The forgotten Swiss Army knife is a character in my next book.
I am writing a wilderness memoir. Appalachian Mountain Club Books will publish this book in a year. Writing personal history means I must do research on my own life. This story involves my two daughters, who were children, teenagers, and finally young adults as this story of my metamorphosis unfolded. My husband Nat appears a great deal, too: he was a gearhound who guided me in my early backpacking trips. And he has been my best mountain partner when I still want a partner. Friends I no longer see or even talk to played huge roles. A friend named Peter organized my first multi-day mountain traverse. Hiking partners: Bob, Skip, Steve, and Ellen.
Objects are characters in my story: Swiss Army knives. Sleeping bags. A particular hat. The old Coleman Peak 1 stove. The old pot. A headlamp.
Writer Tim Bascom led a memoir workshop in June and July through the University of Iowa Summer Writing Festival. Tim reminded me that I come from a family and a family culture—a big family, a dynamic family culture—but my book is about me, not them. My perceptions, which will differ from theirs. But that original family played a huge role, too. Tim reminded me I must be honest with myself about my own foibles.
I am so grateful that AMC Books has given me the freedom to write this story.
The last year and a half felt a little like an endurance race without the trail. Mentally I knew how to hold on and keep going, but physically, between the masks and atrial fibrillation—a common affliction of lifelong athletes (and a lot of other people) but which felt like my loneliest problem—I felt constrained. Not free. Stuck.
As it happened, just around the time the country was preparing to open up again, in late May I went through a cardiac ablation at the hands of some amazing doctors at Massachusetts General Hospital. I have gotten a lovely medical tuneup. I now feel like a new woman. I have been handed back energy for the next, oh, three decades at least.
And so I’m looking at maps again and planning to hitch up some inclines. Eventually.
Meanwhile, our daughter got married in Las Vegas. She has a wonderful wife now. And we have a new daughter-in-law. Then our other daughter announced that she and her boyfriend will be getting married. Our family is expanding. Everything has moved from endurance to hope!
If you have thought of working as a freelance journalist and want to hear how my 21-year freelance career has gone, join me for a free online talk sponsored by the University of Connecticut Journalism Department, where I am a visiting assistant professor this year.
How to find an editor who will hire you. How to pitch. How to cultivate connections and when not to worry about that. How to manage your time and figure out money. How to keep your creativity — a freelancer’s asset — alive.
Click here to sign up. Journalism students and recent graduates, welcome. I will call on young journalists first when questions start. But don’t worry: I’ll leave plenty of time for all questions.
Teaching has risen to the top of my list. I am a visiting assistant professor in journalism at the University of Connecticut this year. I will be teaching environmental journalism, the history of journalism in America (“The Press in America”), and two newswriting labs for Professor Mike Stanton. I’m excited to be teaching undergraduates in my home state. My appointment draws on my advanced history training from Arizona State University and my many years of journalism experience going back to Philadelphia in the early 1980s.
During my teaching year I will continue as editor-in-chief of Appalachia, the mountaineering and conservation journal. When school is in break, I’ll keep working on my next book proposal about struggling farmers in southern New Jersey and other writing projects.
During this time of the new coronavirus, I will teach both online—my journalism history lecture class—and in person. I’m looking forward to the challenges of helping students through this history-making year.
Above, from the Yale study: The red line represents the rise and fall of the COVID-19 outbreaks as detected in New Haven sewage. The darker line, seven days later, represents a similar curve of the outbreak as tracked in human testing.
A new study by Yale University of the COVID-19 virus in New Haven’s sewage sludge has found that testing human feces is a quicker and broader way to understand the pandemic in communities—a week faster than human testing and including even cases where people didn’t feel sick.
The study published Friday as a preprint (before peer review) compared sludge results from the settling tank at the East Shore Water Pollution Abatement Facility on New Haven Harbor to human testing and hospitalization rates for the New Haven area between March 19 and May 1. It found that the so-called curve of the epidemic’s rise and fall tracked each other but that the sludge results could be determined more quickly.
Testing continues daily.
Another outbreak going forward could be predicted through sewage testing seven days earlier than human testing and three days ahead of results on hospital admissions, said the lead author, Jordan Peccia, a professor of chemical and environmental engineering at Yale University.
Sewage testing has been used for years to understand drug use, eating habits, genetics, and diseases. Lead author Jordan Peccia’s past research has tested sewage for viruses including herpes, adeno virus, HIV, norovirus, and other coronaviruses like SARS and MERS. Massachusetts Institute of Technology Professor Eric Alm started a study of Cambridge, Mass. sewage in 2015 called Underworlds, and the Somerville, Mass.-based sewage testing company Biobot Analytics is now looking for COVID-19 in samples from sewage plants in 42 states.
The way to test people without symptoms
Sewage doesn’t lie. “When you test people,” he said, “you’re testing only the symptomatic people. You’re missing the asymptomatic fraction, which is significant. Meanwhile, they are giving their samples to the sewage treatment plant: samples from everyone served by the New Haven plant — 200,000 people. “We can do this for about $20 per test.” The East Shore sewage treatment plant serves New Haven, Hamden, East Haven, and parts of Woodbridge.
In the first weeks of the New Haven study, the Yale team froze sludge samples while they perfected methods to detect the virus. People who are infected—whether they show symptoms or not—shed RNA (ribonucleic acid) from the centers of COVID-19 molecules into their feces.
The sludge testing method involves the turning of the virus’s RNA (a single-stranded molecule) into DNA in the lab, which allows them to detect the virus at the molecular level.
In March when the team began, the sludge results weren’t available in real time. “We were figuring out how to do the analysis. We were storing it and checking,” Peccia said.
Peccia’s 11 co-authors are affiliated with Yale’s schools of public health, management, medicine, and nursing; its Institute for Global Health; and the Connecticut Agricultural Experiment Station.
“The city has been really remarkable in allowing us to continue to sample and taking any interest at all in our results,” Peccia said.
He said he hoped that widespread sewage testing could be a valuable nationwide method to understand the pandemic because 250 million people in the United States are served by municipal sewage plants.
“It’s certainly not going to replace (human) COVID testing,” Peccia said. “I want to be really clear: as an individual you know you are positive or negative and you can do contact tracing and quarantine yourself. That’s the gold standard.”
“There are two important things we get out of this testing,” Peccia said. “It’s another thing for cities, public health officials, municipalities, to look at as they’re making a decision about whether they’ve had 14 days of decrease in a row. The second one is it can be earlier than the testing data. It can answer this critical question we have right now: Are things going to go back up?”
Peccia said virus levels in New Haven sewage were so low by late May that “in the next set of analyses we will get some non-detects.”
What about combined sewage overflows and swimming?
It’s not known yet whether coronavirus can live in the diluted combined sewage overflow (CSO) discharges (untreated sewage mixed with rain) that still sometimes pour into water bodies in New Haven and five other cities. Peter A. Raymond, a professor of ecosystem ecology at Yale School of Forestry and Environmental Studies, is sampling CSOs in the area. His results are not yet available.
Amy Kirby, a senior service fellow in the Waterborne Disease Prevention Branch at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, said in an April 27 webinar, “We think it is unlikely to present a substantial infection risk in wastewater.”
Jennifer Perry, assistant director of infrastructure management in the water bureau of the state Department of Energy and Environmental Protection, said DEEP has no evidence of how long the coronavirus can live in untreated wastewater. “So we recommend not swimming, bathing, drinking, or fishing next to or downstream of a combined sewer overflow for at least 48 hours after any storm.”
Peccia said, “I don’t want to go swimming in a water body that gets a CSO, but if I did, I wouldn’t worry about catching COVID. I’d be much more worried if on my way back from taking a sample, I stopped in the grocery store. It’s a disease that definitely goes from person to person, and the evidence suggests it’s much harder to be transmitted in the environment.”
Manage public outdoor spaces the way we manage grocery stores: like essential spaces that should never close
People need to get outside, breathe fresh air, move around, and fix their eyes on some actual distant shore.
The coronavirus pandemic is rising toward its peak in the Northeast. Cities, towns, states, and the federal government are closing access to public parks across the United States. They are closing them because people were flocking to the popular areas. The theory goes that by going to parks they risk passing on or contracting the virus.
I speak for only myself here. I ask that we look carefully at the logic of this. If society realizes people need food, medicine, and gasoline, why would it not consider the outdoor areas as just as vital?
If people are trusted to wear masks, wash hands, and remain distant inside a grocery store, why can’t they be encouraged, taught, or forced to behave that way outdoors? Perhaps it would take a few staff members and signs to herd people into following protocols.
Why is food vital and outdoor exercise considered expendable?
That’s what I’m asking myself today.
I am the editor of Appalachia journal, the country’s oldest journal of mountaineering and conservation. We take a literary approach to wilderness and adventure.
We are living through an unprecedented pandemic, something no one alive today has ever seen. This will go into the history books. Those who read and write for Appalachia journal find their true selves in the backcountry and wilderness areas around the world—but especially in the Northeast. And within the Northeast, the White Mountains of New Hampshire and wild areas of Maine especially call to us.
Appalachia journal is looking for thoughtful essays between now and May 20 in the range of 1,000 to 2,000 words on the COVID-19 pandemic. What has getting onto trails and cliffs and hills meant during this terrifying period? Do you see mountains more as life itself and less as recreation now? What is it like going to the backcountry and finding that facilities are closed and people must stay away from each other? Submit drafts on Submittable.
Looking through 20-year-old photos this week, I glimpsed the full landscape of my personal life in a true, complete way. And realized that I have neglected that landscape as a writer, creating here and in my published articles this sense that I spend all my time sitting on rocks in the backcountry. These inspire a lot of my writing, but the full story is… fuller.
Most of life vibrates in the everyday, the wiping up crumbs, unwrapping vegetables, pouring out pasta water, listening to those little anxieties of one’s children or pets. The clattering of feet defined life in our little Victorian house for so many years. From 1988 until 2009, at least one daughter lived with my husband and me, and our daily landscape was so very colorful. They dressed up in scraps of cloth. They invented stories about princesses who lived in the woods. They gave names to their tiny dollhouse figures and set them up with labyrinths of rooms on the front porch. Etc.
Mountains and backcountry lowlands seem to clear out something on my head, answering some yearning fixed in me way before I became a mother. The noisy comings and goings of my large family growing up gave me much joy. But when I left home and went on my own and then committed to marriage and motherhood, I thought that I sought quiet.
What I truly sought, and what I wanted, was a family. My family. Our family. That is, the next branch of a large tree of people in two families going back thousands of years. I told myself I wanted a peaceful family, but actually I wanted the kind of noise that I was the mother of. Rather than being part of the noisy, loving chaos as a sister and daughter, what felt like quiet to me was simply being the mother.
Well, now those sparrows have found their nests. The younger of the two, pictured above, is now 29 and creating her own special world. Her sister, 31, is doing the same. My world, and my husband’s world, now almost resembles the quiet of a windblown mountaintop. But we reminisce about the clattering of feet. That’s right; that’s how it should be.
I came across this post from Philip Werner, aka Section Hiker. Eight years ago, I tried to save a man’s life as part of a group of hikers who came upon a collapsed father on the Tuckerman Ravine Trail. He had been trying to climb Mount Washington with his two teenage daughters, one of whom sat nearby while we performed CPR. This event brought the circle of life into sharp focus, pushed away petty distractions, and proved (again) that people draw on essential goodness when an emergency demands it. The man did not survive.
The Connecticut Health Investigative Team has posted Christine Woodside’s three stories on routine sewage overflows into Long Island Sound off the coast of Connecticut. She had long wanted to understand why sewage overflows legally in some of Connecticut’s cities. She settled on the Bridgeport neighborhood of Black Rock, on Black Rock Harbor and near the promenades of Seaside Park. There she found recreation, industry, and local people who were getting tired of pollution. She went to Black Rock at least a dozen times between late March and late July. She read sewage plan documents. She scouted. She tagged along with citizen scientists collecting water. She sought out the overflow pipes with diver/boat cleaner Kevin Blagys. She wandered around the docks, streets, beaches, and markets. This gave her a sense of the residents’ anxieties and the enormity of the project to stop overflows.
The week after my mother’s memorial service, I found myself standing on the top of the first mountain I ever climbed, at 3, with her, my three brothers, and my father. Mom told me once that she had sort of pushed me up the short, steep path. I even remember how she asked me to stand by a small pine tree for a photo. The tree is still there. It pushes out of the rock ledge at the woods edge, back from the view over lake and mountains. And oh, was I grumpy. She later said how I used to complain, during family mountain climbs, “I hate this. I’m only doing this to get to the top.”
To her credit, she didn’t wave that at me much after I was climbing mountains all the time and telling anyone who would listen that the experience has nothing to do with the summit. Ha!
Mom didn’t do much hiking—let’s be clear. This one little mountain was her thing. She climbed two others with us that I know of. I’m pretty sure she and her sisters complained when their father drove up Pike’s Peak. She didn’t mention how it looked, just how scared they all were.
The coming months will unfold so that I can understand where Mom’s complete soul remains in mine. Now I can see the complete mother—and no longer have to think about the problems she had in old age, and the fact that she was unhappy as her freedom to move around freely evaporated with her strength. All that is over now. Now I’m standing in my little green pants by that gnarly pine that could keep going despite the rock on which it had rooted. Now I am trying to cool my flushed cheeks again beneath the same tree, and I can hear her voice asking me to look toward the camera.
We climbed two mountains in the Pliny Range of New Hampshire today. On the ridge, spring’s arrival was creeping upward toward winter’s exit. Low on the ridge, wildflowers reached away from the path. The red trillium is the most beautiful and amazing of them all. It grows out of a rhizome, and the leaves aren’t true leaves (the true leaves apparently live underground). It puts out a single bloom. A world that can produce something so stunning in a scrubby woods in the North Country—with no humans tending them in greenhouses, no cultivation, no planning—is a world I want to know. I will not reveal where I saw this flower. It’s too amazing.
Hello everybody. Yesterday I graduated from Arizona State University with my master’s degree in history. The program gave me so much. View my final Capstone portfolio here.
Here I sit in Phoenix, looking out on a steady rain falling on the cacti. Soon I return to my usually-rainy homeland of Connecticut. Wherever you are, let the landscape inspire new writing, new ideas, and ways that you can make those ideas unfold.
I am working this month on my series for the Connecticut Health Investigative Team on sewage overflows in Bridgeport. Tomorrow I’ll be on the water with a group of concerned citizens learning how to take samples near an outflow pipe in their neighborhood. More on this project as it progresses.