Littérature scientifique sur le sujet « Rain shadow of Jordan Valley »

This study investigated precipitation distribution patterns in association with atmospheric rivers (ARs). The Weather Research and Forecasting (WRF) model was employed to simulate two strong atmospheric river events. The precipitation forecasts were highly sensitive to cloud microphysics parameterization schemes. Thus, radar observed and simulated Z H and Z D R were evaluated to provide information about the drop-size distribution (DSD). Four microphysics schemes (WSM-5, WSM-6, Thompson, and WDM-6) with nested simulations (3 km, 1 km, and 1/3 km) were conducted. One of the events mostly contained bright-band (BB) rainfall and lasted less than 24 h, while the other contained both BB and non-bright-band (NBB) rainfall, and lasted about 27 h. For each event, there was no clear improvement in the 1/3 km model, over the 1 km model. Overall, the WDM-6 microphysics scheme best represented the rainfall and the DSD. It appears that this scheme performed well, due to its relative simplicity in ice and mixed-phase microphysics, while providing double-moment predictions of warm rain microphysics (i.e., cloud and rain mixing ratio and number concentration). The other schemes tested either provided single-moment predictions of all classes or double-moment predictions of ice and rain (Thompson). Considering the shallow nature of precipitation in atmospheric rivers and the high-frequency of the orographic effect enhancing the warm rain process, these assumptions appear to be applicable over the southern San Francisco Bay Area.

Five Neogene floras in southern Washington and northwest Oregon indicate that the uplift of the Cascade Range occurred after ∼8–6 Ma. Miocene floras west of the range (Wilkes and Faraday floras) resemble paleofloras of correlative age to the east (Rattlesnake Hills, Palouse Falls, and lower Ringold). The statistical similarity of Miocene floras east and west of the Cascade Range axis demonstrates that a similar mesic, warm climate across the Pacific Northwest existed during the Middle and Late Miocene. These floras represent mixed hardwood–conifer forests that commonly contained Taxodium (bald cypress) and other mesophytic taxa. Based on Jaccard similarity coefficients calibrated with climatic data from modern plant communities, these paleofloras indicate a climate that was summer–wet, unlike that of the Pacific Northwest today. The annual precipitation was >100 cm, and the estimated mean annual temperatures of the fossil sites were 12–13 °C. The Miocene floras indicate that the development of a Cascade rain shadow in eastern Washington did not develop until after the deposition of the lower Ringold Formation in eastern Washington. That conclusion is reinforced by a well-documented climate and sediment sequence in the Snake River Valley, Idaho. There, well-dated pollen sections record a sharp decrease (by ∼30%–50%) in the annual precipitation regime after the Late Miocene Banbury Basalt and Poison Creek formations and before ∼3.4 Ma. The existence of extensive late Ringold sediments uplifted on the north side of Saddle Mountain indicates that the structural lifting of the Cascade Range had begun by 3.1 Ma (Pliocene). These data all suggest that the lifting of the Cascades occurred after Miocene time, and that the Cascade rain shadow developed during the Pliocene.

Abstract We examined geographic patterns of diversification in the highly impacted San Joaquin kangaroo rat, Dipodomys nitratoides, throughout its range in the San Joaquin Valley and adjacent basins in central California. The currently recognized subspecies were distinct by the original set of mensural and color variables used in their formal diagnoses, although the Fresno kangaroo rat (D. n. exilis) is the most strongly differentiated with sharp steps in character clines relative to the adjacent Tipton (D. n. nitratoides) and short-nosed (D. n. brevinasus) races. The latter two grade more smoothly into one another but still exhibit independent, and different, character clines within themselves. At the molecular level, as delineated by mtDNA cytochrome b sequences, most population samples retain high levels of diversity despite significant retraction in the species range and severe fragmentation of local populations in recent decades due primarily to landscape conversion for agriculture and secondarily to increased urbanization. Haplotype apportionment bears no relationship to morphologically defined subspecies boundaries. Rather, a haplotype network is shallow, most haplotypes are single-step variants, and the time to coalescence is substantially more recent than the time of species split between D. nitratoides and its sister taxon, D. merriami. The biogeographic history of the species within the San Joaquin Valley appears tied to mid-late Pleistocene expansion following significant drying of the valley resulting from the rain shadow produced by uplift of the Central Coastal Ranges.

AbstractTransient storage and erosion of valley fills, or sediment buffering, is a fundamental but poorly quantified process that may significantly bias fluvial sediment budgets and marine archives used for paleoclimatic and tectonic reconstructions. Prolific sediment buffering is now recognized to occur within the mountainous upper Indus River headwaters and is quantified here for the first time using optically stimulated luminescence dating, petrography, detrital zircon U-Pb geochronology, and morphometric analysis to define the timing, provenance, and volumes of prominent valley fills. This study finds that climatically modulated sediment buffering occurs over 103–104yr time scales and results in biases in sediment compositions and volumes. Increased sediment storage coincides with strong phases of summer monsoon and winter westerlies precipitation over the late Pleistocene (32–25 ka) and mid-Holocene (~8–6 ka), followed by incision and erosion with monsoon weakening. Glacial erosion and periglacial frost-cracking drive sediment production, and monsoonal precipitation mediates sediment evacuation, in contrast to the arid Transhimalaya and monsoonal frontal Himalaya. Plateau interior basins, although volumetrically large, lack transport capacity and are consequently isolated from the modern Indus River drainage. Marginal plateau catchments that both efficiently produce and evacuate sediment may regulate the overall compositions and volumes of exported sediment from the Himalayan rain shadow.

Abstract Winter orographic precipitation over the Andes between 30° and 37°S is examined using precipitation gauges in the mountains and adjacent lowlands. Because of the limited number of precipitation gauges, this paper focuses on the large-scale variation in cross-barrier precipitation and does not take into account the fine ridge–valley scale. The maximum amount of precipitation was observed on the windward slope of the mountain range below the crest, which was twice that observed on the low-windward side between 32.5° and 34°S. Toward the east of the crest, precipitation amounts drop sharply, generating a strong cross-barrier gradient. The rain shadow effect is greater in the north (32°–34.5°S) than in the south (35°–36.5°S) of the low-lee side, which is probably due to more baroclinic activity in southernmost latitudes and a southward decrease in the height of the Andes enabling more spillover precipitation. The effect of the Andes on winter precipitation is so marked that it modifies the precipitation regimes in the adjacent windward and leeward lowlands north of 35°S. Based on the fact that ~75% of the wintertime precipitation accumulated in the fourth quartile, through four or five heavy events on average, the synoptic-scale patterns of the heavy (into fourth quartile) orographic precipitation events were identified. Heavy events are strongly related to strong water vapor transport from the Pacific Ocean in the pre-cold-front environment of extratropical cyclones, which would have the form of atmospheric rivers as depicted in the reanalysis and rawinsonde data. The composite fields revealed a marked difference between two subgroups of heavy precipitation events. The extreme (100th–95th percentiles) events are associated with deeper cyclones than those for intense (95th–75th percentiles) events. These deeper cyclones lead to much stronger plumes of water vapor content and cross-barrier moisture flux against the high Andes, resulting in heavier orographic precipitation for extreme events. In addition, regional airflow characteristics suggest that the low-level flow is typically blocked and diverted poleward in the form of an along-barrier jet. On the lee side, downslope flow dominates during heavy events, producing prominent rain shadow effects as denoted by the domain of downslope winds extending to low-leeward side (i.e., zonda wind).

Abstract. In June 2009, we conducted the first extensive glaciological survey of Alto dell'Ortles, the uppermost glacier of Mt. Ortles (3905 m a.s.l.), the highest summit of the Eastern European Alps. This section of the Alps is located in a rain shadow and is characterized by the lowest precipitation rate in the entire Alpine arc. Mt. Ortles offers a unique opportunity to test deposition mechanisms of chemical species that until now were studied only in the climatically-different western sector. We analyzed snow samples collected on Alto dell'Ortles from a 4.5 m snow-pit at 3830 m a.s.l., and we determined a large suite of trace elements and ionic compounds that comprise the atmospheric deposition over the past two years. Trace element concentrations measured in snow samples are extremely low with mean concentrations at pg g−1 levels. Only Al and Fe present median values of 1.8 and 3.3 ng g−1, with maximum concentrations of 21 and 25 ng g−1. The median crustal enrichment factor (EFc) values for Be, Rb, Sr, Ba, U, Li, Al, Ca, Cr, Mn, Fe, Co, Ga and V are lower than 10 suggesting that these elements originated mainly from soil and mineral aerosol. EFc higher than 100 are reported for Zn (118), Ag (135), Bi (185), Sb (401) and Cd (514), demonstrating the predominance of non-crustal depositions and suggesting an anthropogenic origin. Our data show that the physical stratigraphy and the chemical signals of several species were well preserved in the uppermost snow of the Alto dell'Ortles glacier. A clear seasonality emerges from the data as the summer snow is more affected by anthropogenic and marine contributions while the winter aerosol flux is dominated by crustal sources. For trace elements, the largest mean EFc seasonal variations are displayed by V (with a factor of 3.8), Sb (3.3), Cu (3.3), Pb (2.9), Bi (2.8), Cd (2.1), Zn (1.9), Ni (1.8), Ag (1.8), As (1.7) and Co (1.6). When trace species ratios in local and Po Valley emissions are compared with those in Alto dell'Ortles snow, the deposition on Mt. Ortles is clearly linked with Po Valley summer emissions. Despite climatic differences between the Eastern and Western Alps, trace element ratios from Alto dell'Ortles are comparable with those obtained from high-altitude glaciers in the Western Alps, suggesting similar sources and transport processes at seasonal time scales in these two distinct areas. In particular, the large changes in trace element concentrations both in the Eastern and Western Alps appear to be more related to the regional vertical structure of the troposphere rather than the synoptic weather patterns.

Abstract. Snow in the High Atlas Mountains is a major source for freshwater renewal and for water availability in the semi-arid lowlands of south-eastern Morocco. Snowfall- and snow-ablation monitoring and modelling is important for estimating potential water delivery from the mountain water towers to the forelands. This study is part of GLOWA-IMPETUS, an integrated management project dealing with scarce water resources in West Africa. The Ameskar study area is located to the south of the High Atlas Mountains, in their rain shadow. As a part of the M’Goun river basin within the upper Drâa valley, the study area is characterised by high radiation inputs, low atmospheric humidity and long periods with sub-zero temperatures. Its altitude ranges between 2000 m and 4000 m, with dominant north- and south-facing slopes. Snowfall occurs mainly from November to April but even summit regions can become repeatedly devoid of snow cover. Snow cover maps for the M’Goun basin (1240 km2) are derived from calculations of NDSI (Normalized Difference Snow Index) from MODIS satellite images and snow depth is monitored at four automatic weather stations between 2000–4000 m. Snowfall events are infrequent at lower altitudes. The presence of snow penitentes at altitudes above 3000 m indicates that snow sublimation is an important component of snow ablation. Snow ablation was modelled with the UEB Utah Energy Balance Model (Tarboton and Luce, 1996). This single layer, physically-based, point energy and mass balance model is driven by meteorological variables recorded at the automatic weather stations at Tounza (2960 m) and Tichki (3260 m). Data from snow pillows at Tounza and Tichki are used to validate the model’s physical performance in terms of energy and water balances for a sequence of two snowfall events in the winter of 2003/4. First UEB modelling results show good overall performance and timing of snowmelt and sublimation compared to field investigations. Up to 44% of snow ablation is attributed to snow sublimation in typical winters with subzero temperatures and low atmospheric humidity at an altitude of 3000 m. At altitudes below 3000 m snowmelt generally dominates over sublimation. Unfortunately, the highest altitude zones suffer long periods with direct water loss into the atmosphere by sublimation in the course of which they cannot contribute to direct runoff or groundwater formation in the southern High Atlas Mountains. Keywords: sublimation, snow ablation modelling, energy balance model, High Atlas Mountains

IntroductionI spent five days on the Arizona Utah border, photographing Monument Valley and the surrounding areas as part of a group of eight undertaking a landscape photography workshop under the direction of a Navajo guide. Observing where our guide was taking us, and watching and talking to other tourist photographers, I was reminded of John Urry’s concept of the “tourist gaze” and the idea that tourists see destinations in terms of the promotional images they are familiar with (Urry 1). It seemed that tourists re-created images drawn from the popular imaginary, inserting themselves into familiar narratives of place. The goal of the research was to look specifically at the tourist gaze, that is, the way that tourists see view destinations and then represent that vision in their images. Circle of Representation Urry explained the tourist gaze as a particular way of seeing the world as a series of images created by the tourism industry; images which were then consumed or collected through tourist photography. He saw this as constituting a “closed circle of representation” where the images employed by the tourism industry to attract tourists to particular destinations were reproduced in tourists’ own holiday snaps, and as more tourists sought out these locations, they were increasingly used to represent the destination. Susan Sontag saw travel employed as “a strategy for accumulating photographs” (9) suggesting that the images were the culmination of the journey. Urry also saw the end point of tourism as travellers to a destination “demonstrating that they have really been there by showing their version of the images that they had seen originally before they set off” (140).Talking to the guide, my group, and other tourists about the images we were recording, and reviewing images tagged Monument Valley on Instagram revealed that digital and network technologies had altered tourists’ photographic practices. Tourist impressions of destinations come from a wide range of popular culture sources. They have, even on smartphones, fairly sophisticated tools for creating images; and they have diverse networks for distributing their images. Increasingly, the images that tourists see as representative of Monument Valley came from popular culture and social media, and not simply from tourism promotions. People are posting their travel images online, and are in turn looking to posts from others in their search for travel information (Akehurst 55). The current circle of representation in tourist photography is not simply a process of capturing promotional imagery, but an interaction between tourists that draws upon films, television, and other popular culture forms. Tourist photographs are less a matter of “consuming places” (Urry 259) and more an identity performance through which they create ongoing personal narratives of place by inserting themselves into pre-existing stories about the destination and circulating the new narratives.Jenkins analysed brochures on Australia available to potential tourists in Vancouver, Canada, and determined that the key photographic images used to promote Australia were Uluru and the Sydney Opera House, followed by sandy beaches alongside tropical blue waters. Interviews with Canadian backpackers travelling around Australia, and an examination of the images these backpackers took with the disposable cameras they were given, found a correlation between the brochure images and the personal photographs. Jenkins concluded that the results supported Urry’s theory of a closed circle of representation, in that the images from the brochures were “tracked down and recaptured, and the resulting photographs displayed upon return home by the backpackers as evidence of the trip” (Jenkins 324).Garrod randomly selected 25 tourists along the seafront of Aberystwyth, Wales, and gave them a single-use camera, a brief socio-demographic questionnaire, a photo log, and a reply-paid envelope in which they could return these items. The tourists were asked to take 12 photos and log the reason they took each photograph and what they tried to capture in terms of their visit to Aberystwyth. Nine females and four males returned their cameras, providing 164 photographs, which were compared with 70 postcards depicting Aberystwyth. While an initial comparison revealed similarities in the content of tourist photographs and the picture postcards of the town, Garrod’s analysis revealed two main differences: postcards featured wide angle or panoramic views, while tourist photos tended to be close up or detail shots and postcards included natural features, particularly bodies of water, while tourist photographs were more often of buildings and man-made structures. Garrod concluded that the relationship between tourism industry images and tourist photographs “might be more subtle and complex than simply for the two protagonists in the relationship to mimic one other” (356).MethodIdentifying a tourist’s motivation for taking a particular photograph, the source of inspiration for the image, and the details of what the photographer was attempting to capture involves the consideration of a range of variables, many of which cannot be controlled. The ability of the photographer and the sophistication of their equipment will have an impact on the type of images captured; for example this may explain the absence of panoramas in Aberystwyth tourist photos. The length of the stay and the level of familiarity with the location may also have an impact; on a first visit a tourist may look for the major landmarks and on subsequent visits photograph the smaller details. The personal history of the tourist, the meaning the location has for them, their reasons for visiting and their mood at the time, will all influence their selection of photo subjects. Giving tourists a camera and then asking them to photograph the destination may influence the choice of subject and the care taken with composition, however this does ensure a direct link between the tourist opinions gathered and the images analysed. An approach that depends on seeing the images taken independently by the tourists who were interviewed has logistical problems that significantly reduce sample size.Fourteen randomly selected tourists at the visitors centre in Monument Valley, a random sampling of 500 Instagram images hash tagged Monument Valley, and photographs taken by seven photographers in the author’s group were studied by the author. The tourists were asked what they wanted to take photographs of while in Monument Valley, and why of those particular subjects. The images taken by these tourists were not available for analysis for logistical reasons, and 500 Instagram images tagged #MonumentValley were collected as generally representative of tourist images. Members of the photography workshop group were all serious amateur photographers with digital SLR cameras, interchangeable lenses, and tripods. Motivations, decisions and the evaluation of images were discussed with this group, and their images reviewed in terms of the extent to which the image was felt to be representative of the location.Monument ValleyMonument Valley can be considered a mythic space in that it is a real place that has taken on mythic meanings that go beyond physical characteristics and lived experiences (Slotkin 11). Located on the Navajo Tribal Park on the Arizona Utah border, it is known by the Navajo as Tse'Bii'Ndzisgaii or “Valley of the Rocks.” Monument Valley is emblematic of the Wild West, the frontier beyond which civilization vanishes, a mythology originally derived from the Western Films of director John Ford. Ford's film, Stagecoach, was shot in Monument Valley and Ford returned nine times to shoot Westerns here, even when films (such as The Searchers, set in Texas) were not set in Arizona or Utah. The spectacular desert scenery with its towering rock formations combine epic grandeur with brutal conditions, providing an appropriate backdrop for dramatic oppositions: civilization versus barbarity, community versus wilderness, freedom versus domestication. The mythological meanings attached to Monument Valley were extended in the films, novels, television programs, and advertising that followed. Footage of Monument Valley is used to represent a blend of freedom and danger in 2001: A Space Odyssey, Easy Rider, Thelma & Louise, Marlborough and Chevrolet advertising, the television series Airwolf and episodes of Doctor Who. Monument Valley was the culmination of Forrest Gump's exhaustive run, and the setting for music videos by Kanye West, Madonna and Michael Jackson, each drawing on the themes of alienation and the displacement of the hero. While Westerns are on one level uniquely American, they are consistent with widely known romantic myths and stories, and the universal narratives evoked by Monument Valley have appeal far outside the USA. The iconic images of Monument Valley have been circulated well beyond tourist informational material, permeating a breadth of popular culture forms.Photographing the ValleyPhotography is intrinsically linked with tourism, fulfilling a number of roles. Travel can have as its purpose the collection of images, and as such, photography can function to structure the travel experience, and to evaluate its success (Schroeder; Sontag). Recognisable images of the location provide evidence that travel was undertaken, places were visited, and the traveller has experienced some form of authentic or exotic experience (Chalfen 435). Sharing images is an essential part of the process. The various roles of photography are to an extent dependent on having a shared mental image of what photographs from the travel location would look like. This mental image is derived, in part, from tourism sources such as postcards, brochures, and websites, but also from popular culture, and increasingly from photographs taken by other tourists. Travel images are shared online on sites such as Trip Advisor and Virtual Tourist, as well as travel blogs and photo sharing sites like Flickr and Instagram. People who post images online are likely to look to the same sites to search for travel information from others (Akehurst 55), reinforcing specific images as representative of the place and the experience.At the beginning of our photography-based tour we were asked which locations we wanted to photograph. There was a general consensus, with people looking for vistas and panoramas, “golden hour” light on the rock formations of buttes and mesas, sunrises and sunsets with silhouetted landscape forms, and close-ups of shadow patterns and textures. Our guide added that one day had been set aside for the iconic images, which were described as the “Forest Gump” shot from Highway 163, the Mittens at sunrise, John Ford Point (as most recently seen in The Lone Ranger movie posters), and the vista from Artist’s Point or North Window. When I asked tourists at the visitor information centre the same question about the images they wanted to capture, the responses were uniform with all of them saying the view of The Mittens, which was immediately before them. Seventy-eight percent (N=11) said that they were after a general panorama with the distinctive landforms, and Highway 163 was named by 57 percent (N=8). Few gave more than these three sites. Forty-two percent (N=6) described the John Ford Point image with the Navajo rider as a goal, and the same number said they would like to take some sunrise or sunset images. Twenty-eight percent (N=4) were looking to take images of themselves or their friends and family, with the distinctive landscape as a backdrop. There was a high level of consistency between the images described by the guide as “iconic” and the photographs that tourists wished to capture.Categorising five hundred Instagram images with the hashtag Monument Valley revealed 195 pictures (39 percent) of the Mittens, 58 of which were taken at sunrise or sunset. There were 88 images (18 percent) taken of Highway 163. John Ford Point featured in 26 images (five percent) of images and Artist’s Point was the location in 20 (four percent). Seventy-nine photographs (16 percent) were of other landmarks such as the Three Sisters, Elephant Butte, and Rain God Mesa, all visible from the self-drive circuit. Landmarks which could only be visited accompanied by a Navajo guide, accounted for 48 (nine percent) of the Instagram images. There were 16 images (three percent) of people, meals, and cars without any recognisable landmarks in the frame. The remaining 28 images (five percent) were of landmarks in the Southwest, but not in Monument Valley, although they were tagged as such.As expected, the photography tour group had a fairly wide range of images, which included close-ups of rocks, images of juniper trees, and images taken in places that were accessible only with a high clearance vehicle and a Navajo guide, such as the Totem Pole and Yei Bi Chei, the Valley of the Gods, and the slickrock formations of Mystery Valley. However, in the images selected at the end of the workshop as representative of their experience of Monument Valley, all participants included the iconic images of Highway 163, the Mittens, and the Artist’s Point vista.Very few images were of the Navajo people. Tourists are requested not to photograph the Navajo unless they were at a sign-posted location where a mechanism was available for paying for the privilege. Here the Navajo posed in traditional dress, engaged in customary activities, or as foreground interest in the desert landscape. The few tourists availing themselves of these opportunities seemed self-conscious, hurriedly taking the snap and paying the fee. Gillespie explains this as the effect of the “reverse gaze” where the photographed positions the photographer “as an ignorant and superficial tourist” (349). At the time, only one of the iconic images was featured on one of the official tourist sites, with the Mittens forming the banner image on the Visit Utah Monument Valley page. The Visit Arizona Monument Valley page had a single image (of the Ear of the Wind natural arch), and the Navajo Nation Parks and Recreation Monument Valley page also had a single image, that of the Three Sisters formation.Image and MeaningThe dominant subject in both tourist and tourism industry images is the Mittens. This image is also prominent in popular culture beginning with John Ford's film Stagecoach, through to Kanye West’s Bound 2 music video. This suggests that there is a closed circle of representation in tourist photography, with visitors capturing the images they have previously seen as representative of the destination. However, there may be an additional, more prosaic, explanation. The Mittens can be photographed from the terrace at the visitors centre, from the rooms at the View Hotel, or they can be captured from the car park, meaning that tourists do not have to leave their cars to attach this image to their travel narrative. The second most photographed landscape was that of Highway 163, an image that can be taken without even having to pay the fee and enter the Navajo Park.Garrod’s study of tourist and professional images of Aberystwyth noted that tourists did not have photographs taken from the top of the hill, and while no explanation for this was given, it could be that ease of access was a consideration. While the number of visitors to America’s national parks and recreation areas is increasing each year, the amount of time each visitor spends at the attraction is in decline. The average visit to Yosemite lasts just under five hours, visitors stay for just under two hours in Saguaro National Park in Arizona, and at the Grand Canyon National Park, most visitors spend just 17 minutes looking at the magnificent landscape (Bernstein; de Graaf). In Yosemite National Park many visitors “simply rolled by slowly in their cars, taking photos out the windows” (de Graaf np). So, ease of access to locations familiar from popular culture images is a factor in tourist representations of their destinations.Our photography tour group stayed five days in Monument Valley and travelled further afield to locations only accessible with a Navajo guide, however the images selected as representative of Monument Valley were of the same easily reached landmarks. This suggests that the process around the perpetuation of iconic tourist images is more complex than simple ease of access, or first impressions.What is apparent in looking at both the Instagram images and those photographs selected as representative by the tour group, is that what is depicted is not necessarily contemporary tourist experience, but rather a way of seeing the experience in terms of personal and cultural stories. Photography involves the selection, structuring and shaping of what is to be captured (Urry 260), so that the image is as much the representation of a perception, as a snapshot of experienced reality. In a guide to photographing the southwest of the USA, Matrés regrets the greater restrictions on movement and the increased commercialisation in Monument Valley (170), which reduce the possibility of photographing under good light conditions, and of capturing images without tourist buses, sales booths, and consequent crowds. However, almost all of the photographs studied avoided these. Photographers seemed to have expended considerable effort to produce an idealised image of a Western landscape that would have been familiar to John Ford, as the photographs were not of a commercialised, crowded tourist destination. When someone paid the horseman to ride out to the end of John Ford Point, groups of tourists would walk out too, fussing over the horse, however having people in the image led to those on the photography tour rejecting the image as representative of Monument Valley. For the most part, the landscape images highlighted the isolation and remoteness, depicting the frontier beyond which civilization ceases to exist.ConclusionPhotography is one of the performances through which people establish personal realities (Crang 245), and the reality for Monument Valley tourists is that it is still a remote destination. It is in the driest and least populated part of the US, and receives only 350,000 visitors a year compared, with the five million people who visit the nearby Grand Canyon. On a prosaic level, tourist photographs verify that the location was visited (Sontag 9), so the images must be able to be readily associated with the destination. They are evidence that the tourist has experienced some form of authentic, exotic, place (Chalfen 435), and so must depict scenes that differ from the everyday landscape. They also play a role in constructing an identity based in being a particular type of tourist, so they need to contribute to the narrative constructed from a blend of mythologies, memories and experiences. The circle of representation in tourist images is still closed, though it has broadened to constitute a narrative derived from a range of sources. By capturing the iconic landmarks of Monument Valley framed to emphasise the grandeur and isolation, tourists insert themselves into a narrative that includes John Wayne and Kanye West at the edge of civilization.References2001: A Space Odyssey. Dir. Stanley Kubrick. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1968.Airwolf. Dir. Donald P. Bellisario, CBS, 1984–1986.Akehurst, Gary. “User Generated Content: The Use of Blogs for Tourism Organisations and Tourism Consumers.” Service Business 3.1 (2009): 51-61.Bernstein, Danny. “The Numbers behind National Park Visitation.” National Parks Traveller, 2010. 5 Aug. 2016 <http://www.nationalparkstraveler.com/2010/04/numbers-behind-national-park-visitation/>.Kanye West. Bound 2. Nick Knight Good Music, 2013.Chalfen, Richard M. “Photography’s Role in Tourism: Some Unexplored Relationships.” Annals of Tourism Research 6.4 (1979): 435–447Crang, Mike. “Knowing, Tourism and Practices of Vision.” Leisure/Tourism Geographies: Practices and Geographical Knowledge. Ed. David Crouch. London: Routledge, 1999. 238–56.De Graaf, John. “Finding Time for Our Parks.” Earth Island Journal, 2016. 5 Aug. 2016 <http://www.earthisland.org/journal/index.php/eij/article/finding_time_for_our_parks/>.Doctor Who. Sydney Newman, C. E. Webber, Donald Wilson. BBC One, 1963–present.Easy Rider. Dir. Dennis Hopper. Columbia Pictures, 1969.Garrod, Brian. “Understanding the Relationship between Tourism Destination Imagery and Tourist Photography.” Journal of Travel Research 47.3 (2009): 346-358Gillespie, Alex. "Tourist Photography and the Reverse Gaze." Ethos 34.3 (2006): 343-366.Jenkins, Olivia. “Photography and Travel Brochures: The Circle of Representation.” Tourism Geographies 5.3 (2003): 305-328.Matrés, Laurent. Photographing the Southwest. Alta Loma, CA: Graphie Publishers, 2006.Schroeder, Jonathan E. Visual Consumption. London: Routledge, 2002.Slotkin, Richard. The Fatal Environment: The Myth of the Frontier in the Age of Industrialization, 1800-1890. Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1998. Sontag, Susan. On Photography. London: Penguin Books, 1977 Stagecoach. Dir. John Ford. United Artists, 1937.The Searchers. Dir. John Ford. Warner Bros, 1956.Thelma & Louise. Dir. Ridley Scott. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1991.Urry, John. The Tourist Gaze: Leisure and Travel in Contemporary Societies. London: Sage, 1992.

In PilsenTwenty-six Station Road,She climbed to the third floorUp stairs which were all that was leftOf the whole house,She opened her doorFull on to the sky,Stood gaping over the edge.For this was the placeThe world ended.Thenshe locked up carefullylest someone stealSiriusor Aldebaranfrom her kitchen,went back downstairsand settled herselfto waitfor the house to rise againand for her husband to rise from the ashesand for her children’s hands and feet to be stuck back in placeIn the morning they found herstill as stone, sparrows pecking her hands.Five Minutes after the Air Raidby Miroslav Holub(Calder 287) Holding Still Detonation. Affect. During the Second World War, London and other European cities were subjected to the terrors of aerial bombardment, rendered through nightmarish anticipations of the bomber (Gollin 7) and the material storm of the real air-raid. The fall of bombs plagued cities and their citizens with the terrible rain of explosives and incendiary weapons. A volatile landscape was formed as the urban environment was ‘unmade’ and urged into violent motion. Flying projectiles of shrapnel, debris and people; avalanches of collapsing factories and houses; the inhale and exhale of compressed air and firestorms; the scream of the explosion. All these composed an incredibly fluid urban traumatic, as atmospheres fell over the cities that was thick with smoke, dust, and ventilated only by terror (see for instance Sebald 10 and Mendieta’s 3 recent commentary). Vast craters were imprinted onto the charred morphologies of London and Berlin as well as Coventry, Hamburg and Dresden. Just as the punctuations of the bombing saw the psychic as well as the material give way, writers portraying Britain as an ‘volcano island’ (Spaight 5) witnessed eruptive projections – the volleys of the material air-war; the emotional signature of charged and bitter reprisals; pain, anguish and vengeance - counter-strikes of affect. In the midst of all of this molten violence and emotion it seems impossible that a simultaneous sense of quiescence could be at all possible. More than mere physical fixity or geographical stasis, a rather different sort of experience could take place. Preceding, during and following the excessive mobilisation of an air raid, ‘stillness’ was often used to describe certain plateuing stretches of time-space which were slowed and even stopped (Anderson 740). Between the eruptions appeared hollows of calm and even boredom. People’s nervous flinching under the reverberation of high-explosive blasts formed part of what Jordan Crandall might call a ‘bodily-inclination’ position. Slackened and taut feelings condensed around people listening out for the oncoming bomber. People found that they prepared for the dreadful wail of the siren, or relaxed in the aftermath of the attack. In these instances, states of tension and apprehension as well as calm and relief formed though stillness. The peculiar experiences of ‘stillness’ articulated in these events open out, I suggest, distinctive ways-of-being which undo our assumptions of perpetually fluid subjectivities and the primacy of the ‘body in motion’ even within the context of unparalleled movement and uncertainty (see Harrison 423 and also Rose and Wylie 477 for theoretical critique). The sorts of “musics of stillness and silence able to be discovered in a world of movement” (Thrift, Still 50), add to our understandings of the material geographies of war and terror (see for instance Graham 63; Gregory and Pred 3), whilst they gesture towards complex material-affective experiences of bodies and spaces. Stillness in this sense, denotes apprehending and anticipating spaces and events in ways that sees the body enveloped within the movement of the environment around it; bobbing along intensities that course their way through it; positioned towards pasts and futures that make themselves felt, and becoming capable of intense forms of experience and thought. These examples illustrate not a shutting down of the body to an inwardly focused position – albeit composed by complex relations and connections – but bodies finely attuned to their exteriors (see Bissell, Animating 277 and Conradson 33). In this paper I draw from a range of oral and written testimony archived at the Imperial War Museum and the Mass Observation wartime regular reports. Edited publications from these collections were also consulted. Detailing the experience of aerial bombing during the Blitz, particularly on London between September 1940 to May 1941, forms part of a wider project concerning the calculative and affective dimensions of the aeroplane’s relationship with the human body, especially through the spaces it has worked to construct (infrastructures such as airports) and destroy. While appearing extraordinary, the examples I use are actually fairly typical of the patternings of experience and the depth and clarity with which they are told. They could be taken to be representative of the population as a whole or coincidentally similar testimonials. Either way, they are couched within a specific cultural historical context of urgency, threat and unparalleled violence.Anticipations The complex material geographies of an air raid reveal the ecological interdependencies of populations and their often urban environments and metabolisms (Coward 419; Davis 3; Graham 63; Gregory The Colonial 19; Hewitt Place 257). Aerial warfare was an address of populations conceived at the register of their bio-rhythmical and metabolic relationship to their milieu (Adey). The Blitz and the subsequent Allied bombing campaign constituted Churchill’s ‘great experiment’ for governments attempting to assess the damage an air raid could inflict upon a population’s nerves and morale (Brittain 77; Gregory In Another 88). An anxious and uncertain landscape constructed before the war, perpetuated by public officials, commentators and members of parliament, saw background affects (Ngai 5) of urgency creating an atmosphere that pressurised and squeezed the population to prepare for the ‘gathering storm’. Attacks upon the atmosphere itself had been readily predicted in the form of threatening gas attacks ready to poison the medium upon which human and animal life depended (Haldane 111; Sloterdijk 41-57). One of the most talked of moments of the Blitz is not necessarily the action but the times of stillness that preceded it. Before and in-between an air raid stillness appears to describe a state rendered somewhere between the lulls and silences of the action and the warnings and the anticipatory feelings of what might happen. In the awaiting bodies, the materialites of silence could be felt as a kind-of-sound and as an atmospheric sense of imminence. At the onset of the first air-raids sound became a signifier of what was on the way (MO 408). Waiting – as both practice and sensation – imparted considerable inertia that went back and forth through time (Jeffrey 956; Massumi, Parables 3). For Geographer Kenneth Hewitt, sound “told of the coming raiders, the nearness of bombs, the plight of loved ones” (When the 16). The enormous social survey of Mass Observation concluded that “fear seems to be linked above all with noise” (original emphasis). As one report found, “It is the siren or the whistle or the explosion or the drone – these are the things that terrify. Fear seems to come to us most of all through our sense of hearing” (MO 378). Yet the power of the siren came not only from its capacity to propagate sound and to alert, but the warning held in its voice of ‘keeping silent’. “Prefacing in a dire prolepsis the post-apocalyptic event before the event”, as Bishop and Phillips (97) put it, the stillness of silence was incredibly virtual in its affects, disclosing - in its lack of life – the lives that would be later taken. Devastation was expected and rehearsed by civilians. Stillness formed a space and body ready to spring into movement – an ‘imminent mobility’ as John Armitage (204) has described it. Perched on the edge of devastation, space-times were felt through a sense of impending doom. Fatalistic yet composed expectations of a bomb heading straight down pervaded the thoughts and feelings of shelter dwellers (MO 253; MO 217). Waves of sound disrupted fragile tempers as they passed through the waiting bodies in the physical language of tensed muscles and gritted teeth (Gaskin 36). Silence helped form bodies inclined-to-attention, particularly sensitive to aural disturbances and vibrations from all around. Walls, floors and objects carried an urban bass-line of warning (Goodman). Stillness was forged through a body readied in advance of the violence these materialities signified. A calm and composed body was not necessarily an immobile body. Civilians who had prepared for the attacks were ready to snap into action - to dutifully wear their gas-mask or escape to shelter. ‘Backgrounds of expectation’ (Thrift, Still 36) were forged through non-too-subtle procedural and sequential movements which opened-out new modes of thinking and feeling. Folding one’s clothes and placing them on the dresser in-readiness; pillows and sheets prepared for a spell in the shelter, these were some of many orderly examples (IWM 14595). In the event of a gas attack air raid precautions instructions advised how to put on a gas mask (ARPD 90-92),i) Hold the breath. ii) Remove headgear and place between the knees. iii) Lift the flap of the haversack [ …] iv) Bring the face-piece towards the face’[…](v) Breathe out and continue to breathe in a normal manner The rational technologies of drill, dressage and operational research enabled poise in the face of an eventual air-raid. Through this ‘logistical-life’ (Reid 17), thought was directed towards simple tasks by minutely described instructions. Stilled LifeThe end of stillness was usually marked by a reactionary ‘flinch’, ‘start’ or ‘jump’. Such reactionary ‘urgent analogs’ (Ngai 94; Tomkins 96) often occurred as a response to sounds and movements that merely broke the tension rather than accurately mimicking an air raid. These atmospheres were brittle and easily disrupted. Cars back-firing and changing gear were often complained about (MO 371), just as bringing people out of the quiescence of sleep was a common effect of air-raids (Kraftl and Horton 509). Disorientation was usually fostered in this process while people found it very difficult to carry out the most simple of tasks. Putting one’s clothes on or even making their way out of the bedroom door became enormously problematic. Sirens awoke a ‘conditioned reflex’ to take cover (MO 364). Long periods of sleep deprivation brought on considerable fatigue and anxiety. ‘Sleep we Must’ wrote journalist Ritchie Calder (252) noticing the invigorating powers of sleep for both urban morale and the bare existence of survival. For other more traumatized members of the population, psychological studies found that the sustained concentration of shelling caused what was named ‘apathy-retreat’ (Harrisson, Living 65). This extreme form of acquiescence saw especially susceptible and vulnerable civilians suffer an overwhelming urge to sleep and to be cared-for ‘as if chronically ill’ (Janis 90). A class and racial politics of quiescent affect was enacted as several members of the population were believed far more liable to ‘give way’ to defeat and dangerous emotions (Brittain 77; Committee of Imperial Defence).In other cases it was only once an air-raid had started that sleep could be found (MO 253). The boredom of waiting could gather in its intensity deforming bodies with “the doom of depression” (Anderson 749). The stopped time-spaces in advance of a raid could be soaked with so much tension that the commencement of sirens, vibrations and explosions would allow a person overwhelming relief (MO 253). Quoting from a boy recalling his experiences in Hannover during 1943, Hewitt illustrates:I lie in bed. I am afraid. I strain my ears to hear something but still all is quiet. I hardly dare breathe, as if something horrible is knocking at the door, at the windows. Is it the beating of my heart? ... Suddenly there seems relief, the sirens howl into the night ... (Heimatbund Niedersachsen 1953: 185). (Cited in Hewitt, When 16)Once a state of still was lost getting it back required some effort (Bissell, Comfortable 1697). Cautious of preventing mass panic and public hysteria by allowing the body to erupt outwards into dangerous vectors of mobility, the British government’s schooling in the theories of panicology (Orr 12) and contagious affect (Le Bon 17; Tarde 278; Thrift, Intensities 57; Trotter 140), made air raid precautions (ARP) officers, police and civil defence teams enforce ‘stay put’ and ‘hold firm’ orders to protect the population (Jones et al, Civilian Morale 463, Public Panic 63-64; Thomas 16). Such orders were meant to shield against precisely the kinds of volatile bodies they were trying to compel with their own bombing strategies. Reactions to the Blitz were moralised and racialised. Becoming stilled required self-conscious work by a public anxious not to be seen to ‘panic’. This took the form of self-disciplination. People exhausted considerable energy to ‘settle’ themselves down. It required ‘holding’ themselves still and ‘together’ in order to accomplish this state, and to avoid going the same way as the buildings falling apart around them, as some people observed (MO 408). In Britain a cup of tea was often made as a spontaneous response in the event of the conclusion of a raid (Brown 686). As well as destroying bombing created spaces too – making space for stillness (Conradson 33). Many people found that they could recall their experiences in vivid detail, allocating a significant proportion of their memories to the recollection of the self and an awareness of their surroundings (IWM 19103). In this mode of stillness, contemplation did not turn-inwards but unfolded out towards the environment. The material processual movement of the shell-blast literally evacuated all sound and materials from its centre to leave a vacuum of negative pressure. Diaries and oral testimonies stretch out these millisecond events into discernable times and spaces of sensation, thought and the experience of experience (Massumi, Parables 2). Extraordinarily, survivors mention serene feelings of quiet within the eye of the blast (see Mortimer 239); they had, literally, ‘no time to be frightened’ (Crighton-Miller 6150). A shell explosion could create such intensities of stillness that a sudden and distinctive lessening of the person and world are expressed, constituting ‘stilling-slowing diminishments’ (Anderson 744). As if the blast-vacuum had sucked all the animation from their agency, recollections convey passivity and, paradoxically, a much more heightened and contemplative sense of the moment (Bourke 121; Thrift, Still 41). More lucid accounts describe a multitude of thoughts and an attention to minute detail. Alternatively, the enormous peaking of a waking blast subdued all later activities to relative obsolescence. The hurricane of sounds and air appear to overload into the flatness of an extended and calmed instantaneous present.Then the whistling stopped, then a terrific thump as it hit the ground, and everything seem to expand, then contract with deliberation and stillness seemed to be all around. (As recollected by Bill and Vi Reagan in Gaskin 17)On the other hand, as Schivelbusch (7) shows us in his exploration of defeat, the cessation of war could be met with an outburst of feeling. In these micro-moments a close encounter with death was often experienced with elation, a feeling of peace and well-being drawn through a much more heightened sense of the now (MO 253). These are not pre-formed or contemplative techniques of attunement as Thrift has tracked, but are the consequence of significant trauma and the primal reaction to extreme danger.TracesSusan Griffin’s haunting A Chorus of Stones documents what she describes as a private life of war (1). For Griffin, and as shown in these brief examples, stillness and being-stilled describe a series of diverse experiences endured during aerial bombing. Yet, as Griffin narrates, these are not-so private lives. A common representation of air war can be found in Henry Moore’s tube shelter sketches which convey sleeping tube-dwellers harboured in the London underground during the Blitz. The bodies are represented as much more than individuals being connected by Moore’s wave-like shapes into the turbulent aggregation of a choppy ocean. What we see in Moore’s portrayal and the examples discussed already are experiences with definite relations to both inner and outer worlds. They refer to more-than individuals who bear intimate relations to their outsides and the atmospheric and material environments enveloping and searing through them. Stillness was an unlikely state composed through these circulations just as it was formed as a means of address. It was required in order to apprehend sounds and possible events through techniques of listening or waiting. Alternatively being stilled could refer to pauses between air-strikes and the corresponding breaks of tension in the aftermath of a raid. Stillness was composed through a series of distributed yet interconnecting bodies, feelings, materials and atmospheres oriented towards the future and the past. The ruins of bombed-out building forms stand as traces even today. Just as Massumi (Sensing 16) describes in the context of architecture, the now static remainder of the explosion “envelops in its stillness a deformational field of which it stands as the trace”. The ruined forms left after the attack stand as a “monument” of the passing of the raid to be what it once was – house, factory, shop, restaurant, library - and to become something else. The experience of those ‘from below’ (Hewitt 2) suffering contemporary forms of air-warfare share many parallels with those of the Blitz. Air power continues to target, apparently more precisely, the affective tones of the body. Accessed by kinetic and non-kinetic forces, the signs of air-war are generated by the shelling of Kosovo, ‘shock and awe’ in Iraq, air-strikes in Afghanistan and by the simulated air-raids of IDF aircraft producing sonic-booms over sleeping Palestinian civilians, now becoming far more real as I write in the final days of 2008. Achieving stillness in the wake of aerial trauma remains, even now, a way to survive the (private) life of air war. AcknowledgementsI’d like to thank the editors and particularly the referees for such a close reading of the article; time did not permit the attention their suggestions demanded. Grateful acknowledgement is also made to the AHRC whose funding allowed me to research and write this paper. ReferencesAdey, Peter. Aerial Geographies: Mobilities, Bodies and Subjects. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010 (forthcoming). 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This thesis is a multi-disciplinary survey of the Central Jordan Valley during the Late Bronze Age (1500-1200 BC) illustrated with an abundant use of maps and tables. The purpose is to determine how the Jordan Valley functioned as an economic unit during the Late Bronze Age. This thesis surveys the geographical, historical and archaeological records related to the Jordan Valley during the Late Bronze Age. A chapter is devoted to each field, geography (physical and human), history (Egyptian and Hebrew Bible) and archaeology. The data from each discipline is used to individually answer two questions: 1) was the Jordan Valley a single geographic/economic unit in the Late Bronze Age? 2) to what extent was the Jordan Valley integrated/interacting with the east-west highlands and the larger region in the Late Bronze Age? The primary objectives are to 1) explore and model a historical geographic hermeneutic for understanding the human experience of the Ancient Near East; and 2) lay a foundation for understanding the role of the Jordan Valley in affecting the Biblical periods of the Israelite monarchy to the Roman period.The answers from each chapter are then synthesized into a single geographic historical archaeological picture of the Central Jordan Valley during the Late Bronze Age. The Central Jordan Valley was divided into two sections: a fertile, populated, well connected north-central section and an isolated, sparsely populated southern section with limited agricultural zones. Trade with and between the eastern and western highlands is well represented by artifactual parallels in and through the Jordan Valley, the north-central section on a regional and international scale and the southern section on a more local scale. The thesis concludes that there are more artifactual points of connection between the Jordan Valley and the eastern highlands than with the western highlands. An ‘early conquest’ model of the Hebrew Bible is plausible within the historical records of the Egyptian 18th and 19th Dynasties and the geographical and archaeological records of the Jordan Valley during the Late Bronze Age.
Old Testament & Ancient Near Eastern Studies

One of Barry Cunliffe’s major areas of research interest has been societies in transition, especially in the context of core/periphery relationships between expanding states and societies on their margins. Much of this work has been on the relationships between Rome and the Iron Age societies of southern Britain on the northwestern margins of the empire, and the subsequent pathways of resistance, interaction, and transformation. In this chapter we focus on events and processes on the opposite margins of the Roman empire in the Levant, where the Nabataean state was formally incorporated into the Roman imperial system some sixty years after the Claudian invasion of Britain. We draw on the results of the Wadi Faynan Landscape Survey (1996–2000), an interdisciplinary and diachronic investigation of evidence of environmental and climatic change, settlement pattern, and human activity in the Wadi Faynan in southern Jordan (figure 7.1). Situated about 40 kilometres from the Nabataean capital of Petra, the Wadi Faynan lies in the hot and hyper-arid Jordanian Desert, at a distinctive and spectacular mountain front that reaches 1500m above the desert floor. This landform marks the eastern margin of the desert lowlands of the great Jordanian rift valley, with the trough of the Wadi ‘Arabah to the south and west, and the highlands of the Mountains of Edom and the Jordanian tablelands to the east and north (Bienkowski and Galor 2006). The mean summer temperature on the Jordanian tablelands is in the order of 178c, compared with winter temperatures of about 12ºc (Bruins 2006; Rabb’a 1994). Winter temperatures on the desert floor in the Wadi Faynan are much the same as on the plateau, but in summer temperatures frequently reach 40ºc. Seasonality is strong, with most rain falling between December and March and virtually no precipitation occurring between June and September. Annual rainfall in the lower Wadi Faynan is around 63mm and even less in theWadi ‘Arabah (‘Aqaba receives 30mm for example), whereas the Jordanian Tablelands have an average precipitation exceeding 200mm per year.

To understand how the Himalaya were formed it seemed logical to start at the actual zone of plate collision, the Indus suture zone. Most of this collision zone runs across southern Tibet, which in the 1970s was almost impossible to travel through. Following Mao Tse-tung’s Red Army’s invasion and occupation of Tibet in October 1950, that region had remained firmly closed to all foreigners. In the western Himalaya the Indus suture zone runs right across the northernmost province of Ladakh. Ladakh used to be a part of southwestern Tibet before the British annexed it during the Raj. Leh, the ancient capital of Ladakh at 3,500 metres in the Indus Valley, was the final outpost of British India before the great trans-Himalayan barrier of the Karakoram Range. Only the Nubra Valley and the Tangtse Valley north of Leh were beyond the Indus, and these valleys led directly up to the desolate high plateau of Tibet. Leh was a major caravan route and a crossroads of high Asia, with double-humped dromedary camel caravans coming south from the Silk Route towns of Yarkhand and Khotan; Kashmiris and Baltis came from the west and Indian traders from the Hindu regions of Himachal and Chamba to the south. Ladakh, Zanskar, and Zangla were three ancient Himalayan kingdoms ruled by a Giapo, or King, each from a palace that resembled a small version of the Potala Palace in Lhasa. In 1978, when we were climbing in the mountains of Kulu, I had looked from our high summits across to the desert mountains of Lahoul and Zanskar, north of the main Himalayan watershed. Here, in the ancient Buddhist kingdoms of Zanskar and Ladakh lay wave upon wave of unexplored and unclimbed mountains. They lay north of the monsoon limits and in the rain shadow of the main Himalaya, so the vegetation was sparse, and the geology was laid bare. Flying north from Delhi, or east from Kashmir into Leh, the views were simply mesmerizing.

After seven summer field seasons working in the north-western Himalaya in India, I had heard of a winter trade route that must rank as one of the most outlandish journeys in the Himalaya. The largely Buddhist Kingdoms of Ladakh and Zanskar are high, arid, mountainous lands to the north of the Greater Himalayan Range and in the rain shadow of the summer monsoon. Whereas the southern slopes of the Himalaya range from dense sub-tropical jungles and bamboo forests to rhododendron woods and magnificent alpine pastures carpeted in spring flowers, the barren icy lands to the north are the realm of the snow leopard, the yak, and the golden eagles and lammergeier vultures that soar overhead. The Zanskar Valley lies immediately north-east of the 6–7,000-metre-high peaks of the Himalayan crest and has about thirty permanent settlements, including about ten Buddhist monasteries. I had seen the Zanskar Ranges from the summit of White Sail in Kulu and later spent four summer seasons mapping the geology along the main trekking routes. In summer, trekking routes cross the Himalaya westwards to Kashmir, southwards to Himachal Pradesh, and northwards to Leh, the ancient capital of Ladakh. Winter snows close the Zanskar Valley from the outside world for up to six months a year when temperatures plummet to minus 38oC. Central Zanskar is a large blank on the map, virtually inaccessible, with steepsided jagged limestone mountains and deep canyons. The Zanskar River carves a fantastic gorge through this mountain range and for only a few weeks in the middle of winter the river freezes. The Chaddur, the walk along the frozen Zanskar River, takes about ten to twelve days from Zanskar to the Indus Valley and, in winter time, was the only way in or out before the road to Kargil was constructed. I mentioned this winter trek to Ben Stephenson during our summer fieldwork in Kishtwar and he stopped suddenly, turned around, and said ‘Mike we just have to do this trek!’ So the idea of a winter journey into Zanskar was born, and four of us set off from Oxford in January 1995.

Unusually heavy rains in the winter of 1969 transformed California’s normally dry Owens Valley, causing an explosion of grasses and reeds along the edge of the Owens River. Lying in the eastern rain shadow of the Sierra Nevada, not far from Death Valley, the river flows south down the valley before disappearing into a dry lake bed. By summer the heavy vegetation along the river and its adjacent spring-fed marshes was sucking up moisture and releasing it into the hot, dry air. At the same time, the flow from one of these springs suddenly and mysteriously dropped, and parts of a wetland called Fish Slough began to dry up fast. The disappearance of the small pools that make up Fish Slough would have gone unnoticed in a world not reshaped by human hands. Desert springs and marshes can be verdant one year, parched the next. Human activity, however, had made Fish Slough a vital place. The need for water to support Los Angeles and other cities has led to all manner of water projects, including dams, reservoirs, canals, and aqueducts. One of those projects, the Los Angeles Aqueduct, diverted nearly all the water from the Owens River beginning in 1913, greatly reducing the flows that once created seasonally flooded shallows along the river’s edge. Those shallow, warm waters provided ideal habitat for a unique species offish, the Owens pupfish (Cyprinodon radiosus). The loss of habitat, along with the introduction of exotic species like largemouth bass, gradually eliminated the pupfish from most of its relatively limited range, until the species remained only in Fish Slough. If the marsh disappeared, so would the Owens pupfish. Alerted to the potential disaster, Phil Pister, a fishery biologist working nearby with the California Department of Fish and Game, and two colleagues grabbed nets, buckets, and aerators and raced for the pond (Pister 1993). They removed the last 800 of the two-inch-long pupfish to wire mesh cages in the main channel of the slough. As his colleagues drove off, thinking the pupfish at least temporarily secure, Pister realized that the cages were in eddies out of the main current and that the water in the eddies was not carrying enough dissolved oxygen.