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So far Kai Staats has created 551 blog entries.

The God of the Rocket Ship

The Pious, the Righteous, the Holy Man’s Due
For all of recorded history the pious, the righteous, the holy men have told us what we should and should not do, who and what to embrace or avoid, how to live our lives too often through fearful restrictions of “no” rather than through proactive examples of “yes.” Why are we not encouraged to explore all there is?

They fight for the last breath of a way of life which is challenged by an interconnected world, giving fear a smaller place to hide. They defend the ancient ways because in a state of fear no one asks why.

At one point gods were the bearers of lightning bolts and thunder claps, the explanation for the migration of game and the success or failure of crops. Gods lived among us for thousands of years, producing offspring with supernatural powers. We now learn of Zeus as a myth of ancient times, but for the Greeks he was as real as are Jesus, Mohammad, and Buddha today.

Everyday we learn a little more about how the universe works, and every day our perception of God changes. If God is relegated as the filler of gaps, the things we cannot explain, then the more we rely upon our own experience, the more His kingdom takes on a different form. On Discovery’s new “Curiosity”, astrophysicist Stephen Hawking made a daring (for the North American audience) statement that God did not, could not have created the universe. While the show offered only a weak display of the discoveries on which Hawking and many others stand, the real issue is not if we should believe in a power greater than that which we can experience in these four dimensions, but what attributes do we grant that power in order to best guide us in our lives.

Of Expansion, Not Fear
The path to a higher level of living cannot be one of restriction and fear, for it is through the embrace of expansion and knowledge that we have found the greatest depth and beauty in a world we hold dear.

I do not believe in a greater power, but in the power of knowledge I do have faith. I believe in the power of people who come together to do good. I believe in both the private and shared experience of something greater than ourselves, an elated exchange between individuals who find connection to work through their pain. I believe the greatest celebration of what we have been given is to challenge the greatest gifts we do employ, our hearts and our brains.

If mathematicians spent two thousand years arguing the incremental value of “1” then calculus would have never been born and we would remain without moon dust on our boots or the birth of stars in our eyes. We would yet be an ignorant species, living in the security of our own mental bars.

Show me the maker of one hundred billion galaxies, each with hundreds of billions of stars, who cares not for the words we choose in our conversation, the way we dress, or how we share our bodies, as all animals do. Show me the great caretaker who does not track our sins on an eternal spreadsheet, but instead one who desires to give Her children the knowledge and power to explore the universe, to relish in the glory of space so much larger than our depraved, social din.

The Intergalactic Captain Comes
If God arrives in a rocket ship and calls from the upper deck of the captain’s lounge, “Who wants to see what I have built? It’s a-m-a-z-i-n-g! Everyone, please, come on board!” then I will be the first to believe in a maker greater than the power of one’s own mind.

Until then, I see individual spirituality and shared faith as a means to maintain hope, an anti-gravity to lift humanity above the weight of its antiquated, blind Pope. For the very confusion of our interpretation of everything we do will never give us clarity to truly see You. In this place, in this corner of intergalactic space, we are wasting time, two thousand years proving that we do in fact believe the right thing.

When do we stop reinforcing our foundation, and launch skyward to ride on a holy new wing?

Some say in death. Some say in a week. Some say never, while others, “It will be only the meek.” I say bring it on! I am ready to explore. Let’s welcome the God of everything and leave this humble, spinning abode. It’s time to rise above out petty differences, our boundaries so thin. It’s time to do something amazing, not the same thing over and over again.

Come God come, in rocket ship form! Show us you yet exist, the maker of our isolated, desolated, woefully focused home.

By Kai Staats|2012-08-08T17:51:08-04:00August 21st, 2011|Looking up!, The Written|6 Comments

The Voice of a Bear

Last night I was too tired, too overwhelmed by the journey of the day to make it out to the hot tub. I watched a re-run of the original Star Trek series and then Mission Impossible, falling to sleep a few times on the couch, here at Buffalo Peak Ranch. I awoke this morning on the bed which lies adjacent to a large, east facing window, my face warmed with the rising sun. It’s an incredible way to wake each morning, naturally, without alarm. Just the increasing heat saying, “It’s time.”

There is a voice in my head which often declares, “I need to work. I don’t deserve to relax,” and the thought of sitting in the hot tub in the morning was today, initially pushed aside. But then it became clear to me that this was an old voice, perhaps that of a prior generation. I work each day. But there are no rules as to when, no right or wrong hour in which to engage. And so I walked to the platform on which the large tub sits, lifted one half of the heavy, water logged cover, and climbed in.

The steam rose from the surface of the water and molded edge of the tub. I settled in for no more than a minute when I heard the snap of a branch behind me, up the hill maybe a hundred yards or so. I spun ’round, attempting to locate the cause. I could not see far enough to recognize what was happening for the land drops into a gully of aspen and ground cover too thick to traverse without a struggle. It opens again on the far side, into a mixture of standing and fallen pine trees.

It happened again. Louder. Something very large was moving through the trees, but out of site. My heart pounded, but I logically assumed it was the three horses pressing against a fallen tree for a morning scratch, or a deer rubbing its antler.

I turned back to face the cabin, settling deeper into the water, only my head exposed.

Another crack, silence, and then what sounded like a tree falling, the echo of its crash resounding for a few seconds before I could hear only the humming birds again.

The top of a tree shaking, on the far side of the aspen grove. I stood up, sweating not from the warm water but from the simultaneous rush of fear and curiosity. I looked to my towel on the rack, over my shoulder to the cabin, and back again to the West, over the rail fence. What if it was a bear?

I waited, holding my breath. Nothing. Not a sound. I sat back onto the edge of the folded hot tub cover. I waited longer still. Horses. It must be the horses.

Then I heard the unmistakable bark of a bear, for I had hear them a few times when sea kayaking at Glacier Bay, Alaska six years prior. The top of a tree nearer to me moved while the others stood still. Then another closer. Still, I could not see what was moving through the thicket. Another bark. Another broken branch under heavy foot.

It came into the clearing between the fence and the trees, just thirty yards from me. It was massive. Not a cub, but a full grown black bear. Both beautiful and awesome, more than four foot tall at the shoulders. I had never seen one this large before.

It did not see me, at first. I slowly sunk back down into the tub. It noticed the motion and stood on its hind legs to assess the situation. My heart pounded. I didn’t know what to do. It sounds crazy, but I wished for a pot and pan to bang together, anything to make a noise it would not expect.

The bear dropped to all fours, grunted, and then lunged forward. It was coming directly toward me.

I did what I had learned in the books I had read on bear attacks many years prior, before ten days solo backpacking in Denali, Alaska. I stood up again and waved my arms as only humans can do. We are not a part of their natural diet, I reminded myself again and again.

“Hey bear! Hey bear!” continuing to wave my arms. I tried to stay calm, relaxed. Don’t show any fear. They can smell fear.

I looked back over my shoulder and contemplated running into the house, but bears move fast and love to give chase. The only barrier was the wooden fence, three horizontal logs with an X brace every fifteen feet. The bear stopped at the fence and peered at me between the top two rungs. I hoped it was satisfied, and would turn to go a different direction.

Instead, it rose onto his hind legs again, paused, and with almost no effort dropped onto the top and then middle rung, crushing them both with ease. I could not break a twig with any less effort, and at that moment it was less than twenty feet from me.

I spun, reached back across the tub’s cover and pulled on the edge, trying to flip it over me. It was too heavy, the angle completely wrong. I nearly cried as air rushed from my lungs. I pulled again and again. I looked back to the bear. It seemed momentarily startled by my motion, considering what to do next.

I had no choice. I jumped over the edge of the tub, ran around the platform to the far side and lifted the lid. It rose up, tall and wide. While holding it vertical, I jumped back in. The lid came down with me, weighing heavy on my head and shoulders. I slipped and fell into the water. I wished immediately that I had turned on the light, for I was immersed fully in the darkness. My face was forced under water by the weight of the cover against the back of my head. I swallowed water and choked, but forced the panic to retreat. I turned side to side, trying to get my mouth above the water line, but could not. I threw my hands over my head, trying to find my bearing in the darkness but my feet kept slipping and I was running out of air.

I held what remained of my breath and remembered there was six inches between the bottom of the lid and the surface of the water. I would only be able to breathe if I flipped over onto my back with my hands and legs spread beneath me for support of some kind.

I slipped a few times, choking on more water inhaled, but found a position which allowed me to breathe. I opened my eyes and tried not to panic. It was dark and hot. I could barely see. My mind raced, How long could I remain here? How long should I wait?

Fortunately, I had placed the tub’s automated circulation on stand-by. Everything was quiet. I could hear only my heart beat in my ears. Pounding.

My eyes adjusted. I could see the edges of the tub inside, the surface of the water just beneath my neck. I turned my head left and then right, one ear and then the other dipping into the water as I looked for the source of the light. It was on the south side of the tub, the side that faces the barn that there was an opening, a break in the cover where it hinged.

I felt a little more calm, for that also meant there was fresh air too. As long as the water remained warm, I could stay here for a while. And I did, for what felt like an hour.

I listened intently, holding my breath from time to time. Was the bear still outside? I could hear only the sound of my body half sitting, half floating in the water, my nose pressed to the underside of the cover. I was stretching my back and legs, trying to relax when I heard the deck moan and felt a subtle movement of the entire platform.

I looked to the gap, but it was dark. There was no light.

Oh shit! It’s right next to the tub! Shit! shit! shit!

Then the light returned, something moved outside from left to right. I could hear it breathe. It pawed the surface of the deck and the entire platform shook, sending ripples through the water which I felt in my chest. I hoped only that the weight of the cover would be enough to keep me safe. There was nothing I could do. I wanted to cry, or scream, but knew either would only make my situation worse.

I held my breath again. Waited. The bear circled the entire tub. I could hear his pads and claws. He was slow, almost contemplative. I imagined he was trying to learn how to get inside.

I began to shake, as though the temperature had dropped fifty degrees, I couldn’t stop. I thought of being in Kenya, malaria overwhelming my body in just a matter of minutes. I felt out of control. I couldn’t stay here. I panicked, held my breath, rolled over onto my stomach, and moved to stand up.

The cover lifted, just a bit. I peered out into the light, looking again at the direction from which the bear had come. The fence was shattered, reminding me of the strength he deployed.

With my hands and arms overhead, the majority of the weight on my neck and upper back, I looked to the left, to the right again, and then directly ahead.

It was right there, in front of me, it’s massive nose over the lip of the tub. I could smell its breath and it looked directly into my eyes.

I slipped and fell back into the tub, the full weight of the lid crashing down onto the bear’s nose, which it immediately withdrew. I was submerged for a moment and inhaled more water. I tried to stand up, but my head hit hard against the underside of the cover. I remembered that I needed to roll on to my back, and forced myself to breathe, slowly, pressing my lips together when I exhaled. My heart was in my eyes, in my hands and head. I waited. I heard nothing.

What came next was confusing, for I thought I heard someone crying. Subtle at first, and then much more bold. Yes, someone was outside, crying. I must have hit my head harder than I realized, or perhaps I was dead. Was someone else out there? The hot tub repair man was not slated to arrive or another two hours. It didn’t make sense.

I looked to the opening and the slit of light.

The crying stopped. But was soon replaced with sobbing. A deep pain expressed by a deep, dynamic voice, “Oh! My nose! My nose is broken!”

What the –?! That’s impossible.

I held my breath, rolled back to my stomach, face in the water, found my balance and stood up. Just part way at first, and then fully, the lid of the tub now balanced in the up right position.

The bear was off the deck, sitting in the grass, upright, his paws covering his nose. Tears streamed from his eyes when he looked up at me, “Why d-d-did you do that?”

Startled, “Do what?”

“My nose. You, you broke my nose!” he growled, the back of his paw stroking the side of his great face.

“I’m, I’m sorry. I slipped … here, inside,” pointing to the tub in which I obviously stood. I felt horrible. “Just a moment. Please.”

I thought, What am I doing? but moved ahead. I sat on the edge of the tub, holding the lid so it would not crash down again. I stopped, turned to the bear and asked, “Are you … are you going to eat me?”

“What? Are you kidding? Look at my nose! I coul–I couldn’t eat a mouse if it jumped into my mouth, let alone eat you!” It paused, the tears fewer than before. It shook its giant head and again I was scared. One bite, one swipe of his massive claws and I would be dead.

Talking more to myself than to the bear, “Ok. I am. Um, I am going to just get out of this … the hot tub … now. Ok?”

The bear looked at me, and then again to the ground.

I stepped slowly to the deck, lowering the lid until it came to a close. Drops of water fell from my body to the deck, each releasing a small puff of vapor against the morning light.

I could not believe this was happening.

I looked to my right and saw the door of the cabin. I could probably make it inside, if I ran. But I knew that a bear this massive could crush the door, no matter how I locked it. I accepted that If he had wanted to eat me, I would already be his meal.

I looked back to my left. The bear remained where he was.

I walked closer, one step at a time. He sat upright and dropped his paws from his nose, asking, “Does it look bad?”

I smiled, hesitantly, “No, it doesn’t look bad at all. It’s not bleeding. Do you mind if I take a, um, closer look?”

He shook his head, lowering himself a bit. I stepped from the deck, noticing that his hind feet were larger than mine, his front pads and claws much larger than my hands. I reached out to his nose, but withdrew. He looked up and into my eyes to say it would be ok.

“This may hurt a bit … I want to see what kind of break you may have. Ok?”

“Ok,” he responded.

I reached out again, touching the bridge of his nose, lightly at first and then with more pressure. He flinched, pulled back and bared his teeth. I involuntarily took a few steps back, tripped and landed onto the platform which held the tub. I automatically retracted my feet and arms, rolling into a defensive ball.

He almost seemed amused, apologized, and promised to hold still.

I gathered myself and rose awkwardly back to my feet. I walked forward and touched his nose again, pressing on the top and sides. It was a massive, beautiful nose, and it did not feel broken, just deeply bruised. There was a soft, swollen spot on top but no sharp edges or fragments that moved.

I explained as much to the bear, and he seemed to be relieved.

“Good. That’s good,” he said.

I sat down again on the wooden platform, my elbows on my knees. I just stared, not knowing what to say. He too seemed short on words, sometimes looking at me, sometimes over my shoulder to the bird feeder outside the front door of the cabin.

After a few minutes, he offered, “I like humming birds. I wish I could move they way they do. I feel awkward, sometimes.”

Surprised, I didn’t know quite how to respond, “Oh?”

“Why are you out here alone?” He was kind, careful with his words despite his size and power.

“I lost someone a few days ago, someone I love very much. This place is healing for me.”

He looked puzzled, “Where did you last see him? Maybe I can help you find him. I have a good–rather, I had a good nose, you know.”

I sensed humor in his words and laughed, “Not like that. She is not missing, rather, simply no longer a part of my life.”

“Oh. I see.” He rose from his seated position onto all fours again. I was instantly reminded of his incredible build. Eight hundred, maybe a thousand pounds or more. The buffalo in the pasture across the road were almost small in comparison, despite their broad heads.

He continued, “What did you do?”

“Everything I could.”

“Maybe that was too much.”

“Yes” I looked to the ground, “maybe that is true.”

He paused, and looked over his shoulder to the ridge to the south and west, “I lost someone too.”

I was taken back, just getting used to the presence of a talking bear when I was again caught off guard by the depth with which he did communicate. For a fleeting moment the scientist in me realized how much we had incorrectly assumed about the animal world. Would this bear be willing to conduct an interview?

“Oh?”

“Yes. A wonderful she-bear. Beautiful to me in so many, many ways. My best friend too.”

“I can only imagine,” I nodded my head and then looked to the ground, “What happened?”

“We were unable to confront our fears.”

“Scared? A bear?”

“Yes, even bears get scared. We put on a good show, crashing through the brush, knocking down trees, scaring campers (which is great fun, by the way). But ultimately, we are very soft in the heart, and we have a lot to say.”

“I am surprised, and very pleased to learn this.”

He moved closer to me but I was no longer afraid. I reached out to stroke the top of his broad head, and rub his ears. He seemed to like this a lot, and to the best of his ability, smiled. He licked the palm of my hand until the salt was gone. We didn’t say much more than this, for the day was young. I went back inside, changed clothes, put on my hiking boots, and requested that the bear show me his domain.

We hiked for countless miles, learning about the terrain I had only begun to understand. The bear was a great teacher, and I felt, a healer of some kind. He had many questions about humans too, mostly why we encroached year after year on their land. He seemed embarrassed to admit he had rummaged through human garbage, in tough times. I apologized as best I could, on behalf of our selfish kind. He said it didn’t matter, in the long run, for all things worked out in the end.

The sun set upon the bear and me, sitting on a giant, fallen pine. We watched as the shadows grew long, the warm rays cooling until there were none. He thanked me for the day, and apologized for the broken fence, explaining that he was rather clumsy, for a bear. He wanted only to talk, all along. His nose was feeling better already, and my heart was lifted too. We promised to meet again some day, in this friendship that was new.

There were encounters with other local residents too, as described in When the Coyote Calls

By Kai Staats|2019-10-05T15:06:12-04:00August 18th, 2011|At Home in the Rockies, Dreams|0 Comments

Solar Powered Hot Tub

Northern Colorado Business Report
“Solar Powered Hot Tub”
By Kai Staats
12 August 2011

This summer I collaborated with three friends on the design and installation of a grid-tied, battery backed 5.6KW, 24 panel photovoltaic array on a 260 acre ranch near Bailey, Colorado. Despite the challenges of a relatively large-scale renewable energy project, it was an incredible pleasure beginning to end, given the stunning beauty of the location and contagious energy of the tireless individuals who were as eager to dig a seventy five foot trench as they were to learn hands-on about electrical wiring.

Twenty four, four foot deep holes filled with concrete provide the foundation to six aluminum frames which hold four panels each. We rewired three electrical boxes, migrating mission critical circuits (ie: lights, outlets, water pump, refrigerator) to the panel which is now isolated from the grid and powered by the battery-backed inverter. Best of all, there is ample power for the hot tub.

At 8,000 feet the ranch is surrounded by ten thousand foot peaks, undulating hilltops and ravines which harbor horses, deer, coyotes, bear, and buffalo. Any sense of guilt at having enjoyed such a job site is completely washed away when I consider that the power required to heat the hot tub is more than offset by the new solar PV array.

The introduction of a passive solar water heater would certainly be more efficient than converting sunlight to electricity which in turn heats the water, but as with most adoptions of technology, change is best taken one step at a time. This is true not only on the small scale of one ranch in the middle of thousands in Colorado, but also for the worldwide effort to transition to renewable energy.

Too often I hear the argument that we will never be able to rely entirely upon renewable energy sources, that the efficiency of solar panels and wind turbines is simply not high enough to produce the power required.
This skepticism is parallel to the naysayers of so many human achievements—and a failure to recognize the relatively brief history of research and the commercial application to renewable energy. As with all evolving technologies, renewable energy will not achieve full market play until market demand and the resulting mass production forces a higher level of efficiency. In this case “grid parity,” or the ability to produce energy for the same or lower cost than traditional methods such as coal, nuclear, or gas. The good news is that we have achieved this in certain markets, and are moving to find grid parity in a greater diversity of regions.

The history of photovoltaic energy production goes back to 1883 where Charles Fritts created a solar cell which converted just one percent of sunlight into electricity. In the late 1960s Elliot Berman and an Exxon research team increased the power-to-cost ratio by five fold in just two years. Fast forward and solar cells are manufactured today for roughly $1 per watt, compared to $250 in 1954. A two hundred and fifty times reduction in the cost of manufacturing in roughly sixty years without a market nearly as substantial as the housing, automobile, or even bicycle industries.

So what is holding solar power back?

I will not dive into the politics of renewable energy, for that alone could fill a few columns. At a lightly technical level there are some hurdles which have only recently been surmounted. The entry at wikipedia.org/wiki/Solar_cell provides an in-depth journey through the history and technology of the photovoltaic principal. The basic concept, however, is this: humans see what we call the visible portion of the spectrum while silicon-based solar cells are able to convert only a portion of that light energy into electricity. While the visible spectrum represents a good bit of the energy produced by the sun, this does not constitute the full energy available for conversion to electricity.

We are missing the tremendous potential for conversion of infrared and ultraviolet light energy. Relatively recent research into combinations of elements to expand the sensitivity of the solar cell has increased the efficiency of energy conversion.

In our own backyard, the National Renewable Energy Lab is researching cells with upwards of 40% efficiency, more than forty times greater than the original solar cell just 150 years ago. While southern California and Hawaii have achieved grid parity using traditional silicon based solar cells at efficiencies at or below 20%, the near-future potential for doubling this efficiency lies in the ability to reduce cost of production, the result being that multi-spectral systems are available to you, me, and those who have solar powered hot tubs in the mountains of Colorado at a market friendly price.

Until that time, I am pleased to sit back after a hard day’s work and know that the warm water which gives me comfort was generated, even if indirectly, by energy from the sun. I believe the near-future holds an exciting, rapid evolution for renewable energy production, soon becoming something greater than an alternative, rather, simply the way it is done.

By Kai Staats|2017-10-21T16:48:59-04:00August 12th, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments

To See Again

I am able to see again, to observe and engage the world around me in a way that compels me to write. It’s been a while, more than six months, maybe a year since I felt this way. It’s good to be in this place again.

By Kai Staats|2011-08-09T15:35:03-04:00August 9th, 2011|The Written|1 Comment

The Good Sam’s Utopia

Transient Homes
Certainly, Good Sam’s was not my first pick, but at thirty seven dollars for one night it was half the cost of the next accommodation in this beach side, New Hampshire town of Seabrook, one mile from the intersection of I395 and I95 and on the Atlantic Coast.

I was granted the very last tent spot 47A which has no official parking spot, but does sport the highest spot in the campground at some ten or twelve feet from the roadbed, a picnic bench, fire pit, and a view down and into the court yard of the half dozen adjacent RVs, none of which is more than thirty feet distance.

The smell of camp fires mixed with bug spray, cleaning supplies from the nearest bathhouse, outdoor cooking, and diesel from a large truck which just passed by. Across the road and a few meters down, a father crept beneath the window of the RV in which his kids were playing cards, popped up to slap the glass and yelled in his best monster voice. The kids screamed and then laughed in quick succession. The same interaction likely plays out night after night and neither grows wary, at least not until the children grow to be teenagers and dread the very presence of their father as much as the mandatory, summer family camping trip.

In the toilet and shower facility I quickly discovered that the men’s and women’s units were separated by a wall but shared an open ceiling space, all conversations moving without resistance into the adjacent facility. Two girls, perhaps in their late teens dared each other to pee in the shower, I gathered, without taking a shower at all.

When I finished brushing my teeth and left to walk back to my rental car, I recognized the voices of the girls who exited their side of the bathhouse at the same time.

One said to the other, “Where are we”?

“I don’t know. You live here, and you don’t know?”

“No. I’m lost.” She then turned to me, “You know where we are?”

Given that we were in a campground whose density of patrons matched that of Japanese tube hotels, and roadways the narrow streets of old Barcelona, I played along, “No. No clue. I was hoping you knew,” as I approached my car and reached into my pocket to grasp the key remote. A few more steps, and I pressed the unlock button. The lights flashed and the horn chirped.

“Is that your car?”

“Yup.

“Oh, so you DO know where you are.”

“No, but I do know the location of my car.” She didn’t catch the subtle challenge in that response and said only, “Oh!”

I stopped to open the back and they continued. I lost track of them quickly as the road was dark, lit only by the camp fires, porch lights, and rope lighting of the RVs.

Escape from Ourselves
I sat on the bumper and looked around. The Good Sam’s campground took on a new form in my mind. I was less offended by the obvious eye sore and more interested in the social experiment at play.

For the prior three nights I had been staying in cabins whose tenants were amateur astronomers, assembled for the intent purpose of sharing their passion for observing, for exploring the night sky. They maintained the utmost respect for each other by using only red lit headlamps, car dome lights, flash lights, pen lights, and perimeter lights on their scope legs and bodies.

Here, I originally found the stimuli overwhelming as loud voices contended with car doors slamming, kids screaming, fire crackers, televisions, radios, and the laughter of drunken adults who freely expressed all they had withheld since their last escape to the great outdoors.

With the words of the second girl, “You live here” I realized the unique qualities of this place in that it was congregation of semi-permanent residents with transient campers, like me. In a subtle way, everyone in this place agreed to a certain level of compliance to an unwritten set of rules which enabled the place to function without major confrontation.

The residents understood that their neighbors may come and go, staying one, two or a half dozen night before moving on. Those who passed through understood this was home to some people, and therefore deserved a level of respect for property and space.

I walked the entire perimeter and all interior roads twice, once to explore and then again to capture some time lapse photographs, the shadows of the night giving way to streaks of illumination as burning wood yields dancing flames. This is what I experienced.

A couple sat to the side of a fire, an open bottle of wine and two glasses reflecting the light. They said little, mostly staring into the flames. Several fires burnt unattended, the flames dropping between my first and second pass. A father played cards with his daughter at a picnic bench, their faces illuminated by the blue glow of a lantern reflecting from the inside of a suspended tarp. A dozen teenagers sat ’round a large fire on the edge of the campground, one boy played guitar and sang, his audience completely engrossed. A half dozen adults spoke aloud from stackable plastic lawn chairs, a block party unfolding.The side of their RV was adorned with string lights up and across the awning supports and around the bumper. Some RVs showcased plastic deer, white picket fences, water fountains, and an American flag. A preteen boy raced by on his BMX bike, apparently able to see well into the midnight spectrum where the rest of us walked with caution. A man in his sixties leaned over a picnic bench, his glasses low on his nose as he attempted to read the instructions of a manual printed in too small a font. The battery powered lantern to his side cast a cold, nearly white light upon his face, the bridge of his nose the divide between the light and dark portions of the rising, crescent moon.

Everyone came to this place to get away from home, with the understanding they would be living a simpler life for the duration. One bowl, one plate, one spoon. A small cook stove with few pans. Simple foods, and for most, no television, laptop, or cell phone. This is a retreat from the very things we work our entire lives to acquire, only to be overwhelmed by them in return. These people, myself included, are happier living this way. And yet, they will soon return to the complexity of ownership of more things, things which were not forced upon them but acquired of their own accord.

Ironic, it seems, that we must escape the very life we have created for ourselves. What keeps us from just living this simple life every day? Why are we afraid to stop acquiring, to say “Enough already! I don’t need any more.” There seems to be a process which takes us from tent to camper to RV, from Coleman fuel camp stove to four-burner propane kitchenettes. Is this the process which also takes college students from Raman noodles and masonry block book shelves to IKIA and eventually a custom built home which is challenging, if not impossible to afford?

I cannot help but laugh when I walk by the RVs whose small yards harbor miniature flower gardens, a sense of order and beauty surrounded on all sides by the chaos of an over crowded, noisy, dusty campground. They have established their island in this flotilla of drifters and weekend bums.

The Good Sam’s Utopia
I grew up with Star Trek which presented a vision of neat, clean, highly organized society filled with people who were content for their station in life. Everyone was important, everyone was needed, well educated, and capable. In contrast, Arthur C. Clarke’s “Rendezvous with Rama” books present an accurate portrayal of human society unfolding in a confined, isolated space. How many years would it take for highly trained military personel and researchers to resort to their human tendency of wanting more, to take more at the cost of their neighbor? How many generations would it take for humans to carve out camps which battle each other for resources? How soon would God intervene, showing her face in the diversity of fragmented expressions which somehow oppose each other, despite their common body and figure head?

But somehow, if I were to envision utopia, I am not certain it would be all that different than this–given a few hundred people in a completely new setting, the first to colonize the Moon or Mars, a campground is more likely an example of how humanity will touch the face of the next world. Synthetic reminders of a home far away, time made to play musical instruments at the end of a day, children free to ride their low gravity bicycles from the living quarters to the community bathhouse as long as they come right back and don’t bother the others, a loose sense of community and a respect for personal space.

Perhaps, if we are lucky, the first off-world colonies will not follow our own history played out again and again as the Rama saga depicts, rather, a Good Sam’s campground will provide the model for a perfect, human utopia.

By Kai Staats|2017-04-10T11:17:42-04:00August 6th, 2011|From the Road, Looking up!|0 Comments

Andromeda’s Claim

When the Clouds Cover the Stars
When the clouds cover the stars, the astronomers come indoors. The guitars are removed from their cases and laptop lids are closed. We gathered to share the songs which have been sung for five decades, since the revolution that temporarily gave comfort to those who were different from the rest. It was a time to be accepted. Here too everyone is accepted, no matter how awkward, no matter how socially odd in the real world. Here, everyone has a talent, a gift, a shared passion to teach and to learn.

Wendee and two others transition to a semi-private discussion of the politics of government, cuts in education, and how amateur astronomy remains a bridge for children, from raw passion for learning to applied sciences when the school systems fail again and again. Federal mandates curb creativity and threaten the individuality and creativity of otherwise capable teachers.

Steve, Bob, and Brad sit in the same order at the same table at each meal, and this night as well. Each is a bit cantankerous, sarcastic, and yet more generous with their time in three days and nights than some parents are in a life time with their children. They relish the opportunity to help someone, like me, snap my very first photograph of a distant planet, nebulae, or cluster of stars.

I pull up a backward facing chair and lean onto the table to their front, elbows and shoulder braced for what I know will be a fight.

I say, “So, tomorrow, I would like to interview the three of you, at the same time.”

Brad is quick to respond, “Yeah? When would that be?”

Bob adds, “I am not certain we are worthy of an interview.”

Steve stares at me for a while before saying, “I’m not available. Very busy, you know.”

Brad quips, “Yeah, you gotta talk to Steve’s agent.”

Bob again, “So why do you think we’re worth interviewing?”

Without hesitation I respond to all three, “No, not really. Individually you are boring, not worth my time. But together you’re entertaining. I need comic relief in my documentary.” We all break character and laugh. I conclude, “Allow me to rephrase: I am going to interview the three of you so all you have to do is pick the time. No option. Got it?”

Steve comes back, smiling, “Hey! He is catching on pretty quick. He’s gonna be one of us pretty soon!” They all laughed and agreed to 1:00 pm the next day.

Stories Unfold
My interviews have gone well. Good content, great stories. David tells of his phone call with a professional astronomer who confirmed his discovery of Shoemaker-Levy 9, the famous comet that crashed into the atmosphere of Jupiter. I am captivated, as though it was happening all over again.

I recall many years ago when David came to speak to the Phoenix Astronomical Society for which I served as President at that time. He had made his discovery just a few days prior to our club meeting at which David was speaking. He entered the room and there was silence. David cleared his throat, looked around the room, cleared his throat again and said, “As you may have guessed, there is going to be a change of subject for my presentation for the evening.”

David wears a light blue T-shirt which reads, “Don’t blame me! I voted for Pluto!” The value of this otherwise comical tribute to Clyde Tombaugh is given full weight when one considers that David wrote a biography of Clyde’s life in the ’90s, a copy of which remains on my bookshelf.

A New Adventure Every Night
It’s 12:30 am and a half dozen remain in the dining hall, watching the live Doplar radar and Star Trek out-takes on YouTube, hoping for a break in the clouds. Staying up till 1:00 am is consider the bare minimum, three to four the norm. Sleep ’till 10:15 the next morning and eat breakfast at 10:30.

Every night is an adventure, an exploration of some one hundred billion stars, nebulae, gaseous birthing chambers for the next generation of solar engines, pulsars, super novae, and black holes. Even with an eight inch diameter telescope, one that can be carried underarm, a ten minute exposure illuminates a half dozen other galaxies with spiral arms, hot, glowing centers, tilted and thrown about in what appears to be, from our point of view, a chaotic array of tossed white dishes in a black, spotted basin.

The mind has no choice but to open when one looks through a telescope. It is nearly impossible to walk away from a night of observing and return unaffected to that other world of political battles, economic downturns, looting, warfare, and starvation. The contrast is tremendous. I am compelled to ask of the congressmen who squabble over the appropriation of dollars, of religious leaders who proclaim holy wars to cleanse the world of unbelievers, and of military generals who order their soldiers to use rape as a weapon against the opposing tribe, even if knowingly naive, “Look up! Have you ever seen something so beautiful?”

When viewing an impressive photo of the Andromeda galaxy, the closest neighbor to our own, I considered that our human race could perhaps have enjoyed a very different history if only we could see the outstretched arms and rich, dynamic body of another galaxy with our naked eye. It is, after all, six times larger than the moon in the night sky.

Andromeda’s Claim
The sun, moon, and planets are our celestial partners, tightly coupled on the same, nearly level playing field. They move and interact with us directly. We have over time attributed the planets with the power of gods, suggesting that their color and motion in the sky is that of emotion expressed at how we manage our lives. But to consider that the lives and deaths of creatures whose very bodies are but an infinitesimal fraction of the mass of the soil on which they walk, somehow please or displease a power so great that it created hundreds of millions of planets in each of a hundred billion galaxies seems dreadfully egocentric and selfishly unaware.

If we could see the Andromeda galaxy overhead, perhaps we would recognize that we were never alone, and did not need to invent gods to micromanage our affairs. Perhaps we would have understood long ago that the heavens are unaware of what we say, with whom we share our bed, or whether we live clothed or bare. We are an incredible aggregation of self-organized matter, a moment of entropy in reverse. We are the heavy stuff of long ago dead stars, not the finger puppet of something greater or something less.

Six billion humans, each the center of his or her own universe … or a universe which likely harbors far more than six billion planets capable of life, each unique to all the rest.

If we could see the Andromeda galaxy overhead, perhaps then we could recognize the fallacy of believing that our lives are worth destroying in order to gain what we do not already have, when in fact we are simple travelers on an interstellar ship, spinning at 1600 kilometers per hour, orbiting our local star at more than one hundred times this velocity, racing toward the star Vega at 70,000 kilometers per hour.

With resources limited and running low, the only way we will ever arrive to where it is we want to go is to give of ourselves without concern for what remains to call our own. If only we could see the Andromeda galaxy overhead, perhaps its light would remind us that we are not alone.

By Kai Staats|2017-04-10T11:17:43-04:00August 3rd, 2011|From the Road, Looking up!|0 Comments

To Hold the Sun

The owner of Buffalo Peak Ranch, Leigh McGill, desired to have a battery backup for the cabin and barn. Lightning strikes and falling trees (since the Hayman fire some ten years ago) frequently cut power for hours, even days at at time. While we could have installed a simpler grid-tied, battery backed or even auto-generator system, it was determined that to generate our own power from the Sun was a preferred solution.

We worked with The Solar Biz, an established, New Mexico based, family-owned distributor of all things solar to design and procure the system, my company Over the Sun, LLC the reseller and installer.

As many projects do unfold, it was more work than anticipated. We set concrete forms to support the PV panel runs, a good 32 or 36 inches below grade to avoid frost-heave. The racks required some modification, but nothing a hack saw and drill could not remedy, and in the end the panels sit side by side, perfectly aligned.

Our four man team was comprised of Trevor (ranch hand), Clint (son of the owner), Chris (renewable energy engineer out of Fort Collins, my co-worker and friend), and me. We worked well together, logging long hours for a few weeks in total.

The deep trench was started with a ditch-witch, but in the end, much of it came down to a pickax and shovel (and Clint’s strong back). The pipe was laid in place and then the heavy, thick cables lubricated and pushed/pulled through, chasing a braided, nylon string which was inserted into each piece pipe, one by one. I forget the exact length, but moving more than one hundred feet of cable is not a simple task. Each bend in the pipe, each joint offered more of a challenge as it neared the end.

I built a utility wall from which the Xantrex inverter and charge controllers hang. The eight 6V batteries (48V array) rest on a sturdy shelf beneath. Ample power to run the electric oven, fridge, microwave, and heaters in the fall and spring. This was my second Xantrex wiring effort (the first being my house in Loveland) and while familiar, it remained a bit tricky. But in the end, having rewired both electrical panels on the house in order to isolate mission-critical circuits for backup power, it works perfectly.

I cannot think of a place in which I’d rather work. At more than 7000 feet elevation, there are elk, coyotes, fox, deer, bear, horses and domestic buffalo. It is a place in which I feel truly calm. It is one of my favorite places in the world.

With 24 220W panels, the system generates a theoretical maximum 5200W. It produces more when in direct, early afternoon sun. But generally, we see between 4-5k with less than 10% total system loss (D/C from the panels to the charge controllers, batteries, inverter). It’s a good, functional solution that will generate more power, over the year, than is consumed meaning eventually, it will pay for itself in addition to its obvious functionality.

Even the hot tub is solar powered. That makes me feel good.

By Kai Staats|2017-04-10T11:17:43-04:00July 31st, 2011|At Home in the Rockies|0 Comments

A Consumer’s Guide: Part 4

Northern Colorado Business Report
“A consumer’s guide to adoption of technology, part 4”
By Kai Staats
30 June 2011

This is the fourth and final entry in a guide to the adoption of technology into one’s personal life. This is not the typical guide that offers a comparison of the speed of wifi networks or the quality of LCD screens. Rather, this is a guide for you, a window into your own consumer behavior when considering the purchase and addition of new technology into your daily life for leisure or for work.

In the previous column we explored questions four, five and six of ten questions concerning the adoption of technology: Does it help me to better understand or improve myself? Does it help me to better understand or to help others? Does it improve my communication with others?

Since beginning this series on “A Consumer’s Guide to Technology” in April, my questioning my own consumer behavior has been further shaped by my travels and encounters which gave me opportunity to be unplugged while further connected through face-to-face conversations and the sharing of stories. During these times I was more at ease as I my mind stopped juggling the potential of a phone call, text message, or email. Instead, I was present with whomever was the focus of my attention.

I am now sitting on the living room floor of my family’s farm in rural Iowa where there is neither cell phone reception nor Internet access. Echoes of five generations of stories told here reverberate throughout the house, perfect timing to address the final four of the ten questions:

7. How did I perform this function prior to owning this device/gadget?
8. Does it improve upon a former means of operation?
9. What is the worst thing that would happen if I do not make this purchase?
10. If I wait three weeks, will I still have a need or desire to make this purchase?

My grandfather, Raymond Kruse, was a farmer, inventor, and environmental activist in this heartland community. He was an avid reader, staying current with trends in scientific research, discoveries, and consumer products. As is the case with many who lived through the Great Depression, my grandfather was conservative with his money, careful to research and purchase only the highest quality products, his intent to maintain each for use as long as possible.

I am fortunate to be the recipient of his legacy, inheriting a means of moving through the world in which material objects are not in and of themselves a goal, rather a gift to our already abundant life not to be taken for granted. Therefore when I ask myself How did I perform this function without this device? I see my grandfather’s face and hear his voice, “Kai-boy, don’t you already have one of those? Seems like the one you got is working just fine.”

Before I could answer, “Yes, but this one is faster, and has more …” I knew he had me beat. As a child, it was challenging to have my desire for instant gratification curbed, but as I grew to recognize his wisdom I learned to ask myself, Does it improve upon a former means of doing so? What is the worst thing that would happen if I don’t purchase it?

As the ultimate litmus test, I ask myself what my parents routinely asked me when I desperately pleaded that they buy the latest LEGO set, “If I wait three weeks, will I still have a need or desire to purchase it?” Often the answer to the last question satisfies the prior three in this series, my appetite for the latest, greatest technical device temporarily, if not permanently quelled.

You may ask, “Why does any of this matter?” While the full answer would likely demand a venture into the deeply ingrained psychology of consumption, I offer in response a well executed short film available on YouTube called “The Story of Electronics” which touches upon much of what I have called to attention, and expands the conversation to include the environmental impact of poor design.

One only needs to read the news to know that technology is rapidly changing the world. But the focus of this series has been on the adoption of technology into one’s personal life, I will summarize this four-part series as I began, with a quote from Langdon Miller, “The Whale and the Reactor,” 1986, “Through technological creation and many other ways as well, we make a world for each other to live in, much more than we have acknowledged in the past, we must admit our responsibility for what we are making.”

Responsibility begins with designers and ends with us, the consumers, a responsibility to the world around us, yes, but also to ourselves. It is my hope that ten questions I have asked will in some way stay with you, adopted and adapted to your benefit.

By Kai Staats|2017-10-21T16:47:20-04:00July 4th, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments

A Consumer’s Guide: Part 3

Northern Colorado Business Report
“A consumer’s guide to adoption of technology, part 3”
By Kai Staats
3 June 2011

This is the third in a series in what is unfolding as a guide to the adoption of technology into one’s personal life. This is not the typical guide which compares the speed of wifi networks or the quality of LCD screens. Rather, this is a guide for you, a window to your own consumer behavior when considering new technology.

In the previous column we explored three of ten questions concerning the adoption of technology and how we, as the consumer and owner are affected by our purchase and use decisions: Does it save time? Does it provide a foundation for education, entertainment, or improved safety? How do I feel when I use this product?

Having just returned from three weeks travel and volunteer work in northern Peru, I find the next three questions invigorating:

4. Does it help me to better understand or improve myself?
5. Does it help me to better understand or to help others?
6. Does it improve my communication with others?

Because I am not fluent in Spanish, I sometimes struggled to convey to those with whom I worked more than a basic concept of the projects with which I was engaged: electrical wiring, solar PV array design, and the architectural design of an open air sanctuary and meditation center.

Sarah and I intentionally traveled without electronics save a camera and old cell phone for emergency calls. Where a 3D sketch program or electronic translator could have assisted me, when communicating with the electrician and construction engineer I was reminded of the simplicity and ease of using pen and paper, even a stick for drawing in the sand.

Not long after our return to the States, I found myself in Best Buy, my mind pondering the next three questions concerning technology products:

Does it help me to better understand or improve myself? Very few consumer electronic products satisfy this question, except possibly a digital camera and computer. Through a camera, we can see the world in a new way and express ourselves artistically. Through the use of a computer, we can expand our knowledge.

Does it help me to better understand or help others? [This question has been slightly modified from the original, as published at NCBR.] When used with discretion, televisions and computers both provide a window to a greater world, a means of virtual travel to other places and opportunity to learn about people who are different than ourselves and those around us. In this respect, yes, our understanding of one another may be improved, if that is how we use these devices. To help? It is my experience that computers do play a significant role in organizing and managing projects, in sharing information.

Does it improve my communication with others? Does a mobile phone or laptop allow us to coordinate events, stay in touch, and move through our world with relative ease? Sometimes, yes. But both have a way of causing us to be distracted when we would benefit from being focused.

I often find a state of relief, nearly bliss when I leave my phone at home or in the car for I am free of the potential of an interruption and the people I am with benefit from my full attention. I experienced this several times during our journey, both with Sarah and with those whom we met along the way—educators from Holland, climbers from Colorado, and the staff of a church and clinic in Piura.

We engaged until the embers of the fire were too low to keep us warm, until the tea in our cups ran dry, and until the conversations were simply … done. It is in my experience that only a lack of technology does enable this kind of human interaction, when face-to-face encounters unfold.

The most memorable of our journey in Peru was in a stone cabin located in a high, green valley of the Cordillera Negra. At 14,200 feet elevation nine rock climbers wore multiple layers to find warmth against the sleet outside. The fog pressing against the windows was countered only by the single kerosene lantern and shimmer of the wood burning stove.

Not for one moment did I desire a cell phone, laptop, or television. The conversations carried us into the night for no digital device could fully capture or enhance the aroma of home cooked meals over a gas stove, the mixing of four languages spoken in whispers, and the sharing of that space by people who before that day had never met. We shared what humans have experienced for tens of thousands of years—our stories.

I offer that when next you find yourself reaching for your smart phone to record the moment for Facebook, stop and consider whether you will experience that time more vividly from behind the camera, or by being fully engaged in the moment, you yourself the best recording and playback medium.

By Kai Staats|2017-10-21T16:45:22-04:00June 3rd, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments

A Consumer’s Guide: Part 2

Northern Colorado Business Report
“A consumer’s guide to adoption of technology, part 2”
By Kai Staats
6 May 2011

This is the second of a multi-part series in what I hope will unfold as a guide to the adoption of technology into one’s personal life. This is not the typical guide which compares the speed of wifi networks or the quality of LCD screens. Rather, this is a guide for you, the consumer, as a window into your own behavior when considering the technology you wish to adopt.

As mentioned in the prior column, Henry Dreyfuss in “Designing for People” (1955) offered five points by which products could be designed and developed: 1) Utility and Safety, 2) Maintenance, 3) Cost, 4) Sales and Appeal, and 5) Appearance.

What Dreyfuss may not have known is that Appeal would fifty years later gain a momentum so strong that consumers find themselves compelled to replace perfectly functional products every 18-24 months due to the allure of Utility and Appearance. Maintenance becomes irrelevant as nearly all consumer electronics are disposable, designed to be neither repaired nor upgraded.

What concerns me most is not the speed at which we purchase goods, but how we are affected by the use of these products. I have prepared 10 questions to get the gears turning:

Does it save time?
Does it provide a foundation for education, entertainment, or improved safety?
How do I feel when I use this product? (or does it cause me to reduce or increase my stress?)
Does it help me to better understand or improve myself?
Does it help me to better understand or help others to improve themselves?
Does it improve my communication with others?
How did I perform this function without this device?
Does it improve upon a former means of doing so?
What is the worst thing that would happen if I don’t purchase it?
If I wait three weeks, will I still have a need or desire to purchase it?

Despite the fact that all phone models are moving toward smart phone capabilities, let’s look at the upgrade from an older model to a smart phone as an example of how to apply the first three questions.

Does it save time? Hard to say. One could argue that you can do more in less time with so many functions at your fingertips, but as I offered last fall in “The Myth of Free Time,” we tend to just fill that space with doing more things. There are seldom, if ever, inventions which truly save time. In part because they only add complexity to our lives; in part because we just fill that void with doing more. If smart phones actually saved time, people would be using them less, not more.

Education? Entertainment? Safety? Yes. Yes. And maybe. A smart phone can provide a weather update for mountain travel, but you are likely to use it while driving which is both dangerous and increasingly illegal. Again, the potential is there, but the consumer gets in the mix and the value-ad is undermined by human behavior.

Number 3 is complex. This is one that we talk about in the form of complaint, but seem to be helpless to do anything about. Let’s ask the same question applied to other devices, and see how we respond. “How does my car make me feel?” Safe, comfortable, content, even at home, if it is in good condition and runs well. Frustrated, angry, scared, even embarrassed if it is in need of repair and often fails to perform its basic functions.

You may not believe you have a relationship with your microwave oven, but when it warms a cup of coffee or fills the kitchen with the aroma of a hot bowl of soup, chances are you have a smile on your face when the oven door opens wide. But if the buttons on your oven are temperamental, or the insides nasty due to lack of cleaning, then perhaps you cringe at the very thought of the noontime meal.

Concerning your mobile phone: Does it feel good in your hand, or is it awkward to hold? Do you find it to be intuitive and seemingly designed just for you? Or do you get lost in the interface, often wondering why your friend’s number is missing, again!? Does it always work, no matter where you go? Or does it lock-up, hang-up, and get beat-up (as you slam it against the wall)? Do you carry it with pride? Or does your body tense every time it rings because you have not, after six months, determined how to change the ring tone?

Let’s return to How does the upgrade to a smart phone benefit you? Will you immediately use text messaging, email, news feeds, calendar, camera, and video conferencing? Or will you determine that simply because these functions are available, you may choose not to use them? Most important, do you feel compelled to check email just one more time, because it is right there, in the palm of your hand? Do you often interrupt face-to-face conversations to answer a quick email? Or are you comforted and relaxed knowing that your entire digital world is within reach, at all times?

I recommend paying more attention to how you feel, in the moment, when using your phone than whether or not it has a larger memory capacity or higher resolution camera. Remember, Responsibility begins with designers and ends with consumers. Be responsible to you.

By Kai Staats|2017-10-21T16:40:33-04:00May 11th, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments

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