Academic literature on the topic 'Ridge Hill Farms'

A power-weeder has been developed to address the weeding requirement of the cassava planted in mound pattern in hilly terrains. Although there are many commercial makes available for weeding of cassava planted in flat method as well as ridges and furrows method, it seems that there is no suitable weeder presently available in the country to address the weeding requirement of mound cassava of hilly terrains. The power weeder developed consists of petrolengine, main weeding rotor, offset weeding rotor, depth control lever, ground-wheels, transmission assembly, frame and handle. The main weeding rotor removes the weeds on the furrow while the offset weeding rotor removes the weeds on mounds without damaging the tuber grown under mounds. It is economically viable with fuel consumption limited to 27 L/ha. The machine proved its capability of weeding between the rows on both directions with acceptable weeding efficiency of 92.8% with negligible percentage (0.7) of damage to rhizome, field capacity of 0.16 ha/day, and field efficiency of 79.0%. It was also found that the operators did not observe any difficulty due to side thrust since the sideways thrust might have been transferred by the method of attaching the lateral rotor at 20mm ahead to the line joining central axis to the lateral axis. The power-weeder was recommended as an ideal machine for medium cassava farms of India.

Топонимический материал Арбатского микроареала Республики Хакасия дает представление об истории, географии, этнографии южной части региона, культуре и религии хакасов, особенностях уклада жизни и хозяйственной деятельности народа в таежной местности, отражает лингвистические и диалектные особенности хакасского языка, а также показывает процессы формализации мира человеком. Фактическим материалом исследования послужили собранные в полевых условиях географические названия, дополненные сведениями из словарных, научных и краеведческих трудов. Топонимы здесь отражают бельтирский говор сагайского диалекта. Поиск этимологии крупных гидронимов Арбаты и Мадырас вывел исследование на тунгусский след, не отмеченный ни в одном труде предыдущими лингвистами и историками именно для данной территории. Гипотеза ждет дальнейшего подтверждения (или опровержения). Хронологическую картину заселения местности продолжают кетские названия, затем многочисленные тюркские (хакасские) и единичные русские. Территория Арбатов – место таежное, зажатое высокими хребтами и горными реками. Рельеф характеризуется многочисленными логами, впадинами и их ручейками и родниками, невысокими сопками, буграми. Население живет охотой, скотоводством, заготовкой и собирательством. В советское время здесь были культурные посевы, совхозы, лесозаготовительные хозяйства, пилорамы. Работали речные мельницы. Основное население – хакасы и русские. Хакасы имеют родовые и священные горы, на которых шаманы производят ритуалы, также они верят в существование природных духов. Природа богата ягодами, орехами, диким луком, птицами, животными. Все эти особенности местности получили отражение в названиях географических объектов: логов, впадин, рек, гор, ручьев и родников, селений и поселений, таежных и степных местечек и угодий. Многие топонимы состоят из двух-пяти слов, отражающих качественные, относительные, типичные и посессивные отношения и связи. Топонимы характеризуются признаками многозначности, асимметричности, вариативности, а в семантическом отношении – апелляционными признаками ландшафта, производства, хозяйствования, гидронимов, имен, событий, растений и животных. The toponymic material of the Arbaty micro-area of the Republic of Khakassia gives an idea of the history, geography, ethnography of the southern part of the region, the culture and religion of the Khakasses, the peculiarities of the way of life and economic activity of the people in the taiga area, reflects the linguistic and dialectal features of the Khakass language, and also shows the processes of formalization of the world man. The factual material of the study was the geographical names collected in the field, supplemented by information from dictionary, scientific and local history works. Toponyms here reflect the Beltir dialect of the Sagai dialect. The search for the etymology of the large hydronyms Arbaty and Madyras led the study to the Tungus trace, which was not noted in any work by previous linguists and historians specifically for this territory. The hypothesis awaits further confirmation (or refutation). The chronological picture of the settlement of the area is continued by the Ket names, then numerous Turkic and single Russian ones. The territory of the Arbaty is a taiga place, squeezed by high ridges and mountain rivers. The relief is characterized by numerous logs, depressions and their streams and springs, low hills, mounds. The population lives by hunting, cattle breeding, harvesting and gathering. In Soviet times, there were cultural crops, state farms, logging facilities, and sawmills. River mills worked. The main population is Khakasses and Russians. The Khakass have ancestral and sacred mountains on which shamans perform rituals; believe in the existence of natural spirits. Nature is rich in berries, nuts, wild onions, birds and animals. All these features of the area are reflected in the names of geographical objects: depressions, rivers, mountains, streams and springs, villages and settlements, taiga and steppe towns and lands. Many toponyms consist of two to five words, reflecting qualitative, relative, typical and possessive relationships and connections. Toponyms are characterized by signs of ambiguity, asymmetry, and variability. In the semantic sense - appellative signs of landscape, production, management, hydronyms, names, events, plants and animals.

A large two-aisled house at Nørre Holsted in southern Jutland – Analysis of a longhouse from Early Bronze Age period IIn 2011 and 2012, Sønderskov Museum investigated an area of 65,000 m2 at Nørre Holsted, between Esbjerg and Vejen. The investigation revealed a multitude of features and structures dating from several periods, including extensive settlement remains from the Late Neolithic and Bronze Age. Excavations have also been carried out in this area previously, resulting in rich finds assemblages. This paper focuses on the site’s largest and best preserved two-aisled house, K30, which is dated to Early Bronze Age period I (1700-1500 BC). This longhouse therefore represents the final generation of houses of two-aisled construction. It also contained charred plant remains, which provide information on arable agriculture of the time and the internal organisation of the building at a point just prior to three-aisled construction becoming universal. The remains indicate continuity in both agriculture and in internal organisation between the late two-aisled and early three-aisled longhouses. The two-aisled house at Nørre Holsted can therefore make a significant contribution to the long-running debate about this architectural change, which has often focussed on developments in farming: The increased importance of cattle husbandry is said to have been the main reason for breaking with the tradition of two-aisled construction.The Nørre Holsted locality comprises the top of a sandy plateau that forms a ridge running north-south. The slightly sloping plateau lies 38-42 m above sea level and the ridge is surrounded by damp, low-lying terrain that, prior to the agricultural drainage of recent times, was partly aquiferous. The site occupies a central position in the southern part of Holsted Bakkeø, a “hill island” that is primarily characterised by sandy moraine. People preferred to live on well-drained ridges with sandy subsoil throughout large parts of prehistory and this was also true in the Late Neolithic and Bronze Age. On the area uncovered at Nørre Holsted, remains were found of 16 two-aisled houses, of which three had sunken floors. Ten of these houses are dated to the Late Neolithic and three are assigned to the first period of the Bronze Age. During Early Bronze Age periods II and III, a total of 14 three-aisled longhouses stood on the sandy plateau. As can be seen from figure 2, the houses from the Late Neolithic and Early Bronze Age lie more or less evenly distributed across the area. However, the buildings from the Late Neolithic/Early Bronze Age period I form a distinct cluster in the eastern part, while a western distribution is evident for the houses from Early Bronze Age periods II-III. The western part of the site lies highest in the terrain and a movement upwards in the landscape was therefore associated with the introduction of the three-aisled building tradition. Tripartition of the dimensions can be observed in both the two- and the three-aisled houses, with this being most pronounced in the latter category. The three-aisled Bronze Age houses from periods II and III, which represent the typical form with rounded gables and possibly plank-built walls, show great morphological and architectonic uniformity. Conversely, the two-aisled house remains are characterised by wider variation. The small and medium-sized examples, with or without a partly-sunken floor, represent some very common house types in Jutland. Conversely, the largest longhouse, K30, represents a variant that is more familiar from areas further to the east in southern Scandinavia.The largest two-aisled house at Nørre Holsted was located on the eastern part of the sandy plateau, where this slopes down towards a former wetland area (fig. 3). The east-west-oriented longhouse had a fall of 1.5 m along its length, with the eastern end being the lowest part at c. 38 m above sea level. Its orientation towards the wet meadow and bog to the east is striking, and it stood a maximum of 50 m from the potential grazing area. A peat bog lay a further 100 m to the east and in prehistory this was probably a small lake. Sekær Bæk flows 600 m to the north and, prior to realignment, this watercourse was both deeper and wider where it met the former lake area. Access to fresh water was therefore optimal and opportunities for transport and communication by way of local water routes must similarly have been favourable. It should be added that the watercourse Holsted Å flows only 1 km to the south of the locality.House K30 had a length of 32 m and a width of 6.5-7 m, with the western part apparently being the broadest, giving a floor area of more than 200 m2. The eastern gable was slightly rounded, while that to the west was of a straighter and more open character. The wall posts were preserved along most of the two sides of the building and the internal (roof-) supporting posts were positioned just inside the walls. Two transverse partition walls divided the longhouse, with its ten central posts, into three main rooms (fig. 5). These posts were the building’s sturdiest and most deeply-founded examples. Charcoal-rich post-pipes could be observed in section, and these revealed that the posts consisted of cloven timber with a cross-section of c. 25 cm. The central posts were regularly spaced about 3 m apart, except at the eastern and western ends, where the spacing was 4 m (fig. 5). The posts along the inside of the walls were less robust and not set as deeply as the central posts. There were probably internal wall or support posts along the entire length of the walls. These were positioned only 0.5 m inside the walls and must therefore have functioned together with these. Based on the position of these posts, the possibility that they were directly linked to the central posts can be dismissed. It seems much more likely that they were linked together by transverse beams running across the house – a roof-supporting feature that, a few generations later, moved further in towards the central axis to become the permanent roof-bearing construction. The actual wall posts or outer wall constituted the least robust constructional element of the longhouse.Remains of the walls were best preserved in the eastern part, and the wall posts here were spaced 1.5 m apart in the eastern gable and 2 m apart in the side wall (fig. 5). The wall posts had disappeared in several places, particularly in the central part of the building. Entrances could not be identified in the side walls, possibly as a consequence of the fragmentary preservation of the post traces. Two transverse partition walls, each consisting of three posts, were present in the western and eastern parts, with the latter example being integrated into a recessed pair of posts. The western room had an area of 59 m2 and contained two pits, while the eastern part was filled with charred plant material, consisting largely of acorns. The actual living quarters may have been located here, even though the larger central room, with an area of c. 85 m2, could just as well represent the dwelling area with its large, deep cooking pit (fig. 5). The eastern room had an area of 60 m2 and therefore did not differ significantly in area from that to the west.The entire fill from features that could be related to longhouse K30 was sieved. The objective was to retrieve small finds in the form of micro flakes and pottery fragments that are normally overlooked in conventional shovel excavation. The associated aims included ascertaining whether the flint assemblage could reveal the production of particular tools or weapons in the building. Unfortunately, not a single piece of pottery or any other datable artefacts were recovered. Only a few small flint flakes, which simply show that the finds from house K30 conform to the typical picture of a general reduction in the production of flint tools at the transition from Late Neolithic to Early Bronze Age. The 11 flint flakes from the longhouse merely reflect the simple manufacturing of cutting tools. Consequently, no bifacial flint-knapping activities took place within the building, and there is a lack of evidence for specialised craftsmen. The great paucity of finds is typical of houses from the Late Neolithic and Early Bronze Age which do not have a sunken floor. It is therefore important to look more closely at the charred plant material (plant macro-remains) concealed in the fills of the postholes and pits. In the case of house K30, the soil samples have provided a range of information, providing greater knowledge of what actually took place in a large house in southern Jutland at the beginning of the Bronze Age.The scientific dating of house K30 is based on barley grains from two roof posts and from a wall post in the eastern part. The three AMS radiocarbon dates assign the longhouse to Early Bronze Age period I, with a centre of gravity in period Ib (fig. 6). Plant macro-remains have previously been analysed from monumental three-aisled Bronze Age houses in southern Jutland. It is therefore relevant to take a look inside a large longhouse representing the final generation of the two-aisled building tradition. Do the results of the analyses indicate continuity in the internal organisation of these large houses or did significant changes occur in their functional organisation with the introduction of the three-aisled tradition?During the excavation of longhouse K30, soil samples were taken from all postholes and associated features for flotation and subsequent analysis of the plant macro-remains recovered. An assessment of the samples’ content of plant macro-remains and charcoal revealed that those from two central postholes and a pit contained large quantities of plant material (fig. 7), whereas the other samples contained few or no plant remains. It was therefore obvious to investigate whether there was a pattern in the distribution of the plant macro-remains that could provide an insight into the internal organisation of the house and the occupants’ exploitation of plant resources. The plant macro-remains can be used to investigate the organisation of the house because the house site lay undisturbed. The remains can therefore be presumed to date from the building’s active period of use. The plant remains lay on the floor of the house and they became incorporated into the fill of the postholes possibly as the posts were pulled up when the house was abandoned or when the posts subsequently rotted or were destroyed by fire. The plant macro-remains therefore reflect activities that have taken place in the immediate vicinity of the posthole in question.Only barley, in its naked form, can be said to have been definitely used by the house’s occupants, as this cereal type dominates, making up 80% of the identified grains (fig. 8). It is also likely, however, that emmer and/or spelt were cultivated too as evidence from other localities shows that a range of cereal crops was usually grown in the Early Bronze Age. This strategy was probably adopted to mitigate against the negative consequences of a possible failed harvest and also in an attempt to secure a surplus. Virtually no seeds of arable weeds were found in the grain-rich samples from the postholes where the central posts had stood; just a few seeds of persicaria and a single grass caryopsis were identified. This indicates that the crops, in the form of naked barley, and possibly also emmer/spelt, must have been thoroughly cleaned and processed. In contrast, the sample from pit A2500, in the western part of the house, contains virtually no cereal grains but does have a large number of charred acorn fragments (fig. 9). The question is, how should this pit be interpreted? If it was a storage pit, then the many acorns should not be charred, unless the pit and the remnants of its contents were subsequently burnt, perhaps as part of a cleansing or sterilisation process. It could also be a refuse pit, used to dispose of acorns that had become burnt by accident. In which case this must have been a temporary function as permanent refuse pits are unlikely to have been an internal feature of the house’s living quarters. Finally, it is possible that this could have been a so-called function-related pit that was used in connection with drying the acorns, during which some of the them became charred.From the plant macro-remain data it is clear that the occupants of longhouse K30 practised agriculture while, at the same time, gathering and exploiting natural plant resources. It should be added that they probably also kept livestock etc., but these resources have not left any traces in the site’s archaeological record – probably due to poor conditions for the preservation of bones. A closer examination of the distribution of plant macro-remains in house K30 reveals a very clear pattern (fig. 9), thereby providing an insight into the internal organisation of the building. All traces of cereals are found in the eastern half of the house and, in particular, the two easternmost roof postholes contain relatively large quantities, while the other postholes in this part of the building have few or no charred grains. This could suggest that there was a grain store (i.e. granary) in the vicinity of the penultimate roof-bearing post to the east, while the other cereal grains in the area could result from activities associated with spillage from this store, which contained processed and cleaned naked barley. No plant macro-remains were observed in the posthole samples from the opposite end of the building. The plant remains in this part of the house all originate from the aforementioned pit A2500, which contained a large quantity of acorns, together with a few arable weed seeds. The pit should possibly be interpreted as an acorn store or a functional pit associated with roasting activities or refuse disposal.The distribution of the plant macro-remains provides no secure indication of the location of the hearth or, in turn, of the living quarters. However, if the distribution of the charcoal in the house is examined (fig. 10), it is clear that there was charcoal everywhere inside house K30. This indicates that the longhouse was either burned down while still occupied or, perhaps more likely, in connection with its abandonment. A more detailed evaluation of the charcoal found in the various postholes and other features reveals the highest concentrations in the central room, suggesting that the hearth was located here, and with it the living quarters. This is consistent with the presence of a large cooking pit, found in the eastern part of this room. Perhaps this explains the presence of open pit A2500 in the western part of the house, which constitutes direct evidence against the presence of living quarters here. Another explanation for the highest charcoal concentrations being in the central room could also have been the entrance area, where there would be a tendency for such material to accumulate.Plant macro-remains have previously been analysed from large Bronze Age houses in the region, namely at the sites of Brødrene Gram and Kongehøj II, and plant remains from a somewhat smaller Late Neolithic house at Brødrene Gram were also examined. In many ways, K30 corresponds to the houses at Brødrene Gram (houses IV and V) and Kongehøj II (house K1). There is continuity with respect to the cereals represented in the Late Neolithic house at Brødrene Gram and the three-aisled Early Bronze Age houses at Brødrene Gram and Kongehøj II; naked barley and emmer/spelt are the dominant cereal types. There is, however, some variation in the cereal types present in the three-aisled Bronze Age houses, as hulled barley also occurs as a probable cultivated cereal here. It therefore seems that, with time, an even broader range of crops came to be cultivated when houses began to have a three-aisled construction. Another marked difference evident in the composition of the plant macro-remains is that the grain stores in the two-aisled houses contain only very few weed seeds, while those in the later houses are contaminated to a much greater extent with these remains. This could be due to several factors. One possible explanation is that the grain was cleaned more thoroughly before it was stored at the time of the two-aisled houses. Another explanation could be that there were, quite simply, fewer weeds growing in the arable fields in earlier periods, possibly because these fields were exploited for a shorter time and less intensively. This would mean that the field weeds were not able to become established to the same degree as later and fewer weeds were harvested with the cereal crop. As a consequence, the stored grain would contain fewer weed seeds relative to later periods. If the latter situation is true, the increase in field weeds could mark a change in the use of the arable fields, whereby each individual field was exploited for a somewhat longer period than previously.A common feature seen in all the houses is that they had grain stores in the eastern part of the building and storage was therefore one of the functions of this part. No secure evidence was however found of any of the houses having been fitted out as a byre. The three-aisled house IV at Brødrene Gram apparently also had a grain store at its western end – where K30 had its acorn-rich pit. However, while the western end of the Brødrene Gram house, and that of the other houses, is interpreted as a dwelling area, this room apparently had another function in K30, where the living quarters appear to have been located in the central room, as indicated by the cooking pit and the marked concentration of charcoal.Longhouse K30 differs from the later houses at Brødrene Gram and Kongehøj II in that these two three-aisled houses contain large quantities of chaff (spikelet forks) of wheat, possibly employed as floor covering, while no such material was observed in K30. However, it is unclear whether this is due to differences in the internal organisation of the buildings or to preservation conditions. Conversely, the use of possible function-related pits, like the one containing acorn remains in house K30, appears to have continued throughout the subsequent periods, as the Bronze Age house at Brødrene Gram also contains similar pits, the more precise function of which remains, however, unresolved. A high degree of continuity can thereby be traced, both in the crops grown and the internal organisation of the two- and three-aisled longhouses in southern Jutland. There was, however, some development towards the cultivation of a wider range of crops.In turn, this suggests that, in terms of arable agriculture and internal building organisation, there was no marked difference between the late two-aisled and early three-aisled houses – or, more correctly, between the large houses of Bronze Age periods I and II in southern Jutland. More secure conclusions with respect to continuity and change in the internal organisation of the buildings would, however, require a significantly larger number of similar analyses, encompassing several house types of different dimensions from a longer period of time and across a larger geographic area. Nevertheless, let us address the problem by including house sites in other regions, because this should enable us to gain an impression of the degree to which the picture outlined above for southern Jutland is representative of larger parts of southern Scandinavia.In several cases, both in the large two-aisled longhouses from Late Neolithic period II to Early Bronze Age period I and the large three-aisled longhouses from Early Bronze Age periods II-III, we see an internal division of the building into three main rooms. This tripartite division does, however, become clearer and more standardised with the advent of the three-aisled building tradition, which is a special characteristic of the longhouses of southern Jutland. Food stores were apparently often kept in the eastern parts of these houses. This is shown by the concentrations of charred grain found in these areas, and in some cases the larders must have been positioned immediately inside the eastern gable. Over time, traces of grain stores have been recorded from sunken areas in a number of house sites in Jutland. As a rule, these sunken floors constituted the eastern part of two-aisled houses of Myrhøj type, which were particularly common, especially in Jutland, during the Late Neolithic and the first period of the Bronze Age. One reason for lowering the house floor in this way was possibly a requirement for more space to store grain. It has been pointed out that a sunken floor gives greater head clearance in a room which, in turn, optimises the possibility of keeping the grain dry. In some cases, these sunken floors were almost totally covered by charred barley and wheat grains; surely the result of stored grain having fallen from an open loft during a house fire.In the Late Neolithic, arable agriculture apparently increased in importance as it became more intensive and diverse, with a wider range of crops now being cultivated. Agriculture in the Early Bronze Age was simply a continuation of the agricultural intensification evident in Late Neolithic arable agriculture. There was a possible difference in that fields were probably more commonly manured in the Early Bronze Age, though the first secure evidence for manuring dates from the Late Bronze Age. The plant macro-remains from the Early Bronze Age include significantly greater numbers of weeds, suggesting that individual arable fields had a longer period of use. Moreover, nutrient-demanding hulled barley came on to the scene as a cultivated crop. This has been demonstrated for example in the aforementioned longhouses at Brødrene Gram and Kongehøj II, both of which date from the Early Bronze Age period II. However, a large component of hulled barley has actually been demonstrated in remains from a Late Neolithic sunken house site at Hestehaven, near Skanderborg.Most Late Neolithic and Early Bronze Age farms in what is now Denmark were located on nutrient-poor sandy soils, and this was also the case at Nørre Holsted. In itself, location on these soils suggests that soil-improvement measures were employed. Indirectly, it can also tell us something of the significance of livestock, if it is assumed that cattle supplied a major proportion of the material used to manure the arable fields. Domestic livestock is, however, virtually invisible in the Late Neolithic settlement record, compared with that from the three-aisled contexts of the Bronze Age. There are records from Jutland of about 15 longhouses with clearly evident stall dividers, but this total seems very modest relative to a total number of Bronze Age house sites of around 1000. It has long been maintained in settlement archaeology that the three-aisled building tradition was better suited to the installation of a byre. On the face of it, this seems plausible for animals tethered in stalls. But the byre situation is, however, unlikely to have been a direct cause of the change in roof-bearing construction, as highlighted by recently expressed doubts in this respect. Neither are there grounds to dismiss the possibility that byres were installed in two-aisled longhouses. There is an example from Hesel in Ostfriesland, northwest Germany, where a large two-aisled house, measuring 35 x 5-6 m, contained stall dividers in its eastern half. An example from Zealand can also be mentioned in this respect: At Stuvehøj Mark near Ballerup there was a two-aisled longhouse, measuring 47 x 6 m, with possible post-built stall dividers in its eastern half. It stood on a headland surrounded by wetland areas and, like longhouse K30 at Nørre Holsted, it had a marked fall from the west to east gable.Preserved stall dividers in Bronze Age houses are, therefore, still a rare phenomenon and phosphate analysis of soil has yet to produce convincing results in this respect. There must be another explanation for the change in building architecture. It is possible that the massive monumentalisation process of Early Bronze Age period II played a crucial role in this respect. As described in the introduction, the first three-aisled houses were built higher up in the terrain. A position on the highest points of the landscape is a recurring feature at many other localities with longhouses from Early Bronze Age periods II-III. This visualisation process involved consistent use of the timber-demanding plank-built walls and took place primarily in southern, central and western Jutland. Here, forests had to yield to the huge resource consumption involved in constructing three-aisled houses because it was here that the tradition of plank-built walls was strongest. This situation must be seen in conjunction with barrow building, where there was a corresponding and coeval culmination in the construction of large turf-built burial mounds. Was the three-aisled tradition introduced quite simply because it became possible to build both wider and higher? Period II has the largest longhouses found in Scandinavia to date and these could reach dimensions of 50 x 10 m. The buildings became much wider and the earth-set posts for the plank walls were in some cases founded just as deep as the roof-bearing post pairs, which could extend 50-70 cm down into the subsoil. This could, in turn, suggest that some longhouses had more than one storey. It should also be pointed out that the large-scale construction of longhouses and barrows came to a halt at the same time – in the course of period III, i.e. shortly before 1200 BC. It therefore seems likely that the three-aisled building tradition was introduced as an important step in the actual monumentalisation process rather than as a result of a need to adjust to new requirements for internal organisation. At the end of the Early Bronze Age and throughout the Late Bronze Age, the dimensions of three-aisled houses were reduced and the houses adopted a much less robust character. There was no longer a need for monumental construction. The significance and symbolism by the large buildings constructed in the Early Bronze Age period II and the first part of period III is though a longer and more complex story and it should not be studied in isolation from the barrow-building phenomenon of the time.Lars GrundvadMuseet på SønderskovMartin Egelund PoulsenMuseet på SønderskovMarianne Høyem Andreasen Moesgaard Museum

AbstractIn Japan, mowing work on ridges of farms that cultivate rice is difficult for farmers, especially in hilly and mountainous areas. Moreover, geographical information on ridges in paddy fields has not been prepared; such information includes the slope angle, the ridge area, and the ridge rate of the total paddy field area. This issue causes a level of uncertainty in management analysis in terms of labor costs, including mowing costs, particularly when farmers and agricultural corporations are starting or expanding farm businesses. Therefore, this research developed a method for creating planting area and ridge area polygons in paddy fields to measure the actual areas of both sites using slope angle information and calculating the ridge rates in paddy fields. This study adopts artificial intelligence, geographical information system (GIS), and precision digital elevation model techniques as strategy implementation tools with data prepared by an aerial laser survey of Nagano Prefecture. The model generated using the proposed machine learning tool can automatically detect the planting and ridge areas of paddy fields through aerial images of farmland with more than 96% accuracy. Then, polygons can be created for use in GIS. Furthermore, these polygons can be created for most of the understudied paddy fields, approximately 35 000 hectares throughout Nagano Prefecture, in only 2 to 3 weeks. Therefore, based on these techniques, the slope angles of ridges, the ridge areas, and the ridge rates of paddy areas can be measured through polygons.

IntroductionThe persistence of animal tuberculosis (TB) in livestock is a major concern in Sicily, Italy. The objective of this study was to elucidate the transmission dynamics of M. bovis infection in a highly circumscribed, and at the same time geographically diverse, high-risk area of the island through an in-depth geo-epidemiological investigation of TB in cattle and black pigs raised in small-scale extensive farms across the district of Caronia.MethodsWe used genotype analysis coupled with geographic information system (GIS) technology and phylogenetic inference to characterize the spatial distribution of TB and M. bovis genotypes in livestock and the genetic relationships between M. bovis isolates. A total of 589 M. bovis isolates collected from slaughtered cattle (n = 527) and Sicilian black pigs (n = 62) over a 5-year period (2014–2018) were included in the study.ResultsTB was widespread throughout the district and was most frequent in the north-central area of the district, especially along one of the district’s streams. We identified a total of 62 M. bovis genotypes. Identical genetic profiles were isolated from both neighboring and non-neighburing herds. The 10 most frequent genotypes, accounting for 82% of M. bovis isolates, showed geographic specificities in that they tended to cluster in specific spatial niches. The landscape structure of these niches—i.e. steep slopes, rocky ridges, meadows and streams—is likely to have had a significant influence on the distribution of TB among livestock in Caronia. Higher concentrations of TB were observed along streams and in open meadows, while rocky ridges and slopes appeared to have hampered the spread of TB.DiscussionThe geographical distribution of TB cases among livestock in Caronia is consistent with several epidemiological scenarios (e.g., high density of infected herds along the streams or in hilly plateau where livestock share pastures). Landscape structure is likely to play an important role in the transmission and persistence of M. bovis infection across the district. Additional potential risk factors, such as livestock trading and extensive breeding methods, are also discussed. Our results will contribute to the improvement of surveillance, control and eradication activities of TB in Sicily by the implementation of ad hoc TB control measures, especially in farms located along streams, sharing common pastures or with mixed animal species.

Wind turbines deployed in utility-scale wind farms can support and meet future energy desires and also decrease carbon dioxide emissions by reducing energy requirements from fossil fuels. As the air heats up throughout the day, the wind velocity increases due to temperature gradients. This in turn produces a density pressure gradient, inducing air movement that a wind turbine encounters. Depending on ground topography, the wind can encounter and be directed in valleys and between and over hills as it flows and follows the curves of the earth. These topographies produce an increase in wind velocity at summits and ridges. In the current study, a small horizontal wind turbine rotor blade is designed to operate under low wind speed, by using the Q-Blade software. Based on the Blade Element Momentum method (BEM) and airfoil NACA3712, a three-blade rotor and a five-blade rotor are used based on turbine type and rotor size to generate mechanical power from wind power. A comparison and analysis of turbine power, power coefficient, and torque coefficient are carried out at low wind speed 1m/s-8m/s and highly accurate results are obtained. It is found that the best performance is gained when a three-bladed turbine rotor can work with a turbine power of 582W. As for the five-blade rotor, the turbine power obtained is (955W). It is also found that the design of a small horizontal wind turbine with five blades is more efficient than a turbine with three blades, suitable for working in areas with low wind speed and is of high efficiency compared to the size of the turbine.

i) In Australia we do a lot of thinking about home. Or so it would seem from all the talk about belonging, home, being at home (see Read). A sure sign of displacement, some might say. In his recent memoir, John Hughes writes: It is a particularly Australian experience that our personal heritage and sense of identity includes a place and a history not really our own, not really accessible to us. The fact that our sense of self-discovery and self-realisation takes place in foreign lands is one of the rich and complex ironies of being Australian. (24-25) My sense of self-discovery did not occur in a foreign land. However, my personal heritage and sense of identity includes places and histories that are not really my own. Unlike Hughes I don’t have what is often portrayed as an exotic heritage; I am plainly white Australian. I grew up on the Far North Coast of New South Wales, on farms that every year knew drought and flood. My place in this country – both local and national – seemingly was beyond question. I am after all a white, settler Australian. But I left Kyogle twenty years ago and since then much has changed. My project is very different than Hughes’. However, reading his memoir led me to reflect upon my sense of belonging. What is my home made from? Like Hughes I want to deploy memories from my childhood and youth to unpack my idea of home. White settler Australians’ sense of belonging is often expressed as a profound feeling of attachment; imagined as unmediated (Moreton-Robinson 31). It is a connection somehow untroubled by the worldliness of the world: it is an oasis of plentitude. For Indigenous Australians, Aileen Moreton-Robinson argues, non-Indigenous Australians sense of belonging is tied to migrancy, while the Indigenous subject has an ontological relationship to land and these modes are incommensurable (31). Since colonisation the nation state has attempted through an array of social, legal, economic and cultural practices to break Indigenous people’s ontological connections to land, and to cast them as homeless in the ‘modern’ world. The expression of belonging as a profound sense of attachment – beyond the material – denies not only the racialised power relations of belonging and dispossession, but also the history of this sentiment. This is why I want to stay right here and take up Moreton-Robinson’s challenge to further theorise (and reflect) upon how non-Indigenous subjects are positioned in relation to the original owners not through migrancy but through possession (37). ii) Australia has changed a lot. Now most understand Australia to be comprised of a plurality of contradictory memories, imaginaries and histories, generated from different cultural identities and social bodies. Indigenous Australians, who have been previously spoken for, written about, categorised and critiqued by non-Indigenous people, have in the last three decades begun to be heard by mainstream Australia. In a diversity of mediums and avenues Indigenous stories, in all their multiplicity, penetrated the field of Australian culture and society. In so doing, they enter into a dialogue about Australia’s past, present and future. The students I teach at university arrive from school with an awareness that Australia was colonised, not discovered as I was taught. Recent critical historiography, by both Indigenous and non-Indigenous writers and academics, calls for and creates a new Australian memory (Hage 80). A memory, or memories, which the reconciliation movement not only want acknowledged by mainstream Australia but also integrated into national consciousness. Over the last twenty years, many Australian historians have reinforced the truths of fictional and autobiographical accounts of colonial violence against Indigenous people. The benign and peaceful settlement of Australia, which was portrayed in school history lessons and public discourse, began to be replaced by empirical historical evidence of the brutal subjugation of Indigenous people and the violent appropriation of Indigenous land. Indigenous struggles for recognition and sovereignty and revisionist history have created a cultural transformation. However, for all the big changes there has been limited investigation into white Australians’ sense of belonging continuing to be informed and shaped by settler colonial desire. Indigenous memories not only contest and contradict other memories, but they are also derived from different cultural bodies and social and historical contexts. My memory of our farm carved out of Toonumbah State Forest is of a peaceful place, without history; a memory which is sure to contradict Bundjalung memories. To me Kyogle was a town with only a few racial problems; except for the silences and all those questions left unasked. Ghassan Hage argues that a national memory or non-contradictory plurality of memories of colonisation in Australia is impossible because although there has been a cultural war, the two opposing sides have not assimilated to become one (92). There remain within Australia, ‘two communal subjects with two wills over one land; two sovereignties of unequal strength’ (Hage 93). The will of one is not the will of the other. I would argue that there is barely recognition of Indigenous sovereignty by non-Indigenous Australians; for so many there is only one will, one way. Furthermore, Hage maintains that: For a long time to come, Australia is destined to become an unfinished Western colonial project as well as a land in a permanent state of decolonisation. A nation inhabited by both the will of the coloniser and the will of the colonised, each with their identity based on their specific understanding, and memory, of the colonial encounter: what was before it and what is after it. Any national project of reconciliation that fails to fully accept the existence of a distinct Indigenous will, a distinct Indigenous conatus, whose striving is bound to make the settlers experience ‘sadness’, is destined to be a momentary cover-up of the reality of the forces that made Australia what it is. (94) Why must Indigenous will make settlers experience sad passions? Perhaps this is a naïve question. I am not dismissing Hage’s concerns, and agree with his critique of the failure of the project of reconciliation. However, if we are to understand the forces that made Australia what it is – to know our place – then as Hage writes we need not only to acknowledge these opposing forces, but understand how they made us who we are. The narrative of benign settlement might have resulted in a cultural amnesia, but I’m not convinced that settler Australians didn’t know about colonial violence and its aftermath. Unlike Henry Reynolds who asked ‘why didn’t we know?’ I think the question should be, as Fiona Nicoll asks, ‘what is it we know but refuse to tell?’ (7). Or how did I get here? In asking what makes home, one needs to question what is excluded to enable one to stay in place. iii) When I think of my childhood home there is one particular farm that comes to mind. From my birth to when I left home at eighteen I lived in about six different homes; all but one where on farms. The longest was for about eight years, on a farm only a few kilometres from town; conveniently close for a teenager wanting all the ‘action’ of town life. It was just up the road from my grandparents’ place, whose fridge I would raid most afternoons while my grandmother lovingly listened to my triumphs and woes (at least those I thought appropriate for her ears). Our house was set back just a little from the road. On this farm, my brother and I floated paper boats down flooded gullies; there, my sisters, brother and I formed a secret society on the banks of the picturesque creek, which was too quickly torn apart by factional infighting. In this home, my older sisters received nightly phone calls from boys, and I cried to my mother, ‘When will it be my turn’. She comforted me with, ‘Don’t worry, they will soon’. And sure enough they did. There I hung out with my first boyfriend, who would ride out on his motor bike, then later his car. We lolled around on our oddly sloping front lawn and talked for hours about nothing. But this isn’t the place which readily comes to mind when I think of a childhood home. Afterlee Rd, as we called it, never felt like home. Behind the house, over the other side of the creek, were hills. Before my teens I regularly walked to the top of the first hill and rode around the farm, but not all the way to the boundary fence. I didn’t belong there. It was too exposed to passing traffic, yet people rarely stopped to add to our day. For me excitement and life existed elsewhere: the Gold Coast or Lismore. When I think of my childhood home an image comes to mind: a girl child standing on the flat between our house and yards, with hills and eucalypts at her back, and a rock-faced mountain rising up behind the yards at her front. (Sometimes there is a dog by her side, but I think it’s a late edition.) The district was known as Toonumbah because of its proximity (as the crow flies) to Toonumbah Dam. My siblings and I ventured across the farm and we rode with my father to muster, or sometimes through the adjoining State Forest to visit our neighbours who lived deep in the bush. I thought the trees whispered to me and watched over us. They were all seeing, all knowing, as they often are for children – a forest of gods. Sometime during my childhood I read the children’s novel Z for Zachariah: a story of a lone survivor of an apocalypse saved by remaining in a safe and abundant valley, while the rest of the community went out to explore what happened (O’Brien). This was my idea of Toonumbah. And like Zachariah’s valley it was isolated and for that reason, in spite of its plenty, a strange home. It was too disconnected from the world. Despite my sense of homeliness, I never felt sovereign. My disquiet wasn’t due to a sense that at any moment we might be cast out. Quite the opposite, we were there to stay. And not because I was a child and sovereignty is the domain of adults. I don’t think, at least as a feeling, it is. But rather because sovereignty is tied to movement or crossings. Not just being in place, but leaving and returning, freely moving through and around, and welcoming others who recognise it as ‘our’ place. Home is necessitated upon movement. And my idea of this childhood home is reliant upon a romanticised, ‘profound’ feeling of attachment; a legacy of settler colonial desire. There is no place like home. Home is far more than a place, it is, as Blunt and Dowling suggest, about feelings, desire, intimacy and belonging and relationships between places and connections with others (2). One’s sense of home has a history. To be at home one must limit the chaos of the world – create order. As we know, the environment is also ordered to enable a sense of bodily alignment and integrity. How or rather with whom does one establish connections with to create a sense of home? To create a sense of order, who does one recognise as belonging or not? Who is deemed a part of the chaos? Here Sara Ahmed’s idea of the stranger is helpful. Spaces are claimed, or ‘owned’, she argues, not so much by inhabiting what is already there, but rather movement or ‘passing through’ creates boundaries, making places by giving them a value (33). Settlers moved out and across the country, and in so doing created the colonies and later the nation by prescribing an economic value to the land. Colonialism attempts to enclose both Indigenous people and the country within its own logic. To take possession of the country the colonisers attempted to fix Indigenous people in place. A place ordered according to colonial logic; making the Indigenous subject out of place. Thus the Indigenous ‘stranger’ came into view. The stranger is not simply constituted by being recognised by the other, but rather it is the recognition of strangers which forms the local (Ahmed 21-22). The settler community was produced and bounded by their recognition of strangers; their belonging was reliant upon others not belonging. The doctrine of terra nullius cleared the country not only of people, but also of the specifics of Indigenous place, in an attempt to recreate another place inspired by the economic and strategic needs of the colonisers. Indigenous people were further exposed as strangers in the ‘new’ country by not participating in the colonial economy and systems of exchange. Indigenous people’s movement to visit family, to perform ceremony or maintain connections with country were largely dismissed by the colonial culture and little understood as maintaining and re-making sovereignty. European forms of commerce made the settlers sovereign – held them in place. And in turn, this exchange continues to bind settler Australians to ways of being that de-limit connections to place and people. It created a sense of order that still constrains ideas of home. Colonial logic dominates Australian ideas of sovereignty, thus of being at home or belonging in this country. Indeed, I would argue that it enforces a strange attachment: clinging fast as if to a too absent parent or romancing it, wooing a desired but permissive lover. We don’t know, as Fiona Nicoll questions, what Indigenous sovereignty might look like. Discussions of sovereignty are on Western terms. If Indigenous sovereignty is recognised at all, it is largely figured as impractical, impossible or dangerous (Nicoll 9). The fear and forgetting of the long history of Indigenous struggles for sovereignty, Nicoll writes, conceals the everydayness of the contestation (1). Indigenous sovereignty is both unknown and too familiar, thus it continues to be the stranger which must be expelled to enable belonging. Yet without it we cannot know the country. iv) I carry around a map of Australia. It is a simple image, a crude outline of the giant landmass; like what you find on cheap souvenir tea-towels. To be honest it’s just the continent – an islandless island – even Tasmania has dropped off my map. My map is not in my pocket but my head. It comes to mind so regularly I think of it as the shape of my idea of home. It is a place shared by many, yet singularly mine. I want to say that it is not the nation, but the country itself, but of course this isn’t true. My sense of Australia as my home is forged from an imaginary nation. However, I have problems calling Australia home – as if being at home in the nation is like being in an idealised family home. What is too often sentimentalised and fetishised as closed and secure: a place of comfort and seamless belonging (Fortier 119). Making home an infantile place where everything is there for me. But we understand that nations are beyond us and all that they are composed of we cannot know. Even putting aside the romantic notions, nations aren’t very much like home. They are, however, relational. Like bower birds, we collect sticks, stones, shells and coloured things, building connections with the outside world to create something a bit like home in the imaginary nation. I fill my rough map with ‘things’ that hold me in place. We might ask, is a home a home if we don’t go outside? My idea of home borrows from Meaghan Morris. In Ecstasy and Economics, she is attempting to create what Deleuze and Guattari call home. She writes: In their sense of the term, “home does not pre-exist”; it is the product of an effort to “organize a limited space”, and the limit involved is not a figure of containment but of provisional (or “working”) definition. This kind of home is always made of mixed components, and the interior space it creates is a filter or a sieve rather than a sealed-in consistency; it is not a place of origin, but an “aspect” of a process which it enables (“as though the circle tended on its own to open into a future, as a function of the working forces it shelters”) but does not precede – and so it is not an enclosure, but a way of going outside. (92) If home is a way of going outside then we need to know something about outside. Belonging is a desire and we make home from the desire to belong. In desiring belonging we should not forsake the worldliness of the world. What is configured as outside home are often the legal, political, economic and cultural conditions that have produced contemporary Australia. However, by refusing to engage with how colonialism and Indigenous sovereignty have made Australia one might not be able to go outside; risk imprisoning oneself in a too comfortable space. By letting in some of the elements which are strange and unhomely, one might begin to build connections which aid the reimagining of the self and the social, which in turn enables one to not only live in postcolonial Australia but participate in creating it (Probyn). A strange place: unsettled by other desires, histories, knowledge and memories, but a place more like home. I am arguing that we need to know our place. But knowing our place cannot be taken for granted. We need many hearts and minds to allow us to see what is here. The childhood home I write of is not my home, nor do I want it to be. However, the remembering or rather investigation of my idea of home is important. Where has it come from? There has been a lot of discussion about non-Indigenous Australians being unsettled by revisionist historiography and Indigenous demands for recognition and this is true, but the unsettlement has been enabling. Given that settler Australians are afforded so much sovereignty then there seems plenty of room for uncertainty. We don’t need to despair, or if we do, it could be used productively to remake our idea of home. If someone were to ask that tired question, ‘Generations of my family have lived here, where am I going to go?’ The answer is no where. You’re going no where, but here. The question isn’t of leaving, but of staying well. References Ahmed, Sara. Strange Encounters: Embodied Others in Post-coloniality. London: Routledge, 2000. Blunt, Alison, and Robyn Dowling. Home. London: Routledge, 2006. Fortier, Anne-Marie. “Making Home: Queer Migrations and Motions of Attachment.” Uprootings/Regrounding: Questions of Home and Migration. Eds S. Ahmed et. al. Oxford: Berg, 2003. 115-135. Gelder, Ken, and Jane Jacobs. Uncanny Australia: Sacredness and Identity in a Postcolonial Nation. Carlton, Vic: Melbourne UP, 1998. Hage, Ghassan. Against Paranoid Nationalism. Annandale: Pluto Press, 2003. Hughes, John. The Idea of Home: Autobiographical Essays. Sydney: Giramondo, 2004. Moreton-Robinson, Aileen. “I Still Call Australia Home: Indigenous Belonging and Place in a White Postcolonizing Society.” Uprootings/Regrounding: Questions of Home and Migration. Eds S. Ahmed et. al. Oxford: Berg, 2003. 23-40. Morris, Meaghan. Ecstasy and Economics: American Essays for John Forbes. Sydney: Empress, 1992. Nicoll, Fiona. “Defacing Terra Nullius and Facing the Public Secret of Indigenous Sovereignty in Australia.” borderlands 1.2 (2002): 1-13. O’Brien, Robert C. Z for Zachariah: A Novel. London: Heinemann Educational, 1976. Probyn, Elspeth. Outside Belongings. New York: Routledge, 1996. Read, Peter. Belonging: Australians, Place and Aboriginal Ownership. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000. Reynolds, Henry. Why Weren’t We Told?: A Personal Search for the Truth about Our History. Melbourne: Penguin, 2002. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Slater, Lisa. "No Place like Home: Staying Well in a Too Sovereign Country." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/13-slater.php>. APA Style Slater, L. (Aug. 2007) "No Place like Home: Staying Well in a Too Sovereign Country," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/13-slater.php>.

Introduction Utopia has always been countercultural, and ever since technological progress has allowed, utopia has been using alternative media to promote and strengthen its underpinning ideals. In this article, I am seeking to clarify the connections between counterculture and alternative media in utopian contexts to demonstrate their reciprocity, then draw together these threads through reference to a well-known figure of the Rainbow Region–Rusty Miller. His trajectory from iconic surfer and Aquarian reporter to mediator for utopian politics and ideals in the Rainbow Region encompasses in a single identity the three elements underpinning this study. In concluding, I will turn to Rusty’s Byron Guide, questioning its classification as alternative or mainstream media, and whether Byron Bay is represented as countercultural and utopian in this long-running and ongoing publication. Counterculture and Alternative Media in Utopian Contexts Counterculture is an umbrella that enfolds utopia, among many other genres and practices. It has been most often situated in the 1960s and 1970s as a new form of social movement embodying youth resistance to the technocratic mainstream and its norms of gender, sexuality, politics, music, and language (Roszak). Many scholars of counterculture underscore its utopian impulses both in the projection of better societies where the social goals are achieved, and in the withdrawal from mainstream society into intentional communities (Yinger 194-6; McKay 5; Berger). Before exploring further the connections between counterculture and alternative media, I want to define the scope of countercultural utopian contexts in general, and the Rainbow Region in particular. Utopia is a neologism created by Sir Thomas More almost 500 years ago to designate the island community that demonstrates order, harmony, justice, hope and desire in the right balance so that it seems like an ideal land. This imaginary place described in Utopia (1516) as a counterpoint to the social, political and religious shortcomings of contemporary 16th century British society, has attracted accusations of heresy (Molner), and been used as a pejorative term, an insult to denigrate political projects that seem farfetched or subversive, especially during the 19th century. Almost every study of utopian theory, literature and practice points to a dissatisfaction with the status quo, which inspires writers, politicians, architects, artists, individuals and communities to rail against it (see for example Davis, Moylan, Suvin, Levitas, Jameson). Kingsley Widmer’s book Counterings: Utopian Dialectics in Contemporary Contexts reiterates what many scholars have stated when he writes that utopias should be understood in terms of what they are countering. Lyman Tower Sargent defines utopia as “a non-existent society described in considerable detail and normally located in time and space” and utopianism as “social dreaming” (9), to which I would add that both indicate an improvement on the alternatives, and may indeed be striving to represent the best place imaginable. Utopian contexts, by extension, are those situations where the “social dreaming” is enhanced through human agency, good governance, just laws, education, and work, rather than being a divinely ordained state of nature (Schaer et al). In this way, utopian contexts are explicitly countercultural through their very conception, as human agency is required and their emphasis is on social change. These modes of resistance against dominant paradigms are most evident in attempts to realise textual projections of a better society in countercultural communal experiments. Almost immediately after its publication, More’s Utopia became the model for Bishop Vasco de Quiroga’s communitarian hospital-town Santa Fe de la Laguna in Michoacan, Mexico, established in the 1530s as a counterculture to the oppressive enslavement and massacres of the Purhépecha people by Nuno Guzmán (Green). The countercultural thrust of the 1960s and 1970s provided many utopian contexts, perhaps most readily identifiable as the intentional communities that spawned and flourished, especially in the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia, and New Zealand (Metcalf, Shared Lives). They were often inspired by texts such as Charles A. Reich’s The Greening of America (1970) and Ernest Callenbach’s Ecotopia (1975), and this convergence of textual practices and alternative lifestyles can be seen in the development of Australia’s own Rainbow Region. Located in northern New South Wales, the geographical area of the Northern Rivers that has come to be known as the Rainbow Region encompasses Byron Bay, Nimbin, Mullumbimby, Bangalow, Clunes, Dunoon, Federal, with Lismore as the region’s largest town. But more evocative than these place names are the “rivers and creeks, vivid green hills, fruit and nut farms […] bounded by subtropical beaches and rainforest mountains” (Wilson 1). Utopian by nature, and recognised as such by the indigenous Bundjalung people who inhabited it before the white settlers, whalers and dairy farmers moved in, the Rainbow Region became utopian through culture–or indeed counterculture–during the 1973 Aquarius Festival in Nimbin when the hippies of Mullumbimby and the surfers of Byron Bay were joined by up to 10,000 people seeking alternative ways of being in the world. When the party was over, many Aquarians stayed on to form intentional communities in the beautiful region, like Tuntable Falls, Nimbin’s first and largest such cooperative (Metcalf, From Utopian Dreaming to Communal Reality 74-83). In utopian contexts, from the Renaissance to the 1970s and beyond, counterculture has underpinned and alternative media has circulated the aims and ideals of the communities of resistance. The early utopian context of the Anabaptist movement has been dubbed as countercultural by Sigrun Haude: “During the reign of the Münster (1534-5) Anabaptists erected not only a religious but also a social and political counterculture to the existing order” (240). And it was this Protestant Reformation that John Downing calls the first real media war, with conflicting movements using pamphlets produced on the new technology of the Gutenberg press to disseminate their ideas (144). What is striking here is the confluence of ideas and practices at this time–countercultural ideals are articulated, published, and disseminated, printing presses make this possible, and utopian activists realise how mass media can be used and abused, exploited and censored. Twentieth century countercultural movements drew on the lessons learnt from historical uprising and revolutions, understanding the importance of getting the word out through their own forms of media which, given the subversive nature of the messages, were essentially alternative, according to the criteria proposed by Chris Atton: alternative media may be understood as a radical challenge to the professionalized and institutionalized practices of the mainstream media. Alternative media privileges a journalism that is closely wedded to notions of social responsibility, replacing an ideology of “objectivity” with overt advocacy and oppositional practices. Its practices emphasize first person, eyewitness accounts by participants; a reworking of the populist approaches of tabloid newspapers to recover a “radical popular” style of reporting; collective and antihierarchical forms of organization which eschew demarcation and specialization–and which importantly suggest an inclusive, radical form of civic journalism. (267) Nick Couldry goes further to point out the utopian processes required to identify agencies of change, including alternative media, which he defines as “practices of symbolic production which contest (in some way) media power itself–that is, the concentration of symbolic power in media institutions” (25). Alternative media’s orientation towards oppositional and contestatory practices demonstrates clear parallels between its ambitions and those of counterculture in utopian contexts. From the 1960s onwards, the upsurge in alternative newspaper numbers is commensurate with the blossoming of the counterculture and increased utopian contexts; Susan Forde describes it thus: “a huge resurgence in the popularity of publications throughout the ‘counter-culture’ days of the 1960s and 1970s” (“Monitoring the Establishment”, 114). The nexus of counterculture and alternative media in such utopian contexts is documented in texts like Roger Streitmatter’s Voices of Revolution and Bob Osterlag’s People’s Movements, People’s Press. Like the utopian newspapers that came out of 18th and 19th century intentional communities, many of the new alternative press served to educate, socialise, promote and represent the special interests of the founders and followers of the countercultural movements, often focusing on the philosophy and ideals underpinning these communities rather than the everyday events (see also Frobert). The radical press in Australia was also gaining ground, with OZ in Australia from 1963-1969, and then from 1967-1973 in London. Magazines launched by Philip Frazer like The Digger, Go-Set, Revolution and High Times, and university student newspapers were the main avenues for youth and alternative expression on the Vietnam war and conscription, gay and lesbian rights, racism, feminism and ecological activism (Forde, Challenging the News; Cock & Perry). Nimbin 1973: Rusty Miller and The Byron Express The 1973 Aquarius Festival of counterculture in Nimbin (12-23 May) was a utopian context that had an alternative media life of its own before it arrived in the Rainbow Region–in student publications like Tharnuka and newsletters distributed via the Aquarius Foundation. There were other voices that announced the coming of the Aquarius Festival to Nimbin and reported on its impact, like The Digger from Melbourne and the local paper, The Northern Star. During the Festival, the Nimbin Good Times first appeared as the daily bulletin and continues today with the original masthead drawn by the Festival’s co-organiser, Graeme Dunstan. Some interesting work has been done on this area, ranging from general studies of the Rainbow Region (Wilson; Munro-Clark) to articles analysing its alternative press (Ward & van Vuuren; Martin & Ellis), but to date, there has been no focus on the Rainbow Region’s first alternative newspaper, The Byron Express. Co-edited by Rusty Miller and David Guthrie, this paper presented and mediated the aims and desires of the Aquarian movement. Though short-lived, as only 7 issues were published from 15 February 1973 to September 1973, The Byron Express left a permanent printed vestige of the Aquarian counterculture movement’s activism and ideals from an independent regional perspective. Miller’s credentials for starting up the newspaper are clear–he has always been a trailblazer, mixing “smarts” with surfing and environmental politics. After graduating from a Bachelor of Arts in history from San Diego State College, he first set foot in Byron Bay during his two semesters with the inaugural Chapman College affiliated University of the Seven Seas in 1965-6. Returning to his hometown of Encinitas, he co-founded the Surf Research accessory company with legendary Californian surfer Mike Doyle, and launched Waxmate, the first specially formulated surf wax in 1967 (Davis, Witzig & James; Warshaw 217), selling his interest in the business soon after to spend a couple of years “living the counterculture life on the Hawaiian Island of Kauai” (Davis, Witzig & James), before heading back to Byron Bay via Bells Beach in 1970 (Miller & Shantz) and Sydney, where he worked as an advertising salesman and writer with Tracks surfing magazine (Martin & Ellis). In 1971, he was one of the first to ride the now famous waves of Uluwatu in Bali, and is captured with Steven Cooney in the iconic publicity image for Albe Falzon’s 1971 film, Morning Of The Earth. The champion surfer from the US knew a thing or two about counterculture, alternative media, advertising and business when he found his new utopian context in Byron Bay. Miller and Guthrie’s front-page editorial of the inaugural issue of The Byron Express, published on 15 February 1973, with the byline “for a higher shire”, expressed the countercultural (cl)aims of the publication. Land use, property development and the lack of concern that some people in Byron had for their impact on the environment and people of the region were a prime target: With this first issue of the Byron Express, we hope to explain that the area is badly in need of a focal point. The transitions of present are vast and moving fast. The land is being sold and resold. Lots of money is coming into the area in the way of developments […] caravan parts, hotels, businesses and real estate. Many of the trips incoming are not exactly “concerned” as to what long term effect such developments might have on the environment and its people. We hope to serve as a focus of concern and service, a centre for expression and reflection. We would ask your contributions in vocal and written form. We are ready for some sock it to ya criticism… and hope you would grab us upon the street to tell us how you feel…The mission of this alternative newspaper is thereby defined by the need for a “focal point” that inscribes the voices of the community in a freely accessible narrative, recorded in print for posterity. Although this first issue contains no mention of the Aquarius Festival, there were already rumours circulating about it, as organisers Graeme Dunstan and Johnny Allen had been up to Main Arm, Mullumbimby and Nimbin on reconnaissance missions beginning in September 1972. Instead, there was an article on “Mullumbimby Man–Close to the Land” by Nicholas Shand, who would go on to found the community-based weekly newspaper The Echo in 1986, then called The Brunswick Valley Echo and still going strong. Another by Bob McTavish asked whether there could be a better form of government; there was a surf story, and a soul food section with a recipe for honey meade entitled “Do you want to get out of it on 10 cents a bottle?” The second issue continues in much the same vein. It is not until the third issue comes out on 17 March 1973 that the Aquarius Festival is mentioned in a skinny half column on page four. And it’s not particularly promising: Arrived at Nimbin, sleepy hamlet… Office in disused R.S.L. rooms, met a couple of guys recently arrived, said nothing was being done. “Only women here, you know–no drive”. Met Joanne and Vi, both unable to say anything to be reported… Graham Dunstan (codenamed Superfest) and John Allen nowhere in sight. Allen off on trip overseas. Dunstan due back in a couple of weeks. 10 weeks to go till “they” all come… and to what… nobody is quite sure. This progress report provides a fascinating contemporary insight into the tensions–between the local surfies and hippies on one hand, and the incoming students on the other–around the organisation of the Aquarius Festival. There is an unbridled barb at the sexist comments made by the guys, implicit criticism of the absent organisers, obvious skepticism about whether anyone will actually come to the festival, and wonderment at what it will be like. Reading between the lines, we might find a feeling of resentment about not being privy to new developments in their own backyard. The final lines of the article are non-committal “Anyway, let’s see what eventuates when the Chiefs return.” It seems that all has been resolved by the fifth issue of 11 May, which is almost entirely dedicated to the Aquarius Festival with the front page headline “Welcome to the New Age”. But there is still an undertone of slight suspicion at what the newcomers to the area might mean in terms of property development: The goal is improving your fellow man’s mind and nourishment in concert with your own; competition to improve your day and the quality of the day for society. Meanwhile, what is the first thing one thinks about when he enters Byron and the area? The physical environment is so magnificent and all encompassing that it can actually hold a man’s breath back a few seconds. Then a man says, “Wow, this land is so beautiful that one could make a quid here.” And from that moment the natural aura and spells are broken and the mind lapses into speculative equations, sales projections and future interest payments. There is plenty of “love” though, in this article: “The gathering at Nimbin is the most spectacular demonstration of the faith people have in a belief that is possible (and possible just because they want it to be) to live in love, through love together.” The following article signed by Rusty Miller “A Town Together” is equally focused on love: “See what you could offer the spirit at Nimbin. It might introduce you to a style that could lead to LOVE.” The centre spread features photos: the obligatory nudes, tents, and back to nature activities, like planting and woodworking. With a text box of “random comments” including one from a Lismore executive: ‘I took my wife and kids out there last weekend and we had such a good time. Seems pretty organized and the town was loaded with love. Heard there is some hepatitis about and rumours of VD. Everyone happy.” And another from a land speculator (surely the prime target of Miller’s wrath): “Saw guys kissing girls on the street, so sweet, bought 200 acres right outside of town, it’s going to be valuable out there some day.” The interview with Johnny Allen as the centrepiece includes some pertinent commentary on the media and reveals a well-founded suspicion of the mediatisation of the Aquarius Festival: We have tried to avoid the media actually. But we haven’t succeeded in doing so. Part of the basic idea is that we don’t need to be sold. All the down town press can do is try and interpret you. And by doing that it automatically places it in the wrong sort of context. So we’ve tried to keep it to people writing about the festival to people who will be involved in it. It’s an involvement festival. Coopting The Byron Express as an “involved” party effects a fundamental shift from an external reporting newspaper to a kind of proponent or even propaganda for the Aquarius festival and its ideas, like so many utopian newspapers had done before. It is therefore perhaps inevitable that The Byron Express should disappear very soon after the Aquarius festival. Fiona Martin and Rhonda Ellis explain that Rusty Miller stopped producing the paper because he “found the production schedule exhausting and his readership too small to attract consistent advertising” (5). At any rate, there were only two more issues, one in June–with some follow up reporting of the festival–and another in September 1973, which was almost entirely devoted to environmentally focused features, including an interview with Kath Walker (Oodgeroo Noonuccal). Byron Bay 2013: Thirty Years of Rusty’s Byron Guide What Rusty did next is fairly well known locally–surfing and teaching people how to surf and a bit of writing. When major local employer Walkers slaughterhouse closed in 1983, he and his wife, social geographer Tricia Shantz, were asked by the local council to help promote Byron Bay as a tourist destination, writing the first Byron guide in 1983-4. Incorporating essays by local personalities and dedicated visitors, the Byron guide perpetuates the ideal of environmental awareness, spiritual experimentation, and respect for the land and sea. Recent contributors have included philosopher Peter Singer, political journalist Kerry O’Brien, and writer John Ralston Saul, and Miller and Shantz always have an essay in there themselves. “People, Politics and Culture” is the new byline for the 2013 edition. And Miller’s opening essay mediates the same utopian desires and environmental community messages that he espoused from the beginning of The Byron Express: The name Byron Bay represents something that we constantly try to articulate. If one was to dream up a menu of situations and conditions to compose a utopia, Australia would be the model of the nation-state and Byron would have many elements of the actual place one might wish to live for the rest of their lives. But of course there is always the danger of excesses in tropical paradises especially when they become famous destinations. Australia is being held to ransom for the ideology that we should be slaves to money and growth at the cost of a degraded and polluted physical and social environment. Byron at least was/is a refuge against this profusion of the so-called real-world perception that holds profit over environment as the way we must choose for our future. Even when writing for a much more commercial medium, Miller retains the countercultural utopian spirit that was crystallised in the Aquarius festival of 1973, and which remains relevant to many of those living in and visiting the Rainbow Region. Miller’s ethos moves beyond the alternative movements and communities to infiltrate travel writing and tourism initiatives in the area today, as evidenced in the Rusty’s Byron Guide essays. By presenting more radical discourses for a mainstream public, Miller together with Shantz have built on the participatory role that he played in launching the region’s first alternative newspaper in 1973 that became albeit briefly the equivalent of a countercultural utopian gazette. Now, he and Shantz effectively play the same role, producing a kind of countercultural form of utopian media for Byron Bay that corresponds to exactly the same criteria mentioned above. Through their free publication, they aim to educate, socialise, promote and represent the special interests of the founders and followers of the Rainbow Region, focusing on the philosophy and ideals underpinning these communities rather than the everyday events. The Byron Bay that Miller and Shantz promote is resolutely utopian, and certainly countercultural if compared to other free publications like The Book, a new shopping guide, or mainstream media elsewhere. Despite this new competition, they are planning the next edition for 2015 with essays to make people think, talk, and understand the region’s issues, so perhaps the counterculture is still holding its own against the mainstream. References Atton, Chris. “What Is ‘Alternative’ Journalism?” Journalism: Theory, Practice, Criticism 4.3 (2003): 267-72. Berger, Bennett M. The Survival of a Counterculture: Ideological Work and Everyday Life among Rural Communards. New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 2004. Cock, Peter H., & Paul F. Perry. “Australia's Alternative Media.” Media Information Australia 6 (1977): 4-13. Couldry, Nick. “Mediation and Alternative Media, or Relocating the Centre of Media and Communication Studies.” Media International Australia, Incorporating Culture & Policy 103, (2002): 24-31. Davis, Dale, John Witzig & Don James. “Rusty Miller.” Encyclopedia of Surfing. 10 Nov. 2014 ‹http://encyclopediaofsurfing.com/entries/miller-rusty›. Downing, John. Radical Media: Rebellious Communication and Social Movements. Thousand Oaks: Sage. Davis, J.C. Utopia and the Ideal Society: A Study of English Utopian Writing 1516-1700. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1983. Forde, Susan. Challenging the News: The Journalism of Alternative and Independent Media. Palgrave Macmillan: London, 2011. ---. “Monitoring the Establishment: The Development of the Alternative Press in Australia” Media International Australia, Incorporating Culture & Policy 87 (May 1998): 114-133. Frobert, Lucien. “French Utopian Socialists as the First Pioneers in Development.” Cambridge Journal of Economics 35 (2011): 729-49. Green, Toby. Thomas More’s Magician: A Novel Account of Utopia in Mexico. London: Phoenix, 2004. Goffman, Ken, & Dan Joy. Counterculture through the Ages: From Abraham to Acid House. New York: Villard Books. 2004. Haude, Sigrun. “Anabaptism.” The Reformation World. Ed. Andrew Pettegree. London: Routledge, 2000. 237-256. Jameson, Fredric. Archeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions. New York: Verso, 2005. Levitas, Ruth. Utopia as Method. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Martin, Fiona, & Rhonda Ellis. “Dropping In, Not Out: The Evolution of the Alternative Press in Byron Shire 1970-2001.” Transformations 2 (2002). 10 Nov. 2014 ‹http://www.transformationsjournal.org/journal/issue_02/pdf/MartinEllis.pdf›. McKay, George. Senseless Acts of Beauty: Cultures of Resistance since the Sixties. London: Verso, 1996. Metcalf, Bill. From Utopian Dreaming to Communal Reality: Cooperative Lifestyles in Australia. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 1995. ---. Shared Visions, Shared Lives: Communal Living around the Globe. Forres, UK: Findhorn Press, 1996. Miller, Rusty & Tricia Shantz. Turning Point: Surf Portraits and Stories from Bells to Byron 1970-1971. Surf Research. 2012. Molnar, Thomas. Utopia: The Perennial Heresy. London: Tom Stacey, 1972. Moylan, Tom. Demand the Impossible: Science Fiction and the Utopian Imagination. New York: Methuen, 1986. Munro-Clark, Margaret. Communes in Rural Australia: The Movement since 1970. Sydney: Hale & Iremonger, 1986. Osterlag, Bob. People’s Movements, People’s Press: The Journalism of Social Justice Movements. Boston: Beacon Press, 2006. Roszak, Theodore. The Making of a Counter Culture: Reflections on the Technocratic Society and Its Youthful Opposition. New York: Anchor, 1969. Sargent, Lyman Tower. “Three Faces of Utopianism Revisited.” Utopian Studies 5.1 (1994): 1-37. Schaer, Roland, Gregory Claeys, and Lyman Tower Sargent, eds. Utopia: The Search for the Ideal Society in the Western World. New York: New York Public Library/Oxford UP, 2000. Streitmatter, Roger. Voices of Revolution: The Dissident Press in America. Columbia: Columbia UP, 2001. Suvin, Darko. Metamorphoses of Science Fiction: On the Poetics and History of a Literary Genre. New Haven: Yale UP, 1979. Ward, Susan, & Kitty van Vuuren. “Belonging to the Rainbow Region: Place, Local Media, and the Construction of Civil and Moral Identities Strategic to Climate Change Adaptability.” Environmental Communication 7.1 (2013): 63-79. Warshaw, Matt. The History of Surfing. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 2011. Wilson, Helen. (Ed.). Belonging in the Rainbow Region: Cultural Perspectives on the NSW North Coast. Lismore, NSW: Southern Cross University Press, 2003. Widmer, Kingsley. Counterings: Utopian Dialectics in Contemporary Contexts. Ann Arbor, London: UMI Research Press, 1988. Yinger, J. Milton. Countercultures: The Promise and Peril of a World Turned Upside Down. New York: The Free Press, 1982.

Abstract After Perry finally relieved the Brave Seventeen, the bands moved northeastward down Cottonwood Creek to where it met the Clearwater River. Along the way, warriors raided farms and ranches, burning houses and fences and destroying crops. At the Clearwater, they were joined by Looking Glass and the Alpowais, raising the number in camp to around 750. Their plans at that point are uncertain, and probably were uncertain even to themselves. They could not expect to settle up on anything but punitive terms. If not that, what? The army was about to force an answer. Civilian scouts found the camp on the Clearwater and decided to stay near it, concealed, until Howard could be notified and come up. When one of them spoiled the plan by accidentally firing his rifle, they withdrew to a flat-topped, rock-rimmed ridge and dug rifle pits. The Nez Perces knew the place as Possossona (Water Passing, because of a spring). Whites would dub it Misery Hill. Warriors assembled around it and with awful yells and hoots fired vigorously and crawled close, but they could get no clear shots and did no damage. They returned at night and stole more than forty horses, mostly mounts that whites had taken a week earlier from Looking Glass’s village, and then fired again on the volunteers for a few hours before heading back to the river.

“The outstanding scientific discovery of the twentieth century is not television, or radio, but rather the complexity of the land organism,” wrote my father in Round River. As he was hinting, we can locate many of the parts, but how these fit together in the land organism was another matter. Finding the native plant species would be a good start. To reunite some of these came next. The work of our family was creative in its own right: figuring out what conditions these species needed, including by experimentation. Essential to that is appreciating how this landscape got its form—what processes have worked on it and with what results. This much helps us with our understanding of the setting and the soils—what I would call the lay of the land. In the work to restore old habitats and old vegetation types, it is really useful and interesting to know something of the land history, ancient and recent. As Mary Austin wrote, “To understand the fashion of any life, one must know the land it is lived in and the procession of the year.” The Shack experience involved both of these elements. When you live in an area, a natural question that arises is how the landscape got the way it is. What forces shaped it, and over what periods of time? In the Shack area, two different prominent ridges (about twenty-five feet in height) are oriented perpendicular to the Wisconsin River. One is the north-south ridge just west of the Shack—the Sand Hill/Clay Hill ridge. The other is the north-south ridge downstream from Gilbert’s farm; it is the ridge on which the Leopold Center is built. At the point where the river cuts the nose of that ridge (Barrows Bluff) are a great number of large boulders and clay. The Sand Hill site also has an enormous boulder on it. Both have sand on top near the river. I wondered how ridges like these formed in the first place. Then I read the report by Robert Dott and John Attig about the history of the glacial ice lobes in Wisconsin.

Abstract Civilian Conservation Corps camps were established in the valley at Smokemont, Kephart Prong, Mingus Creek, Round Bottom, and Cherokee in the 1930s. Often led by older Local Experienced Men, enlistees cleaned up debris from the abandoned sawmills; constructed roads, bridges, and trails; repaired Mingus Mill; collected seeds, raised seedlings, and planted trees; established a fish hatchery; and built the Oconaluftee Ranger Station near the Enloe farm. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt attended the park’s dedication in 1940 to acknowledge the labor and achievement of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. After the US entered World War II, the CCC camps closed. Gradually, the few remaining park residents died or moved away. Finally, the commissary in Ravensford closed in 1944, and the store at Smokemont followed in 1949. Park visitation increased after the war ended, and the Enloe farm was developed into the Mountain Farm Museum, near the ranger station and entrance. The Eastern Band avoided land allotment and negotiated a favorable route for the Blue Ridge Parkway to intersect with the park entrance in Cherokee, North Carolina. The Cherokees developed a craft and tourist business, with the outdoor drama Unto These Hills becoming the main attraction.