China drives global solar and coal alike FacebookTwitterLinkedInEmailPrint分享South China Morning Post:Chinese equity investment in solar, wind and coal power projects in Belt and Road Initiative countries surged from 2014 to 2019, with planned capacity up more than tenfold compared with the previous five-year period, environmental group Greenpeace has said.The Belt and Road Initiative is a Beijing strategy to boost economic and trade ties in dozens of countries in Asia, Europe and beyond, mostly through investments in energy and infrastructure.According to a study published by Greenpeace on Monday, China’s wind and solar power investments in belt and road countries amounted to 12.6 gigawatts since the initiative was launched in 2014. It had invested in just 0.45GW of solar before 2014.The country has also invested in 67.9GW of new coal-fired power in belt and road countries since 2014, but Greenpeace climate and energy campaigner Liu Junyan said the increase in the share of renewables should be welcomed.More: Chinese renewable energy investment abroad soars – but coal still dominant
FacebookTwitterLinkedInEmailPrint分享Reuters:The Netherlands’ biggest pension fund, ABP, said on Monday it aims to reduce the carbon footprint of its asset portfolio by 40% from 2015 levels by 2025.ABP, which already set a target to cut the carbon footprint of its assets by 25% from 2015 levels by this year, follows moves by other leading funds – notably Norway’s $1.1 trillion sovereign wealth fund – to divest heavy polluting energy companies from its portfolio.ABP manages 465 billion euros ($515 billion) in assets for civil servants. Under its new target, it said it aims to invest $5 billion in “sustainable and affordable energy” companies over the next five years, adding to $10 billion already invested in such companies.It plans to exit coal and tar sands investments, with some exceptions, by 2030, it said.Peter Branner, chief investment officer at APG, the fund’s pension manager, puts companies into three ethical categories: those that it excludes completely from its portfolio – such as nuclear weapons makers and tobacco companies; those that make a positive contribution to society, which it seeks to own more of; and a third category he termed “laggards” that have room to improve and which include the Netherlands’ biggest company Royal Dutch Shell.He said Shell’s recent profit performance had been disappointing compared to that of Denmark’s Ørsted, which has become the world’s largest offshore wind energy producer over the past decade.[Anthony Deutsch and Toby Sterling]More: Netherlands’ $515 billion pension fund to accelerate cuts to fossil fuel investments Netherlands’ largest pension fund to boost sustainable investment, divest coal by 2030
FacebookTwitterLinkedInEmailPrint分享S&P Global Market Intelligence ($):Ørsted A/S, the world’s largest wind farm developer, is sticking to its growth strategy and financial guidance amid the coronavirus pandemic and said it could even eke out an advantage as others in the market step on the brakes.While the Danish utility has put into place cautionary measures to help buffer the impact of the crisis, including increasing its provisions and conducting wide-ranging risk assessments on new projects, executives said the company’s EBITDA guidance range for 2020 of between 16 billion kroner and 17 billion kroner will remain intact, and its appetite for building new projects will stay strong.“We believe financially robust companies that maintain a long-term view on the market are likely to find additional opportunities in the wake of the current crisis,” CEO Henrik Poulsen said April 29 on the company’s first-quarter earnings call.Ørsted saw substantial earnings growth during the first quarter, largely powered by strong wind resources. “We are in a much less vulnerable position than many other sectors that regrettably are deeply impacted by this crisis,” Poulsen said. “However, the impact of COVID-19 will have material ripple effects throughout all economies and sectors. And you can rest assured that we will not be complacent about its potential impact on Ørsted.”In the short term, however, several Ørsted projects risk construction delays due to supply chain disruption, specifically because tools were laid down at a shipyard in Singapore that was building substations for the Hornsea 2 and Greater Changhua offshore wind farms. Deliveries of solar panels for the Permian Energy solar project in the U.S. are also delayed, Poulsen said.Despite this, Ørsted’s appetite for taking new projects remains strong. “We are still looking into a very significant number of auctions and tenders in 2020 and 2021 as most countries and states stick to the original timeline despite the COVID-19 situation,” Poulsen said.[Camilla Naschert]More ($): Ørsted doubles down on growth ambitions as others retreat due to COVID-19 Ørsted, world’s largest wind developer, sees growth opportunities in current market upheaval
Researchers have found no direct links between diet sodas and specific human health problems. Initial reports that implicated aspartame, widely use to sweeten diet sodas, in a wide range of human health problems including cancer turned out to be false — though certainly much healthier beverage choices abound. Photo: Jules Rayes, courtesy FlickrDear EarthTalk: I drink diet soda but I’m told it’s bad for me and linked to health problems. Is this true and if so can you suggest any healthier alternatives?— Mitchell James, Ronkonkoma, NYWhile rumors have circulated for years that diet sodas are unhealthy, researchers have found no direct links between such drinks and specific human health problems. Aspartame (also known as NutraSweet) is the sugar-alternative of choice for most diet soda makers. It’s 180 times sweeter than sugar but contains no significant calories and does not promote tooth decay. The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) first approved aspartame in 1974, though health advocates held up its widespread use for over a decade.Over half of Americans consume aspartame regularly in soda and other foods—all told, diet varieties accounted for some 29 percent of the soft drink market for the top 10 sodas in 2010, according to Beverage Digest—so it is certainly reasonable to be concerned about any potential health effects. However, initial reports that implicated aspartame in seizures, headaches, depression, anxiety, memory loss, birth defects, multiple sclerosis, systemic lupus, methanol toxicity and even cancer turned out to be false (even a hoax), according to a wide range of reputable, peer-reviewed studies and clinical and epidemiological research.Another concern that has been voiced about aspartame is that it produces methanol when metabolized, which converts to formaldehyde (and then formic acid) in the body. But studies have shown that the amount of methanol in aspartame is less than that found in natural sources such as fruit juices, citrus fruits and some fermented beverages, and that the amount of formaldehyde generated is also small compared to that produced routinely by the body from other foods and drugs.While aspartame and diet sodas have not been linked directly to specific health problems, researchers who surveyed the eating, drinking, smoking and exercise habits of some 2,500 New Yorkers between 2003 and 2010 did find that those who drank at least one diet soda per day had a 61 percent higher risk of so-called vascular events (e.g. heart attack or stroke) than those who avoided Diet Coke and other products with aspartame. “If our results are confirmed with future studies, then it would suggest that diet soda may not be the optimal substitute for sugar-sweetened beverages for protection against vascular outcomes,” reported the study’s lead author, Hannah Gardener of the University of Miami School of Medicine.But others say that such a finding constitutes a link, not proof of cause and effect—and that those who have switched to diet sodas may be replacing the calories they used to get from regular sodas with other unhealthy foods that may be increasing their risk of heart attack or stroke.The takeaway should be that those who drink soda regularly, diet or otherwise, should be sure to exercise and eat right otherwise. Or, better yet…give up the soda entirely. According to Katherine Zeratsky, a nutritionist with the Mayo Clinic, healthier choices abound. She suggests starting off the day with a glass of 100 percent fruit juice and then drinking skim milk with meals. “Sip water throughout the day,” she recommends. “For variety, try sparkling water or add a squirt of lemon or cranberry juice to your water.”CONTACTS: “Miller School Researchers Link Diet Soda and Salt to Cardiovascular Risk,”EarthTalk® is written and edited by Roddy Scheer and Doug Moss and is a registered trademark of E – The Environmental Magazine (www.emagazine.com). Send questions to: email@example.com. Subscribe: www.emagazine.com/subscribe. Free Trial Issue: www.emagazine.com/trial.
Dear Mountain Mama, I don’t have time to work out. I’m in my early twenties and work full time. After work, there are bills to pay, friends to see, and dinner to prepare. I know you’re a single mom. How do you find the time to work out?Yours,Busy Bee————————————————————-Dear Busy Bee,Between attending to all the to-do’s on our lists, inevitably something goes undone. Let it be no secret that the last thing on a to-do list never gets crossed out. If you want to work out, put it right up there on top after brushing your teeth.My own realty is that sometimes I arrive at the put-in with a messy car, with diapers and baby toys strewn all over the seats. Sometimes I leave for a run sans socks, because I had exactly 35 minutes to squeeze in a run and I couldn’t locate a pair without wasting too many valuable minutes.Last week I went for a 38-mile ride on my road bike. One of the other members of the blonde brigade asked, “What are you, a freakin’ camel? What’s the deal with only one water bottle?”“That’s all I could find,” I said, “I had 10 minutes before getting home from work and meeting you. I’m a wreck most of the time, no bike jersey, no snacks, no extra water. But I promise that I’ll never complain about it.”Forget about perfect. Nobody cares if you hair isn’t brushed. If you forget a snack or sunscreen, somebody is bound to share. Just remember to put good karma out there, and when you do remember, bring extra and give freely. Own your forgetfulness and your stress. When we allow ourselves to be real, those around us in turn feel comfortable being themselves.Practice reaching and letting go in equal measure. Every day, try to fit a work out into some corner of your day. On the days where you can spend a whole day paddling or hiking or riding, fantastic! But the days when you run for 20 minutes or squeeze in a yoga routine on the mat in your living room are equally important to staying fit. And when you find that you just can’t manage to exercise at all, let go of the guilt, let go of the expectation.Sweet Busy Bee, nobody should expect you to perfect, least of all you. Get out there and sweat!Best,Mountain Mama
West Virginia is celebrating its 150th anniversary as a state in 2013, and local conservationists are hoping to cap the sesquicentennial with a massive land protection bill. A coalition of organizations has proposed the creation of the Birthplace of Rivers National Monument, which would protect 123,000 acres of the southern Monongahela National Forest near Lewisburg. The swath of land includes the headwaters of six rivers (the Cranberry, Williams, Cherry, Greenbrier, Gauley, and Elk), as well as the the 48,000-acre Cranberry Wilderness, one of the wildest tracts of land in the South. Surrounding the Cranberry are the Cranberry Backcountry Area, Tea Creek Backcountry Area, and Turkey Mountain Backcountry, all of which would be included in the proposed monument.All of the land within the proposal is already owned by the U.S. Forest Service, and managed primarily for recreation. A visitor’s center already exists, as does a scenic highway and trail infrastructure, making the monument a budget-friendly proposal that proponents hope will either gain congressional backing in the form of a bill or a signed declaration from President Obama. Backpackers and hikers love the Cranberry Wilderness, mountain bikers make pilgrimages to the Tea Creek Backcountry, and trout fishermen love it all, from the tight backcountry streams high on Gauley Mountain to the more accessible big water in the valleys. While the land is already owned and protected by the Forest Service, the monument proposal is an attempt to solidify the management plans currently in place, hedging bets against the whims of future political and commercial interests.“It’s a complex of lands with super high quality recreation and ecological resources,” says Mike Costello, director of the West Virginia Wilderness Coalition, the organization spearheading the push for the new national monument. “These places mean a lot to West Virginia, but we’re facing an uncertain future for public lands. We look at the extreme members of Congress and see them trying to erode the protections that are currently in place in favor of more widespread commercial activity. Maybe next year, maybe in five years, the decision makers in government might decide to take a more extractive approach to forest management in West Virginia.”The most immediate threat to the area is natural gas extraction by fracking. There are already fracking operations in the area as close as Richwood, a small town that would serve as a gateway community to the proposed monument. Establishing a national monument would give supporters peace of mind that the public minerals within the proposed boundaries would remain untouched and the recreation protected for future generations.“The permanent nature of this proposal is exciting,” says Phillip Smith, chairman of West Virginia Trout Unlimited, which is helping shape the monument proposal. “It’s a legacy thing. Making sure that we have this core trout fishing area in perpetuity.”According to Smith, the rivers within the proposed boundaries are some of the most pristine trout waters in the South. “It’s a fantastic area for native brook trout, every bit as good as Shenandoah or the Smokies. You can get a true backcountry experience. For the purist that loves the blue line backcountry water, it’s amazing.”The mountain biking is as equally amazing. One of IMBA’s original epic rides, the Gauley Headwaters Ride, lies within the proposed boundaries, and Tea Creek Mountain Trail is regularly regarded as one of the most rugged, but beloved pieces of singletrack in the South. Because the biking and fishing in the area are so well regarded, Costello and the Wilderness Coalition are making a point to bring other organizations like Trout Unlimited and IMBA into the planning process.“The proposal is as collaborative as it could possibly be,” Costello says. “IMBA and Trout Unlimited both had reservations about Wilderness designations we’ve proposed in the past because of trail access or stream restoration limitations. But they’ve come to the table for this proposal and helped define what the monument will and won’t be.”Greg Moore, vice president of West Virginia Mountain Bike Association, has seen bike traffic drop dramatically in the area within the last decade, and thinks the national monument status could bring the bikers back. But Moore thinks monument proponents will have a tougher time convincing the local non-biking community that a national monument will be good for them.“Most people around here are suspicious when the federal government wants to do something. People here are of the mindset that they’d rather just be left alone. They’d rather people not come here.”Costello knows it will be an uphill battle gaining local support for the monument. There is no other land protection in West Virginia like the proposed monument, and the Birthplace of Rivers would be the first U.S. Forest Service-managed national monument in the East.“There’s no gold standard of what a monument has to be. There’s no national monument act, like a Wilderness Act. So it’s a more flexible designation,” Costello says, adding that that flexibility makes it hard for people to comprehend. “The majority of opposition we’re seeing is a general anti-government, anti-public lands sentiment. It’s ironic, since we have a different fear of the government. We fear what the government will do with this land in the future if we don’t protect it.”
Carol Ruckdeschel is the wildest woman in America. She grew up on the banks of Atlanta’s Chattahoochee River where she liked to catch snakes, sleep in a cave, and cook road kill over a fire. After high school, she hopscotched her way through jobs and schools and even got married for a year. But nothing fit until she began working for Georgia’s Natural Areas Council with Coca-Cola heir Sam Candler. That led to a river trip with Governor Jimmy Carter, an article in The New Yorker, and selection as one of Mademoiselle magazine’s Women of the Year in 1973. But the attention was too much for Carol. She wanted to get away and get back to nature. So Carol accepted an invitation from Sam Candler to work at his family’s vacation home on Cumberland Island, a wilderness barrier island and national park off the coast of Georgia and playground for the Candler and Carnegie heirs.When Carol arrived on the island in the summer of 1973, Sam Candler gave her an aerial tour of the island in his single-engine Cessna.Cumberland was a sliver of sensuous beauty, shaped like a conch shell. It was three miles wide at its midriff, though its girth narrowed to less than a half mile at its southern waistband. Most of Cumberland’s interior was cloaked in thick forest, scarred only by the Candler compound and four Carnegie mansions.The plane yawed in the sea wind. Sunlight glinted off Lake Whitney, the freshwater heart of Cumberland and home to most of the island’s alligators. Sam banked left and glided low over the wide, blond strip of beach.As they flew south, crumbling slave chimneys appeared through the trees, near an overgrown meadow and landing strip for the Carnegie planes near Stafford mansion. Just past Stafford, the Greyfield Inn came into view. The gabled manor and its sprawling green lawns were nestled against the western edge of the island, with a dock jutting into the sound. One mile south of Greyfield was Sea Camp, the National Park Service headquarters, where rangers met passengers disembarking from the ferry. Near the southern end of the island, Sam’s plane swooped over the charred, crumbling ruins of Dungeness mansion, which overlooked a vast expanse of tidal creeks all the way out to the pelican-dotted jetty.The developed beaches of Florida loomed to the south. North of Cumberland were resort beaches stretching all the way to Savannah. And on the mainland across from Cumberland were marinas, factories and the belching smokestacks of paper mills. Even from the air, Cumberland was an oasis, a place apart.Sam banked the plane north and landed on a bumpy grass airstrip near the Candler compound. He swung open the plane door to utter silence. Two horses grazed on the edge of the runway. One looked up to watch people emerge from the giant painted bird, then returned to munching grass.Climbing out of the plane with Carol Ruckdeschel was her boyfriend, John Pennington. Two decades of hard-nosed investigative journalism had worn him down. He was ready to chuck it all and follow his girlfriend to a remote island, where they would work as hired help for a wealthy family. An award-winning writer for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution was now folding linens and changing light bulbs.“There’s something you should know about my family,” Sam said. “They’re somewhat traditional. They’re not comfortable with an unmarried man and woman living under their roof.”Carol kicked at the bridge pilings. “We’re not leaving. We just got here.”Sam scratched the back of his neck and wiped beaded sweat from his brow. “Maybe you could imply that you and John are planning to get married.”“There’s a church just down the road,” John said.“I’m not getting engaged,” replied Carol.“Just play along,” Sam said. “For a while, at least.”Carol made a meager $25 a week working for the Candlers. John was paid more and worked less, but Carol didn’t care. She would have worked for free to live on Cumberland, and she didn’t need much money to get by.She had to feed herself, though. So Carol plowed a garden using the Candlers’ tiller and planted okra, tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, pole beans, creasy greens, and collards. In the cooler months she grew radishes and arugula. She fertilized her garden with seaweed that had washed onto the beach. She also raised chickens and kept a hive of bees.The island’s white-tailed deer and wild hogs were plentiful, and she gathered wild chanterelles and salad greens from the lush maritime forest. But the most abundant island resource — tidal creeks teeming with shrimp, crabs, and fish — remained elusive.Carol was practicing casting the net off the Candler dock one evening when she heard a voice behind her: “Yo arm broke?” It was Jesse Bailey, the reclusive resident fisherman. He lived alone in a small cabin by the creek. Jesse was responsible for gathering fresh fish and shrimp each day for the Candler family.“Throw that net wide,” he told her. “Put some muscle behind it.”Carol tried again, but dragged in only a tangled, dripping net.“Don’t aim it. Throw it.” Jesse showed her how to hold the net like a bullfighter’s cape, arm extended and parallel to the ground. From his hands, the net swirled out like a windblown blossom over the water.Imitating Jesse, she threw the net again. It spread wide and sank to the bottom. Then she pulled the drawstring toward her and yanked hard. The net came up jumping with mullet, sea trout, and flounder.“Hot diggity!” Carol shouted, amazed by her catch flapping about on the dock.“You can admire ’em later,” Jesse said. “Get yo net back in the water while the tide’s right.”Every evening since she had arrived, Carol had been observing loggerhead sea turtles crawling ashore to nest. She walked along the water’s edge until she came across the V-shaped tractor-tire tread of turtle crawls. On moonless nights, she nearly stumbled over giant sea turtles lumbering up the beach.With their rear flippers, turtles scooped out flask-shaped holes deep in the dunes. Once they finished digging, Carol huddled behind the turtles like a quarterback and counted the eggs as they dropped.Two months later, the impregnated dunes spilled their secrets. Beneath the stirring sand, one hundred hatchlings broke through their shells, climbed out of the nest, and scampered to the sea. After witnessing her first turtle nest hatch, Carol wrote in her journal: “It was nothing short of soul stirring — the prehistoric turtles, the wild beach, the transparent darkness, the wind, the primeval pounding surf. There was a feeling of being especially close to the undefinable Source.”At first, Carol watched the nesting sea turtles from a distance. But her scientific curiosity soon got the best of her. Before long, she was counting eggs, measuring shell lengths, and flagging the buried nests so she could watch them hatch a few months later.She stayed all night on the beach with the turtles. She slept only a couple of hours, between sunrise and 8 A.M., when she had to report for work at the Candler compound. Usually she crashed in the dunes just before dawn and let the sun wake her.Carol soon joined the island’s turtle tagging project, one of the first in the country, which the University of Georgia had launched in the late 1960s. She published her first scientific paper on sea turtle migration patterns in the mid-1970s.Carol was becoming feral. She ate wild-caught critters, sometimes raw. She trained her body to rely on only one meal a day, staying lean and mean like the other predators stalking the island. She bathed in the surf. Her body was adapting to sleeping in short snatches, just like animals. The exhaustion toughened her resolve. “Overextend your will to strengthen it,” she wrote in her journal.She wore a long-sleeve flannel shirt with a wire notebook stuffed into the chest pocket, a bandana around her neck, and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat with a pencil slotted through a notch in the brim. Tucked into her firefighter’s boots were baggy, mud-smeared jeans with a knife and watch hanging from the belt loops. Most of her clothes were shades of brown, green, and gray — her favorite color — which blended with the muted tones of the forest and beach.Carol and John’s relationship soon disintegrated. When he moved out of their cabin, Sam’s brother Buddy Candler fired her and ordered her off the island. With the help of island resident Louie McKee, she set her sights on buying a piece of property, knowing the National Park Service would soon buy it from her and give her lifetime residency rights.In the fall of 1978, Carol bought a wobbly shack on one-third of an acre for $36,000. She was finally free. “I’m here! This is mine!” she shouted when she opened the door for the first time in 1978. She didn’t have to worry about making money or pleasing a boss. She could live off the land. She could live by her own rules.Carol didn’t move into the cabin right away. For the next year, while she rebuilt the cabin, she lived in the old storage shed across the yard. Her shed wasn’t much better than her leaning, sagging cabin.For Louie, the cabin construction was a great excuse to spend more time with Carol. Together they replaced the joists, repaired the chimney and patched the roof. Their relationship deepened.While she rebuilt her cabin, she ate dead-on-the-road armadillo and dead-on-the-beach porpoise. Jesse brought her mullet. She cast crab traps and shrimp nets off the Half Moon Bluff dock. She mucked barefoot out into the mudflats to harvest clams, and she stripped off her trousers and waded half-naked into tidal creeks to fish. And she happily shot hogs on the beach that were raiding turtle nests.By 1979, Cumberland Island National Seashore had officially opened to the public. Backpackers had begun hiking the trails, and a few made it all the way to the north end of the island. As a housewarming gift, Louie gave Carol a sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun to keep beside her at night. Carol thought it was unnecessary, especially since she already had a pistol, but she took the shotgun to make Louie happy.“I promise I’ll never shoot it unless I’m serious,” she told him.Carol frantically worked on her cabin, hoping to complete as much renovation as possible before the National Park Service offered to buy it, so she could receive the highest possible appraisal. Before selling to the National Park Service, Louie also suggested that he and Carol give each other partial ownership in their respective properties.“That way, if one of us dies, the other can make sure the land is protected and not misused,” Louie explained. Carol agreed. She had become mistrustful of the National Park Service after learning of its proposal to develop large parts of the island and run vehicle tours all over it. She was already crafting plans to stop them.In 1979, Carol sold her property to the National Park Service for $45,000 — along with the right to live on the island for the rest of her life.In her journal that evening, she wrote: “I’m home. No place like it.”Louie lived just down the road at Half Moon Bluff, which was a popular party spot on the weekends. Carol preferred wandering the wild dunes with turtles to drinking cheap beer and listening to repetitious chatter.Things with Louie were also starting to wear thin. They quarreled frequently, and after a few drinks Louie became abusive. She wanted out of the relationship but was afraid that a confrontation would provoke even more rage. So she tried to just let things dissolve.Carol was invited to attend a national sea turtle conference in Washington, D.C. by Rebecca Bell, a resident of Little Cumberland Island who worked with University of Georgia’s turtle tagging project.Carol was an anomaly among the turtle experts. Most were older men with university positions. Carol’s high school education and lack of formal training was frowned upon, especially when she questioned one professor over his conclusion that sea turtles appeared to be shrinking in size.Later, she challenged a top scientist with the National Marine Fisheries Service who claimed that trawling by shrimpers had little effect on sea turtles. “Baloney!” Carol said. “Trawling is the biggest turtle killer.”Whispers rippled through the crowd.Carol came back to Cumberland with renewed energy for her sea turtle research, which was beginning to attract national attention. Her data showed that more endangered sea turtles were dying than ever before. When Patti Hagan, an editor from The New Yorker, asked to visit in the fall of 1979, Carol worried that her cabin would be unsuitable for a well-heeled Manhattan writer. So she reluctantly asked Louie if Patti could stay at his air-conditioned house. He agreed.They all had drinks together on Louie’s front porch. Patti and Carol talked turtles and island politics late into the night while Louie sat quietly in the shadows knocking back vodka tonics.Around midnight, Carol stood up to leave. It was dark, and Carol had to walk a half-mile back to her cabin, so she said good night.“I’ll walk you home,” Louie offered. He could barely lift himself out of his chair.They walked in silence through the forest. Ragged clouds hid a sickle moon overhead. Then Louie said, “I read your letter.” Carol’s throat tightened. “What letter?”“You wrote some woman that our relationship had run its course.”“You’re reading my mail? What the hell, Louie?”“You’re done with me, huh. Is that how you feel?”Carol swallowed hard. “We had some good times together, but now it’s time to move on.”Suddenly, out of nowhere, Louie punched Carol in the eye. In the dark, she never saw it coming. He knocked her flat and momentarily unconscious.She awoke to the taste of metallic blood trickling from her nose. Louie stood over her. Get up, Carol, she told herself. Get up and get the hell out of here.Which way to run? She wanted to head for home, but Louie’s house was closer, and Patti was there.Louie turned his back for a moment. Now was her chance. She wobbled to her feet, steadied herself, then broke for Louie’s house.Carol raced up the steps, swung open the door, dashed into the back room and locked it. She huddled in the corner. For a moment, everything was still. Then she heard footsteps clomp across the porch. His bloodshot eyes appeared at the back window. Adrenaline knifed through her.Louie rattled the door handle. Then a long silence followed. Carol shivered in the corner, wondering if she could make it till daylight. She counted the seconds, one by one. Finally, dawn drowned the stars in a pale azure. She steeled herself, crept to the window, and peered into the twilight. He was gone.Fearing for her safety, Carol left the island to stay with her parents in Atlanta. Four months later, Jesse called to say Louie had a new girlfriend and it was safe for her to return. But as soon as she arrived, she discovered it was a lie and Louie had put Jesse up to making that call.Louie showed up drunk at her door a few days after she had returned. Carol told him to leave.“I’ve talked with the cops about taking out a peace warrant,” she said.“You sign a peace warrant, you sign your death warrant,” he snarled.Carol made plans to leave the island again to stay with her aunt in Rochester, NY. She slept in the dunes that night, afraid to stay in her cabin alone with Louie skulking about. The next morning, just before heading back to the cabin to pack up, Carol spotted vultures congregating on the beach. A dead loggerhead had washed ashore.She glanced at her watch. The sun was already high in the sky, and if she stuck around to necropsy her, she would miss the boat off the island. She decided to stay on the island one more day. She gripped her knife and plunged in.As she was untangling the turtle’s ropy intestines, a young, sandy-haired backpacker hiking up the beach approached.“Can I have a look?” he said.He squatted down for closer inspection. His name was Pete DiLorenzo, and he had been camping on Cumberland for a week.Pete was also from Rochester. Short on cash, he planned to hitchhike back to Rochester after his camping adventures on Cumberland. Carol offered him a ride to Rochester, as long as he didn’t mind waiting until tomorrow to leave. Pete eagerly agreed, and he hopped in the jeep with Carol. As they drove past the road to Half Moon Bluff, Louie, watching from the woods, saw a handsome young guy with wavy blond hair riding next to Carol.That evening, Pete set up his tent in Carol’s yard beside the chicken coop, then joined Carol inside while she cooked supper.Suddenly, they heard footsteps on the porch. It was Louie, carrying a broken canoe paddle with a sharp, splintered end. He rattled the locked knob. Then there was a bang-bang-bang against the door.“Open up!” Louie shouted.Carol’s heart exploded out of her chest. “Go away!”“Open the (expletive) door!”Pete looked wide-eyed at Carol.The door shook in its frame. Louie kicked in the bottom door panel. Pete jumped out of his chair and crouched behind the table.Carol shrieked.“Please, Louie! Leave me alone!”“Who’s in there with you, dammit?”He broke through the rest of the door panel. Scraps of wood fell to the floor.Instinct took over. The sawed-off shotgun that Louie had given her was tucked behind the bathroom door, loaded. She ran to the bathroom and grabbed the gun. Pete cowered in the corner, hands clenched in prayer. Louie was waving the canoe paddle and shouting.“You just want to have fun? I’ll show you fun!” He began to step through the empty door frame and into the cabin just as Carol returned to the kitchen.“You (messed) with the wrong guy!” he shouted, and busted through the door toward her.Carol had only one shot. There would be no time to reload if she missed. She had to make it count. She raised the shotgun and steadied it, braced snugly against her hip, like her father had taught her. She held her breath and squeezed the trigger. The gun fired, kicking hard against her hip.Then the room went silent. A haze of smoke lifted from the barrel. She had shot Louie squarely in the chest. The impact knocked him back, and his body slumped to the porch.“Is he dead?” she asked, frozen with fear. Pete peeked over the table at the motionless body in the doorway.“I think so.”Carol lowered her gun and collapsed to the floor.It was finally over.Or so she thought.A jury unanimously found Louie’s death a justifiable homicide.Word of the shooting spread like wildfire. Island families vilified Carol. Park rangers kept their distance. Even Sam Candler was aloof and standoffish after the shooting.“I was a little bit afraid of her after that,” he admitted. “I couldn’t trust her. She was never part of the island families to begin with. She became the black sheep of the island.”Their words were like battery acid on Carol’s heart. She became even more of a reclusive hermit.For the next few months, Carol went subterranean. She buried herself in work. Holed up in island seclusion, she wandered alone through the marshes and slept in the dunes with the turtles. In her journal, she wrote: “Never get close to anyone. Ever.”Louie’s estate only made things worse. Carol still had partial ownership in Louie’s property. She wanted nothing to do with a haunted house. But then Grover Henderson, a lawyer who represented the Carnegie and Rockefeller families on the island, claimed Louie’s house for himself.Just a few weeks after the shooting, Grover moved into Louie’s vacant house at Half Moon Bluff.“I couldn’t just stand by and let Grover swipe it,” Carol said.She reluctantly decided to sue Grover. Carol couldn’t afford a lawyer, so she represented herself.Grover hired Bobby Lee Cook, widely considered to have been the basis for the television character, Matlock. Cook had succeeded in getting dozens of felons acquitted with his courtroom theatrics and shrewd cross-examinations. He built his defense around a Georgia law that prevents murderers from benefiting from the death of their victims.But Carol had done her homework, too, and discovered that the law did not apply to acts of self-defense. In the end, Carol triumphed over Matlock. Louie’s house belonged to Carol, and Grover was sent packing.Carol didn’t want the house to begin with. So she gave it to her parents. But that didn’t change the facts: She had acquired the house of the man she had killed. It sparked rumors that she had intentionally shot Louie to get his island property.Carol had come to Cumberland to find a deep connection to a place where she belonged. Now, she lived in torment and isolation. Instead of Louie stalking her, she was constantly shadowed by shame and sorrow. Everywhere she went, she felt the sting of venomous words and glares. Once again, Carol decided to pack up her belongings and leave the island.The night before she planned to leave, she wandered out to the beach to say goodbye. As she crested the dunes, she stopped suddenly, awestruck: The ocean had come alive with light. Bioluminescent plankton shimmered across the water. Flecks of electric blue light washed onto the beach, breaking apart beneath her feet as she walked beside the water.Carol waded out into the shining sea. Amid the fiery foam of the curling breakers, she made up her mind once and for all: She wasn’t ever going to be chased off the island. This was the only home she had ever known. This was where she belonged.Carol still felt pangs of guilt for living in the middle of a protected national park. For years, she had taken from the island: oysters from the marsh, driftwood from the beach, data from dead animals. The only way she could stay on Cumberland was to give something back. She could fight for the wild. She could speak for the turtles and gators. She could be a voice crying out for the wilderness.She had sheltered beneath her shell for too long, cloistered in her cabin, hidden away from humanity. Now it was time to stick her neck out and fight for life beyond her own.Later that night, after unpacking her boxes, she wrote in her journal: “It is my fault that Louie is dead. I must face that guilt every day, for the rest of my life. I’ll have to learn to live with that. But I’m sure as hell not gonna run away. With every fiber of my being, I’m gonna stay and fight.” •–Untamed: The Wildest Woman in America and the Fight for Cumberland Island is a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers selection and is one of Amazon’s Best Books of the Month. Reprinted with permission from Grove Atlantic Press 2014.
This week, the Mayview Madness 5K will return to Blowing Rock, N.C., for its 15th year in a row. The race will take place on Saturday, September 20 and will lead its competitors on a beautiful journey through North Carolina’s famous High Country hills.Participants will meet behind Memorial Park at 8 a.m. to begin the race, and will spend the morning enjoying the views on foot. Bistro Roca Restaurant will welcome all finishers with plenty of delicious food and local awards for the top three men and women in each age group. The runner with the best costume will win an additional prize!This race benefits the Blue Ridge Conservancy, a program that works to defend natural land and water resources in the area. Blue Ridge Pediatrics and Adolescent Medicine will also play a part in the event as the main sponsor for the simultaneous Kids Fun Run.As a special deal, ZAP Fitness offers free training sessions for all registered runners every Wednesday night until race day. Don’t miss your last chance this week to train for the race and learn from Olympic-level athletes.Register today to join 2014’s Mayview Madness 5K and support the Blue Ridge Conservancy while stretching your legs in the High Country.
After picking up subs from the grocery store, buying a used helmet, and renting skis, my five-year-old and I were ready for a great day on the local ski hill, or so I thought.We headed over to the magic carpet, the one part of the mountain not drenched in sunshine, but dark and shadowy. The moment my son clicked into his skis, his body turned into a wet noodle. He waited face down sprawled in the snow, waiting for me to lift hum up and untangle his skis. The more I asked him to focus, the less capable he became. My voice had an edge to it as I begged him to just try and stand up. The more determined I was for him to have fun and love skiing as much as I do, the more he resisted.I thought I’d have no problem teaching my athletic and coordinated kid. After all, I had spent a season teaching people to ski, but being a ski instructor didn’t translate into being able to teach my own kid how to ski. Reluctantly I shelled out fifty bucks for one-hour of ski instruction for my five-year old. I thought I was buying some time to mentally regroup and avert the meltdown I could sense was about to overcome my son. I had no idea that in one hour the ski instructor would transfer my limp-bodied-determined-not-to-ski boy into a kid who loves skiing so much he won’t leave until the lift closes.Within minutes of meeting his ski instructor, my son waved me away. He listened to her every word and seriously tried. I went off to squeeze a few runs in during his hour lesson. Forty minutes later I was equal parts elated and terrified as I saw my five-year old and ski instructor load onto the chairlift. My five-year-old who couldn’t manage to stand on skis thirty minutes ago was now headed up the mountain.From a season of well-intentioned parents interrupting the progress of their kid by popping in, I knew better than to interrupt his lesson. Still, I couldn’t resist the urge to watch his first real run. I trailed behind them at a respectful distance. His ski instructor expected more of my son than I would have. She skied out in front and made him scoot himself over the flat sections. She refused to push him along or pick him up, instead patiently explaining how he could do it by himself. She used positive encouragement. Not once did he whine that he couldn’t do it or flop onto the snow in despair.At the end of the lesson, he couldn’t wait to show me how much he learned and we spent the rest of the weekend skiing together. Turns out that hiring a ski instructor was the best decision I ever made on the slopes.
Deep Hollow Half Marathon and 5k is the premier event of the Liberty Mountain Trail Series. As a Liberty University Homecoming event, the race always draws an impressive crowd and creates a spectacular race day environment. The half marathon course features a beautiful blend of single-track trails and mountain roads within the 5,000-acre trail system nestled in Lynchburg, VA. With nearly 2,000 feet of elevation change throughout the 13.1 mile course, it is a brutal though rewarding challenge. This event is the most popular race in the series and draws experienced trail runners from all over Central Virginia. The half marathon course was developed in 2007 and the local running community continues to embrace the event. The first Deep Hollow race director was Dave Christen, who is currently the race director for the Boulder Ironman and Triathlon series in Colorado. The initial course was very tough due to a much larger elevation gain and loss compared to the current course.It included the old “Deep Hollow Trail”, from which the race initially got its name. That trail no longer exists, having been incorporated into what is now “Horton’s Loop”, named after the ultra-running legend himself, David Horton. Although the trail is no longer in existence, the Deep Hollow name has survived to this day.For the second year in a row, Deep Hollow is incorporated into the 2017 Virginia Commonwealth Games, which has only caused the competition to grow fiercer. The half marathon course winds beautifully through the valleys and streams of Liberty Mountain and features peak foliage in the month of October. Deep Hollow continues to set itself apart as a race that exemplifies comradery within competition.