Literatura científica selecionada sobre o tema "Rocky Mountain Buckeye"

The complex physiographic and hydrogeological systems of mountain terrains facilitate intense rock-fissure seepages and multi-functional ecological interactions. As mountain eco-hydrological terrains are the common water sources of river basins across the globe, it is critical to build sufficient understanding into the hydrological processes in this unique ecosystem. This study analyzes infiltration and soil/rock-fissure seepage processes from a 65 mm snowfall/melt in November 2009 in the typical granitic gneiss slope catchment in the Taihang Mountains. The snowfall, snowmelt and melt-water processes are monitored using soil-water time-domain reflectometry (TDR) probes and tipping bucket flowmeters. The results suggest that snowmelt infiltration significantly influences soil/rock water seepage in the 0–100 cm soil depth of the slope-catchment. It is not only air temperature that influences snowmelt, but also snowmelt infiltration and rock-fissure seepage. Diurnal variations in rock-fissure seepage are in close correlation with air temperature (R2 > 0.7). Temperature also varies with soil/rock water viscosity, which element in turn influences soil/rock water flow. Invariably, water dynamics in the study area is not only a critical water supply element for domestic, industrial and agricultural uses, but also for food security and social stability.

AbstractThe folds in the Taurus–Zagros Belt of northern Iraq have generally been considered to be decollement buckle folds. This implies the presence of a decollement horizon at or near the base of the sedimentary cover, the ‘Infra-Cambrian Hormuz Salt’ and a passive role of the Precambrian basement in the tectonic evolution of the folded belt. Structural, stratigraphic, geophysical and remote sensing evidence suggests that forced folding, due to faulting in the basement, has played a significant role in the development of many of the folds in this region. This is clear from the substantial evidence of basement faulting, the lack of any convincing evidence for the presence of an extensive and regional decollement horizon (i.e. the Hormuz Salt) between the basement and the cover rocks, and the geometries of the folds and related mesostructures. The study shows that in the Taurus Foothills Zone, the folds are short, oval in plan shape, and arranged in an en echelon pattern along two sets of dislocation zones in the basement. However, the folds in the Zagros Foothills Zone are longer, linear and arcuate in plan shape. Many of the studied folds show similar features to those observed in the Rocky Mountains, U.S.A.

The parameters of drilling boreholes (including depth, diameter, angle of borehole inclination, cross-section) that are currently used for the making bored piles under the conditions of dense urban area, have been considered. The review about modern technologies of drilling boreholes used for making bored piles has been prepared. The updated classification of drilling technologies used for the making bored piles, which taking into account the nature of the removal of the destroyed rock and the movement of the drilling tool, the type of drilling tool, as well as the method of mounting the borehole walls, has been proposed. The classification, according to the nature of removal of the destroyed rock, distinguishes technologies providing or not providing the removal of destroyed rock. According to the nature of movement of the drilling tool, the rotary, shock and vibration technologies, as well as a static indentation technology, can be identified. According to the type of drilling tools, the classification divides methods into hollow drill stem with sacrificial drill bit and soil compactor and displacement tools with a starter auger section, augers, drilling buckets, core barrels, belling buckets, roller, impact and three-way bits, grabs. According to the methods of well casing, the technologies can be divided into the ones, allowing and not allowing the casing of well.

Summary In a recent theoretical study, Li and Firoozabadi [Li, K. and Firoozabadi, A.: "Phenomenological Modeling of Critical-Condensate Saturation and Relative Permeabilities in Gas-Condensate Systems," paper SPE 56014 available from SPE, Richardson, Texas (2000)] showed that if the wettability of porous media can be altered from preferential liquid-wetting to preferential gas-wetting, then gas-well deliverability in gas-condensate reservoirs can be increased. In this article, we present the results that the wettability of porous media may indeed be altered from preferential liquid-wetting to preferential gas-wetting. In the petroleum literature, it is often assumed that the contact angle through liquid-phase ? is equal to 0° for gas-liquid systems in rocks. As this work will show, while ? is always small, it may not always be zero. In laboratory experiments, we altered the wettability of porous media to preferential gas-wetting by using two chemicals, FC754 and FC722. Results show that in the glass capillary tube ? can be altered from about 50 to 90° and from 0 to 60° by FC754 for water-air and normal decane-air systems, respectively. While untreated Berea saturated with air has a 60% imbibition of water, its imbibition of water after chemical treatment is almost zero and its imbibition of normal decane is substantially reduced. FC722 has a more pronounced effect on the wettability alteration to preferential gas-wetting. In a glass capillary tube ? is altered from 50 to 120° and from 0 to 60° for water-air and normal decane-air systems, respectively. Similarly, because of wettability alteration with FC722, there is no imbibition of either oil or water in both Berea and chalk samples with or without initial brine saturation. Entry capillary pressure measurements in Berea and chalk give a clear demonstration that the wettability of porous media can be permanently altered to preferential gas-wetting. Introduction In a theoretical work,1 we have modeled gas and liquid relative permeabilities for gas-condensate systems in a simple network. The results imply that when one alters the wettability of porous media from strongly non-gas-wetting to preferential gas-wetting or intermediate gas-wetting, there may be a substantial increase in gas-well deliverability. The increase in gas-well deliverability of gas-condensate reservoirs is our main motivation for altering the wettability of porous media to preferential gas-wetting. Certain gas-condensate reservoirs experience a sharp drop in gas-well deliverability when the reservoir pressure drops below the dewpoint.2–4 Examples include many rich gas-condensate reservoirs that have a permeability of less than 100 md. In these reservoirs, it seems that the viscous forces alone cannot enhance gas-well deliverability. One may suggest removing liquid around the wellbore via phase-behavior effects through CO2 and propane injection. Both have been tried in the field with limited success; the effect of fluid injection around the wellbore for the removal of the condensate liquid is temporary. Wettability alteration can be a very important method for the enhancement of gas-well deliverability. If one can alter the wettability of the wellbore region to intermediate gas-wetting, gas may flow efficiently in porous media. As early as 1941, Buckley and Leverett5 recognized the importance of wettability on water flooding performance. Later, many authors studied the effect of wettability on capillary pressure, relative permeability, initial water saturation, residual oil saturation, oil recovery, electrical properties of reservoir rocks, reserves, and well stimulation.6–16 reported that it might be possible to improve oil displacement efficiency by wettability adjustment during water flooding. In 1967, Froning and Leach8 reported a field test in Clearfork and Gallup reservoirs for improving oil recovery by wettability alteration. Kamath9 then reviewed wettability detergent flooding. He noted that it was difficult to draw a definite conclusion regarding the success of detergent floods from the data available in the literature. Penny et al.12 presented a technique to improve well stimulation by changing the wettability for gas-water-rock systems. They added a surfactant in the fracturing fluid. This yielded impressive results; the production following cleanup after fracturing in gas wells generally was 2 to 3 times greater than field averages or offset wells treated with conventional techniques. Penny et al.12 believed that increased production was due to wettability alteration. However, they did not demonstrate that wettability had been altered. Recently, Wardlaw and McKellar17 reported that only 11% pore volume (PV) water imbibed into the Devonian dolomite samples with bitumen. The water imbibition test was conducted vertically in a dry core (saturated with air). Based on the imbibition experiments, they pointed out that many gas reservoirs in the western Alberta foothills of the Rocky Mountains were partially dehydrated and their wettability altered to a weakly water-wet or strongly oil-wet condition due to bitumen deposits on the pores. The water imbibition results of Wardlaw and McKellar17 demonstrated that the inappropriate hypothesis for wetting properties of gas reservoirs might lead to underestimation of hydrocarbon reserves.

Abstract. Ground temperatures in coarse, blocky deposits such as mountain blockfields and rock glaciers have long been observed to be lower in comparison with other (sub)surface material. One of the reasons for this negative temperature anomaly is the lower soil moisture content in blocky terrain, which decreases the duration of the zero curtain in autumn. Here we used the CryoGrid community model to simulate the effect of drainage on the ground thermal regime and ground ice in blocky terrain permafrost at two sites in Norway. The model set-up is based on a one-dimensional model domain and features a surface energy balance, heat conduction and advection, as well as a bucket water scheme with adjustable lateral drainage. We used three idealized subsurface stratigraphies, blocks only, blocks with sediment and sediment only, which can be either drained (i.e. with strong lateral subsurface drainage) or undrained (i.e. without drainage), resulting in six scenarios. The main difference between the three stratigraphies is their ability to retain water against drainage: while the blocks only stratigraphy can only hold small amounts of water, much more water is retained within the sediment phase of the two other stratigraphies, which critically modifies the freeze–thaw behaviour. The simulation results show markedly lower ground temperatures in the blocks only, drained scenario compared to other scenarios, with a negative thermal anomaly of up to 2.2 ∘C. For this scenario, the model can in particular simulate the time evolution of ground ice, with build-up during and after snowmelt and spring and gradual lowering of the ice table in the course of the summer season. The thermal anomaly increases with larger amounts of snowfall, showing that well-drained blocky deposits are less sensitive to insulation by snow than other soils. We simulate stable permafrost conditions at the location of a rock glacier in northern Norway with a mean annual ground surface temperature of 2.0–2.5 ∘C in the blocks only, drained simulations. Finally, transient simulations since 1951 at the rock glacier site (starting with permafrost conditions for all stratigraphies) showed a complete loss of perennial ground ice in the upper 5 m of the ground in the blocks with sediment, drained run; a 1.6 m lowering of the ground ice table in the sediment only, drained run; and only 0.1 m lowering in the blocks only, drained run. The interplay between the subsurface water–ice balance and ground freezing/thawing driven by heat conduction can at least partly explain the occurrence of permafrost in coarse blocky terrain below the elevational limit of permafrost in non-blocky sediments. It is thus important to consider the subsurface water–ice balance in blocky terrain in future efforts in permafrost distribution mapping in mountainous areas. Furthermore, an accurate prediction of the evolution of the ground ice table in a future climate can have implications for slope stability, as well as water resources in arid environments.

Abstract. While groundwater recharge is one of the most prominently covered subjects in hydrogeology, the spatial distribution of recharge has been given relatively little attention, especially in semi-arid, karstic aquifers. Under conditions of highly diverse geology, relief, vegetation and land use, the complexity and variability of spatially distributed hydrological processes remains a challenge in many regions around the world. This is particularly true for hitherto ungauged basins, such as Wadi Natuf, a 103 km2 large karstic Eastern Mediterranean watershed in the Palestinian upstream mountain and recharge area of the Western Aquifer Basin (WAB), which is shared with Israel in the coastal plain. In this first in a series of two papers, distributed recharge is estimated and represented, based on 7 years of extensive field observations and measurements and based conceptually on observable physical landscape features such as geology, land use and land cover (LU/LC) and especially soil conditions. For the first time in the WAB, a forward calculated soil moisture and percolation model (SMSP) was set up with parameters directly gained from field observations. The model was parameterised in a strictly parsimonious manner, as a one-dimensional model (a.k.a. “tank”, bucket or box model). This is based on dominant hydrological processes, in particular saturation excess in the soil column, and identifying patterns of linkage between different landscape features. Average soil thickness was encountered at the range of decimetres, rarely above one metre. Both soil thickness and LU/LC features, such as terraced olive groves or forests as well as grassland or barren rock outcrops, were found to be highly formation specific. This linkage allowed us to further simplify the model and its requirements in a realistic manner for eight soil moisture stations, chosen at six different geological formations with typical soil and LU/LC representations. The main result of the model was the determination of formation-specific recharge coefficients, spatially ranging between 0 % and almost 60 % of annual rainfall or up to 300 mm a−1 in Wadi Natuf's climate. The karstified main aquifers showed recharge coefficients (RC) above 40 % and even the less prominent slightly aquitardal local aquifers reached RC values above 30 %. The model was separately tested on two conceptual levels: on the level of basin form (soil moisture) and basin response (signatures of peak recharge and local spring discharge events) under well-controlled conditions in isolated sub-catchments. In principle, our approach is applicable in many of the scarcely gauged karstic groundwater basins around the world with a highly diverse landscape and geology.

We are looking for a tongue that speaks with reverence for life, searching for an ecology of mind. Without it, we have no home, have no place of our own within the creation. It is not only the vocabulary of science that we desire. We also want a language of that different yield. A yield rich as the harvests of the earth, a yield that returns us to our own sacredness, to a self-love and respect that will carry out to others (Hogan 122). Through storytelling the world is created and recreated: in the values and worldviews stories offer, in the patterns of thinking and knowing that listening and reading place in our spirits and minds, in the stories we tell and live. We walk in the ripples our old people left behind and we follow them up, just as our children and the generations after us will walk in shapes and patterns we make with our lives. Our delicate world is poised on a precipice with increasing species extinction and loss of habitat, deforestation, displacement of animal and human communities, changing weather patterns, and polluted waterways. How do we manage the environmental and cultural issues of our complex global world? How do we come together to look after each other and the world around us? Often there is a sense that science will save us, that if we keep “progressing” at a fast enough rate we can escape the consequences of our actions. However, science alone, no matter how sophisticated, cannot alter the fundamental truths of action and reaction in Country: that if you take too much, something, somewhere, will go without. As Guungu Yimithirr man Roy McIvor writes: Dad often spoke about being aware of the consequences of our actions. He used different stories as teaching tools, but the idea was the same. Like a boomerang, your bad actions will come back to hurt you (89). In the end, it will not be technological innovation alone that will alter the course we have set out for ourselves. Rather, it will be human beings embracing a different way of relating to the environment than the current dominant paradigm that sees people take too much, too often. With this is mind, we would like to consider the integral role children’s literature plays in sustaining knowledge patterns of Country and ecology for the future. In the context of children’s literature and ecology the idea of sustaining environmental and cultural awareness is shared via the written word—how it is used, presented, and read, particularly with ideas of the child reader in mind. Our children will be the ones who struggle with the ripples we leave in our wake and they will be the ones who count the cost of our decisions as they in turn make decisions for the generations that will follow them. If we teach the right values then the behaviour of our children will reflect those ideas. In the Aboriginal way it’s about getting the story right, so that they can learn the right ways to be in Country, to be a human being, and to look after the world they inherit. As Deborah Bird Rose states, Country is a “nourishing terrain; a place that gives and receives life” (Rose Country 7). This paper will examine two Aboriginal children’s stories that teach about a living, holistic, interrelated world and the responsibilities of human beings to look after it. Specifically, the authors will examine Joshua and the Two Crabs by Joshua Button and Dingo’s Tree by Gladys and Jill Milroy. Both stories are published by Aboriginal publisher Magabala Books and represent a genre of Aboriginal writing about Country and how to take care of it. They form part of the “language of that different yield” (Hogan 122) that Indigenous writer Linda Hogan advocates, a language that emerges from an ecology of the mind that locates human beings as an interconnected part of the patterns of the earth. The first text discussion focuses on the sharing of implicit meaning via textual form—that is, the lay out of the story, its peritext, and illustrations. The second textual discussion centres explicitly on content and meaning. Both textual analyses aim to open up a dialogue between Aboriginal ecology and children’s literature to provide inter-subjective approaches for Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal readers/listeners. Aboriginal Story Ecology In Aboriginal philosophy the universe is the creative expression of Dreaming Ancestors who created the world—the land, plants, animals, stars and elements—and then settled into the creation they had made: …white people also call this the Dreaming. The Tjukurpa tells how the landscape, animals, plants, and people were made and what they mean for one another. The Tjukurpa is in everything. It is in the rocks, in the trees, even in the mice, mingkiri (Baker xii). Through their actions they formed the pattern of reality that finds its expression in human beings and in everything around us—the stars, earth, rivers, trees, rocks, and forms of life that make up the world. Aboriginal knowledge systems understand the patterns of life and our relationships to them through the structure of story. Dreaming stories—stories about the creation of the world and how the fundamental Laws were handed down to the people—have special significance. However, the stories we make with our lives and experiences are also important—stories about funny things that happened and our relationships with our families and loved ones. These stories are also a part of Country because there is nothing that does not emerge and return to the land, nothing that is not part of the pattern that the Dreaming Ancestors made: The Story is the Land, and the Land is the Story. The Story holds the people, and the people live inside the Story. The Story lives inside the people also. It goes all ways to hold the land (Turner 45). The imprint of creation, the structure of the relationships that make up the world, is held in story. Thus, in Aboriginal logic the patterns of nature, the patterns of stories, and the patterns of language, society, and culture are reflections and expressions of the pattern of creation woven by the Dreaming Ancestors. As Yunipingu writes: …For us society and nature are not separate. We have Yirritja and Dhuwa, and these categories contain elements which are both natural and social. Also, of course, they have elements which Europeans call supernatural or metaphysical (9). Through stories we come to know not just the world but who we are and the proper ways of relating to the ecology’s around us. As we learn stories the pattern of learning grows inside of us, in our ways of thinking, doing, and being. They provide the framework for our spirit and mind to develop so we come to know and be in the world in a proper or straight way—to enhance the pattern of life, not to destroy it. This is an Aboriginal “Story Ecology” where stories serve as maps that teach us who we are and our role in the world. Yuin Elder Max Harrison (2009) observes the three truths on passing on traditional knowledge: See the land…the beautyHear the land….the storyFeel the land…the spirit (no pg). To sustain Country is to sustain the self. To tell, share, and know story is to know the environment and to sustain the environment. As Kathy Deveraux writes ‘it’s like the spider: a lot of things tie in together, so when you ask one thing, you get a whole big history’ (qtd in Rose, Country 7). Aboriginal story promotes ecological practice by enlivening the reader’s empathy toward the environment and nurturing a sense of union between what is within us and what is outside of us. The imagery and text of Aboriginal story often achieves this umbilical in two defining ways. The first is through the positioning of the age, setting, or backdrop. The second is born from the relationships animated between these vitally active surrounds and the characters contained therein. Makere Stewart-Harrawira states that: All human experiences and all forms of knowledge contributed to the overall understandings and interpretations. The important task was to find the proper pattern of interpretation. Hence it can be said that indigenous peoples have traditionally regarded knowledge as something that must be stood in its entire context. The traditional principles of traditional knowledge [...] remain fixed and provide the framework within which new experiences and situations are understood and given meaning. As such, these principles are the means by which cultural knowledge becomes remade and given meaning in our time. Another principle is that every individual element of the natural world, each individual rock and stone, each individual animal and plant, every body of land and of water, has its own unique life force (155). Examples of these features of Aboriginal story ecology can be seen in our analysis of the following two stories Joshua and the Two Crabs and Dingo’s Tree. Joshua and the Two Crabs In Joshua and the Two Crabs by Joshua Button, published by Magabala Books in 2008, the narrative, illustrations, and peritext all combine to enable alternative eco-cultural understandings and values. Joshua Button is a young Indigenous author from saltwater country, as is the protagonist in the text. Joshua, the character, observes the movements of country and its inhabitants and Joshua, the author and illustrator, expresses these meanings via words, colours, and illustrations. In particular, the text represents relationships with, and within, Crab Creek. The peritext offers information about Crab Creek—a tidal creek in the mangroves of Roebuck Bay in north-west Western Australia. “The area abounds with wildlife, including migratory birds, fruit bats, crabs and shellfish. It is a place for local people to spend the day fishing off the beach for a ‘pan-sized’ feed of salmon, queenfish, silver bream or trevally. Catching and cooking mud crabs is one of Joshua’s favourite things to do” (no pg). Story, place, and child are now formally positioned as the centre of the narrative and their relationship strengthened by the colours used to represent country and movement. The narrative focuses on Joshua’s family trip to Crab Creek and his interactions with the land, the water, and the animals. His story reveals a meeting of land and sea, a reading of land and sea, and a listening to land and sea. Country and its inhabitants are revealed as having multiple relationships. From the moment his mob arrives, the narrative emphasizes listening to and reading country: Joshua’s Mum moves faster when she reads the movement of the tides and when Joshua ventures into the mangroves he listens to the “Plop! Plop! Plop! Of the air rising up through the mud” (Button, no pg.). With his bucket and spear Joshua’s movements through country are observed and considered by the creatures around him; wader birds carefully watch him and Joshua engages in a dialogue with two big mud crabs that remind the boy that he has also been perceived by Country, which is itself sentient. Animals and country speak and observe—the tide moves, the sand is hot, mudskippers skip, and crabs escape and hide. Joshua’s relationship with the mud crabs is dependent on the boy and the crabs seeing each other and communicating: “‘I can see you two!’ ‘Well, we can see you too,’ said the crabs” (Button, no pg). The narrative provides a beautifully simplistic example of different perspectives and positions for the intended child reader. Both Joshua and the crabs’ perspectives are given space to be acknowledged and understood: one character is searching, another character is escaping. When Joshua finally catches the crabs he carefully brings them back to camp and the entire family have a good feed of them and the golden trevally Joshua’s Mum caught. “Afterwards they sat watching the tide empty out of the bay. Long-legged wader birds picked their way across the silvery mudflats. It had been a good day” (Button, no pg). The story offers a colourful, fun, and cyclical way of seeing country from a perspective that centres the relationship between family, food, and land. It presents this relationship and the implicit meaning of observing and living in country via traditional textual elements such as the written word, colour illustrations, and movement from left to right, but in doing so, the text becomes a form of sustaining relationship with country as well, not just for Joshua but also for the intended child reader. Dingo’s Tree Dingo’s Tree by Jill and Gladys Milroy is a much longer story than Joshua and the Two Crabs and also deals with more serious themes. The story is about Dingo who drew his own rain tree on a rock because the other animals didn’t share their shade with him. The tree then becomes real and grows beyond the limit of the sky and keeps Dingo’s waterhole full through the drought season. The others come to rely on Dingo’s waterhole and feel bad for not sharing with him and teasing him about his tree. As the water dries up, one single special raindrop is found on a little tree and Dingo decides to spare the drop even when all the waterholes become dry. Dingo feels that something is wrong when he sees that the raindrop is slowly growing larger. To survive, Dingo and his friend Wombat teach Little Tree to walk to water. He becomes known as Walking Tree and they are soon joined by all of the others in the land. On their way to the mountain to find water they see the river and half the mountain replaced by mining, and Walking Tree soon becomes overburdened with the weight of the others. The birds decide to carry him—his branches full of friends—and they succeed for a short time only to grow tired. Soon they are all falling toward their impending death until Dingo chooses to use the last raindrop, now much larger, and their fall is broken and a new waterhole is made. However, it is only enough for Walking Tree to live forever and because he is the last tree, the others (but one baby crow) go to the Heavens awaiting their return at the end of humankinds reign on the land. In the story of the Dingo’s Tree the adventure begins in “unspoiled country” with its inventory of cast members who, in real life, naturally inhabit the area. All are shown to be adjusting recurrently within the known cycles of drought and abundance, suggested by the authors in the line “the drought came”, then a subtle reference to patterns of migration as the season is introduced and the cast move to more reliable waterholes. Establishing the story in this space encourages the young reader to identify the natural landscape as “normal”, and part of that normality are the cycles that create and degenerate growth. It is the antagonist that is responsible for the creation of unnatural change. Mining becomes the assassin of country with men as poachers "carting away great loads of rock and earth in huge machines" (Milroy and Milroy 39). This scene is of great importance, although it is only allocated a single page, because it shows where the artery of country has been severed. Its effects have been cleverly woven into the storyline beforehand in several ways. The line “the drought stayed” illustrates a seasonal defiance. In turn, Dingo becomes aware of this imbalance: "for a while Dingo lived happily in his cave but lately he’d begun to worry about the country, something wasn’t right" (Milroy and Milroy 1). Dingo reads the signs of the country. His attention to the life cycles of the land are brought to the attention of the reader teaching children about the important role of observation in caring for country. In addition to this, a warning is given to Crow by the Rain Tree through a vision of a future landscape devastated and dying: "It is what your country will become…The mining is cutting too deep for the scars to heal. Once destroyed the mountains can’t grow again and give birth to the rivers that they send to the sea…"(Milroy and Milroy 20). Contained in this passage is a direct environmental truth, but the beauty of the passage lies in the language chosen by the authors. The phrase “cutting too deep for the scars to heal” links a human experience to an environmental one, as does the phrase “give birth to the rivers”. A child is able to recognise the physical pain of a cut and a child is also able to recognise that birth belongs to the Mother. The use of this language forges a powerful connection in the mind of the reader between the self and the Earth - the child and the Mother. Country feels pain, the mountains and rivers activate their own membership in life’s cycles, and even the far off Moon participates in thought and conversation, all of which awaken a consciousness within the reader toward the animate spirit of the natural world, parenting a considerate relationship to land. It is this animate relationship with the land that it is at the heart of the story. It is the mountain that sends the rivers to the sea, rather than the abstract force of gravity. If the authors were to omit this living relationship between the mountains, the rivers, and the sea, the readers understanding would be contained to simple geophysical processes with their life force reduced to an impersonal science, if thought of at all. Instead, the mountain chooses to send the rivers to the sea because it is the right way, so natural processes become exposed as conscious participants in story rather than being portrayed as passive or inanimate objects and this not only deepens the impact of their destruction later in the plot, it also deepens the connection between the reader and the land. Writing the Future Joshua and the Two Crabs and Dingo’s Tree offer two different Aboriginal stories with underlying commonalities: they both position relationships, Country, and people into an integrated web and provide a moral framework for sustaining the relationships around us. Children’s picture books and narratives are foundational initiations for many Australian child readers in their ecological education—whether overtly or covertly. How a society, a character, a narrative, represents, treats, and perceives the land influences how the reader encounters the landscape. We argue that Indigenous Australian children’s literature, written, illustrated, produced, and disseminated largely by Indigenous knowledges, offers counter-point views and stories about the land and accompanying interrelated relationships that provide the reader with a space to re-consider, re-inhabit, or transform their own ecological positioning. References Baker, Lynn. Mingkirri: A Natural History of Ulu-ru by the Mu-titjulu Community. Canberra: IAD Press, 1996. Button, Joshua. Joshua and the Two Crabs. Broome: Magabala Books, 2008. Harrison, Max. My Peoples Dreaming. Sydney: Finch Publishing, 2009. Hogan, Linda. “A Different Yield.” Reclaiming Indigenous Voice and Vision. Ed. Marie Battise. Toronto: UBC Press, 2000. 115 – 23. McIvor, Roy. Cockatoo: My Life in Cape York. Broome: Magabala Books, 2010. Milroy, Gladys and Jill Milroy. Dingo’s Tree. Broome: Magabala Books, 2012. Rose, Deborah Bird. Country of the Heart: An Indigenous Australian Homeland. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 2002. ——-. “Pattern, Connection, Desire: In Honour of Gregory Bateson”. Australian Humanities Review, 35 (2005). 14th June 2012, ‹http://wwwlib.latrobe.cdu.au/A1IR/archive!lssue-June 2005/rose.html›. Stewart-Harawira, Makere. “Cultural Studies, Indigenous Knowledge and Pedagogies of Hope.” Policy Futures in Education 3.2 (2005):153-63. Turner, Margaret. Iwenhe Tyerrtye: What It Means to Be an Aboriginal Person. Alice Springs: IAD Press, 2010. Yunupingu, Mandawuy. Voices from the Land. Canberra: Australian Broadcasting Corporation, 1994.

My father killed the boar when he was 16. He’d dreamed of killing the boar for some time. My father’s brother had killed a boar when he was only fifteen. My father’s brother was five years older than him. Like most big brothers, he treated his little brother with intolerant contempt. He’d been saying for months that my father would never kill a boar. He was too weak. He was a girl. He was useless. And, just the day before, he told him he was so worthless he better finish the fence on the bottom paddock before dusk or he could expect a kicking. The family farm was gradually being cleared from the bush and the fencing slow and arduous. My father finished the fence. My father was very good with his hands and in truth a much better fencer than his brother, which didn’t help matters between them. That night my father didn’t go to sleep in the room he shared with his brother. Instead he went out into the bush past the bottom paddock, where the boars roamed, his rifle strapped over his shoulder and a knife in his ankle scabbard. The cleared ground was rough and uneven, a broken landscape created by the eruptions and outpourings of the volcanoes Ruapehu, Ngauruhoe and Tongariro. In the bush, the terrain was even rougher, jagged rises and deep gullies, all ripe with the verdant vegetation flourishing on the rich volcanic soil. My father found himself a niche in a cliff on the edge of the bush above a small clearing near the creek. He huddled there in his woollen coat and dungarees and waited. He’d brought the dogs with him and they drove the boar out of the bush and into the clearing among the tree ferns just before dawn. By then my father was hunched on a rock, out of the way. The dogs worried the boar. They grabbed its tail, snapped at its balls, sank their teeth into its legs. The boar fought back. It lashed at them with its tusks. It caught one and tossed it into a tree fern, the dog yelping from the pain of its ripped rib cage. The boar roared, stomping and rooting. The dogs continued to circle. My father had waited all night in the cold, his rifle loaded and the safety catch off. My father was a very good shot. Better than his brother. That was why his parents had splurged on his birthday gift and bought him a .303 rifle. His brother had a .22, but he couldn’t shoot pigeons or ducks. My father, though, could use his brother’s gun to bring down a brace of ducks. Another reason his brother treated him like a piece of dirt. But out in the bush he couldn’t shoot the boar for fear of killing one of the dogs. He slipped the catch on and laid the gun down beside him. He took a knife from the scabbard on his belt. He waited until the boar was facing away from him, dogs in front and behind it. He jumped from the rock, and kicked the boar’s right hind leg out. The boar went down. My father threw himself on its back and plunged the knife in between the shoulders. Deep, to cut the spine and throat. The boar squealed, thrashed and subsided. My father thrust himself upright, knife still in blood-soaked hand, and stood away from the boar. The boar rolled over, the dogs still nipping at it. My father used the knife again, slashing deep across the boar’s throat. It screamed and lunged at him with head and tusks. He leapt away, falling over one of the dogs. The boar didn’t die straight away. It thrashed about on the ground, snorting and sighing at first, then whimpering as blood gushed out, steamed on the cold ground and coagulated in the crushed ferns. Eventually it was just panting, and slowly at that. Finally it was dead. My father shooed the dogs away. He cut off the boar’s balls and pizzle and tossed them to the dogs. He slit the boar from arse to belly and began the process of removing its warm innards, first working with the bladder to attempt to keep its contents from having too much contact with his game. His hands reached right inside to disentangle the intestines. His shirt and jacket were soaked with its blood. His hands were greasy with blood and shit. He washed himself as best as he could in the freezing water of the creek. He manoeuvred the boar so that it was half sitting on the ground then he lowered himself down and backed between the boar’s front legs, his head under its chin. Taking the weight of the beast on his shoulders, he slowly stood and began to trudge out of the bush and through the rough paddocks towards his family home on the top of the rise. The dogs kept him company for a bit, but the lure of home was too much for them and they took off up the hill in a barking frenzy. All except the one that had been tossed by the boar. It slunk at his heels, blood on its flank where the tusk had ripped through. His father and brother were waiting for him on the veranda. His brother glared and yelled at him because he had missed the morning milking of the cows, but his father told him to take the boar to the meat shack. This was behind the house. It was a rough weatherboard structure on the cool, south-side. It was secure against dogs and vermin and big enough to hang several carcases. A sheep and legs of ham were already there. The shack had a smooth stone floor with drainage channels grooved into it. My father laid the boar on the floor of the shack. He cut the hock of each hind leg just behind the tendon to make a space for the gambrel hook. He inserted the hook then used the hoist in the shack to raise the boar up to the rail that ran down the centre of the room and from which the meat hung. My father then began to skin the boar, stripping back the black bristled outer flesh as much as possible in one piece. Once it was scrubbed of the bristles and tanned, the skin would be soft and supple, suitable for a purse or for covering a saddle. He washed the carcass. Later, when the day’s farm work was over, the whole family would work on preparing and preserving the boar. His mother had already fired up the copper to boil water for the cleaning and salting. Lastly, he sawed off the boar’s head. He placed it on the butcher’s block in the shack and worked at the tusks. On this big beast the tusks were almost five inches long, curved and very sharp. They were much larger than the tusks from his brother’s boar. Once he had the tusks out of the boar’s mouth, he stripped of all but his underpants and washed himself as best as he could at the tap of the water tank at the back of the house. The water was icy and there was a stiff breeze from the snow on the mountains. It was still winter. But my father hardly noticed. He was still warm from the blood of the boar and the sight of his brother’s face when he had seen the size of it. Two months later, he took the tusks into the town of Taumaranui. He sought advice from the jeweller in the main street, who had made a speciality of working with tusks. The jeweller was known all over the King Country. The jeweller talked about how the tusks might be mounted. He suggested a band of gold, edges engraved with delicate leaves, to join the tusks base to base, so that the points formed a semicircle. Just below the points, he suggested two gold bands joined with a delicate gold chain, from which the tusks could be hung. And that is what my father agreed to. The jeweller took one month then my father claimed his tusks and took them home to mount on his bedroom wall, where his brother was forced to see them every day. My father signed up for the Air Force when he was 18. He wanted to fly away from his brother and the cows and the fencing and digging the rocks out of the paddock and that is exactly what he did. He learned to fly, something he’d dreamed of doing, same as he had dreamed of killing a boar. My father was a great dreamer. He left the tusks at home with his mother. She took them out of the bedroom them and placed them on the wall of the family room to remind her of him. His brother would turn them back to front. My father sent home photographs of himself: one from Cairo with him in tropical gear, sparkling eyes and a jaunty smile under his new moustache; another from Waddingham in his Sergeant pilot’s uniform standing with his crew in front of their Lancaster as it is loaded with bombs; a last one from an unknown place but he is wearing his Flying Officer’s uniform for he had been promoted and there are ribbons on his chest, too, but his eyes do not shine and he does not smile. As they arrived from the other side of the world in the slow mail his mother placed these photographs on the sideboard in the family room under my father’s tusks. In a mood after the Sunday roast his brother would turn them face down, saying my father wouldn’t be coming back so why did he have to be reminded of him. But he did come back, which even his brother had to acknowledge. He was 23. He was a shell of the boy who had killed the boar. He had been gutted by the war, though he showed no outward signs of the mutilation. It was all within, deep within, embedded in him like tusks in the jaw of a boar. My father began studying to be a veterinarian when he was 25. As part of his repatriation package, he was paid to study at the University of Sydney. He took the tusks down from his mother’s wall and packed them into one of the suitcases he and my mother took with them on the flying boat to Sydney. The tusks hung on the wall of the semi in Enmore they lived in for the five years he studied. Then after he had graduated they went back across the Tasman and my father began his work with animals. The animals received his ministrations with passive indifference and helped resolve the horror in his head, an unremitting memory of the perilous flights under attack across black skies and terrain, the fires unleashed by the phosphorous bombs released from his plane’s bomb bay let alone the destruction from other ordnance, the morning briefings after what was left of the squadron had returned and he learned which of his mates was no longer. He drank a bit. Maybe too much, but nobody ever sat down with him and talk about what he had been through. He had some medals and his old flying jacket and it was expected that he just get on with life. Which he did, overall. Once my parents were back in New Zealand, he set up practice in Waikato, with dairy cattle his most frequent patients. The Waikato district lies to the north of the King Country where my father had killed the boar. His family were not so far away, but he didn’t visit them that often. His brother was running things down there. His brother held vets in contempt and made that clear on the rare occasions my father did visit. Then his father, my grandfather, died. The farm went to his older brother as was the custom of those times. His widowed mother moved up to Auckland, so my father had no reason to visit the farm or his brother any more. Maybe it was only a matter of moving away from his brother but he lost and found himself in Australia. Maybe it was also the fact that a few years after he had made the move, the phone rang one night and he found he was talking to his brother’s wife. His brother had shot himself down in the bottom paddock that morning. It seems my father’s brother was never a very good farmer. From that time on my father mellowed, relaxed and began to enjoy himself. The tusks, though, were always on his bedside table, reminding him of that night he spent out in the bush and killed the boar. My father died three weeks before he was to turn 80. His death was long and painful to those of us who had to watch it, though for him it was ameliorated by painkillers and palliative care given him. It was my job to arrange the details of his funeral. Since his death was no surprise, all of his family, his three sons and his two daughters, grandsons and grand-daughters and his great grand children as well, had already gathered to say goodbye to him. But everybody was now under pressure to get back to jobs and other commitments. I spoke to the undertakers. They arranged the funeral the day following my father’s death in their own chapel. My mother wanted an open casket so my father had to be dressed in his best clothes. My mother and I selected the clothes and I took them to the undertakers. The next morning, before the ceremony, the undertakers called me and asked me to come to their rooms behind the chapel. They asked me to check that my father looked as much as we wanted him to look. He lay in the coffin, only his head and hands showing, the rest of him expertly trussed and dressed for this last display. His hair was neatly brushed and there was a bristle or two of whiskers on his cheek and chin. His eyes were closed and the skin on his face waxy, but cold from wherever he had been stored. I kissed him on his forehead. Then I placed the tusks on his chest, just under his neck and over the tie and jacket my mother had decided he should wear. My father was ready. I drove my mother down to the chapel just before 2 pm. She and I were the last people to be seated. We were both to sit in the front row. She walked straight up the aisle past the other mourners to my father’s coffin and she stood there for a moment looking at her husband of nearly sixty years. She stretched out her arm and stroked the tusks on his chest. Then she turned and I reached out and guided her to her seat. “He’ll like having them,” she whispered to me. Then we sang “There’s a hole in the bucket”. My father always liked that song. The crematorium was miles away. My father travelled there alone. Just as he had faced the boar. References De Hek, Danny. “Hunting regions—King Country: The home of wild pig hunting in New Zealand.” New Zealand’s Information Network 16 Aug. 2010 . Dick, Tim. “The boar wars.” WAtoday.com.au 13 Nov. 2008. 16 Aug. 2010 . Rushmer, Miles. “Bush surfing: That’s a New Zealand pig hunt.” ESPN Outdoors 28 Apr. 2005. 16 Aug. 2010 . Walrond, Carl. “Pig hunting.” Te Ara: The Encyclopaedia of New Zealand 1 Mar. 2009. 16 Aug. 2010 .

Abstract The continents of the earth move. The crust (lithosphere) consists today of seven large tectonic plates and a number of smaller ones. Several of them have continents attached to their ‘backs’, and shuffle across the globe, moved by the deeper convection currents of the liquid rock in the middle layer, the mantle. When the plates move away from each other in the deep ocean, liquid rock (magma) flows upwards and solidifies to form ridges. In some other places the plates may scrape past each other, causing fault lines (such as the San Andreas Fault). When they collide directly, one passes below the other, a process known as subduction. If this happens where the plates are ‘carrying’ continents then these buckle and rise to form mountains (for example, the Himalayas). Most volcanic activity occurs around the edges of the plates, but some submarine mountains and volcanic islands arise towards the middle of plates. These are due to hot spots, which are generated in particular stationary sites in the mantle. As the plates move across a hot spot a chain of volcanoes are successively ‘punched ‘ through it; only one end of the chain is active — where the plate is currently over the hot spot. The Hawaiian Islands and the older line of submarine mountains, known as the Emperor Seamounts (see map p. 176), that stretch up to the Kamchatka Peninsula, are a spectacular example of the effects of a hot spot and show how the Pacific plate has moved over the past 75 million years.

Abstract On April 13, 1882, Oscar Wilde, dressed in a green overcoat and black slouch hat, climbed into a large bucket and was lowered down a mine shaft in Leadville, Colorado. Wilde was on the Western swing of an American lecture tour that had begun in New York some four months earlier. As Richard Ellmann tells us in his biography, Wilde was more impressed with the miners and the cowboys than he was with much of the company he had been forced to endure earlier in his trip. “They were polished and refined compared with the people I met in larger cities farther East,” said Wilde. “There is no chance for roughness. The revolver,” he drawled, “is their book of etiquette” (1988, 204). At the bottom of the mine, high and deep in the Rocky Mountains, Wilde discovered that two ceremonies had been prepared in his honor. The first involved drinking whiskey for dinner. The second required him to use a drill to open a new shaft in the mine, a shaft that the Silver King, Leadville’s mayor, R. A. W. Tabor, had named “The Oscar” as a proleptic Hollywood tribute to the aesthetic visitor from England. Afterward, the assembled company went off to a casino, where there was music.