Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts

The Lost Forty: How an 1882 Surveying Error Saved a Patch of Forest from Logging

In the northern reaches of Minnesota, within the sprawling Chippewa National Forest, lies a rare remnant of America’s ecological past—a 144 acres patch of forest with old-growth pines, known as the Lost Forty. This untouched pocket of towering red and white pines survived into the modern era not through deliberate conservation, but through a surveying error that left the land hidden from loggers for decades.


Credit: Lorie Shaull

The story begins in 1882, when government surveyors working in the region miscalculated the location of a nearby lake. Believing that Coddington Lake extended farther east than it actually did, they mapped a forty-acre section as being underwater. Since no logging company had any interest in harvesting trees from the bottom of a lake, the area was effectively overlooked.

For the next half-century, while millions of acres of Minnesota’s virgin pine were felled and floated downriver, the Lost Forty stood quietly untouched. The pines grew older, broader, and taller. Many of the trees that survive today are over 300 years old, with some exceeding 120 feet in height.


Site of the Lost Forty. Credit: Martha Decker

Minnesota was once cloaked in vast forests of red and white pine, but the logging boom of the late 19th and early 20th centuries left very little of this ancient woodland intact. Today, less than 2% of the state’s original old-growth pine forest remains. The Lost Forty is one of the finest and most accessible examples.

Walking through the area, one immediately senses the difference. The forest floor is open and quiet, with scattered ferns and towering trunks rising like pillars. Many trees bear the massive girth characteristic of centuries-old growth, some measuring three feet in diameter. The canopy filters sunlight in narrow, golden shafts. Birds nest high above in cavities that only form in ancient timber.


Old-growth white (near left) and red (farther right) pines near each other along the path in the Lost Forty forest. Credit: Martha Decker


A USFS employee poses for a photo during a visit of the The Lost Forty old growth timber stand in 2024. Credit: US Forest Service

Why is the area called Lost Forty?

In the U.S. Public Land Survey System, land is divided into square 40-acre parcels (quarter-quarter sections). The specific parcel that the 1882 survey mistakenly mapped as underwater was exactly 40 acres.

However, when the area was examined in the 20th century, forest researchers realized that the surrounding land had also escaped logging. Altogether, roughly 144 acres of old-growth red and white pine survived. Even though the protected area today is larger, the historical term “Lost Forty” stuck.


Credit: Minnesota Department of Natural Resources

When later surveyors corrected the boundaries in the 20th century, the mistake became evident. By then, however, the logging boom had waned, and the land passed into federal stewardship.

The Forest Service recognized the site as ecologically significant, eventually designating it as part of the Chippewa National Forest and preserving it for public enjoyment and scientific study. Today, interpretive signs at the site recount the surveying error and the region’s logging history, standing as reminders of how chance can shape landscapes. 

References:
# Lost 40. U.S. Department of Agriculture
# Lost forty. U.S. Department of Agriculture
# This 1882 surveying error saved a patch of forest from logging. National Geographic



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The Song of Seikilos

Humans have been making music for thousands of years, as evidenced by fragments of ancient instruments unearthed by archaeologists, such as bone flutes. Much of this early music was likely passed down orally through generations. With the advent of writing, however, songs and hymns, along with primitive musical notation, began to be recorded on papyrus and clay tablets.



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Britain's K-Class Submarines And The Battle of May Island

In the years leading up to the First World War, Britain’s Royal Navy faced an existential challenge. Germany’s naval expansion, and especially its submarine warfare, forced the Admiralty to rethink what the future of sea power would look like. The dreadnought battleship still ruled the waves, but underwater warfare was evolving with a speed that made planners uneasy. In this atmosphere of urgency, innovation, and fear, the British instructed its engineers to build a submarine that was fast enough to operate with the battle fleet.

The result was the K-class submarine, a vessel so ambitious and so compromised that it earned a darkly comic set of nicknames— “Kalamity class” and “Killer class”. The K-class proved to be the deadliest warship ever built, but only for those who sailed them.


British submarine K15. Credit: Wikimedia Commons



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Ambrose Channel Pilot Cable

The Ambrose Channel pilot cable was an early 20th-century navigational aid installed on the seabed of New York Harbor’s Ambrose Channel, the main deep-water entrance used by large ships arriving from the Atlantic. It operated from 1919 to the late 1920s and served as a kind of underwater “electronic path” that ships could follow in fog, darkness, and storms long before radar became common.

The Ambrose Channel is long, narrow, busy, and often foggy. The old method of sounding whistles, bells, and relying on buoys was dangerous. The idea was to create a reliable, invisible pathway that ships could detect with instruments even when the channel itself could not be seen.


Credit: New York District, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers

The system consisted of a heavy submarine cable, about 16 miles long, laid along the centerline of the Ambrose Channel. The cable was similar to telegraph cables but with heavier insulation. The cable was energized from shore with an alternating current of 500 Hz, which produced a magnetic field along the length of the cable that could be detected to approximately a thousand yards away.

Ships used a device called a pilot cable receiver, consisting of two sensitive induction coils mounted on the bow and a galvanometer. As a ship approached Ambrose Channel, the induction coils picked up the magnetic field. The coils were arranged so that when the ship was exactly over the cable, the signals in both coils were equal. When the ship was to the right, the starboard coil picked up a stronger signal. When to the left, the port coil registered more. This gave the pilot a simple left/right steering cue.

Early experiments with underwater pilot cables were conducted by radio pioneer Robert H. Marriott for the Navy in Puget Sound. The results were so promising that the Navy decided to develop and test the concept on a larger scale at the New London Naval Base. During the tests at New London, both wooden-hulled ships as well as steel-hulled submarine picked up the signal and followed the underwater test cable without problem.

Following the successful tests at New London, the Navy moved to a full-scale trial in New York’s Ambrose Channel in late 1919. Navy mine layers paid out the cable along the channel’s centerline, securing it to the seabed with concrete anchors every five hundred feet. The offshore end was grounded to a two-foot square copper plate resting on the bottom, while the shoreward end was connected to a transmitting station at Fort Lafayette.

To test the installation, the destroyer USS O’Brien was outfitted with receiving gear and instructed to follow the cable outward toward the open sea. The trial ended abruptly. Barely a thousand feet from the starting point, the ship’s receivers fell silent—the signal had vanished. Divers soon discovered a break in the cable, which was repaired, only for crews to find further faults as winter progressed. By the close of the 1919–1920 season, surveyors had tallied fifty-two separate breaks. Most were the result of tension and abrasion during the laying process, and together they rendered the cable beyond salvage. Going back to the drawing board, engineers tested 150-foot segments of three different types of cable and used the results to design a new full-size pilot cable.

The new reinforced cable at 87,000 feet length was laid down on August 1920 and by the end of the month the system was functioning as intended. The Navy tested the cable using the seagoing tug USS Algorma. The Navy then arranged a formal demonstration for the broader maritime community. Invitations went out to “representatives of various radio companies, shipping interests, pilots’ associations, governmental bureaus, naval attachés, and others,” and from October 6 to 9 the destroyer USS Semmes served as the stage for a series of public trials. To eliminate any possibility of visual navigation, the ship’s bridge windows were covered in canvas. One by one, captains and pilots stepped forward to take the helm, steering solely by the rising and falling audio tones produced by the induction coils.

Newspapers greeted the system with the enthusiasm of the age. The Washington Post called it "the greatest development in marine travel since the invention of the steam turbine" and the Los Angeles Times declared the technology to be "one of the greatest peacetime gifts that science has devised." Some writers went so far as to imagine a future in which underwater guidance cables would become standard not only for ships but even for aircraft.

Despite the media hype, the Ambrose Channel pilot cable never achieved widespread commercial adoption. Early boosters suggested extending it several miles beyond the Ambrose Lightship to give incoming vessels even more lead time, but such ambitions faded quickly. The rapid rise of radio direction finding, along with the establishment of radio beacons at strategic points along the coast, offered a simpler and more versatile solution. These beacons functioned much like lighthouses, but can be "seen" in all weather. The first trio of such “radio fog signals” was installed near New York in 1921. By 1924, eleven stations were operating in the United States, and nearly three hundred ships carried the receivers needed to use them.

By 1930, an assessment in the Journal of the Royal Society of Arts observed that “wireless aids and echo sounding have superseded [the leader cable],” signaling that the cable’s moment had passed. Today, the task once performed by that single humming line on the harbor floor is handled by an array of modern tools, such as radar, GPS, and lighted buoys, all of which guide ships through Ambrose Channel with a precision unimaginable a century ago.

References:
# Ambrose Channel pilot cable, Wikipedia
# A. Crossley, “Piloting Vessels By Electrically Energized Cables”. Journal of the American Society for Naval Engineers

 

 



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Alain Bombard: The Biologist Who Shipwrecked Himself to Prove a Point

In the autumn of 1952, a small black rubber dinghy drifted out of the Canaries and into the immensity of the Atlantic Ocean. Its lone occupant was a doctor, Alain Bombard, a young French biologist determined to answer a deadly question. Every year, thousands of seafarers perished after shipwrecks, often within sight of potential salvation. Was it inevitable? Or could a human being, properly instructed and equipped with nothing but the sea around him, survive for weeks on end?

Bombard intended to prove the latter, and he was willing to risk his life to do it. His vessel, a 15-foot inflatable boat christened L’Hérétique, was loaded with the absolute minimum: a sextant, a few emergency tools, and books. What he refused to carry was the most shocking part—no food, no fresh water, and no full sails or engine to ease the journey. The point was not simply to cross the Atlantic. The point was to simulate a shipwreck, to live exactly as a castaway might, and to see if nature could supply what the body needed.


Alain Bombard on his raft.

Origins of a Radical Idea

Bombard’s experiment did not emerge from idle curiosity. In 1951, while working as a junior doctor at the hospital in Boulogne, a trawler sank in bad weather outside the harbour, and 43 bodies were brought to the hospital. “In spite of all our efforts we failed to revive a single one,” he wrote. “At that moment the full measure of the tragedy conjured up by the word ‘shipwreck’ was brought home to me.”

Bombard moved to the Oceanographic Institute, Monaco, to research the nutritional properties of marine creatures. Bombard believed the human body was far more resilient than commonly assumed. What doomed castaways, he argued, was ignorance of how to use the ocean’s resources.

His controversial theory held that a shipwrecked sailor should be able to survive indefinitely without supplies by drinking seawater, consuming raw fish for both food and fluids, and harvesting plankton for vitamins. The only way to prove this, he decided, was to undertake the ordeal himself.

The Voyage of L’Hérétique

Bombard began with a series of coastal trials in 1952, deliberately casting himself adrift in the Mediterranean. Satisfied with the results, he set off from Tenerife on October 19. For the next 65 days, Bombard lived at the mercy of the waves.

He allowed himself no freshwater stores and no food, and he drank from the sea—about a pint-and-half (about 700 ml) of seawater every day, supplemented by water squeezed from caught fish and the occasional rainwater. To ensure he did not fall victim to scurvy, Bombard towed a very fine silk net with which he managed to catch a fair amount of plankton as well as fish. One or two teaspoonful of this tiny organism a day provided him with the necessary vitamins. The meagre diet kept him alive, though at a cost: he lost more than 25 kilograms, suffered constant hunger, and endured painful sores.

Almost at the start of his voyage, a storm nearly wrecked his tiny craft. His sail was ripped and his spare was torn away, so that he had to repair the original with a needle and thread. Once, when his inflatable cushion fell aboard, Bombard dived in the waters to retrieve it and was horrified to discover that his sea anchor, a parachute-type canvas gadget used to slow down the boat, had fouled up the trailing ropes and the dinghy began to drift away. Only training as an accomplished swimmer (Bombard had swum across the English Channel in 1951, swimming 21 hours) enabled him to return to the dinghy safely.

Although Bombard was a great swimmer, he wasn’t much of a sailor. He carried a sextant but lacked the skills of a navigator. On his 53rd day at sea, he encountered a British freight liner, the Arakaka, whose crew informed him that he was still over 1,000 kilometers (620 miles) short of his goal. He thought of giving up and even accepted a meal from the crew. Bombard later wrote, the "fried egg, a little piece of liver, a spoonful of cabbage and some fruit... gave me the worst stomach trouble of the whole voyage." One thing the meal did, however, was to revive his sprits and he decided to continue with his journey.

At last, on December 23, 1952, L’Hérétique and her gaunt captain washed ashore in Barbados. Bombard had crossed more than 2,700 miles of ocean alone, alive, and triumphant.

Bombard's experiment was critically examined by the French and Taiwanese navies, both of which concurred with his findings. His ideas also attracted the attention of a German physician, Hannes Lindemann, who undertook two short Atlantic crossings of his own in an effort to test Bombard’s survival methods, especially the use of seawater. His feet and legs swelled dangerously. In his 1958 book Alone at Sea, he not only questioned the notion that seawater could sustain a castaway but went further, accusing Bombard of secretly carrying extra provisions.

Bombard, for his part, had never claimed that survival depended on drinking seawater alone. He consistently argued that only small, carefully limited quantities could be tolerated, and then only when combined, particularly in the absence of rainwater, with the fluids obtained from raw fish. Bombard argued that many castaways, once adrift and with all fresh water exhausted, turn to seawater (or even urine) only in a state of acute desperation. By now severely dehydrated, the kidneys can’t handle the sudden accumulation of salts and an agonising death soon follows, supporting the mariner’s lore that drinking seawater was fatal. According to Bombard the key was to drink early but drink little.

If there is nothing to drink, the body’s water content will decline steadily until death by dehydration occurs on about the tenth day.

Any supply of water or fresh liquid which becomes available at a late stage of this process, needs to exceed the day’s basic requirement, if it is to restore the body to a normal condition. The survivor has to ‘catchup’ on his body’s water content, and not just satisfy his day-to-day needs. The essential thing, therefore, is to maintain the body’s water content at its proper level during those first few days before fish can be caught. The only solution is to drink sea-water.

In 1958, while continuing his research into survival techniques, Bombard and six companions were testing a rubber dinghy in rough seas off the coast of Étel in Brittany when a powerful wave overturned the craft. A rescue team attempted to reach them, but the lifeboat itself was capsized by another massive wave, throwing nine of the fourteen rescuers into the water. In the end, only Bombard and four others survived the tragedy.


The route of Alain Bombard's oceanic voyage. Credit: Alain Bombard

Toward the end of the decade, Bombard established a floating marine laboratory named Coryphène, but the venture soon faced serious financial difficulties. He was eventually rescued—not by the sea this time, but by Paul Ricard, the pastis magnate, who offered support and later appointed Bombard director of his new Oceanographic Institute in 1966.

In 1974, Bombard joined the Socialist Party and became involved in an environmental advocacy group created by the polar explorer Paul-Émile Victor. Among its members were his close friends Jacques-Yves Cousteau and the volcanologist Haroun Tazieff. Bombard later entered local politics, and in May 1981 was appointed Minister of the Environment. His tenure was barely a month—cut short when his uncompromising views on hunting provoked opposition in influential circles.

That same year, however, he was elected to the European Parliament. From 1981 to 1994 he proved a forceful and persistent campaigner on environmental issues, speaking out on everything from nuclear power to the culling of baby seals. His strong opposition to the force-feeding of geese for pâté de foie gras even resulted in death threats against him and his family.

Alain Bombard died in 2005.

References:
# “Alain Bombard, 80, Dies; Sailed the Atlantic Alone”, The New York Times
# “Alain Bombard”, Times Online
# “The incredible story of the man who crossed the Atlantic in an inflatable boat without water”, Vela
# Alain Bombard, “The Bombard Story”



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Wilhelm Voigt: The Amiable Scoundrel

On a crisp October morning in 1906, a man in an immaculate Prussian captain’s uniform marched into the Berlin suburb of Köpenick and coolly carried out one of the most extraordinary confidence tricks in modern European history. His name was Wilhelm Voigt, a 57-year-old shoemaker with a long, unhappy acquaintance with the German penal system. For a few hours on October 16, Voigt, armed with nothing more than authority borrowed from a uniform, seized control of a town hall, arrested its mayor, and walked away with 4,002 marks and 37 pfennigs of municipal funds. The affair would become legendary: a pointed satire of Prussian militarism and unquestioning obedience.


Wilhelm Voigt. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

Wilhelm Voigt was born in 1849 in Tilsit (modern-day Sovetsk, Russia), the son of a shoemaker. His early adulthood, however, was overshadowed by a succession of minor crimes—mostly theft and forgery—that led to repeated prison terms. By his mid-fifties he had spent nearly half his life behind bars.

When Voigt was released from prison in February 1906, he attempted to go straight, moving in with his sister in Rixdorf and finding work through a local cobbler. But his criminal record made even legal residency difficult. Police expelled him from the town and from several others where he tried to settle. His attempts to get official permission to live and work in Berlin all failed. These bureaucratic obstructions, layered onto years of marginalisation, pushed Voigt towards a desperate, almost theatrical solution.

The Uniform and the Plan

Through second-hand shops and former military stores, Voigt purchased parts of a Prussian captain’s uniform. He knew how much power such a uniform carried in an empire where military rank was revered. It needed no explanation, no paperwork—a captain was obeyed. And Voigt intended to take full advantage.

At around midday on 16 October 1906, Voigt put on his disguise and approached a detachment of soldiers near Köpenick station and ordered them to follow him for a “secret mission.” He summoned a second troop of relieved guards from the firing range of the 4th Guards Regiment and placed about ten or eleven men under his "command". The authority of his attire was unquestioned.

Telling the soldiers that he was unable to acquire motor vehicles, he rode the tramway with them to Köpenick, east of Berlin. At a layover in Rummelsburg, he bought the men beer. He even gave the soldiers one mark each to buy lunch at the station. After they arrived at Köpenick, he explained to his soldiers that he planned to arrest the mayor and other officers on charges of corruption.

Together they marched to the city hall of Köpenick, where he ordered the men to seal off all entrances. He then announced that the mayor and treasurer were under arrest for suspected financial irregularities.

Voigt then directed the treasurer to prepare an accounting statement and informed him that the municipal treasury would have to be confiscated. After the money had been counted, Voigt had bags brought to him, which he filled with the help of the treasurer, who held the bags and sealed them. The confiscated amount totalled 4002 marks and 37 pfennigs.

The false captain then had the mayor and treasurer escorted to a military vehicle, instructing the soldiers to deliver the officials to Berlin for interrogation. The troops saluted and obeyed.

Voigt even managed to shut down the Köpenick post office for one hour, preventing phone calls to Berlin. Only after the detainees were released, some city councillors were able to notify the district administration office via telegraph.

After Voigt had collected the town’s cash reserves, he calmly left, catching a tram and then a train, and then vanishing into the city before anyone realised what had happened.

Arrest and Pardon

Voigt’s freedom was short-lived. He was captured on 26 October after a former cellmate, who knew about Voigt's plans, tipped off the police. Voigt was sentenced to four years in prison for "unauthorized wearing of a uniform, offence against public order, deprivation of liberty, fraud, and serious forgery of documents."


Wilhelm Voigt's mugshots after his arrest. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

International newspapers reported the story with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. To many Germans, Voigt’s “coup” was deeply symbolic: it exposed a social order where the uniform commanded automatic obedience, and it highlighted the rigid bureaucracy that had ensnared Voigt for years. Popular sentiment swung decisively in his favour. Kaiser Wilhelm II himself was amused by the incident, referring to him as an “amiable scoundrel”. He had him pardoned on 16 August 1908. The pardon was justified on grounds of public sympathy but also reflected Germany’s embarrassment that such a deception had been possible.

After his release, Voigt became a minor celebrity. He toured with theatre productions, appeared in variety shows, signed autographs, and lent his name to early film adaptations of his story. Carl Zuckmayer’s 1931 play Der Hauptmann von Köpenick later immortalized him as a tragicomic figure—the everyman crushed by officialdom, who momentarily turned the system against itself.

In 1909, he published a book in Leipzig, How I became the Captain of Köpenick, which sold well. Although his United States tour almost failed because the immigration authorities refused to grant him a visa, he arrived in 1910 via Canada. He also inspired a waxwork in Madame Tussaud's museum in London.

On 1 May 1910, Wilhelm Voigt received a Luxembourgish passport and relocated to Luxembourg, where he worked primarily as a waiter and shoemaker as his public appearances dwindled. He earned considerable riches as a result of his fame and the "Captain of Köpenick" was actually one of the first car owners in the Grand Duchy. He lived modestly until his death in 1922.


Wilhelm Voigt's statue at Köpenick city hall. Credit: Wikimedia Commons



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