From the Road – Page 38

Welcome to Holden Village

This is where I now live and work as a carpenter and videographer. No roads to the outside world, access by boat up Lake Chelan. No television, phones, or radio. Isolated in some respects, but so fully engaged in many, many more. This short film captures a few days of village life in this mountain retreat center in the Washington Cascades. The film touches upon three aspects of Holden: Living, Community, and Renewal–calling upon vivid images of laughter, dance, food, work, play, and prayer to present Holden in the light of its mountain splendor.

This marks the completion of my first film project, from acquisition to final edit, in fifteen years.

By Kai Staats|2017-04-10T11:17:42-04:00November 9th, 2011|Film & Video, From the Road|0 Comments

Taking out the Trash

Northern Colorado Business Report
“Taking out the Trash”
By Kai Staats
4 November 2011

As Moore’s law has seen the regular doubling of processor power every two to three years, the cost of storage, both local and on-line, has declined at a steady, rapid pace, giving rise to a tremendous capacity for capturing our digital lives in words, photos, video, and sound.

What has accompanied, even compelled the need for this massive increase in storage space is in part the amount of data we generate. High resolution photos have surpassed print film while lossless audio now carries the quality of the live performance. What’s more, the human tendency to horde everything digital has been compounded by advanced searches which tend to lead to the abandonment of organization.

Many years ago, when Google first introduced Gmail, a battle ensued at my former company, my engineers believed the answer to all their email woes had finally been granted–a single repository coupled with a Google powered search.

However, month after month I witnessed a gradual degradation of response to both internal and customer email. I investigated, and at times, had to intervene.

“I sent an email last week, but have not yet received a response,” became a common theme.

“Are you sure you sent it to me?” was a common reply.

“Yes. Quite certain. Should I forward a copy to you?”

“No, no. Hold on, let me search … oh, here it is. Well, I didn’t see that one ’cause I have more than two thousand email in my Inbox and a few hundred unread,” stated with a grin and a sense of pride, as though the goal of the game was to accumulate the most unread emails.

“That seems like a problem. How about using labels and filters?” I asked.

“Why?! Look, with Gmail I just search and find any thread at any point in time,” and a quick demonstration ensued.

“But you didn’t see my email until just now, and the customer has been waiting for a reply.”

An uncomfortable silence followed, and then recognition of the problem at hand “Right.”

I knew the fight was not about Gmail vs Yahoo! or Kmail vs Apple’s Mail app. This was about implementing a system of organization that was well planned, scalable, and flexible over time.

I defended the use of folders and automated filters which delivered email to unique, associated Inboxes. He was not alone, most of my staff replaced even a minimal sense of organization with Gmail’s paradigm, despite the decrease in response time, and worse, lost communications.

In response, I initiated a competition: my more than twelve thousand email comprising the summary of ten years of communications, archived in the logic of several hundred nested folders against just a few thousand email and Gmail’s search put to good use. The goal? Find a particular email on an exact date sent to a known client about a non-ambiguous subject, granting at least three parameters by which one could search.

Challenge after challenge, I won every time. None of my employees could beat me in accuracy nor timing of information retrieval. Three, at most four mouse clicks and I could locate any email to any customer in just a few seconds.

Yes, I spent thirty minutes every now and again re-organizing my email directory structure to accommodate an increased load, or to gain a greater level of efficiency when I realized that re-sorting directories by one parameter was more effective than by another. But the time I spent in organization was more than compensated by the hours saved in daily operations and what’s more, I gained a strong visual component, a sense of ownership of my data.

What I experienced then, and to this day I believe holds true, is that the most important of all factors in an age of information overload is forming good habits of data organization and of equal importance, taking out the trash. To keep everything, all the time, independent of the number of folders, is to fail to process data on a regular basis, thereby failing to assign value across the board.

No matter where we store things, in a closet, a file drawer, or on-line, the process of managing objects and data is the same:

Organize – Create a system of organization which accommodates scalable growth
and rapid, painless retrieval.
Prioritize – Assign dates, names, and/or project titles.
Discard – Establish value to the data that remains.

Most methods for teaching data organization seldom discuss deletion. But the process of determining what to throw out is the same as determining what to keep, establishing a mental image that is as effective as any advanced search function.

The next time Gmail responds, “Who needs to delete when you have so much storage?!” consider the clarity of mind you will have gained through managing your data.

By Kai Staats|2017-10-21T16:54:25-04:00November 9th, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments

The God of the Moment

They were called by candle, they were called by flame.
They came together, they came to pray.
A flicker of light, a glimmer of hope.
They moved to be touched by the hands of their friends.

But someone else was here too, even if for just a short while.
Called by candle, called by flame,
the God of the moment, this night she came.

Inspired by the music, she danced in the light.
Moved by the passion, she became the flame.
She sat atop candle tips, and looked into their eyes.
Some moved her to laughter, while others, she felt their pain.
The God of the moment, was pleased she came.

Hang on to that moment, hang on to the light.
Remember the dancing flames that illuminated this night.
That was the God of the moment, just passing through.
That was the God of the moment, looking at you.

By Kai Staats|2017-04-10T11:17:42-04:00October 30th, 2011|The Written|0 Comments

Specialization in Userland

Northern Colorado Business Report
“Living with Specialization in Userland”
By Kai Staats
7 October 2011

I crossed the U.S. / Canada border on I-5 listening to NPR’s Car Talk, Ray and Tom invoking laughter in the most stoic of listeners, as they always do. A woman called in to ask advice before she traded her beloved 1985 Volkswagon Vanagon for a Subaru Forester. She was understandably reluctant to give up the many years of stories, adventures, and dreams their family had shared driving across the land.

The woman asked about the engine and whether or not her husband could tinker with a new Subaru, doing most of the maintenance himself. Ray and Tom agreed that modern cars do not lend themselves to home mechanics as they have for all the prior years. The stuff under the hood is unfamiliar now, designed to be maintained by trained, industry specialists.

Two hours later I drove into Squamish, British Columbia, the rain washing my windshield clean of more than one thousand five hundred miles since I left home. I walked into the Adventure Center on Canadian HW99 at the edge of town. The young man behind the counter and his manager were discussing the power outage which has disabled all but one VOIP phone and computer terminal.

Neither of them was willing to experiment, fearing they might make it worse. They were waiting for the next day, Monday, when they could call support and talk to an expert.

Last week I stayed with a family friend, a professional photographer, writer, and naturalist with more than thirty years in the field. His life moves through his laptop and cell phone as he is seldom home for more than a few days at a time, and yet, the full capacity for electronic organization and collaboration unrealized.
I assisted him and his wife with switching from Yahoo! to Gmail, synchronizing Google Calendars to their Android phones, configuring email for their Internet domain, expanding their home wireless network with two Apple Airport Extreme adapters, establishing a central repository for sharing files, and connecting their home stereo system to streaming Internet radio.

I transferred user data from an old laptop to one brand new, doubled the capacity of the old laptop, reinstalled Mac OSX, and transferred user data again. They were thrilled, one of their daughters commenting over the phone, “Welcome to the twenty-first century!”

To be honest, I just followed the directions presented to me on-screen, doing little more than what I was told each step of the way. For as much of the effort as they had time, I engaged them in the process. But from their point of view, I am a specialist with many years expertise. Yet compared to code developers and engineers, I am just a layperson, an advanced user in user land. The many levels run deep.

It is not the doing that was the true barrier, for they can point and click as easily as anyone. The challenge is knowing where to start. Apple has not shipped with a printed manual for many years, believing their operating system is so simple anyone can just figure it out. I watched too many people struggle to know this is far from true. Searching Apple’s website is nearly useless and Google yields overwhelming results. You must know what you are looking for before you even begin the search.

Just a few days ago I stayed with a friend a few blocks from the Puget Sound. Their wi-fi went down some time ago. A friend had attempted to swap routers but to no avail for they had lost the passwords and did not know how to reset them. I explained that on the back or bottom of every router is a small button which when pressed with the tip of a ballpoint pen will reset the unit when you plug it in. The factory password will likely be “guest” or “admin” depending upon the brand.

Certainly, there are individuals in each generation willing to explore, to push their boundaries and dive into the depths of what an operating system or applications can do. But how many people have this comfort? I spent three full days upgrading my friends’ digital life, but how many working professionals have this kind of time? What’s more, If you do not know what you are missing, why would you ask for more?

We live in a world of special knowledge applied to special things. Specialization is job security at one level, and yet part of the reason we have so many unemployed.

Personally, I do not see technology as making things easier, for we are only introducing more complexity to our lives, always trying to do more. Placing a record on a turntable requires physical care, but not expertise. Connecting a digital audio archive to a wireless network and home theater requires a specialist. What’s more, the ability for one generation to teach the next is lost, for anything learned is useless in just a few years.
We have no choice but to pick and choose what we will maintain as our expertise, and to have the courage to ask for assistance for everything else. Maybe this brings us together again, or maybe it keeps us apart. What are your thoughts?

By Kai Staats|2017-10-21T16:52:57-04:00October 8th, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments

The Story of Achim

Preface
One morning in early September I awoke from a most powerful dream, the kind that I want to dive back into but can never quite get there again. I dreamed of a woman from Israeli whose name was Achim. I have never remembered the name of a fictional person in a dream, and yet, it was very clear to me when I awoke. Achim. Our connection was strong, even when we first met. Together, we could see into the future in an attempt to cure humanity of a horrible plague.

The emotions of the dream stayed with me, allowing me to hold the story until I found inspiration to write. Just a few days ago in Squamish, B.C., I met an Israeli woman at the farmers market. We talked for more than an hour beneath an awning to avoid the intermittent rains. Before we parted I asked, “Does ‘ahg-hem’ mean anything in Hebrew?” She responded, “Yes, it means ‘brothers’.” This was significant to the dream, as you will read …

The Diner

“I am your eyes to the future,” she said, “Take my hand and you will see.”

I entered the 5-n-diner as I had dozens of times before, its interior scarcely changed since the middle of the twentieth century when the silver shell café had been moved to its current location from some other place long ago forgotten, maybe just down the street, or maybe across town.

The wait staff had changed often in recent months, as the quantity of patrons had continually reduced. The plague unchecked had taken more lives than anyone could have imagined, nearly five billion all told.

Some left town, heading to smaller, less populated areas believing they may be safer there despite the statistics which demonstrated no variation of infection rates between population centers or the country side. Some returned home to spend time with family before they were taken too. Others simply didn’t come to work, unable to call in or to ask for time off. Too many passed alone, the onset of the final hours quick to take what it owned–the hope of every person the plague touched. Even those who were carriers without signs did not know for how long they would yet live.

The riots had long ago subsided in those early years when fear drove the masses to react. Now, only small pockets of outbreak occurred in reaction to the media when yet another cure was announced which ultimately failed. In some respects, life carried on, day after day as routine the best cure for the unknown.

The seats were each patched in several places, the stiff vinyl edges caught the pant legs of unwary patrons. The old Formica table tops glistened only from those corners which seldom received contact by a coffee cup or cleaning rag.

I would have sat at my usual spot, my own sense of routine necessary to me, a sense of safety in an unsafe world. But that day another patron was already occupying my space. My space. The words echoed in my mind as I realized how odd they sounded. Ownership no longer carried the same value. If your future is no longer governed by things in your control, then ownership of land, a house, a particular booth at a local café means less. Just the same, I found myself staring at the man wanting to ask him to move. He became uncomfortable, looked repeatedly over his shoulder and then back to me, concerned perhaps that he had done something wrong.

I broke my stare, apologized with a half smile, and moved to a booth on the other side of the isle. I lifted the menu into my hands, determined to try something new instead of the same cup of soup and salty crackers every day.

The waitress walked to the edge of my booth, but I took notice only of her shoes in the periphery of my vision. She stood for a moment, waiting. I remained focused on the menu. When she spoke, my chest heaved, her voice deeply familiar like a song my father had sung to me while I was in my mother’s womb. I nearly dropped the menu and looked up.

I knew her, not in this form, but as a woman who had visited me in my dreams a few times since my work to find a cure for the plague had begun. Take my hand and you will see. Her skin was dark, golden brown, her hair black and long. She smiled but said nothing, she didn’t even take my order. She just turned and walked away, returning in a few minutes with my cup of soup and a small ceramic plate which held a dozen salty crackers, most of them broken.

She extended her hand and said, “I am Achim.”

I don’t know why but I did not respond. I wanted to reach to hold her hand but was afraid I would never let go. She reached into her apron to hand me a soup spoon. Our hands touched and I instantly became dizzy, the spoon clattered to the floor.

Embarrassed, I responded, “Ack- Ackhem?”

She retrieved the first spoon from the floor and placed another on the table next to the soup bowl. She laughed in a world in which the sound of laughter had nearly been lost. Half the patrons in the café turned to look, some annoyed by her unusual outbreak, not unlike clapping in church. She didn’t notice and continued to smile.

“Not quite,” leaning closer until the mysterious space between her breasts hovered in front of my eyes, “Ahh-gh-heem” the back of her throat lightly engaged to give grace to pronunciation which I could not duplicate. She was playing with me, I could tell, holding her position there, smiling.

I smiled back but did not try again. Instead, I asked “What does it mean?”

“Brothers.” And then she stood up and leaned instead on the opposite side of the booth.

“That’s, … that’s odd. I mean,” feeling foolish for my approach, “… well, you were named ‘Brothers’. Why?”

She smiled again, “Our family is very close. When our mother died,” she momentarily lost her smile, “my brothers and father were spared. My father is yet grieving and has not spoken for many years. I took the name to let my brothers know I am here, for them …” her smile returned, “until the end.”

I did not leave the café that day. I did not return to the lab. I remained in the booth, reviewing notes from my research, drinking and eating what Achim brought to me. When she had time, she sat with me and asked about my work. But it didn’t feel as though we were meeting for the first time, rather just catching up.

That night we walked back to my apartment on the upper side of downtown, avoiding the elevated trains and the underground. I reached for her hand a few times but she withdrew. She held my elbow and wrapped her arms around my waist, but she never let her hands come into contact with mine.

The Apartment
Two days later she moved in. She didn’t ask and I did not protest when she showed up at my door, her belongings carried to my front porch by the taxi cab driver. We didn’t talk about it. It just worked. Our lives merged easily, as though we had never lived apart. The plague had taken the joy of conversation away from all but children who talk to themselves in their make believe world. For us, conversation was not needed to convey most of what we shared, cooking, long walks, and making love.

But after a few weeks of our living together, I found the courage to ask why she would not allow my hand to come into contact with hers. We were several blocks from home, her arm woven through mine as I had come to accept as the norm.

She stopped walking, turning me to face her. Her eyes held mine. I was paralyzed by an intensity she had not yet conveyed, “Are you certain you are ready?”

“For what?”

“To see the future.” She held out her left hand, pulled back her sleeve, and waited.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. Take my hand.”

Suddenly, I was afraid as I no longer recognized the woman in front of me. She had gained a strength of conviction I did not understand. What had she been hiding from me?

I removed my right hand from my jacket pocket, hesitated, and then placed it in hers.

“Ok?”

“Wait.”

She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

At first I felt dizzy and had to step my right foot to the side to stabilize myself. Then my head was flooded with images of people I knew, my co-workers, Achim, friends I had not seen for many years. I saw people falling to the street, collapsing under their own weight. I saw others embracing, smiling for the first time in years. I saw a ceremony in which I was granted an award for the work I conducted in the lab.

I quickly pulled my hand back from hers, shaking, and looked up, “What just happened? What was that?”

“A potential future.”

“Whose future?”

“Yours. Mine. Ours. Everyone,” She paused, “the human race.”

“I don’t understand. What? How?”

“It’s just something I was born with, a gift I discovered when I was young.”

“You can see the future?”

“No, not really. I can only experience its emotion. I believe I am a conduit to those who can see. But there are very few. I have met a few others, ” she raised her head again, “and you, who can see what I feel.”

“You mean, I just saw, … saw the future?”

“Yes. It is rare, the connection we share. I have been searching for you for many years.”

Tears filled my eyes, my chest heaved again for I was very scared.

“You lied to me! You, … do you even love me? Or, or am I just part of some experiment?” I was nearly yelling, fear and pain taking over me.

Achim countered, defensive at first, “Yes.” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again, whispering, “I love you dearly. That is very real for me. B- … but, we have something we need to do together, something even greater than the love we share.”

I took a few steps back, feeling as though my world was suddenly spinning too fast. I could neither remaining standing in one place nor run away. Achim took my elbow again, turned me about to face the direction from where we had come, and we walked toward home. We talked nearly the entire way, saying more than we had for the whole time we had lived together. When the implication of what we discussed became clear, I realized that she needed me to see what she felt, and I needed her to learn which path I should take in my research at the genetics lab.

That night we sat on the floor, wrapped in blankets as the first of what would be many winter storms settled in. We stayed up all night, holding hands, learning to explore together. I verbalized what I saw in my head as she directed the emotion of the future into me. We were exhausted and fell to sleep as the sun rose behind the thickness of low clouds burdened with snow. I called in sick to the lab the next morning in order to stay at home with Achim.

We learned, over time, that we were not seeing a predetermined future, but a potential of what could unfold given all the avenues. Minuscule changes each step of the way gave birth to myriad futures, some of which ended with the extermination of the human race in a matter of months, others in years. The difference between the two extremes grew from subtle nuances in what we did now and in the next few weeks.

I grew afraid to return to the lab, to push in any direction at all. I felt paralyzed by the overwhelming weight of each direction I could take. Too many options to remember, too many to manage in our heads. To compensate, we incorporated my laptop to record the sessions, using interactive diagrams to capture the complex array of future trees. When the calls came in from the lab, concern for my extended absence, I stated I was working from home. I was making progress but needed more time. Achim was fired from the café.

When seldom left our neighborhood, food delivered two or three times a day. We went for walks in the fresh snow, watched movies, took hot baths, and made love when we realized we were not making progress. Yet, there was a sense of limited time that grew in our hearts and heads. The future was approaching the present too quickly.

Sometimes Achim grew frustrated with me as my lack of focus would cause her emotions to spiral out of control. She would curl into the pillows and weep until the strength of what she experienced had passed. Gradually we learned, together, to pause and jump between fragments of her emotions by way of the images in my head. Together, we formed a vehicle which traveled through time, a union more powerful than any I had ever imagined.

Finally, after nearly three weeks, we envisioned a future in which the human race survived. We then went back to the present, fine-tuning the variables of my experiments and the deployment strategy in order to bring the survival rate to a maximum. However, no matter what paths we took, what choices we made, the cure saved most, but not all, for it killed many of those who were carriers that did not show signs.

It was a conundrum that we could not find a way through. We tried, day after day, night after night, to find a solution in which everyone yet alive survived. It seemed impossible.

Toward the end of a late night session both of us seated on the floor. I had just pressed record on the laptop, closed my eyes, and held Achim’s hands. A few seconds later, when the images began to flow, Achim threw back my hands and screamed, “No! Not them! Please, not them!”

“What happened Achim?”

“I, I could see them, my brothers, ” she looked at the floor, “They will die.”

“I thought you only felt emotion? What do you mean you could see them? Are you certain?”

She was standing then, pacing the room, tears falling from her eyes, “My father, he can’t take more loss. Oh no, he will die also. Why? It’s not fair!”

“How do you know it was them? I didn’t see this? Maybe you were mistaken!”

She raised her voice at me for the first time since we had met, “BECAUSE I KNOW!”

She ran to the living room, to the hallway and then outside into the snow without a jacket or proper shoes. I saw her run down the sidewalk from my second story bay window, her footprints receiving fresh white flakes. I quickly put on my boots, coat, and hat and ran after her, my feel sliding with each footfall. I nearly lost my balance a few times but managed to catch her at the end of the block.

“Please, Achim, come back. It’s too cold out here.” I gave her my coat and held her, wrapping my arms around her torso and head. Achim wept, her body shaking. She lost the strength in her legs and I kept her from falling.

“Please, let’s go home.” And we did.

The Lab
I returned to the lab the next day but was reluctant to go without Achim, fearful of her being alone. I asked if she would come with me, and she did. For the next month we were inseparable, our combined work giving way to incredible progress in my research. I was able to make breakthrough discoveries, learning how the virus disrupted cellular respiration; how it caused the sudden collapse of several major organs at once.

My co-workers were concerned by Achim’s presence at first, but when the speed at which the lab made progress was realized, no one said a word. The world was like that then, we just accepted things for how they were. Achim sat by my side, holding my hand so that I could see if newly developed strains of antigens were the ones that would take us down the best path, each as clear to me as though it were presented on my computer screen. The lab hired two new technicians to keep up with the volume of virtual models I produced, giving them form in the wet lab where they were tested against artificially grown human organs.

Achim was still affected by the vision of her brothers’ deaths, but she never talked about it and I never asked. Inside, I held hope that we would find another way, a different path. It had been four months since Achim first moved in with me. We had worked together in the lab for more than three. She was as much a part of me as I was of her and our work together. The lab had come to accept her as one of them. No one asked what part she played, they only knew that with her at my side, were getting closer to a cure each day.

The lead lab technician came into the lab one late February evening. “We’ve got it,” he said with tears in his eyes, “We’ve got a solid candidate for the cure. It blocks the pathogen’s primary disruptive function and …”

I didn’t hear the rest as Achim stood and ran from the room.

I looked at him and then after her, jumped up and followed her out of my office and down the hall. I caught up with her and grabbed her arm, spinning her around more aggressively than I had intended.

“What?! What’s wrong?”

“My brothers. Now they will die.”

“No, it doesn’t have to be that way,” I tried to pull her close but she pushed me away, “We can keep looking to the future. We can find a path that leads to different end. We have learned so much together.”

“No, it cannot be that way. You know this to be true. If this is the cure, the real cure, the one that saves the humans that remain, then you must deploy it immediately. You cannot risk thousands more dying every day to try to find a potential future in which my brothers and others in the minority live,” she paused to look at her hands which she took from mine and pushed them into her pockets, “I will not allow you.”

The government regulatory agency was quick to process the solution we devised. It would be only a matter of weeks before the anti-viral agent would be deployed world-wide, to every human yet alive. We could not risk the potential of a carrier playing host to a dormant or resistant strain which might mutate after delivery, forcing us back to the lab for another few months, even years.

The End
Achim invited her twin brothers and father to come live with us for what time they had remaining. Those were wonderful, long days filled with laughter, joy, and play. Achim never let on to what she knew about them, that they would die from the same vaccine which would save the majority of the human race. It was not their fault they carried a genetic trait which would we would only later isolate–they would die from the same cure which saved the rest of humanity.

The vaccine was deployed and worked as intended, the pathogen which had reduced the population of our species by nearly eighty percent in less than ten years had been brought to its end. Achim’s brothers were dead. Her father died shortly thereafter, the strain of so much loss too much for him to bear. Achim was alone, all family but me gone.

I left the lab for the public’s attention to my work was international and polarized in a way I had never conceived for I was heralded both as a hero and a murderer. Achim and I moved to a small, seaside town in which we shared no prior memories, starting again in a life which was new. For the longest time, for what must have been more than a year, we did not hold hands. I didn’t ask and she did not offer, the fear of what she might feel and I might see too much for either of us to bear.

When later that year she gave birth to our two boys, she reached out and for the first time since we had developed the cure, held my hand, saying, “It’s ok now, the future is no longer mine. We are free.”

Achim’s story then became the story of our twins.

By Kai Staats|2017-04-10T11:17:42-04:00October 8th, 2011|Dreams|1 Comment

Running Away from Home

One.
My first attempt at running away from home was in my mid-teens. I had just acquired my first backpack, camp stove, and sleeping bag, second-hand for sixty dollars from a man in Columbus, Nebraska where my family then lived.

The very first time I put it on I remember the sensation of autonomy, of having everything I needed to live resting on my back. It was as freeing and invigorating as taking my first road trip to Prescott and Flagstaff a number of years later, once we had moved to Phoenix.

I do not recall if I was upset with my parents (or if they were upset with me), but I do recall putting everything I needed for a few days into my Coleman external frame pack. I believe I wore camouflage sweatpants, a large red hoodie, and hi-top shoes.

My intent was just to walk north, out of town and into the country side, returning in a few days … or never. I walked from downtown Columbus a few blocks past the high school, zig-zagging north and west through residential neighborhoods, north and west until I hit the road which passed the man-made lake whose bottom was thick with brown algae ooze that squeezed between swimmer’s toes. The Columbus High track team called the loop bounded by this road on the west and one that ran along the hill top to the north the “Big Beer Can”, some half dozen or eight miles in all, if I recall correctly.

I walked along the road into the afternoon. Cars passed in both directions, passenger faces pressed to the windows wondering who I was and where I was going. Nebraska was simply not the place where a teenage boy was likely to be seen walking with a backpack, bound for farmers’ fields. It was likely to cause a stir. I recall the weight of the stares, part of me wanting to turn back for fear I would be recognized and my parents called by a concerned neighbor. But inside, a confidence grew which set me in motion a lifetime of exploration of the world, more often than not, alone.

I didn’t even stay overnight, let alone vanish for a few days, my upbringing invoking too much guilt for sleeping on private land, the fear not of being caught but of bringing shame on the same family which I had left just hours earlier. I walked back home that same day. It didn’t matter that I didn’t leave for good for I had not failed. Instead I gained confidence that I would be ok no matter where I went, no matter how I traveled. A backpack was all I needed and everything would be ok. I began to dream of traveling to places I had never been.

Two.
The second time I ran away from home was in 2004. I had worked for two years straight, never a day in which I did not check email or log on to the Internet. I had nearly died inside, the joy of entrepreneurship gone. I had no option but to leave or I was likely to lose all of me. I asked my office manager and friend Amanda if I could just be gone for a while. She encouraged me. I drove to Mexico where I spent two weeks with a friend and then flew to Cuba without cell phone, laptop, or credit card. I lived with a host family who provided food, friendship, and a sharp machete which I used to cut trails to the caves and cliffs. It was one of the most memorable times in my life, to just be a climber, each day shared with other climbers who owned next to nothing but made time to smile, sing, and dance. I made life-long friends whom I missed so dearly that I returned a month later for another two weeks. That was an incredible, rejuvenating journey which will some day invoke a full telling … but again, I came home.

Three.
A little more than two weeks ago I ran away from home again. This time for good. My house is on the market, thirteen years of love, labor, and vision for how a one hundred year old house could be made energy efficient now a gift to the next owner.

In seventeen years the longest I remained in Colorado was, I believe, no more than ninety days. Now that I am free I think of nothing but finding a place to settle down, a safe space to just stop for a while and be. Despite my car packed to the roof with books, clothing, camera, climbing, biking and camping gear, the backpack is nearly empty, the intangibles all but let go. It was the breath of ghosts which blew me away, north and west again, this time across state and country lines.

One thousand five hundred miles later I arrived in Squamish at 10:30 am on a Sunday morning. Beneath the campground sign was another written in marker on cardboard, “FREE 6 MAN TENT. WET BUT IN GOOD CONDITION!” I set it up and moved in, my nylon condominium in the forest of British Columbia. As with the first time I drove through Canada en route to Denali National Park for a ten day solo back packing trip in the early nineties, I have been met by sincerely warm, genuine smiles and desire to know how I am doing.

This town of just fifteen thousand offers the diversity of a city with ten or twenty times its population. Sixty percent of its residents are under the age of forty, a completely new Squamish than two decades ago when the saw and pulp mills provided the majority of the jobs. I see the same people two, sometimes three times a day: yoga class in the morning, the cafe in the afternoon, and the brewery at night.

I have yet to go a day without hearing three or four languages spoken or met people from any one of a dozen countries. I have climbed with visitors from Norway, Mexico, Czech Republic, Alaska (which truly should be a country of its own), and enjoyed breakfast and dinner at the camp ground with people from all over Canada. This morning I spoke with a man in his late seventies who could trace his family heritage 350 years to some of the first Dutch settlers in South Africa, his sense of pride conveyed in his proud stand and hazel eyes–not of the travesty of conflict his people inflicted, but of the steadfast heritage in one place that he does represent.

I met the Vice Commodore of the marina and gained from the experience of the Squamish Yacht Club, my interest expressed in purchasing a boat on which to live, to sail the world. A little more than fifteen thousand people and yet there are three yoga studios, a weekly farmers’ market and community organic farm; a music school, Indian, Chinese, and Japanese restaurants in addition to the usual McDonalds and Wendys. The Home Depot, Walmart, five-plex movie theater, several sporting goods stores, and three large groceries cater to the home of the 2010 Winter Olympics Whistler just up the hill.

An ocean harbor, estuary hikes, world class mountain biking, bouldering, massive multi-pitch granite routes, and water sports within a walk of downtown. Snow capped peaks are visible from the community rec center hot tub, the indoor pool offering a diving board, ladder swing, climbing contraption suspended from the ceiling, and an arsenal of foam boats for kids to wrestle with and overtake. What more could you ask for? It feels like it could be home, some day.

For now, I am both running away from and at the same time seeking home.
But this time the place I seek is a space inside of me.

By Kai Staats|2017-04-10T11:17:42-04:00October 4th, 2011|From the Road|1 Comment

Looking Up

Northern Colorado Business Report
“Astronomy keeps amateurs, pros looking up”
By Kai Staats
9 September 2011

When I was in my final year of high school and first two years of college I presided over the Phoenix Astronomical Society. In those years I was privileged to meet Eugene Shoemaker and David Levy, co-discoverers of the Shoemaker-Levy comet which later plunged into the atmosphere of Jupiter.

Now more than twenty years later, Gene has passed away, his ashes scattered on the surface of the moon while David and I had long ago lost contact. This summer, I dove headfirst into a documentary film project about astronomers and astrophysicists, my desire to capture their motivation to ask where did we come from, and why? A passion for knowledge expressed through looking up.

The second day of August I joined David, his wife Wendee, and three dozen amateur astronomers at the annual Adirondack Astronomy Retreat, hosted by SUNY in the mountains of upstate New York. It was a long overdue reunion with David and a wonderful learning experience for me, having been away from amateur astronomy for far too long.

In the process of working on my film and my return to astronomy, I came to appreciate two aspects which are both compelling and complimentary to each other. Astronomy, more than any other science, offers an accessible, functional bridge between amateurs and professionals, a gateway for the next generation to be compelled to learn.

Amateur astronomy enables anyone with some experience, patience, and a little luck to happen upon an event in the night sky which aids the professional community. While professional astronomers have at their disposal more advanced telescopes, the amount of time they have with them is limited by a long cue of researchers around the world. Furthermore, professional astronomers and professors often visit local astronomy club meetings to share their latest findings, young astronomers, as I once was, are inspired by direct interaction with professional scientists.

The sheer number of amateur astronomers world-wide is astounding, literally thousands of scopes peering into the sky every night. This makes for a world-wide network of data collection devices, some manually operated, some automated through computer driven tracking systems. What’s more, the opportunity for a budding astronomer to capture his or her first photograph of a colorful nebulae or the bands and moons of Jupiter is literally at their fingertips.

For the years I have been away from astronomy the industry has changed. Certainly, motor drives and tracking systems were in use, but we found our way around the night sky using hand held maps, large, many-page star charts printed in black and white. Now, micro-computers, stepper motors, and laptops attached by USB cables enable anyone with curiosity to engage in the oldest science of humankind.

As with the discussion around GPS versus topographical maps, one can argue that to know only how to use GPS units in the wilderness is a tremendous risk, for the batteries may die, or the lost in a creek. With aviation too, pilots are trained in the original, non-electronic means of navigation before working with on-board GPS and radar guidance.

There is part of me that says the same should be true with astronomy, learn it the hard way so that it becomes ingrained and a part of you. But when I consider the excitement of a child viewing the rings of Saturn for the first time, their mouth and eyes open wide, “Wow! Did you see that? Come look!” There is no right or wrong way to open the door to a lifelong passion for learning.

If in our instant gratification world a child can be turned on to the sciences, then by any means possible, point, click, and be thrilled. If they stick with it long enough, they will eventually know their way around the night sky and be able to tell their friends, “Right there, see that fuzzy thing? It’s a galaxy that if we could see it with our naked eye would be six times larger than the moon!”

While I am now just a bit over forty, I was a kid again for those three nights, staying awake ’till 4:30 AM, barely making it to breakfast hours after dawn. I was the recipient of patient assistance for astronomers are a generous lot, each generation offering something to the next. I spent an entire night taking my first photographs of Jupiter and M27, the Dumbbell nebulae, my new Canon 60D DSLR attached directly to a 13” Meade scope. Ah! The clarity, the color—it was amazing!

Even without assistance, someone new to astronomy can attach a USB cable to a relatively inexpensive telescope, train it on the North Star, and see on-screen a map of what lies overhead while the scope automagically moves to any object chosen by the mouse. Photographs can be logged, archived, and correlated to the map, an interactive show-n-tell.

With astronomy, every night is an adventure, an exploration of some one hundred billion stars, nebulae, and gaseous birthing chambers for the next generation of solar engines, pulsars, super novae, and black holes. The mind has no choice but to open when one looks through a telescope, to look up and ask, “Why?”

By Kai Staats|2017-10-21T16:51:35-04:00September 10th, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments

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

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