Very, very exciting stuff. As I've mentioned before, the go-to place for informed commentary on this is John Hawks Anthropology Weblog, which already has a post up on this and promises more (including an FAQ post) in the coming days. Hawks reports he's had so much traffic today he had to switch to his back-up server.

Hawks quotes an informed commentor in Nature, talking about these new results:

"These papers are perhaps the most significant contributions published in this field since the discovery of Neanderthals 150 years ago."

Exciting times!

Asteroid and Comet Strikes

The NY Times has a great piece on an ongoing project that is reviewing the world's shorelines for "chevron" deposits. The article decsribes some found in Madagascar like this:

"On close inspection, the chevron deposits contain deep ocean microfossils that are fused with a medley of metals typically formed by cosmic impacts. And all of them point in the same direction — toward the middle of the Indian Ocean where a newly discovered crater, 18 miles in diameter, lies 12,500 feet below the surface.

The explanation is obvious to some scientists. A large asteroid or comet, the kind that could kill a quarter of the world’s population, smashed into the Indian Ocean 4,800 years ago, producing a tsunami at least 600 feet high, about 13 times as big as the one that inundated Indonesia nearly two years ago. The wave carried the huge deposits of sediment to land. "

The graphic I borrowed maps known major craters and chevron deposits world-wide. It sort of shrank when I pasted it. Take a good look at the original. We've been hit a lot in the past.

Latrine Practices and Health Risks

I really enjoyed this article from the LA Times that discusses research from the archaeological site of Qumran in Israel, thought by many to be the home of the religious community that produced the Dead Sea Scrolls. Apparently contemporary writings describe elaborate cleansing rituals involved with using their latrines and these have been confirmed through the archaeological excavations. What the archaeologists have found is that the concentration of waste in pits and the large amounts of contaminated water used to "cleanse" people actually had the effect of encouraging the spread of parasites and degrading the health of the people there.

Very interesting reading.

This reminded me of a discussion I had with a colleague some days ago, when I pointed out that most studies of the skeletal remains of prehistoric hunter-gatherers show that they were taller, more robust, healthier and longer-lived than the Neolithic agriculturalists that succeeded them. This is probably attributable to a better diet - a wider variety of wild foods - and to the fact that hunter-gatherers moved around a lot so that their waste and trash didn't have a chance to build up around them. Agriculturalists tend to stay in one place and their (and their animals') waste piles up around them causing the health risks discussed in the article above.


I illustrated the situation with the photo above. This is a picture of one of the Hopi Villages (in Arizona) Walpi, taken by A.C. Vroman in 1897. The masses of dark stuff along the cliff ledges below the walls are largely - what's a good term? - nightsoil. The Hopi just flung it over the edge of the mesa as they had for a thousand years. Those of us who live with flush toilets tend to forget what an issue that was for our ancestors.

The Matter of Borat

As I am a known Kazakh- o- phile, everyone wants to know what I think of the Borat phenomenon (and I have also been asked if they do indeed drink horse urine: NO).

I am no fan of gross- out movies and am obviously a big fan of free speech so I thought I would ignore the whole thing. But t won't ignore me. So a few thoughts.

I think a dignified protest by the Kazakhs (including a good- humored one by Nazarbayev's daughter) is just about the right reaction.

Not only is Kazakhstan NOT anti- Semitic-- according to a Jewish Kazakh acquaintance, Almaty has traditionally been a place of refuge for Jews. I have seen an Orthodox Jewish teacher with side- curls there, followed by a line of students in yarmulkes.

Steve Sailer thinks that the character is more about Eastern Europeans than Central Asians. Certainly this article about how he conned a village of Romanian Gypsies lends truth to that theory.

At Slate, Christopher Hitchens has some sharp observations.

Says Chas, who sent me the Romanian clip: "Funny, Kazakhs seem to the only ones not complaining loudly. I heard that the "Borat" movie was banned in Russia though. Anyone suing Cohen will have to get in line, though, behind the American frat boys and the Turkish comic who claimed that *he* was the inspiration for the Borat character."

I think I'll imagine the obnoxious boor being booted off Komsomol Peak (don't know if it has a new name) by my friend, the Kazakh mountain guide and karateka Margulan. BOOM!

Update

Reader Rasmus Boegh has identified the source of the eagle photo in this post of May 24.

"The animal on the photo is, without any doubts, a Red Fox. Furthermore, it is actually part of a series that was shot in Finland by Pekka Komi. This photo could give the mistaken impression that the Golden Eagle is attacking the Red Fox to prey on it, but that was not the case. Actually, they were fighting for a carcass that had been laid out to attract various raptors. For some time the outcome of the fight was unclear, but in the end the Golden Eagle won and the fox ran away. Pekka Komi who took them has posted 5 photos from this series on Tarsiger (if I remember right, there are more that weren't posted)"

Contra "Peak Oil"

MSN also carries a Reuters release of a study from Cambridge Energy Research Associates attacking the simplistic application of the peak oil concept. From the release:

"Cambridge Energy Research Associates said in a report that the world has some 3.74 trillion barrels of oil left -- enough to last 122 years at current consumption rates and triple the amount estimated by “peak oil” theorists."

snip

"'Oil is too critical to the global economy to allow fear to replace careful analysis about the very real challenges with delivering liquid fuels to meet the needs of growing economies,' said Peter Jackson, director of oil industry activity for Cambridge, a Massachusetts-based consultant to the oil, natural gas and electric power industries.

The said the peak in global daily oil production will not come before 2030 and will be followed not by a steep decline, but rather by an “undulating plateau” of ups and downs in output before a gradual dropoff, according to the report.

Jackson said the main flaw in “peak oil” theory is that it fails to account for exploration, technology, rising estimates of the size of existing fields and geopolitical shifts."

I believe Cambridge is the think-tank that Daniel Yergin is associated with and he has a great deal of credibility.

RTWT

Dirty Jobs

MSN Careers has an interesting piece up on the 10 Dirtiest Jobs in Science. In no particular order they are:

Manure Inspector
Orangutan Pee Collector
Hot-zone Superintendent
Extremophile Excavator
Dysentery Stool Sample Analyzer
Semen Washer
Volcanologist
Carcass Cleaner
Fistula Feeder
Corpse-Flower Grower

I would say Hot-zone Superintendent is maybe the most dangerous, but for dirtiest, I vote Carcass Cleaner. What is your vote?

Around the Web

Things stack up when you are busy!

Nanny state part one thousand and ???: Britain now is suggesting compulsory training in nursery rhymes for inept parents. Can't make it up...

While Beijing is pursuing a compulsory one- small- dog policy--- not that Albuquerque mayor Marty Chavez wouldn't do the same if he had the power.

Also in Britain: a Moslem gent, hungry from his Ramadan fast, attacked and killed a park swan. To me, the funny part is that he "admitted possessing a kitchen knife in public". The depravity!

On a more positive note, Dr. Hypercube introduces us to the fantastic zoological art of Briony Morrow-Cribbs at the Diary of a Mad Natural Historian.

Continuing in that vein, check out regular commentor Moro Rogers' Kambodia Hotel Blog. She and I have been corresponding for many years (really-- she was a precocious talent!) and it is a delight to watch her skills unfold. Moro, you should tell us about such things!

A federal judge is allowing Indians to violate federal laws and kill eagles. How far should religious tolerance extend? I think in conservation biology should generally trump all. My initial and admittedly reactionary reaction-- in a note to Matt-- was: "If they want to kill eagles they should also live in tipis, and give up trucks, booze, welfare, and rifles!" (living next to a particularly dysfunctional reservation will make one sour). Matt as always was more humane, though his perscription amounted to the same thing put more thoughtfully:

"I am not one to wish "primitive" peoples back into
their molds (or worse, our idea of their molds), but I
don't think you can have it both ways. The old, right
ways contain their own natural limitations.

"If you want to dig in and catch your eagle by hand,
kill it barehanded and use every part of it for a
ceremony once a year, I'm OK with that. I have
"harvested" wild raptors and (unwittingly) killed them
in the pursuit of my own nirvana. I've got no room to
complain.

"But add bullets and money into the equation and all
bets are off."

Back at the ranch: Reid sent this LAT piece on the "discovery " that grazing can be good for the range.

Well, "duh". Grass coevolved with grazing. Until we get "rewilding" it had best get at least some grazing or prooblems will result..

Michael Brendan Daugherty at Surfeited with Dainties has posted a stirring defense of dandyism. It's not just for metrosexuals! "If, as Chensvold insists, Dandyism is a male archetype, then a Dandy must be identifiably a man. He ought to like wine, women and song more than attention, fake titles and sunflowers in his own lapel."

One more: the War Nerd has some bleak views on our future conflicts. Will we ever learn?

Surf Fishing

Most of us tend to think of Great Blue Herons as large, freshwater wading birds. Around here, they're almost as likely to try their luck on the salt as this fellow is doing at Goleta Beach.

Lunch with the Blowhards

Last Tuesday I had lunch with Michael Blowhard and his wife at the Beachside Cafe at Goleta Beach. They were in town on vacation and we were able to meet up. Michael is the principal contributor to the group blog 2blowhards, a daily must-read for its take on culture, the arts, history, fashion, architecture, literature and just about everything else. Michael has always been very supportive of this blog and 2blowhards has been on our blog roll from the beginning. Steve refers to Michael as his "blogfather." Mrs. Blowhard has her own brilliant accomplishments in the blogosphere, the theather and elsewhere.

The combination of the Beachside's beautiful setting, the intelligent and informed conversation, and my favorite shrimp-filled chiles rellenos couldn't be surpassed. So much good talk on so many subjects: collaborating in the blogosphere with friends you've never met, the environmental consulting business, life in Santa Barbara, falconry and tazis, the peculiarities and perils of Midwestern cuisine. On this last topic Mrs. Blowhard cheerfully observed that all the famous mass-murderers in California history (Charles Manson case in point) were originally from Ohio. Maybe the food was to blame!

After lunch I took a photograph that I think captures the brio of this talented, attractive and brainy couple. Alas, their need for anonymity prevents me from sharing it.