MIDDLEBURY
GEOGRAPHIC issue 17 | fall 2020
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Middlebury Geographic Fall 2020 4 — Contributors 6 — Editor's Note Perspectives 8 — Nick Nonnenmacher '21 10 — John Epley '21
Snapshots 14 — March Paris Saturday by Masha Makutonina '21.5 16 — Reflections by Haley Hutchinson '23 18 — Four Stories by Olivia Olson '21.5
Main Features On Location 27 — Qinghai, Tibet by Mai Thuong '22 30 — Nusa Tenggara, Indonesia by Fiona Mustain '20 Other Tales 36 — Life Lessons From the Farm by Keaton Smith '21 42 — Los Angeles: April 19, 2020 by Van Barth '21
Panoramic Faculty Spotlight 52 — Native Voices: A Conversation with Guntram Herb as told by Drew An-Pham '23 Abroad Dispatch 58 — Mount Brown and the New Zealand Hut Network by Liv Cappello '21
2 2 CONTENTS
Snowy Taktsang, Bhutan By Matteo Moretti '21
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Contributors LIV CAPPELLO '21 Liv is a Psychology major and Global Health minor. She loves making art, being outside and listening to Maggie Rogers on repeat.
MAI THUONG '22 Hallo, my name is Mai (not "May", nor "Maya", but Mai, like "my"). I'm a Vietnamese junior majoring in French & Francophone Studies, with an approved minor in Dance and a fake minor in Film.
KEATON SMITH '21 Keaton is a Philosophy major who is interested in discussing deep questions about life, ethics and the environment. When she isn't reading or writing, Keaton enjoys hiking in Northern Michigan, skiing in Vermont or cooking a meal with her friends and family.
MASHA MAKUTONINA '21.5 Masha is a Film and Media Studies major. She believes that the most important unimportant things in life are theatre, art, education and human connection. Originally from Ukraine, Masha speaks four languages and enjoys baking.
FIONA MUSTAIN '20 Fiona is originally from Bogotรก, Colombia but has lived in Texas, Holland and Sweden. She is currently a product designer who loves photography, traveling with friends and a good cup of coffee.
OLIVIA OLSON '21.5 Olivia enjoys making music, reading aloud and swimming in cold water. She has been featured in Middlbury's Blackbird Arts Journal and To Whom it May Concern, and has published an original music album entitled Dragonfiles. She looks forward to retiring as a grey seal off the coast of her hometown, Islesboro, Maine.
4 4 CONTRIBUTORS
MIDDLEBURY
GEOGRAPHIC issue 17 | fall 2020
Editorial Board Editors-In-Chief Daniel Krugman '21 Matteo Moretti '21 Managing Editor Drew An-Pham '23 Deputy Editors John Epley '21 Haley Hutchinson '23 Senior Photo Editor Van Barth '21 Designers Alnaw Elnaw '24 Jake Gilbert '24
Copy Editors Ethan DeMaio '24 Caitlin Baxter '24 Charles Crounse '24 Paige Indritz '24 Genny Gottdiener '23 Catherine Goodrich '24
On the Cover: From Flower Street Overpass, Los Angeles, California By Van Barth '21
Photo Editors Malick Thiam '24 Siri Ahern '24
On the Back: Bridge to Temple, Thimphu, Bhutan By Matteo Moretti '21 5 EDITORIAL BOARD 5
From the Field Editor's Note
6 6 EDITOR'S NOTE
T
he “how have you been since *insert last time we met*” is a staple of Middlebury conversations. With both a half-semester online and a full summer to cover—not to mention a backdrop of a global pandemic, social unrest and political turmoil—these conversation starters have been taken to a new level this strange fall on campus. Frustrated by my inability to fully articulate what I was doing and how I was feeling mid-social crisis, I defaulted to a simple answer that really encapsulated what I’d been up to: “Well, I got a bike.”
A neon-green Cannondale road machine, well-bruised from its previous two owners but still keeping its charm, defined my quarantine existence. After a few initial battles with the unfamiliar clip-in pedals and several clumsy crashes just a few weeks in, that bike became the antidote to cabin-fever and Zoom exhaustion. From mornings of dodging traffic before hours of online work to weekend afternoons exploring empty backroads, these moments removed me from the screen, the stresses of living at home and forced me to slow down. Scanning the road in front of me after topping off a steep climb or stopping to look at the Maryland countryside and think, I was challenged with the immediate needs of the ride while enjoying the space to process the chaotic world at hand. Removed from the blaring noise of the media and alone in simple moments of joy, I never forgot about the pandemic, my longing for Middlebury and the people I love here, or the needed dismantlement of systems of violence in our society. Rather than an escape, these were small voyages, trips in which I could reorient myself to the situations of my life both personal and societal. This 17th edition of Middlebury Geographic features stories from before and during this pandemic, from around the globe and in Addison County. Through their lenses, prose and art, our contributors and editors contemplate life and death, the ethics of travel, the trials of scientific research, creativity, emptiness and belonging. Their experiences and stories, brief snapshots and sweeping panoramas of their experiences and themselves, challenge us to reflect on our own experiences of searching for moments of peace and joy during this unrest. In this time of uncertainty in which truth is conflicted, journalism is attacked, and narratives are twisted, our storytelling remains steadfast. Continuing our mission to be a platform for global storytelling, art and photography, this issue of Middlebury Geographic serves as a reminder that profound beauty and meaning exist inside our current climate. In these pages, we ground our experiences, visions and reflections in the embracement of the challenges of these times while seeking to show the moments of humanism and grace that I believe make us human. We hope this issue gives you that brief moment of joy.
Words by Daniel Krugman '21 | Editor-in-Chief Photo by Matteo Moretti '21 | Editor-in-Chief 7 7
8 8 PERSPECTIVE [A - SIDE]
Perspective [ A - Side ] What is it about wild animals looking you in the eye that stops your heart? I remember when I was helping conduct a coral cover survey just beyond the reef break. The tropical sun beat hard, and reminded me I was very far from home. Then, as I paddled, the bottom dropped away into a massive patch of sand—an oasis of clear blue-green water surrounded by monoliths of bright coral. I only saw the first turtle for a moment. I turned my head, and watched the graceful shell of a second fade into aqua. The third, fourth, fifth and sixth introduced themselves briefly as I glided among coral towers and above sandy expanses. A gentle current guided me around the reef and brought all of its residents to life. Swaying corals and sweeping across the sand, a breath of wind through the bright green leaves I was familiar with. I lost count at some point—my boss had never seen so many in one cove. “This one, Nick, this one can be a secret!” she exclaimed over the crashing waves a few meters out. On my final survey, I rounded a coral tower to find this turtle. Instead of darting away, it slowly maneuvered its fins and let the current drift it closer to me. Its eyes were wide open, and my heart stopped. It floated, gently, curiously, until its flipper could have brushed my finger, and then in one swift and elegant motion it was gone. I remained, drifting, lost in the waves and its eyes. What is it about wild animals looking you in the eye that stops your heart? Words & Photo by Nick Nonnenmacher '21
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Perspective [ B - Side ]
The Teton granite slab where we were perched was smooth and baked warm by the summer heat. As the sun set over the valley below, a stillness filled the high-alpine air. We sat in silence on the cooling stone, admiring the surrounding landscape and reflecting on the day’s journey through the Teton Canyon to Alaska Basin. In an instant, the stillness of the moment was gone. From the dark waters of the Basin Lakes behind us, a cacophony of churning water and flapping fins filled our ears. My friend, Struan, grabbed his fly rod and tossed a cast out towards the center of the lake. In the dim moonlight, we could barely make out his caddisfly sitting on the water as fish rose around it. We waited while Struan patiently stripped his line, moving his bug along the water’s surface. Shwooosh! Struan’s rod shot into the air, pulling the line taught and setting the hook in the trout’s mouth. “Strip strip strip!” someone shrieked with excitement as Struan pulled the neon fly line through his fingers. We crowded around the water’s edge, waiting for the behemoth Cutthroat to appear in the light from my headlamp. As the fish was pulled into view, it wasn’t the trophy we were hoping for, but it was a prize nonetheless. Words by John Epley '21 Photo by Max Heffron
10 10 PERSPECTIVE [B - SIDE]
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S N A P
12 12 SNAPSHOTS
S H O T S
Pg. 14 - March Paris Sunday By Masha Makutonina '21
Pg. 16 - Reflections By Haley Hutchinson '23
Pg. 18 - Four Stories By Olivia Olson '21.5
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14 14 "MARCH PARIS SATURDAY" BY MASHA MAKUTONINA
MARCH PARIS SUNDAY
WORDS & PHOTO BY MASHA MAKUTONINA '21.5
I
f the world were to end in 15 minutes I would begin my final message by writing out the English alphabet and giving some examples of words in the hopes that future civilizations could decipher my letter. I would write a brief summary of human history, include a couple of lines about its beauty and horror, and give the geographical coordinates of my home, Odessa (46°28'38.89"N, 30°43'57.43"E). I would attempt to describe our five senses with examples of my favourite things such as the feeling of the sun on your bare skin, a hug from a loved one and the incredible taste of chocolate with hazelnuts after a very boring class. I would leave some poems in Russian by Brodsky and Pushkin, draw the sunflowers of Van Gogh and finally, record myself busting the best moves I could come up with to ‘Rock around the clock’ by Bill Haley & His Comets.
In true Parisian fashion, the day started sunny and gradually turned into a gloomy rain as I popped into a Starbucks on Rue Saint-Michel. During my time there I had discovered a number of things including to never to trust a sunny sky (as half-sunny days were a common occurrence) and that libraries close on weekends, a righteous reminder to students like me that there were much better things to do than study. Earlier that day I had attended a free theatre workshop at the Cité Internationale held by the directors behind the adaptation of Dennis Kelly’s play ‘Après la fin’. It isn’t often that you come across a free theatre workshop in Paris so when I saw that it was available I immediately signed up. There were about 20 of us, mostly international master’s degree students coming from a range of different backgrounds: computer science and management, diplomacy and psychology, filmmaking and chemistry. We were all given a simple prompt, the world was ending and we had 15 minutes to come up with our final message. We were asked not to invent a character and not to limit ourselves in any way, there was only one condition – it had to be personal. It took me around 15 minutes to construct my final message and as I finished, I looked up and saw everyone around me passionately writing out their own ‘final’ words. The urgency of the made-up situation suddenly sank in and inspired me to add a couple of lines about how dying in on a half-sunny day in Paris is certainly not a bad way to go in an apocalyptic scenario.
We spent the next two hours reading and recording our messages. One person took us outside onto the main lawn and told us that it was his favorite spot to look at stars during the summer nights: ‘Life is pretty simple for me’ he declared ‘it is a constant rollercoaster between love and depression. I suppose it’s actually good that this is the end of the world. There was a lot of beauty and a lot of pain. We had a wonderful nature and we killed it, but life was still incredible because there was love. I actually met my soulmate four days ago. Bad timing, I guess. In these final moments, I will be calling my family and singing. If you find this, you should reinvent the world with less pain, and no social media’. A girl took us to the auditorium of the theatre and said ‘I like going to the cinemas and theatres alone. It is my favourite place. If this is the end, at least those scumbags in the government are going down too. Freedom is something even death can’t take away from me.’ Another boy took the stage and stated that: ‘This world was bad, we had hunger when we had enough food to fight it, we had poverty when the army budgets kept rising, actually I suppose I am happy this world is ending, with it will end all the suffering we have created. It is for the better.’ Someone else climbed the stage and told us: ‘I cry every time I have to speak publicly, it is really awful, here we go again. I am crying right now. Actually, I thought I was going to die a couple of years ago. It turned out to be nothing but for two weeks I was sure I had a mortal illness. Three nights before they told me I was in fact perfectly healthy; I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of all the things I still wanted to do. At 28 years old, all I have done is follow the path designed for me by others. But after that night, I have decided to do all the things I want to do. I even forced myself on stage today. Sorry, I keep crying. Thank you for listening. I hope that I never see any of you ever again because this is so embarrassing.’ ‘If the huge wave has arrived, don’t worry’ another said ‘ Wait for seven days and then God will recreate the Earth. In that case, stop reading this, you don’t want to have spoilers. If you can, watch L’enfance de Tarkovsky, listen to the second concert of Rachmaninoff, and be happy it all existed.’ If you had 15 minutes until the end of the world, what would your message be?
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reflections snoitcefler words by haley hutchinson '23
M
y tender feet, raw from miles of elevation gain, inch closer and closer to the lapping water of an alpine tarn. Trickling between cracks of granite, the lake’s motion breaks the silence that echoes between gray peaks, teasing an evening sky. I cautiously dip my feet into the water. The initial shock is breathtaking, but soon the frigidity begins to relieve the aches and pains my feet have grown accustomed to after long days of hiking rugged terrain on the east side of the Sierra Mountains.
The last ribbons of heat from the day fade into the approaching dusk. With my toes submerged in the cooling water, I sit in stillness. Like polished glass, the tarn mirrors its surroundings–the texture of the rubbled rock lining its edge, the crusted moss wedged between granite slabs and mud at its bank, the lonely white pine scarred from a lightning storm a few summers back, the gleam of a setting orange sun. A slight breeze ripples the image, calling attention to the distinction between the physical and the reflected. As the moment drifts away, the air leaves a loud quietness, save for the breath in my chest, reminding me that out here,
I am alone.
16 16 "REFLECTIONS" BY HALEY HUTCHINSON
I stare into the velvet water, my feet numbing with the cold. My reflection stares back at me in contemplation. Water bugs skirt in aimless circles and lime-green pieces of uprooted lake-bottom slime drift aimlessly across my nose, painting a portrait on this aquatic canvas. I close my eyes and listen to the calls of a distant chickadee settling in for the night. I hear the soft drum of my heartbeat, loud in this whimsical silence.
As the tangerine sun begins to disappear behind the peaks in front of me, another day draws to a close in the wilderness. The same sun still glows on taller peaks behind me, hiding an alpine meadow where Indian paintbrushes and elephant heads crane their necks to the sky, maximizing the final moments of radiation. A marmot discreetly skitters across broken pieces of talace back to its den. A bald eagle soars overhead, its kingly presence dominating the sky for a moment before disappearing behind the peak. And here I sit. Comforted by this mountain tarn, I watch the sun finally dip below the ridgeline and I pull my arms around myself as night quickly approaches. I hold onto the smell of pine drifting in the black-night air, and the sound of the rippling water laced between my toes. Here I am a tiny speck of life in a complex world of wonder.
Here I am alive.
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Four Stories Words & Photos by Olivia Olson '21.5
22 18 "FOUR STORIES" BY OLIVIA OLSON
I
couldn’t help myself. They told me to, “Take only pictures, leave only footprints.” How could I only take images with me and leave just an imprint of my body behind? I laid in the grasses and drew a song from the sinuous clouds swirling above the Sawtooth Mountains. The ranch told me how small I was; at sunset, I had watched a herd of elk cross the road I was travelling. The jackrabbits sat and listened to me, the washes suggested the pulse of life through the land, and the cars on distant mountain roads flashed their headlights over the range. I watched them drive on, wishing I could catch up with them and show them my chapped hands. Look at what I have learned! I would say. Bodies are fragile, I can’t tell north from south here, but I can understand what the goats tell me. And, I’ll show you where they brought me: mountains so high! In preparation for my day hiking with the herd, I asked the ranch owners which one the leader was. They smiled dryly, regarding me with the same distance that lies between the ranch and the purple haze they called Arizona. “It’s usually the one with the most daughters,” was the answer. Ok… I thought to myself. Find a large goat, probably with a ‘B’ name, and become one of the daughters. Still unsure, I followed a wide-bellied mother alongside four of her sisters. Sometimes a second herd would diverge from the main herd. Of all the grazing animals, the sheep were most likely to break off and really get lost. Radio collars hung on various necks of the sheep and goats, but without food or water or a dog, a second herd would not survive long in the high desert. That’s why I never trusted the sheep. I wouldn’t call it hiking or wandering. We had a purpose, or rather, they had a purpose and I tagged along, waiting for them as they ate high in the juniper branches. They climbed up the trunks with their front hooves, stretching their spines so taut they could snap.
The kids kicked and jumped, the guard dogs anticipated their path and ran ahead, found their way up saffron escarpments and watched from above what progress the herd was making. The ranchers mentioned, “They run twice the distance as the goats.” Stick with the goats. I found countless pieces of New Mexico I wanted to bring home, to hold to my heart and bear the weight of my experience. I wanted to hold those rocks, the gnarled trees, that huge sky I’d never seen so blue. As we roamed, my feet tramped down the goats’ path a little bit more. The goats moved fast enough to prevent me from sitting down, but their leisurely pace made me wish for a book. Instead, I sang the song I heard in the clouds and read in the rocks. Lining the path were curious hemispheres of sandstone, the concave faces defined with dark red. Inlaid in each of these, flush to the face, was a concentric hollow hemisphere. The goats ate, I chose a rock. The kids ran and kicked, I ran my thumb over its flat surface. The dogs laid in the shade of a piñon, I fit my fingertip in the crater. I twisted it around, trying to wipe out the dust. Many years ago, the sandstone I was holding had broken in half and had exposed a pocket of soft rock, suddenly vulnerable to the extreme elements of the high desert. A flash flood here, a storm there, winds in the Spring and bright heat the rest of the year. It fits perfectly in my palm as I enclose my fingers around it. I’ll bring it back someday. I’m bound to return. I’ll follow the matriarch of the herd and bring along this rock; I’ll place it by the path, just where I found it. Past two valleys and one ridge, where the lucky ones are led.
As Sand Slips Through Fingers "AS SAND SLIPS THROUGH FINGERS" BY OLIVIA OLSON 19 23
Castles & Cathedrals
I
t feels just like any other city. A city I’m confused in. Public transportation maps overwhelm me no matter what city I’m in. I get lost on campus and still don’t entirely understand how to find a book in the library. When other students at the university ask me what I study, I feel silly saying, “Biology... but also German and Literature.” As Europeans attend university with a job before them, I smoke, drink and eat in German. I also wear long pants and a long jacket with no backpack, so they think I’m a European. To truly be one with the citizens of Mainz, maybe I’ll even dye my hair a shade darker. Sitting at a café, perturbed, I disrupt the friend sitting opposite me, who is quietly reading her book. “What do you think of the term, expatriate?” I demand, in the typical American way. “What, exactly, is an expatriate?” she answers, also in the typical American way. “Anyone who lives outside of their home country for a while,” I launch back with little hesitation. I’d been thinking of the word for a long time and had nailed the very vague definition to the inside of my forehead, where I could see it and no one else. “Like Hemingway and Stein and Fitzgerald, Picasso, Dali… Those guys.”
24 20 "CASTLES & CATHEDRALS" BY OLIVIA OLSON
“Is it like that movie, Midnight in Paris?" “Yeah,” I sighed. As I sit and write, the morning light quietly fills my room and my window gapes open. I sit and stare out at those trees, also changing color, and am instilled with a certain homesickness. To escape these thoughts, my friend and I reconvene to walk around the cathedral and along the Rhine. We find cafés and eat warm food. We speak German with the shopkeepers and they struggle along with us. When I look into their faces, I see myself staring back, with wide eyes, shoveling in every scrap of stimulus. I see an open smile and a girl inhaling the sunshine and music of Mainz, and demanding a country-sized amount of space. A country-sized amount of space. In one sense of the word, being from the country has always made me want more space. When I tell someone I’m from Maine, they smile with closed lips and slowly nod, their eyes putting my every move and word into that box that, “makes sense.” I lower my eyes and laugh along. My family has no deep roots in Maine; we moved from Iowa when I was two. My parents struggled to find their sense of place in the lobster and tourism-based economy they ended up in. My sisters do
not have the same “island charm” and scrappy outdoor attitude as I do. The older one teaches English in Japan and the younger one wears tweed suits to school and belts Broadway tunes to hundreds in an audience. Saying they are from Maine doesn’t always “make sense” to the people they meet, but in more subtle ways, they carry the landscape with them. Similar to them, saline breezes comfort us and we get homesick in the presence of large bodies of water. In this city, the closest thing I can find to the holiness of the outdoors, from the waterfront to the woods, is in the spaces of religion. When I sit in St. Martin’s Cathedral, my mind wanders up and out of the cage of my skull and bumps along the arches and up to the keystone, gathering ideas and prayers from the trusting walls. In a second sense, a country-sized amount of space refers to everything else I carry with me from America. I feel big, bold and boisterous in the city. I bolt through the streets with long, American steps, laugh loud, and am the first to dance at any party. When I meet other students, I tell them to guess where I’m from and most say Norway or Sweden. The Americans they know do not speak German and are rude and loud. They can’t hide their shock when I tell them I’m from America. They say, “But you’re nothing like them!” Again, I laugh and lower my gaze. For the past three weeks, I’ve been trying to find my balance, one foot planted on each side of the Atlantic. It’s an awkward and uncomfortable posture. The tension has manifested itself in the music and literature I consume. I crave both the glorification of
European cities by avante-garde expatriates as well as the music that western cowboys whistle as they brew their morning coffee. Upon return, my thoughts collect onto the bookshelf in my dorm room, where two opposing books stand. In one of these books, essayist Henry Miller recounts his return to America to escape the second world war after spending ten years in Paris. Upon his homecoming, he embarked on a pilgrimage to rediscover the tasteless America he had once left behind. He wrote a scathing account of his journey and later published it as, The Air-Conditioned Nightmare. The other book on the shelf is a copy of Desert Solitaire, by the famed defender of the wilderness, Edward Abbey. He drooled over the tough cookies he met in his summers spent in National Parks and wrote meandering narratives describing his rafting adventures on the Colorado River. His Bible was the buttes, his cathedral the canyon. Both of these men wrote to glorify their preferred landscapes—in one, capitalizing on the ruins and temples and in the other, a holy barren waste. Amused by the authors’ idealization, I write my own responses, all of which can be summarized by one question: “Is one world really better than the other?” Despite their arrogance, I keep reading. I wander the streets of Maine and listen to cathedrals. In time, the balancing act evens itself out. The space I find between columns, between trees, and between myself and my books provide radiant blotches of color that ease me into a new city. The echoes of heavy summer perfume linger into this grey autumn.
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Intertidal Harvest
T
he first mate is the first to thrust his deck bucket into the still waters, cueing us to follow. With my lungs not yet clear from a deep nine-hour slumber, I draw languid breaths that gradually become purposeful as my muscles demand more oxygen. I inhale the warm scent of seaweed, heavy with salt and sun. From fifteen feet below, my own deck bucket fills with two gallons of water and I pull it straight up to my chest, careful not to spill a drop as it crosses the cap rail. Breathing easier now, I slosh the brine into the bulwarks. If we didn’t wash down the ship every day, she would dry out, crack, and take on water, thus defying the first rule of sailing: “people in the boat, water outside of the boat.” Tiptoeing barefoot over sleeping coils, I almost slip, but catch myself on the rail. It’s midsummer, and by now the daily rhythm aboard the schooner Mary Day is well-rehearsed and runs smoothly. The first mate and the two deckhands start work at 6:30, swabbing the deck, cleaning the toilets, polishing brass, switching on bilge pumps and greeting passengers as they climb up on deck from
26 22 "INTERTIDAL HARVEST" BY OLIVIA OLSON
their cabins. Quiet hours continue until the 7:00 coffee is brought on deck by the messmate, by which point the sun has risen and gently caresses our skin. This work requires expansion of body and brain. Expand, swell with the tide, bloom in the dawn, build calluses to round out the skin on the hands, as tough as the hull of the ship. Draw in unnecessary gear; strengthen what remains. As my senses sharpen in the clarity of the morning, I look up from my work to see eager ripples on the water. The newly-awoken wind spins across the bay to the shore, and "The newly-awoken I smile as I flick the lanyard of my blue wind spins across the bucket, flipping it upbay to the shore, and I side-down and into smile..." the ocean. Drawing it to my chest, I clutch the spliced handle of the bucket and thrust the water down the deck, watching it stream through the scuppers and back into the ocean. I throw one more bucket
and watch it hit the water upside-down with a perfect splash. My head snaps up at the voice of some unfamiliar vessel. It is not the warm sputter of a lobster boat, so comforting to island ears, nor is it the hum of the first ferries. The intruder blurts out a grainy chug that grates my ears. It crosses our quiet bow, and I watch, hands on my hips and eyes wide open. The boat is small; it’s only just a fraction of the size of the Mary Day. On deck stands the helm house, and behind it looms a crane and a heap of equipment. In the disrupted water, it drags around green mesh bags bulging with rockweed. As the transom becomes visible, I can see that the boat is from Brunswick. A gaff hook pokes out of the helm house and prods the bags. My lungs shrink, my eyes narrow; I become smaller. The rockweed harvested here in Penobscot Bay is shipped all over the Gulf of Maine. High in nutritional value, Ascophyllum nodosum is used as fertilizer and animal feed. While the untrained eye may see homogenous heaps of seaweed all over the Maine coast,
rockweed alone is targeted for harvest. Harvesters drag it from where we are anchored off of Sheep Island to processing plants hundreds of miles away. It will be piled onto conveyor belts in a plastic plant, stretched out, dried, and finally packaged into white plastic boxes destined for vegetable beds all over the world. The driver of this boat before me is one of the few hundred self-employed harvesters who sell the rockweed they collect to processing plants across the continent. Before it is bagged, the rockweed is harvested with a fifteen-prong rake that slaps a clump of seaweed and drags it to the harvester. The rockweed is hauled onto the boat and dumped into the pile. This process repeats. By the time the harvesters are finished in an area, there are no remaining fronds or stripes at surface level. In 2009, thirty-six harvesting sectors were established along the coast, each regulating harvest to a maximum of 17% of the total biomass per sector, with no regard for the area the canopy covers. The water looks empty and cold. In 1949, Aldo Leopold recognized this nutritional discrepancy in biotic systems in
23 27
"The Land Ethic." When nutrients from one community are taken to serve another, it results in an imbalance between systems that cannot be easily reconciled. Harvesters can cut the rockweed only sixteen inches from its rock, too close for comfort. The seaweed, like a child’s nails when they are cut too close to the nail bed, will grow back, but it "When nutrients from takes time. Reproone community are taken duction is slow and to serve another, it results unreliable. With the in an imbalance between seaweed gone, the water gets too hot systems..." for the crabs that take shelter under the sparse canopy and the mallard chicks that normally reside in the clumps are washed away with the tide. The seals can’t lounge on a thick bed of rockweed any longer. Scraping their bellies on the exposed bedrock and barnacles, 28 24
their blood is drawn and dissipates into the ocean. Though it floats just twenty feet away from the Mary Day’s hull, this rockweed will be shipped all over the world. The town ashore does not control where their rockweed goes, they cannot even say if it stays. Their home is altered, no matter how sustainably harvested the seaweed is. It is taken away, piece by piece. “Olo?” The first mate whispers from the quarter deck. His face asks if I’m alright. I blink and nod, drawing another breath. I turn toward the risen sun and my lungs regain their capacity. The harvester chugs away, and the rockweed follows. It’s 6:30 and we all have jobs to do.
Oceans to Mountains
I
traded the ocean for the mountains – how many hold me yet. Perhaps I won’t let it. Am I still too proud times have I said that? And how many times have I to accept an impressive peak over the humble hills that sighed, my chest remembering what is now absent line the coast? Even the hills I can see from a beach from me? The mountains have not lifted me yet, and five minutes away aren’t mine, either. I can only hold they may never. Eighteen years of water, wind, lulling the beach upon which I stand, the brook that meanders and laughing cannot be matched by four years of study, through my backyard woods, the ocean I have swam no matter how high the mountains may be. I floated in in and sailed upon. The ocean gives me her song, and the ocean, I cooled my head, and grabbed onto a boat it bubbles from my throat, and water flows through as she sailed by. my fingers, soaking my guitar and the page on which I As I sit in the Vermont woods, I think of my home. write. At my feet lies a partially frozen stream. Its frozen edg- The Vermont woods are hollow in January. They es reveal dark water trickling below. are so hollow that when I skied into At every point that the running wacamp one moon-bright night, I didn’t "The snow reflected ter meets the ice, it freezes, causing have to use a headlamp. The snow reenough light through the the edges to build up in bulbous layflected enough light through the bare ers, growing opaque as the season bare trunks and branches trunks and branches that a headlamp trickles on. It’s all flowing downhill, that a headlamp just got just got in the way. Here, the leaves away from the center of this country, have fallen, a layer of snow covers in the way." to the ocean. It’s hurrying home. The every surface, and I am alone. On the ocean is hundreds of miles away, Maine coast, the spruce-fir woods are and I cannot follow the stream to find it. I can’t smell as thick in winter as they are in summer. The needles the ocean in the stream. There are no glinting waves hold on through the toughest months and the blowfor me to watch. downs from the storms fall between standing trees, The mountain I can see on the horizon doesn’t weaving a puzzle only the mice can solve. "OCEANS TO MOUNTIAINS" BY OLIVIA OLSON 25 29
As I wander, ducking branches and watching my footing, the snow squeaks under my boots, and I giggle. The wooded theater unfolds itself. Every so often I look up into the dense brush and challenge my eyes to see farther than normal. My eyesight is far duller than that of the creatures who occupy these woods. I cannot see far ahead, and resign myself to my immediate surroundings. A sudden note touches my ear. Above my head, a single chickadee calls and calls— inviting, protecting, exalting. Its call cuts through the frozen silence, the cold having already coaxed the larger animals to sleep. A sparrow alights in the same pine, suggests his own idea and is quickly silenced by the territorial chickadee. "It shivers out of its There stands a dead tree before the peeling bark, like a brook. Trying to idensoldier shaking off his tify it to species, I look closely at the bark stiff uniform..." and the pattern of the branches. Unfortunately, the tree is in a state of decay and is difficult to identify. Only eight inches in diameter at the base, it had grown tall and spread its branches wide. It was eventually eclipsed by great pine and now stands rotting in the pine’s shadow. It shivers out of its peeling bark, like a soldier shaking off his stiff uniform.
30 26 "OCEANS TO MOUNTIAINS" BY OLIVIA OLSON
Caked in mud and sweat, it falls to his ankles, and the skin born underneath finally is kissed by the sun but scorned by the wind. The tree will fall soon. Back to the soil it returns. I can’t remember a tree like this one in the woods back home. I sit and stare, sigh, and shake my head at its individuality. The snow sparkles in its hushed way. I can see mountains and pines on those mountains. I can sing those pines, but I cannot sing this "the skin born underlonesome tree. I cannot neath finally is kissed sing of those whom I by the sun..." do not know, not in the way I can of my home. I can bring my ocean to the listeners, and they can let the salt water run from their eyes, just as the brook runs to the sea. The brook and the tears roll back into the sea. They return, and I have repaid the earth what she gave me. She accepts the compassion, the salt, the water.
Qinghai, Tibet Words & Photos by Mai Thuong '22
"QINGHAI, TIBET" BY MAI THUONG 27 31
I
t was February, 2018. Nik and I had been backpacking around South Asia during our gap year, before enrolling in college. We said goodbye in India, where we had been backpacking for the last few months, and I continued my way to north China; travelling to Qinghai, a province located at the northeastern part of the Tibetan Plateau. The Qinghai region, called Amdo in Tibetan, was long considered part of Tibet. Realizing I could not go to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, as an independent tourist, I decided to hike around Qinghai. I have always said "I am neither religious nor spiritual", but this moment, standing in front of a giant spider web of Tibetan flags, I felt inexplicably emotional. I was struck by this feeling. The frenetic crossing of flags made me feel an intense sense of spirituality. The intensity of this place strengthened my admiration towards Tibetans who fought for freedom, a struggle too difficult. I thought also of my Tibetan friends, Karma and Dolma, who had not returned to their homes for a long time due to this conflict. The unsettling fact that I had been so close to Karma’s home, while he had not reunited with his family for 15 years, crossed my mind. I stopped at this village to break from a long hike, but due to a snow storm, I proceeded to stay for 3 days. As I was standing in front of this mountain range, I felt so small and fragile compared to my surroundings. Yet, at the same time, an emotion overwhelmed my body. I felt motivated, encouraged and enthusiastic, as if I was reborn. I appreciated the privilege of my youth, my body, everything that brought me there.
32 28 "QINGHAI, TIBET" BY MAI THUONG
I walked around the village the next morning and I bumped into almost no-one. It was too cold to leave the house. A biting cold, an unbelievable cold. As soon as their "big brother" turned his back, they told me "Quick quick, take a picture of us!" It was cold, but their rosy cheeks warmed my mind. It was frigid, but among the white snow I found colorful pieces belonging to a spiritual place from the past. These broken relics were the result of an earthquake in Qinghai in 2010. It was strange, to stand in front of the raw pieces of something historical that happened in the past. I imagined that they used to be pieces of a building, or a Stupa maybe? I felt as if I was stilled, between space and time. I passed a Tibetan settlement which surprised me with its calmness and peace, contrary to the biting cold. I was also quite happy to finally see the Yak I saw in "7 Years In Tibet".
I walked alongside the road to hitch-hike. Although it appeared bright in this photo, it was nearly sunset. I worried, there was no village in sight. Tailed by wild dogs, I was deeply afraid, they barked cruelly and flashed hostile looks my way. I clutched rocks in my hands to throw at them. Luckily, a Tibetan local with a car kindly stopped to pick me up. This man stopped to pick me up, liberating me from the wild dogs. He kept saying haizzz xiao gu niang (“little girl / little lady�) "why do you walk along like this?" He burst into laughter while telling me the history of this area, and I wished that I could have understood him better but he doesn't speak Pu Tong Hua, and my Mandarin is not very good. Even though he had planned to take another route, he graciously continued to drive me to the village center. That drive marked the conclusion of my month-long hike in Tibet. After days of many trains to reach Guangdong, a province located in South China, I could finally sit on the last train to head back to my home in Vietnam. Time goes by so fast, that sometimes I wonder whether I have lived or wasted my youth. That moment, I was sure I lived it.
"but this moment, standing in front of a giant spider web of Tibetan flags, I felt inexplicably emotional."
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Nusa Tenggara, Indonesia Words & Photos by Fiona Mustain '20
M
y hair whips around my face as we make our way along the bumpy, dusty road down the coast to Labuan Bajo. The deep blue water reflects against the sun making it sparkle, and I can't wait to get in. The town of Labuan Bajo is located in the West Manggarai regency of Indonesia on the island of Flores. It has become a popular scuba diving base and gateway town for tourists to enter the Komodo National Park. My friend Garda, raised in Jakarta, begins to point out the numerous hotels, travel agencies, shops, restaurants, and dive centers along the main road. As we pass the third dive center in a row, he remarks how much the sleepy fishing village has changed in the years he has been coming to dive. Awe-struck tourists swarm off of diving boats, back from their morning excursions. Adara and Lino–our two other travel companions–grin at each other with excitement.
The next morning, my alarm rings bright and early. Our plan is to head to the Komodo National Park, one of Indonesia's oldest national parks. Komodo is composed of multiple islands and 1,214 square kilometers of marine habitat. The park, known for the famous 'Komodo dragon,' is also home to thousands of coral species, fish, rays, dolphins, turtles, and sharks and is considered a UNESCO world heritage site. The diving boat arrives; we begin to make our way between the picturesque hilly islands towards Manta Point. Several other boats head towards the same direction, and Garda explains how divers' numbers grew exponentially over the last five years. "The first to come were the Australians, then the Europeans and finally the Americans." Suddenly, the boat slows and our Captain points out a shadow deep in the water–a manta ray. Enthralled, we drop into the cool turquoise water and begin our descent to the reef.
34 30 "NUSA TENGGARA, INDONESIA" BY FIONA MUSTAIN
The manta ray makes its way through colorful corals of various shapes and sizes until it fades entirely into the darkness below. We spend the next hour gliding above the magnificent reef. Despite its beauty, I notice how some areas of the coral are damaged. The Captain explains that boats that anchor over the dive sites harm the reef ecosystem below. "It's not smaller fishing boats owned by locals, but net fishing from large boats that are causing the damage," he says. He mentions that in recent years illegal fishing has become rampant in the park as marine patrols have decreased. As the engine starts, the Captain shares his fear with us: "If the illegal fishing continues, I'm worried these waters will never be able to recover."
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36 32 "NUSA TENGGARA, INDONESIA" BY FIONA MUSTAIN
After a few Bintangs and a hike to the top of Padar Island, we decide to head towards Komodo Island. As the name suggests, Komodo Island is home to around 1,727 Komodo dragons. Due to the unpredictable nature of the species, tourists must be with a guide at all times during their visit. At first glance, the dragons seem slow and lazy. However, our guide explains they can move at lightning speed when they hunt, which is about once a week. We make our way around mating sites, which are guarded by alert female dragons. Adara notices the large number of dragons laying in the sun close to the tourist center where they feed on scraps of leftovers of tourists' meals. Our guide explains how the increasing number of tourists influences the animals' mating and hunting habits. In response, the island was to close for a year in 2020. However, this plan was canceled a few months later by Siti Nurbaya Bakar, Indonesia's environment and forestry minister. The local economy needed tourist dollars, which was deemed more important than the dragons. I can't help but feel lucky to have seen the natural beauty of Komodo National Park and to realize the threat posed by unregulated economic growth. It is not too late, I feel, to construct a balance between economic benefits and conservation policies. The Captain, the guide, and my Indonesian friends all share my concerns. We are all very ready to take action and build community support to protect the environment, despite the government's disinterest.
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38 34 "NUSA TENGGARA, INDONESIA" BY FIONA MUSTAIN
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Life Lessons from the Farm Words & Photos by Keaton Smith '21
L
istening to Jay Leshinsky talk about the Knoll is like listening to a philosopher contemplating mortality. The garden is a sacred space providing quasi-religious experiences. Preparing to interview Leshinsky—the former Knoll manager—I expected to talk science: facts, numbers, data. Instead, I found myself in Middlebury’s café nearly moved to tears by Leshinsky’s poetic ponderings. “It’s birth into life into death, and death feeds the life,” Leshinsky muses, “that’s the way it goes.” Previously, I had only thought about gardens in summer-time: luscious, bright and bursting with colors. But for the workers at the Knoll, fall, winter and spring are integral to the life-cycle. Winter is the resting period. Spring is the birth, and, as Leshinsky puts it, a “burst into this huge expansion of energy and growth.” Then, fall arrives; the days grow shorter, and the plants propagate “because they know they’re going to die.” I was struck by the idea of confronting death fearlessly. Coming to terms with mortality is, of course, part of being human. In my philosophy classes at Middlebury, we read texts in which long-gone philosophers grapple with ideas of death; the 16th-century French philosopher Montaigne even writes that “to study philosophy is to learn to die.”
We, as humans, are often paralyzed by the fear of death. In contrast, these plants seem resolute as they prepare—by procreating—for their inevitable death. While we are handicapped by narcissism, unable to imagine a world without us at the center, plants recognize the bigger picture. My chat with Leshinsky led to a meeting with the current farm manager, Megan Brakeley, who helped me understand more about the critical role which winter plays. As the icy January wind whipped by the windows, I asked Brakeley to explain what was happening at the Knoll that very minute. “Blessedly little is happening,” Brakeley grinned. “Voles are burrowing . . . mice are nesting in every available crevice, and snakes are hidden under the tarps.” Throughout the cold winter months, the animals take refuge. Brakeley sees a power in this time of year; the only thing to do is “think about the garden and all the life that will blossom for five sweet, sweet months.” She picks out seeds and dreams of the kale, the flowers and the grapes to come. She also takes a break; the wintertime provides “physical constraints” which, Brakeley believes, “help us frame and understand our ways of being.”
40 36 "LIFE LESSONS FROM THE FARM" BY KEATON SMITH
Bringing a welcome break from activity, winter meal, Monument happily runs last-minute deliveries to often marks the end of a plant’s life at the Knoll. How- the College: “that doesn’t happen everywhere.” ever, the prospect of new life stirs underground, and I asked why someone should choose his milk. Brakeley plans for and dreams of brighter days. James responded, chuckling, “just let them have a I wanted to learn how individuals dealing with taste test.” I had heard that James is a good neighbor, birth and death frequently might inform my own reac- and it is clear that kindness, effort and dedication to tion to death. Do I fear it? Forget his community surround his life. Walking about it? So, I drove two miles "But to people like me, around the farm, we saw wide-eyed newdown Weybridge Street to see if I borns, cud-crunching adults, and an expandeath is still scary. could find out how other farmers sive view of the Adirondacks. Foreboding and un- deal with birth and death. As I entered the farm’s office, a group While vegetables have thinkable, the climate was seated for a meeting. Paperwork scatrigid seasonal restraints, milk crisis provokes a fear tered the table, and everyone nursed a cup flows all year long. However, even of chocolate milk as they worked. Having of death..." without an explicit rest cycle, just come from the barn, seeing the finished the dairy farmers at Monument product made me think about the reason why Farms Dairy know birth and death just like Leshinsky the farm existed and operated as it did. It was about and Brakeley. Calves are born, they grow up, they die, taste, tradition and livelihood. and the cycle repeats itself. Birth and death are integral to Monument When I met the co-owner of Monument Farms, Farms. Winter is no rest because dairy farming is Bob James, we talked business. He proudly told me all-consuming. Dealing with death is part of life—not that his family has delivered milk to Middlebury for four something which paralyzes or frightens. generations. They’ve maintained a good relationship While Monument’s main purpose may be crewith the College because of their customer service. If ating a sellable product, they are not fully-fledged conMiddlebury Dining has a milk emergency right before a sequentialists. By-products of the farm’s operation 37 41
42 38 "LIFE LESSONS FROM THE FARM" BY KEATON SMITH
include happy taste buds, community pride and neighborliness. I don’t often philosophize over milk or kale. But food affects real people dealing with birth and death on farms just a few miles away. The Knoll and Monument Farms are two different operations, yet regular encounters with birth and death connect them. Death at the farm is normalized. But to people like me, death is still scary. Foreboding and unthinkable, the climate crisis provokes a fear of death, particularly as we witness its devastating effects. I often feel helpless and paralyzed when faced with the task of ‘solving climate change.’ However, by taking a lesson from the farmers handling birth and death without fear, we might respond to the climate crisis differently. Our mortality is inevitable—even the plants know it. Yet, they do not fear it. Leshinsky’s words rang through my head: the plants “propagate because they know they’re going to die.” So long as we are paralyzed by fear, there will be no action. By listening to the plants, we learn to face our mortality bravely, and we are freed. Confronting mortality through action is the only way forward. 39 43
44 40 "LIFE LESSONS FROM THE FARM" BY KEATON SMITH
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'21
46 42 "LOS ANGELES: APRIL 19, 2020" BY VAN BARTH
From 4th Street Bridge looking towards downtown.
43 47
A
month into California’s statewide lockdown and Downtown LA was lifeless. Usually, the city would be overwhelmed with pedestri-
ans, street vendors and notorious traffic. Yet on this day, walking around with my dad and sister, the only people we saw were a few other photographers marvelling at the emptiness. Although Downtown LA has added residential spaces, the area remains largely commercial which contributed to the sense of desertedness during the lockdown. Horns and sirens that would typically be drowned out by the hustle and bustle echoed off the buildings and down the streets. There were no workers unloading goods behind stores or people entering metro tunnels. Receptionists sat in empty lobbies behind walls of plexi-glass. The few souls we happened to see would pass by, give a nod and make a comment describing LA as a ghost town. Even the depths of the city felt eerily empty. There was no one skateboarding down in the concrete rain channels, climbing over the fences of the railyards or hanging out in Pershing Square. LA’s homeless population, a defining part of the city, was unusually absent, with thousands having been housed temporarily in hotels. Now six months into the pandemic, we have grown accustomed to socially-distanced life. Yet these scenes
"The few souls we happened to see would pass by, give a nod and make a comment describing LA as a ghost town. Even the depths of the city felt eerily empty."
are still jarring. I saw this outing as a unique opportunity to document LA during a oncein-a-century crisis. However,
as
the
months
dragged
on I began to grasp
that this wasn’t a brief snapshot, it was just the beginning of a changed city. A person walking along LA River. 48 44 "LOS ANGELES: APRIL 19, 2020" BY VAN BARTH
Looking down 4th Street from Grand Avenue. 45 49
Flower Street overpass. 50 46 "LOS ANGELES: APRIL 19, 2020" BY VAN BARTH
Grand Avenue.
" However, as the months dragged on I began to grasp that this wasn’t a brief snapshot, it was just the beginning of a changed city." city " 47 51
Hope Street. 52 48 "LOS ANGELES: APRIL 19, 2020" BY VAN BARTH
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Pg. 54
Native Voices A C o nve r sa t io n w it h G un t r a m He rb
As Told By Drew An-Pham '23 54 50 PANORAMIC
Photo by Matteo Moretti '21
Pg. 60
Abroad Dispatch by Liv Cappello '21 51 55
Native Voices A Conv e rs a tio n with Guntra m H erb
As Told By Drew An-Pham '23
B
orders have the power to make or break an individual's livelihood, a community’s culture, and a nation’s identity. So often,
tales of the US-Mexico border and immigration conflicts have bled into the headlines, leaving stories of the US-Candian border untold. Guntram Herb, professor at Middlebury College and Chair of the Geography Department, decided to shed light on these unsung narratives. Along with his wife, Patricia LaBon Herb—a native descent of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians, they embarked on a two summer journey along the US-Canadian border to learn about, experience, and understand how these northern borderlands have challenged the native spirit and identity. “I wanted this [project] to break the silence that surrounds the more than fifty indigenous peoples in the northern borderlands of the United States and Canada." "There is a surprising lack of knowledge about these indigenous borderlands inhabitants and the challenges they face due to increasing restrictions on cross-border movement,” Guntram said. In a critical time where BIPOC’s have become the victim of underrepresentation and construed media depictions, Guntram recalls on the impact his research had on amplifying the Native voices that create resistance and foster culture along the indigenous borderland.
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I’ve often noticed as professors, your research seems to be shaped by the previous work you’ve done or is influenced by a topic that’s of personal interest. What inspired you to take on a project as extensive as this? This project on the Indigenous Borderlands and Border Rights was inspired by an encounter I had alongside my wife, who’s a member of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe. She was invited to an eagle staff gathering at her tribe’s reservation in Michigan. The event is symbolic because it honors the connections between the eagle and the creator—a spiritual moment [for one’s] native identity. So she was going to be presented with an eagle feather from an elder [of the tribe]. When we arrived at the venue, we just wandered about and made small talk with whoever was near us. [Next thing you knew] the ceremony leaders were an hour and a half late, and since there was no fixed agenda, we just rolled with the punches. Surprisingly, drinking coffee was the way to pass the time that night; it’s truly a staple for the tribe. When the elders and leader arrived, they had explained how they were held up at the US-Canadian border. [Coming in from Canada], they mentioned how bor-
"border patrol has hassled them, asking 'what’s your nationality' and other intrusive questions."
der patrol has hassled them, asking “what’s your nationality” and other intrusive questions. What I found especially intriguing was when [the tribe
elders/leaders]
were
complaining about how border patrol had questioned the transport of eagle feath-
ers. One of the elders had said something about the Jay Treaty, which I was taken aback by. “The most ridiculous thing is that Jay Treaty enables us to carry eagle feathers.” I’d read about [it] before, but didn’t know the full context of the law.
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"NATIVE VOICES" BY DREW AN-PHAM
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That does sound familiar; I’m now trying to remember what I learned in US History. I’m pretty sure it outlines trade across the border… not entirely sure however. Yup. So from my research, I found that the Jay Treaty [of 1794] guarantees native nations free passage and trade across the US-Canada border, but due to stricter border control after 9/11, it’s drastically curtailed Indian mobility. There was very little literature on borders of the US and native nations. It’s appalling how people don’t know a lot about indigenous folks and their border rights—here’s a group of people whose presence is split by the border. That, in and of itself, was what inspired me to do this research alongside my wife—to widen the knowledge on what's happening with native nations along the borderland and their rights that follow. Nice… so when I was reading through your research’s mission statement, I came across this line talking about how the practice of respect (minaadendamowin) was really critical for you when interacting with the bordered native nations? Could you talk more about how that came into play for y’all? When my wife and I spent three months with her tribe in Sault Ste Marie in 2010, we heard this word over and over. It represents a universal concept: respect for the elder, respect for the earth, respect for all living beings, respect for the land. The same respect then informed our interaction with native borderland communities. We observed traditional protocol when meeting elders or chiefs and offered tobacco prayer bundles or sweetgrass braids for the privilege of hearing their thoughts on the border. We were there to listen and learn
"here’s a group of people whose presence is split by the border."
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from them, not to survey. We were careful not to ask specific questions because we did not want to elicit a particular response. Stories we gather are presented to them for review before they are made public on the website. In addition, we have a contact page on the website to give native nations the opportunity to make suggestions or ask for changes. --- What was the experience like getting to travel across the border for two back to back summers? When I had decided to pursue this research, it was during my sabbatical, so Patricia and I bought a pretty cheap early 2000s camper, gutted it, and turned it into our home for the next three months. The first summer, we started at Maine and New Brunswick, made it all the way to BC and Washington, then came back. The following summer, we went further east to Alaska. The route we traveled is noted in the website. Overall, we traveled around 25,000 miles and met over 40 indigenous communities and their members. 25,000 miles is truly a trek. Props to y’all for that endurance. Having traveled that distance for so long, from an outsider's point of view, were there any cultural moments that engaged you or had you in awe? We had the honor and privilege to attend a gathering of the Water Walkers at Garden River Reserve in Ontario in July 2016. Women are the traditional caretaker of water and the Water Walks were started by two Anishinaabe grandmothers. These meetings affirm the importance of water for all of us, eloquently expressed in the slogan ‘water is life’. We were amazed that many of the people had paddled hundreds of miles in canoes to join the meeting. Others had walked thousands of miles around the perimeter of the Great Lakes. I know this cultural event of the Pow Wow regularly came up in your interactions with indigenous nations. If I were to walk into one of these Pow Wows, what would I expect?
and maintain native community and identity. These celebrations start with the Grand Entry, a procession of Veterans carrying US and Canadian flags, MIA flags, tribal flags, or eagle staffs as well as elders and dancers in traditional regalia, all accompanied by the beat of scared drums. It is a powerful and moving celebration that brings indigenous peoples together and creates a shared sense of identity. Pow Wows also have traditional elements, such as sacred circles where native people share teachings and traditional stories. Based on your two summers with the native nations, how have the US-Canadian border either fortified or disrupted the indigenous’ people's sense of place? Native peoples have a deep and experiential connection to their lands that is expressed through stories passed down the generations, symbolic practices, ceremonies, performances, and spiritual rites; indigenous peoples are situated in place. The border has real life implications for native nations because it disrupts this experience. For example, many border crossings are closed between 5 pm "The border has and 8 am, which means attending an afternoon real life implications for native or evening ceremony across the border pre- nations because it vents them from redisrupts this exturning the same day perience." or forces them to take a detour of several hours drive. Native nations have a strong sense of place, but if members cannot experience places as a community, it will weaken their bond and sense of identity. If you could give a 2-sentence takeaway of your research to a student at Midd, what would it be? This research has had a profound influence on the way I view the world and on what I teach. Learning from indigenous peoples has given me a deeper respect for the earth and all living beings and I will strive to convey minaadendamowin to my students.
With about 70% of Native Americans in the US and well over half of First Nations In Canada living off the Rez, Pow Wows have become crucial events to create 57 61
Abroad Dispatch Mount Brown and the New Zealand Hut Network Words and Photos by Liv Cappello '21
"Pulling myself up the final steps of the grueling, five-hour vertical climb, I looked through the fog and storm at the top of Mount Brown and caught a glimpse of a small bright orange structure in the distance. With shaking legs and soaked-through packs, Hannah and I pushed toward the hut and spent the rest of the night trying to dry off and warm up, half-terrified about the conditions but fully relieved to be in this place we'd heard about for months. Waking up the next morning, the fog had opened to the most incredible views. Walking up the ridgeline to get a view of the hut from above, we took turns snapping shots of the hut against the backdrop of the towering New Zealand Southern Alps. In 1987, the newly formed Department of Conservation took on the maintenance and reconstruction of New Zealand’s extensive network of huts and trails. Constructed originally as outposts for miners and hunters, others for alpinists and scientists, and today serve to house the trampers (the term for backpackers in New Zealand) who make the treks up to stay in them. Nearly a thousand huts—ranging from tiny four-person to 50+ structures—now draw hikers from around the country and beyond. The Mt. Brown Hut is a favorite among trampers on the West Coast of the South Island. Built by the community of the neighboring town, Hokitika, the hut is one of the smallest in New Zealand. Barely sleeping four in two tiny bunk beds, the cabin also squeezes in a small—and poorly-functioning— coal-burning stove, a small table, and stacks of books left by past visitors."
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"During my five months on the South Island, I was determined to make it to Mt. Brown and two of the other most famous huts: Brewster Hut and Mueller Hut. All in high alpine environments and requiring challenging climbs, the views from these bright red and orange structures are spectacular. To me, the little boxes tucked high "To me, the little into the mountains are a reminder of how boxes tucked high small we are amidst the vastness of the into the mountain range and was the highlight of my time spent in that wonderful little country." are a reminder of
how small we are..."
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ABROAD DISPATCH BY LIV CAPPELLO
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