National Geographic: Yukon: Canada’s Wild West

A modern-day minerals rush threatens North America’s last great wilderness.

 

Shawn Ryan recalls the hungry years, before his first big strike.

The prospector and his family were living in a metal shack on the outskirts of Dawson, the Klondike boomtown that had declined to a ghostly remnant of its glory days. They had less than $300 and no running water or electricity. One night, as wind sneaked through gaps in the cladding, Ryan’s wife, Cathy Wood, worried aloud that their two children might even freeze to death.

Today the couple could buy—and heat—just about any house on Earth. Ryan’s discovery of what would eventually amount to billions of dollars’ worth of buried treasure has helped reinfect the Yukon with gold fever, and fortune seekers have stormed the Canadian territory in numbers not seen since the 1890s. The minerals rush has reanimated Dawson’s weather-tilted bars and bunkhouses, whose facades glow in pastel hues during midsummer’s late-night sunset. The scene could be from more than a century ago, with bearded men bustling along wooden sidewalks and muddy streets, hooting and trading rumors of the latest strikes and price spikes. Inside Diamond Tooth Gerties casino, miners mingle with tourists and cancan girls, thronging four deep around beer taps and poker tables.

During the first Klondike stampede prospectors plied nearby creeks with picks and pans and shovels, and a bartender could sweep up a small fortune in spilled gold dust at the end of a big night. Nowadays mining’s heavy lifting is done by a mechanized army of bulldozers, drilling rigs, and flown-in workers. The claim-staking boom has cooled since the price of gold has stabilized, but an ongoing high demand for minerals and the Yukon’s industry-friendly regulations continue to attract mining companies from as far away as China.

At Shawn Ryan’s expanding compound at the edge of town, helicopters thump overhead, fetching GPS-equipped prospectors to and from remote mountain ridges. Ryan is 50 years old, but he radiates the eagerness and intensity of a much younger man. “This is the biggest geochemical exploration project on the planet right now,” he says, his grin revealing a couple of missing upper teeth, “and maybe in history.”

Along the Porcupine River caribou have been a mainstay of the Vuntut Gwitchin people for at least 10,000 years. Now development is threatening their traditional way of life.

Along the Porcupine River caribou have been a mainstay of the Vuntut Gwitchin people for at least 10,000 years. Now development
is threatening their traditional way of life.

In the modular office he calls his war room, radios and bear-spray canisters surround a trio of computer screens atop a plywood table. A self-taught geologist, Ryan uses the left-hand screen to display the colored maps he generates from his ever growing database of soil samples, looking for anomalies that might betray a hidden body of precious ore. On the center screen a blue grid overlays a map of the Yukon, showing the claims he currently owns; since 1996 he and his crews have staked more than 55,000 claims, enough to cover a landmass larger than Jamaica. Ryan uses the right-side screen to track his gold-related holdings, which notch up in value whenever an economic jolt sends investors fleeing to precious metals.

As the material needs of the world’s seven billion people continue to grow, the rush to exploit the Yukon’s exceptionally rich resources—gold, zinc, copper, and more—has brought prosperity to a once forsaken corner of the continent. But the boom has brought to the fore a growing tension between those who would keep one of North America’s last great wildernesses unbroken and those whose success depends on digging it up.

“They’re blanket-staking the whole territory,” says Trish Hume, a member of the Champagne and Aishihik First Nations. Though Hume does mapping work that’s mining related, she worries that the Yukon is reaching a tipping point where the environmental and cultural costs of mining outweigh the benefits. “The people coming up and taking out minerals aren’t asking what happens to the animals we hunt, the fish we eat, the topsoil that holds it all together. And when the boom is over, how does our tiny population afford to clean up the toxic mess?”

Read the rest of the story at National Geographic

Tom on Snake Rapids

Author Tom Clynes smacks into a wave train on the Yukon’s Snake River, part of the pristine Peel River watershed. Peter J. Mather photo.

 

Click any photo to see a slide show of images from the Yukon Territory.

 

 

 

 

 

 

National Geographic – Book Talk

Why This 14-Year-Old Kid Built A Nuclear Reactor

In his quest to better the world,Taylor Wilson captured the interest of Homeland Security and ended up with radioactive pants.

By Simon Worrall, National Geographic

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Author Tom Clynes doesn’t do optimistic. The contributing editor for Popular Science is usually attracted to stories about Ebola epidemics or eco-mercenaries. But when his life and family began to fall apart and he found himself in the middle of a messy divorce, he met Taylor Wilson, a boy who had just created a nuclear fusion reactor in his garage.

Fired by this young genius’s optimism and desire to make the world a better place, he decided to devote himself to telling Taylor’s story in his new book, The Boy Who Played With Fusion.

Talking from his home in Ann Arbor, Michigan, he describes how meeting Taylor made him rethink his relationship with his own children; why we are ignoring gifted children in favor of under-achievers; and why it is crucial to give our brightest and best the support they need.

The book opens with you accompanying Taylor and his father down an abandoned mineshaft in search of “hot rocks.” Set the scene for us.

The Boy Who Played With Fusion  by Tom Clynes

The Boy Who Played With Fusion by Tom Clynes

We went into an abandoned uranium mine in the Virginia Mountains in Nevada, just north of where Taylor now lives in Reno, to find uranium rock. On the way, he’s talking my ear off. He’s the total opposite of the science fair introvert sitting in the corner staring at his naval. He loves to evangelize about everything nuclear.

Eventually we will make yellow cake out of the ore we collect in Taylor’s garage. We have to pop this chain link fence to get into the mine. We have a pickaxe, shovel and flashlight and go down a few passageways where we find some veins of radioactive water running down the side of the mine. It literally glows. [Laughs]

When we go back over the fence Taylor’s Geiger counter brushes against his thigh and he realizes that his pant legs are radioactive. So, he rips off his pants and sits there in his boxer shorts, trying to figure out what kind of radiation it is. “It’s not loose contamination, “ he says, “so it makes me think it’s been on the pants for a while. But, how? My jeans are generally not radioactive at the start the day!” [Laughs]

Tell us about Taylor and how you first heard about him?

I’m a contributing editor of Popular Science. In 2010, I started nosing around this community of high-end nerds who were not working in billion dollar research labs like a lot of nuclear researchers but doing crazy things in their garages—tinkering with nukes, transmuting elements and building atom-smashing machines.

Someone mentioned this 14-year-old kid from Texarkana, Arkansas, which is not exactly a hotbed of science in this country. But he’d just become one of only 32 people to build a nuclear fusion reactor themselves. So, I decided to get in touch with him. I was drawn in by his audacity, enthusiasm and optimism, and the fact that he just goes out and does things that everybody else thinks are impossible.

 

Read the rest of the story at National Geographic

The Right Kind of Renaissance?


Are We Doing Enough to Support the Untapped Potential of Gifted Children Who Are Not at the Top of the Socio-Economic Curve?

By Tom Clynes

Just in time for summer vacation, the Acceleration Institute at the University of Iowa has released A Nation Empowered, the 10-year follow-up to the influential report titled A Nation Deceived: How Schools Hold Back America’s Brightest Students. As the new title suggests, academics see clear signs of a budding renaissance in gifted education. Taking advantage of expanded options, many bright students will spend at least a part of this summer in intensive, university-based programs, gorging themselves on a year’s worth of math or science or literature in a few weeks.
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And yet, one has to wonder if it’s the right kind of renaissance. As gifted children’s needs creep back into the national consciousness after decades of neglect, support for the top end of the talent curve is still a privilege enjoyed mostly by students who are also at the top end of the socioeconomic curve. Good schools and a booming talent-development industry boost affluent children’s chances of success, with legions of tutors, test-prep entrepreneurs, and admissions consultants (one of whom promises to return his sixty-thousand-dollar fee if a student isn’t accepted to an Ivy League university).

Recent research shows that high-ability students who don’t receive educational enrichment are far less likely to live up to the potential indicated by their test scores, and often become bored and frustrated. These studies underscore the tremendous amount of missed potential. “We’re not coming close to identifying all of this population,” says Vanderbilt’s David Lubinski, who co-directs the Study of Mathematically Precocious Youth, “so many of the country’s smartest kids thus don’t get what they need to develop their capabilities.” Given that giftedness can spring from anywhere—from the blue blood of Boston’s Back Bay or from a back bayou in Louisiana—it’s worth pondering how many Salks, Gateses, or Curies we’re missing, and the implications of that for our economy and society.

A Nation Empowered makes clear that we know how to confidently predict which adolescents are likely to go on to be high performers. We also know the most effective ways to nurture their talents—often in ways that are not particularly resource-intensive. And yet, we are not making society-wide efforts to do so.


 
By Tom Clynes, author of The Boy Who Played With Fusion

Popular Science: The Battle Over Climate Science

Climate scientists routinely face death threats, hate mail, nuisance lawsuits and political attacks. How much worse can it get?

There’s no police tape across Michael Mann’s office doorway this morning. “Always a good start,” he says, juggling a cup of coffee as he slides his key into the lock.

Mann, a paleoclimatologist, wears a sport coat over a turtleneck. As he takes a seat at his desk, a narrow sunbeam angles through the window, spotlighting a jumble of books, journals and correspondence. Behind him, a framed picture of his six-year-old daughter rests near a certificate for the Nobel Peace Prize he shared in 2007. Propped into a corner is a hockey stick, a post-lecture gift from Middlebury College, which Mann jokingly says he keeps “for self-defense.”

Mann directs Penn State University’s Earth System Science Center. Several months ago, he arrived at his office with an armload of mail. Sitting at his desk, he tore open a hand-addressed envelope and began to pull out a letter. He watched as a small mass of white powder cascaded out of the folds and onto his fingers. Mann jerked backward, letting the letter drop and holding his breath as a tiny plume of particles wafted up, sparkling in the sunlight. He rose quickly and left the office, pulling the door shut behind him. “I went down to the restroom and washed my hands,” he says. “Then I called the police.”

For someone describing an anthrax scare, Mann is surprisingly nonchalant. “I guess,” he says, “it’s so much a part of my life that I don’t even realize how weird it is.”

“Weird” is perhaps the mildest way to describe the growing number of threats and acts of intimidation that climate scientists face. A climate modeler at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory answered a late-night knock to find a dead rat on his doorstep and a yellow Hummer speeding away. An MIT hurricane researcher found his inbox flooded daily for two weeks last January with hate mail and threats directed at him and his wife. And in Australia last year, officials relocated several climatologists to a secure facility after climate-change skeptics unleashed a barrage of vandalism, noose brandishing and threats of sexual attacks on the scientists’ children.

Read the rest of the story at Popular Science