Redux: Blown-Down Trees on the Dark Side

Are we making tactical nuclear weapons again? Tactical meaning “not strategic,” that is, not ones that take out cities and countries, just little ones that take out city blocks? So that we can get the jump on the the Russians before they can get the jump on us? Thereby invoking what the late, great Sid Drell called “the fallacy of the last move,” referring to one of the dumbest thoughts ever to occur to a dumb humankind? This post first ran May 30, 2013.

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About ten years ago, doing research for a book, I asked Freeman Dyson about a study he’d helped do about whether we would have lost the war in Vietnam a little less if we’d used tactical nuclear weapons.

Dyson and two colleagues, all members of a scientific advisory group called Jason, were doing this study back in the mid-1960’s, more or less on their own hook; no one had asked either them or Jason to do it. They did it anyway because they’d overheard a Pentagon power honcho remark off-hand that it might be a good idea to throw in a nuke once in a while just to keep the North Vietnamese guessing. The remark reflected loose talk at the time that the few nukes dropped on mountain passes might block the passes and stop the enemy army from coming south. “You can do that wonderfully well with a few bombs,” Dyson said. “You blow down all the trees.” And I thought, “How does he know that?”

It turns out that while tactical (i.e., little) nuclear bombs do blow down trees wonderfully well, the large enemy army only has to clear a path through the blown-down trees and keep moving south.  “It’s only bought you a couple of months,” Dyson said.  “And you can’t blow down the same trees twice.  After you’ve blown them down, that’s it.”  He was snickering.  I didn’t bother asking him how he knew this and didn’t think about it again until a couple of weeks ago.

I was interviewing another scientist who started digressing into the old nuclear bomb tests out in Nevada. “Tree blowdown was experimental,” he said, meaning they knew how nuclear bombs blew down trees because they’d done it. 

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Once the U.S. had built the first atomic bomb, 1945; then improved it by building the first hydrogen bomb, 1952; then began working on building more portable bombs. And since the U.S.S.R had been doing the same, the U.S. also wondered about the bombs’ effects.  So in the early 1950’s, the government set up models of all the things that bombs could blow up – houses, bridges, cars, pigs, sheep – and exploded bombs near them.  The government did this for at least a decade and didn’t stop it until it and the rest of the world banned above-ground testing.  The tests, many of them at the Nevada Test site, were called “shots,” and they had names.

The shot called Encore was on May 8, 1953 and among the many effects it tested was what a nuclear bomb would do to a forest.  The Nevada Test Site wasn’t replete with forests so the U.S. Forest Service brought 145 ponderosa pines from a nearby canyon, and cemented them into holes lined up in tidy rows in an area called Frenchman Flat, 6,500 feet from ground zero.  Then the Department of Defense air-dropped a 27 kiloton bomb that exploded 2,423 feet above the model forest.  The heat set fire to the forest, then the blast wave blew down the trees and put out some fires and started others.  Here’s the video.

I’m not sure what I make of this.  Certainly in the 1950’s, nobody was controlling nuclear weapons; they were alive, reproducing, and roaming the world. So knowing precisely what damage they cause might help mitigate that damage.  And certainly I’m not going to think about the more distant and longer-term effects of those shots, over 200 of them above ground, except to say that as a 10-year old girl in Illinois, I wasn’t safe.

I do know I’m impressed by the amount of directed effort, the thoroughness of thought that went into cutting down 145 ponderosa pines, trucking them out of the canyon, digging holes, filling the holes with concrete, sticking the trees into them, dropping the bomb, making the measurements, recording the whole thing.  And though the United Nations belatedly began negotiating a ban on above-ground tests in 1955, the Limited Test Ban Treaty didn’t get signed until 1963.  That was the limited treaty; the comprehensive one banning all tests everywhere took another 40+ years, and even now the United States hasn’t ratified* it.  I’m most impressed by the contrast between the pointed determination of the test shots, and the infinite dithering about the (yes, infinitely more complicated) test bans.  I might suspect that  human nature and its governments have a dark side.

Add in this little public service booklet, illustrated with the drawing above and written by the Atomic Energy Commission to the people of Nevada:  “You are in a very real sense active participants in the Nation’s atomic test program. . . . Some of you have been inconvenienced by our test operations. At times some of you have been exposed to potential risk from flash, blast, or fall-out. You have accepted the inconvenience or the risk without fuss, without alarm, and without panic. Your cooperation has helped achieve an unusual record of safety.”

As though they were asked.

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*UPDATE:  In the original post, this word was “signed.”  As noted in the comments by someone who ought to know, the U.S. did in fact sign the CTBT, but we still haven’t ratified it.

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Photo credits:  Encore shot and drawing both from Atomic Test Effects in the Nevada Test Site Region which also includes the sentence, “Nevada tests have helped us come a long way in a few, short years and have been a vital factor in maintaining the peace of the world.”

Eloise at the Château

For two years, I have felt like Eloise in the beloved 1950s children’s classic of the same name. A sudden need for shared office space led me to a reasonably priced desk in downtown Ottawa, but the exact location stunned me. Much like the entitled Eloise who lives in New York’s Plaza Hotel, I also have been in a “room on the tippy-top floor” of a grand hotel—one built within five years of the Plaza: Ottawa’s Château Laurier.

Now, it happens that the top floors of the Château are not penthouse suites, but more like the cramped storage spaces in the rafters that could never be passed off as hotel rooms. Where my office lies, once were the women’s dormitories for chamber maids. On the same floor were traveling salesmen’s rooms, with a discretely curtained off area where they could display their wares on a table.

The Château Laurier was opened by the Grand Trunk Railway in conjunction with Ottawa’s rail terminal across the street in 1912. There was no real festive opening in the end, because the president of the railway sank on the Titanic on his way here, but the first registered guest was Prime Minister Wilfred Laurier, after whom it the hotel is named.

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Strawberries in the blast zone

“When one is alone and lonely, the body
gladly lingers in the wind or the rain,
or splashes into the cold river, or
pushes through the ice-crusted snow.

Anything that touches.”

–Mary Oliver, “Leaves and blossoms along the way: A poem”

It was 95 degrees out on the day I drove towards the wildfire. I wanted to wither a little. I wanted it to hurt. There is a thing cartoonists draw—a scribbled cloud of dark ink above the head of someone out of sorts. I woke up with that scribble inside my chest on more days than I admitted to anyone. The tangled lines wrapped tight around my heart and lungs. This was one of those days, when breathing felt like work.

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Thinking About Water At The Waterway

aqueduct-at-dusk

The other day I thought a ghost was flushing the toilet in my house. I was standing in the kitchen when I heard a slight moan, followed by a metallic-sounding whang and a rush of water. But I was the only one home. I was nervous for about two seconds, until I remembered the sump pump. 

The house was indeed being flushed. Water that would otherwise have seeped into my basement was presently streaming into a small depression in my yard. It sounded like the house had moved its bowels, because in a way, it had.

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Update: Fear of Sleep

Earlier this month, the International RBD Study Group published its findings that a certain class of sleep disorder is strongly linked to the risk of developing Parkinson’s disease later in life. As the group’s name implies, the disorder is known as RBD – REM sleep behaviour disorder, which causes you act out your dreams to sometimes fatal consequences for your sleep partner. All the people in the study suffered from this disorder, and after a 12 year followup, they were found to have a high chance of developing Parkinson’s or dementia.

It may not sound like it, but this is actually good news. By the time most people are usually diagnosed with Parkinson’s, the neurodegenerative disease has already done irreversible damage to their brain. Researchers have spent years looking for a reliable early warning sign, so that treatments can become prevention. They might have just found it in RBD.

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Hello Siberia, it’s Emily Underbite

Like most journalists, I dread transcribing interviews. I can’t afford to pay other people to do it, so I’ve been experimenting with computer programs that use artificial intelligence to transcribe for me. Last week I tried one of the more advanced transcription programs, Otter, and its performance was nearly flawless.

I felt an odd sense of loss as I watched perfect phrases tumble down my screen at close to the speed of real speech. I wasn’t sad about the hours I’ll save hand-correcting transcripts. Instead, I mourned the bizarre, sometimes profane errors of my older transcription service, Trint.

I am generally more likely to cover the evolution of sponges than a Presidential race or sex scandal. But Trint seems to want me and my interviewees to talk about what everyone else is apparently talking about: politics and sex.

Trint inserts “Trump” and “Melania” into my transcripts seemingly at random, as well as words like “dick.” “There’s a lot of data on this, in terms of being a dick,” read the program’s mis-transcription of one of my recent interviews with a soft-spoken botanist.

I suppose Trint’s proclivities should not surprise me. Like all speech recognition programs, Trint uses statistical algorithms trained on large archives of recorded human speech to predict what is being said. Machine learning technology has a well-documented tendency to reflect the uglier aspects of society, including our racial biases, and Trint, launched in 2016, has been reared on our society’s collective chatter since Trump’s election.

I am tired of spending hours cleaning up my transcripts for the fact-checkers, and eager to find a more accurate program. But I will miss some of Trint’s bizarre word choices and its constant attempts to help me join the crowd. Trint’s errors can also be remarkably creative, like the brilliant AI-generated cookie names published on the blog AI Weirdness: Hand Buttersacks, Apricot Dream Moles, and Walps.

Can artificial intelligence be talented? Does it have anything important to say? I have no idea, but before abandoning Trint I want to celebrate its weirdness with the following poems. I didn’t write these poems, Trint did. It is not my fault that they insult Melania Trump or read like dystopian Radiohead lyrics. I am merely Trint’s transcriptionist. Please share your own AI-generated poems in the comments!

Trint’s mistakes – suggestions? Strokes of genius? — are in bold.

Emily Underbite

Hello, Siberia

It’s Emily Underbite

I’m a relic

I haven’t found a gold star yet

My dream has no leverage

I hurt like imitation

Electoral thinking

What organism has analogous or homologous structures and functions to Melania’s? A slug, a lobster?

People have a lot of trouble with electoral thinking, which is essentially understanding the difference between two sponges.

I mean, what can you expect from a sponge?

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Looking at Giants

Whales are great. You can get a bunch of people who you thought were grumpy and walking by themselves along the sidewalk, and suddenly there’s a whale and you are all shouting and grinning at each other and most of the people have even hung up their phones or stopped texting or tweeting about how they’re taking a walk right now.  Maybe you are all now trying to use your phones to take a photo of something that is a tiny ephemeral exhale on the horizon but that’s okay. Trying to capture the ephemeral is what art is, right? And talking to people you don’t know about whales is good. And the whales, the whales are great.

What is it that makes them so great? Many things, but today I was thinking about the elegance of their big bodies, the surprise of when it slides up into the open air like a glimmer of island on an empty sea. I was thinking so much about the whales that suddenly I started to feel guilty because I could have gone to my son’s field trip to the fire station instead of seeing whales and then puttering around the kitchen, thinking about seeing whales.

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DNA to RNA to Protein

This frog’s DNA works the same way yours does.

Yesterday I was thinking about how much I love the central dogma of molecular biology.

“Central dogma” is a funny name for it. It sounds like it has something to do with religion, but it’s not; it’s just the thing that makes all living cells work. A cell has DNA; that DNA has a code, which gets transcribed into the almost-the-same-but-not-quite code of RNA; and then that RNA gets read and used as a template for building proteins. This is happening all the time in all living cells–the cells in the skin on your right ear, the cells in your pancreas, the cells in the rootlets of the plants outside, the cells in a polar bear’s liver.

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