Green Snow Play

The sport of downhill skiing is right up there with polo. It reeks of entitlement. And though I snowboard and would like to pretend that that's different somehow, it demands the spending of just as much disposable income as its two-bladed predecessor.

Every trip to the mountain has its moments of unease as I wrestle with these facts. The attendant at the nearby Loaf 'N' Jug may never have skied in his life. The workers at the resort cafeteria are all Brazilians or Romanians, jumping at the opportunity to secure a temporary work visa so they can earn $10 an hour flipping overpriced burgers for the yuppie crowd.

And then there are the obvious environmental impacts. Lift motors humming, snowmakers sucking up water, expansive parking lots full of SUVs stretching out before sprawling alpine "villages."

Ironically, though, there's a new trend here. Over the past couple years, I've noticed that many mountains have put up signs saying their lifts are "100% wind-powered," and that their facilities are employing waste water systems and recycled materials.

Is this just an attempt to follow the current of the yuppie market? After all, what's hipper than going green? Think about it a minute, though, and the basic reason becomes obvious: global warming. Of all the world's industries, the ski resort has perhaps the most to lose from a climate in which warmer, shorter winters are the norm. Establishing greener practices isn't just an exercise in rebranding, but rather a somewhat half-hearted attempt to bolster its survival.

Oh well, though there may be self-preservation at work here, the ends justify the means, I guess. But what exactly are those ends? In trying to figure this out, I found a nifty little organization called the Ski Area Citizens' Coalition. Its website rates a number of the American West's ski mountains on a variety of green criteria, such as preservation of environmentally sensitive land and species, use of renewable energy, and commitment to sound environmental policy positions, and ranks each according to a holistic grade.

I was a little distressed on reviewing the "Top Ten" areas (none of which I've skied) and the "Worst Ten" areas (of which I've skied three: Copper, Breckenridge, and Crested Butte). However, my mood improved when I found that the mountain I've frequented for over 20 years (Monarch) and the mountain I most recently visited and loved (Wolf Creek) both scored almost well enough to make the Top Ten list. (Unfortunately, the site has yet to include resorts in the Northeast, although Fast Company.com lists Killington, VT, as the 8th greenest in the world.)

Another thing I learned was that all those signs declaring lifts to be wind-powered (including the ones at Copper, uh-hmm), are a little misleading. The lifts themselves, at least those at the resorts I looked at, are not powered by wind energy. Instead, the resorts purchase energy credits from wind farms in other areas of the country to offset the energy used to run the lifts. A half-truth, but better than nothing, I suppose.

In the end, skiing's green trend does little to diminish the aristocratic image the sport conjures in my mind. That said, I'm eagerly looking forward to getting in a few more days on the slopes this season. And I've added Aspen, Buttermilk, and Park City to my must-ski list.

The Poles of Cold

The snow keeps falling here in Portland. We're getting into that time of winter now where the cold, dark days start to take their toll. Families head down to Florida in droves in February and March for a desperate seasonal respite.

As a Texan, I sometimes wonder if people were meant to live in an environment where the outdoors is in many ways inaccessible for much of the year. Wouldn't it be simpler not to have to worry about freezing to death? And of course, on a global scale, Maine is actually rather temperate. What must it be like to live somewhere really cold?

Enter the Poles of Cold. These are the locations in the Northern and Southern hemispheres where the coldest known temperatures have been recorded. Not surprisingly, the Southern point is in Antarctica, where a temperature of -129.8 degrees Fahrenheit was measured. But no one actually lives in Antarctica as the ordinary person lives.

In the Northern hemisphere, though, the Pole of Cold lies in northeastern Siberia, and two villages there claim to be the coldest inhabited in the world. Both Verkhoyansk and Oymyakon have registered temperatures near -90 Fahrenheit.

I have trouble imagining what it must be like to call these places home. Oymyakon, for example, is located in a river valley between two mountain ranges, so the cold gathers and remains there for most of the year. And at Verkhoyansk's latitude (pretty much in line with the Arctic Circle), the sun never rises on the winter solstice.

On top of the brutal conditions, there's the chilling history of the region as well. During the first decades of Soviet control, it was rife with gulags where prisoners, many convicted, or merely accused, of minor or political crimes, were forced to work the mines and lay roads and rail lines to propel the country's industrialization. It goes without saying that these camps had an appalling mortality rate. And, when the gulag system was dissolved in the 1950s, where did they go? Were they able to return to their former lives in the relative warmth of southern and western Russia? Or did they stay and put down roots through the permafrost at the Pole of Cold?

Surely there are those who enjoy the frigid life. Supposedly, when the temperature drops below -50F, atmospheric ice crystals produce a crinkling sound known as the "whispering of the stars." Fogged breath hangs as static mist in the air, and the sky's color becomes more vivid.

For me, though, the Maine winter is enough. From my computer spot I can look out the window onto a snowy patch of city and be thankful that the radiators are hissing and popping again inside. And after writing this post, the day doesn't even seem so cold.

Thunderbirds

There was thunder last night.

There was a lot, actually, considering that it almost never thunders in winter. I saw the first flash of lightning through my closed eyes as I tried to sleep, and it popped them open. Skeptical about the source of the light, I waited...and listened. There it was, an unmistakable rumble. I counted maybe eight of these before I drifted off.

Of course, it was also raining last night. The weighty snow that began in the afternoon turned to sleet in the evening, coating all the cars in the parking lot with thick ice. The rain started later and turned the world to slush. With drops smattering the windows, it almost felt natural to hear the thunder rolling in.

I'll never forget the only other time I heard thunder in winter. It was mid-December in Vermont, the night before I was to leave the state for good. The second snowstorm of the week, both some of the heaviest on record, was just letting up. Everything was quiet, as it is under such a thick snow blanket, and I lay in bed staring out the window, too wound up to sleep.

There was a sudden flicker, and the sky turned purple. I remember everything purple, the dark clouds faintly glowing from the hazy city night light, the plump sheet of snow on the neighbor's roof, the lazy flakes still in the air, right through to the sheer curtains in my room and the white shag carpet. A quick moment of purple and then, low and soft, the echoes of distant thunder. It happened once more, and that was all. Only two, and soft, but that was my favorite thunder.

Something in that roar makes you feel its power. It's like a jet engine, or an avalanche, but those things are visible, comprehensible. You can look at them and see their boundaries. Thunder is elusive power. And because it's intangible, it becomes even more powerful.

Native Americans in northern North America ascribed boundaries to the thunder of the spring and summer storms. They noticed that the commencement of thunderstorms in the spring coincided with the return of migratory birds from the south. This gave rise to the mythical Thunderbird, a giant creature whose wing beats produced the deafening roar.

Though perhaps more tangible, Thunderbirds retain immense power. Whenever I hear thunder, I can't help but picture a flock of them cutting through the sky. Perhaps last night there was just one, lost in the winter storm, beating its giant wings hard to get home.

Whippin' through the West

As my National Parks Pass is set to expire in about a month, I thought it would be fun to revisit the parks I toured out West last winter. I was taking a long detour on my drive home from Colorado to San Antonio, TX, but I didn't have time enough for any in-depth explorations of these magnificent places. Hopefully my travels will take me back to the parks in the future so I can do them justice.

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First was Black Canyon of the Gunnison, about 15 miles northeast of Montrose, CO. Approaching from the east on Highway 50, you can see the canyon start to grow at the western end of the Blue Mesa Reservoir. Much of the park was closed off, still covered in snow, so I only spent a couple hours sampling the scenic overlooks accessible from the main road.

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Heading into Utah, the next stop was Arches National Park. I actually was able to hike some short trails through this area's incredible landscape. I plan to return to see the rest and to take advantage of the cool little town of Moab, which is brimming with outdoor adventure activities just south of the park.

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There's only one word to describe Zion National Park in southwest Utah: dramatic. In truth, I only wandered into the park accidentally after making a wrong turn. But what a great mistake that was. It was early morning, so the sun was casting spectacular shadows on the massive colored rock formations. Though car-bound, I found the steep, winding roads to be thrilling.

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Of course, I couldn't make this tour without stopping at the Grand Canyon. Wonderfully desolate Highway 89 from Zion into Arizona whetted my appetite, and the canyon itself certainly didn't disappoint. I wanted to hit Flagstaff before dark, so I didn't take the time to do more than drive the park's Southern Rim Road and stop at the crowded overlooks. Still, very impressive.

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Northern Arizona surprised me with all its short, stubby pine trees, cool temperatures, and lingering snow. However, after a series of crazy descending switchbacks on Highway 89 south of Flagstaff, the landscape magically changed into the hot desert you tend to associate with the state. The touristy town of Sedona and its orange-rock backdrop were there to greet me.

The final stop on my whirlwind tour was White Sands National Monument, 50 miles northeast of Las Cruces, NM. Though less impressive than the national parks, the area's terrain was quite unique, and I got a kick out of watching all the kids sliding down the white dunes on sleds. The surrounding White Sands Missile Range injected a bit of adrenaline into the visit.

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I've always felt an affinity for the American West, and this trip only heightened it. I'll be back.

Portrait of a Dish

Since resettling in the U.S., I've had plenty of opportunity to pine after fragments of the cultures I've left behind. I regularly yearn for things Korean, having made my home in Seoul for a solid 20 months. Just flipping through the Lonely Planet guidebook today while doing some research for an upcoming article brought it all back--the scents of fish and fermentation permeating the tight alleys, the crush of bodies and designer clothes in Gangnam, the neural connections firing in my brain as I struggle to interpret Hangeul.

And now the experience of living in a foreign and wonderful country has ended, impossible to recreate. Instead, I find myself condensing that tapestry of emotions into a handful of tangible items. There's the faded subway map tacked to my bedroom wall, the ceramic figurine I bought at the gift shop of the Buddhist temple. And there's the kimch'i jjigae.

The first point of Korean cuisine anyone learns is kimch'i, that peculiar, pungent concoction of pickled cabbage and hot pepper paste. Of all the dishes I've eaten in my life, kimch'i stands alone, unique, comparable to nothing else. Perhaps that's why, no matter how much aversion you experience on first sampling the cold, soggy, fiery vegetable medley, addiction inevitably sets in.

Served with every meal, kimch'i in many senses is the dominant flavor of Korean cooking. Case in point, kimch'i jjigae--"kimch'i stew." When made well, this dish is an explosion of sweet, spicy tang that will leave you with burnt lips and a runny nose.

I've come across many styles, but the foundation for all is, of course, kimch'i. The older and more fermented the better, as it will have a stronger taste and make the broth more flavorful. Green onion, yellow onion, zuccini, peppers, garlic, and ginger are also staples. Most contain slices of fatty pork as wells as chunks of soft tofu, while some variations substitute shellfish for the pork. The jjigae is served, still boiling, in a hot stone pot, accompanied by a small bowl of white rice. Really, there's nothing finer.

Oddly enough, one of the best kimch'i jjigaes I've tasted was found at the Four Seasons restaurant in Ithaca, NY. Chance encounters such as this are now my only links back to my savory, unforgettable life in Korea. I'm constantly on the lookout.

**photos by Aya Padron**

Buy Cambodian

When I'm on the stationary bike at the gym, I like to listen to the podcast of NPR's This American Life. A recent episode titled "David and Goliath" discussed the textile industry in Cambodia.

Now, the stereotypical image this topic conjures in one's mind (or at least my mind) is of sweatshops, child labor, hazardous working conditions. In fact, I own a sweater with the "Made in Cambodia" label, and ever since I bought it I've felt guilty for doing so. But not any more.

It turns out that Cambodia's garment industry, the country's largest and creator of the vast majority of its exports, is among the most progressive in the developing world when it comes to workers' rights. We're talking more than a month paid vacation, three months maternity leave, outlawed child labor...the list goes on. Having traveled to Cambodia and seen the living conditions of most of the people there, this strikes me as nothing short of miraculous.

From what I can gather, the success of the garment sector in Cambodia, both in terms of output and ethics, can be linked to two trade deals. First is the Mutli Fibre Agreement, established in 1974 to place quotas on the amount of textile exports developing countries could send to the developed world. While this hurt manufacturing powerhouses like China, the effect on smaller, poorer nations was beneficial. For example, because the U.S. could no longer look to just one or two Chinas for its cheap textile imports, it had to branch out and start importing from the Cambodias of the world. In other words, by limiting the output of larger developing nations, the MFA opened the door to increased output from smaller ones.

Second, in 1999, the U.S. enacted a bilateral trade deal with Cambodia that gave that country's garment producers greater access to U.S. markets in return for labor reforms. Amazingly, these groundbreaking reforms actually stuck, and as a result, big-name retailers such as Gap and Levi's started contracting with the new worker-friendly Cambodian factories in order to enhance their reputations among conscientious consumers.

So it sounds like an uplifting story, right? One of the few to come out of a struggling developing nation's manufacturing sector. Well, bridle that optimism. The MFA expired at the beginning of 2005, setting the stage for China to begin out-competing most other Asian garment producers. But even more ominous for Cambodia, the special access deals it's enjoyed with the U.S. are also in the process of expiring.

Without these trade protections, the future is grim for Cambodia's garment industry and its unique labor conditions. All materials used in the production of clothing, from fabric to buttons to zippers, are imported from other countries. This, combined with the higher costs of maintaining ethical labor standards, puts Cambodian manufacturers at a severe disadvantage compared to those of other developing nations. Their hope is that consumer gravitation toward fair-labor practices will continue to increase, and that other major retailers will turn to Cambodia for this reason. The alternative, the collapse of this vulnerable country's biggest industry, would be disastrous.

So needless to say, after hearing this piece, I have a strong urge to give away all my clothes and head to the Gap to replace everything with Cambodian-made, albeit overpriced, apparel. Not to mention I'm feeling a lot better about that sweater. Thanks, Ira Glass.