Rachel Sauer

Students blend suds and science at Earth on Tap

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 03 Mar 2026 23:17:41 +0000

Students blend suds and science at Earth on Tap Rachel Sauer Tue, 03/03/2026 - 16:17

Rachel Sauer

The March 9 event at Rayback Collective in Boulder, open to all, invites scientists and non-scientists to gather for discussions of climate research

It started, as good things often do, with CAKE. In this case, that’s the Climate Action Knowledge Exchange, a group formed by �鶹��Ѱ�� atmospheric and oceanic sciences (ATOC) graduate students Max Elling, Dora Shlosberg and Josh Gooch. They noticed, the further they progressed in their studies, that there are “a lot of different people working in climate, but not necessarily working together,” explains Shlosberg, a PhD student.

If you go

What: Earth on Tap

When: 5:45-7:30 p.m. Monday, March 9

Where: Rayback Collective, 2775 Valmont Road in Boulder

Who: All are invited

Learn more

So, they formed an interdisciplinary outreach group, CAKE, to break down silos and build partnerships between scholars, industry professionals and community members. From there, CAKE began collaborating with ATOC’s existing Outreach Committee, a group dedicated to educating the public on Earth science through engaging and interactive learning. Outreach teaches children through their SEEDS program, bringing live demonstrations on Earth-system science to local elementary schools.

Then, last semester, they began discussing what more they could be doing to involve adults in science, particularly those who aren’t professional scientists but are science curious.

Earth on Tap organizers express that there has been a lot of misinformation spread about science, and there is sometimes an element of mystery among the public as to what it is local scientists do. Earth on Tap aims to break down these barriers and connect people of all backgrounds to the science being done in their own backyard.

The key is to make it fun, says ATOC PhD student Maggie Scholer. But how?

The answer: Beer.

Not to make the science go down easier, but as a tool to bring science out of the lab and field research sites and into spaces where all are welcome, where community grows, where learning can happen with a chocolate stout and a shared plate of sliders. So, that’s how Earth on Tap came to be.

An event at which all ages are welcome—though you’ll have to show ID if you want that beer—Earth on Tap features climate scientists discussing their research with a focus on how it applies to and affects the broader community.

The second Earth on Tap will be from 5:45-7:30 p.m. Monday, March 9, at the Rayback Collective in Boulder. Nels Bjarke, a hydrologist with Western Water Assessment and �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder PhD alumnus, and McKenzie Larson, an ATOC PhD student and researcher in the Synoptic Meteorology Research Group, will discuss the impacts of low seasonal snowfall and the development of downslope windstorms.

Telling science stories

Monday’s Earth on Tap topic is especially timely, Josh Gooch says, because he and his ATOC colleagues frequently discuss how “to communicate how abnormal this winter has been and contextualize it to the future. Each week we have a weather discussion that one of our professors leads, and we get these branching discussions of, ‘If we make up the precipitation deficit in the future, what does that mean in terms of more fuel for wildfires?’ So, one of our goals (with Earth on Tap) is to set the context of what current weather events that are occurring on the Front Range may lead to in future seasons. That’s a concern that a lot of people share.”

Max Elling, an ATOC PhD student and researcher in the Oceans and Climate Lab, notes that the Boulder area is interesting because of its large population of scientists as well as its population of non-scientists, who are nevertheless involved in Earth science, yet there still can be a disconnect between the research that’s happening in this area and what community members know about it.

“With Earth on Tap, we’re learning more about what people are curious about,” Elling says, adding that he and his colleagues are learning to better understand their audiences and tailor their outreach style accordingly.

“We have an inherent language that we use as scientists, certain acronyms, and we’re taught to present at conferences where everyone is aware of this language,” Gooch says. “We need to be more aware of situations where an audience member might not be as familiar because they don’t interface with these things every day.”

Jonah Shaw, a post-doctoral associate at the Cooperative Institute for Research in Environmental Sciences (CIRES) who spoke at the inaugural Earth on Tap in January, adds that all of his communication training in graduate school was in a conference environment, which doesn’t necessarily translate to climate discussions over beers at the Rayback.

“Something that I think is really important when you’re communicating within a scientific field is a story, but it becomes even more important when you’re communicating with the general public,” Shaw says. “It’s meeting people where they are, so for me, instead of talking about what I do on a day-to-day basis, I talked about a satellite mission I worked on, the story of that mission. I was talking about the narrative aspects and connecting with people’s experiences, and I was incredibly excited to see how well attended it was by non-scientists. Everyone is in their own realm and able to connect (with the science) in their own way.”

Scholer says that Earth on Tap organizers learn from event to event how to better involve audience members in the presentation, including trivia questions with prizes and QR codes that people can scan to submit questions if they’re not inclined to raise their hand. Ideally, she adds, people will come to Earth on Tap and have a great time and be more inclined to take climate action when opportunities arise.

“I think, especially in atmospheric science, ideally the outcome of what we do in the field is actionable for policy makers,” says ATOC PhD student Lucas Howard. “I think having the public more informed about not just the science in terms of outcomes, in terms of uncertainty, but the process of what goes into generating the science, can only have good downstream effects.”

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The March 9 event at Rayback Collective in Boulder, open to all, invites scientists and non-scientists to gather for discussions of climate research.

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Exploring what it means to take up space

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 19 Feb 2026 17:26:03 +0000

Exploring what it means to take up space Rachel Sauer Thu, 02/19/2026 - 10:26

Rachel Sauer

Multimedia Takin’ Up Space performance Feb. 21 at Fiske Planetarium will highlight historical, cultural, environmental and social justice narratives as an act of reclaiming Black spaces

There are a lot of ways to take up space. The most basic is simply a function of being born—existing on this planet, possessing mass, moving across its horizontal surfaces.

There’s also taking up space in the cosmological sense: pondering the farthest reaches of the universe, soaring through this spiral galaxy and beyond, transcending gravity as an act of belonging in time and in space.

And then there’s taking up space as an act of taking back. This is a reclamation of spaces previously occupied, of being in them, of filling them as an act of defiance and homecoming.

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder professors Shawn O'Neal (left) and Kalonji Nzinga (right) envisioned Takin' Up Space, in part, to "revisit our past in order to have a better evaluation of the present and build better futures," O'Neal explains.

Considering these possibilities and more is Takin’ Up Space III: Holding Space, the third iteration of an event envisioned by Shawn Trenell O’Neal, a �鶹��Ѱ�� assistant teaching professor of ethnic studies and associate faculty director of the Center for African and African American Studies (CAAAS), and Kalonji Nzinga, an assistant professor in the School of Education.

The free event, which will be from 6 to 9 p.m. Saturday, Feb. 21, at Fiske Planetarium, is a multi-act, multimedia performance produced, arranged and performed by O’Neal and Nzinga, with special performances by Denver singer-songwriter Kayla Marque and wellness guide-somatic artist Soraya Latiff.

The title Takin’ Up Space acts, on one level, to “reintroduce us to spaces we’ve been systematically removed from over decades,” O’Neal explains, adding that themes of space and time are intrinsic to African culture.

“Harriet Tubman, when she was leading folks from enslavement on the Underground Railroad, read the stars and nature. So, another aspect of this is realizing we are one with nature, though we’ve been systematically removed from it for decades. I’ve never thought it was a coincidence that 1964 was the year of the Civil Rights Act and the Wilderness Act. In a way, it was opening the door to Black people’s human rights and closing our access to nature and space.”

If you go

What: Takin' Up Space III: Holding Space, a multi-media performance produced, arranged and performed by Shawn Trenell O'Neal and Kalonji Nzinga, with special guests including Denver singer-songwriter Kayla Marque and wellness guide-somatic artist Soraya Latiff

Where: Fiske Planetarium, 2414 Regent Drive

When: 6-9 p.m. Saturday, Feb. 21

The event is free but tickets are required.

Learn more

Takin’ Up Space will include O’Neal’s all-vinyl live scoring of the 1926 silent film The Flying Ace, whose cast members are all Black, followed by an immersive somatic meditation led by Latiff, during which she will guide reflection on the meaning of “holding space.” Nzinga will perform selections from his hip-hop soul catalog, synced with film visualizations aligned with his storytelling, and then Marque will bring “emotive vocals, electronic textures and cinematic storytelling,” inviting the audience “into a shared cosmic dream,” according to event organizers.

Occupying spaces of Blackness

For O’Neal, performing a live score to an almost-forgotten film represents the confluence of art, history and culture that has long motivated his scholarship and creative life. He first scored a silent film in 1998, when he was living in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and realized he had a gift for DJing.

“My friend had this idea that, ‘Hey, we should score a silent film,’” he recalls. They took on the challenge of scoring the 1925 The Phantom of the Opera starring Lon Chaney and Mary Philbin, and each night of the performance was different.

“I realized, ‘Wow, this is a really creative way to mix records and use my record collection in a different way than just dancing,” he says. “It was my way to push against how we collapse all these art forms into very limited, narrow views of what they can be.”

His goal evolved from literal-minded soundtracking to close consideration of subtext, mood and feeling—scoring as an artistic act of composition that embraces what the film shows both on and beneath the surface. So, on a recent Saturday in his home studio in his Denver basement, The Flying Ace is cued on his laptop, and he is a blur between two turntables and a soundboard.

Shawn O'Neal experiments with sound as he composes a score for the silent film The Flying Ace. (Photo: Rachel Sauer)

The scene playing is a joyous moment of flight, when pilot Finley Tucker takes to the air with Ruth Sawtelle, the woman he hopes to marry.

“When the plane is in the air, I want a big, bright blast of sound, probably something Sun Ra-ish,” O’Neal explains, bent over a milk crate of LPs that represent a winnowing from the many hundreds in his collection. “Then from that moment I want a very feminine sound—Mahalia Jackson to Alice Coltrane.”

If the choices are unexpected—leagues from the calliope plinks traditionally associated with silent movies—it’s partly because “something that’s always interested me about public performativity is the opportunity to capture feelings and emotions that are flowing through the audience, maybe even things people didn’t think they were ready to deal with.”

O’Neal says he wants to give people what they’re not expecting, pursuing a goal of introduction and reintroduction: “We’ve allowed Black music and Black art to be sold so short, so as we’re reintroducing ourselves to spaces of Blackness, that includes a musical heritage that is so broad and so deep.”

In fact, the scaffolding of Takin’ Up Space is built from the Africana aesthetics regarding the five pillars of hip hop studies: DJing, MCing, dance, graffiti/visual art and knowledge. O’Neal, Nzinga and their co-organizers also draw deeply from the symbols and stories in African cultures, including Sankofa of the Akan people of Ghana, represented as a bird with its head turned backward and an egg in its mouth, symbolizing the idea of looking back at the past to learn from it and move forward.

“We’re not doing this to say, ‘This is better than anything else,’ but to revisit our past in order to have a better evaluation of the present and build better futures,” O’Neal says. “We intend to take up space.”

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Multimedia Takin’ Up Space performance Feb. 21 at Fiske Planetarium will highlight historical, cultural, environmental and social justice narratives as an act of reclaiming Black spaces.

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From EDM to ‘I do’

Rachel Sauer — Fri, 13 Feb 2026 01:16:49 +0000

From EDM to ‘I do’ Rachel Sauer Thu, 02/12/2026 - 18:16

Rachel Sauer

For Fiske Planetarium off-site education lead and �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder astrophysics alumna MacKenzie Zurfluh, the famed dome isn’t just where she works, but where she found love

Did MacKenzie and Tanner Zurfluh fall in love and get married because of Fiske Planetarium? Not exactly, but it is where they met and it is where she works; plus, Tanner is frequently there helping out at various events. So, credit where credit is due, let’s say that theirs is a Fiske love story.

It began in October 2018, when MacKenzie was serving in the U.S. Air Force and stationed in South Dakota, and Frederick native Tanner was living in Boulder with several roommates who attended the �鶹��Ѱ��.

MacKenzie and Tanner Zurfluh met at a Fiske Planetarium show in October 2018. (Photo: MacKenzie Zurfluh)

With all due respect to South Dakota, “there wasn’t a lot to do there when you’re 19 and living on base,” MacKenzie says. So, she and her then boyfriend decided one weekend to drive to Denver for an electronic dance music (EDM) show at Red Rocks and scouted around for something to do the other evening of their visit. They happened across the ILLENIUM laser show at Fiske.

Meanwhile, one of Tanner’s roommates knew someone on the Fiske production team, and that friend of a friend got tickets to the ILLENIUM show for the group.

So, that was how two 19-year-olds who didn’t know each other—one of whom had a boyfriend that she would break up with a week later—ended up at the same Fiske Planetarium EDM show on the same evening.

The show was great—“because all shows at Fiske are,” says the unbiased MacKenzie—and afterward most of the audience migrated to the lobby to chat and make new friends. Tanner was in one amorphous circle and MacKenzie was in another, and eventually the two circles merged.

The closest they came to actually talking, though, was when MacKenzie complimented the jersey that one of Tanner’s friends was wearing. And that was it.

“But we kept running into each other,” Tanner recalls.

Because of the aforementioned South Dakota issue and the fact that Colorado’s Front Range is an EDM hub, MacKenzie drove down most weekends and kept happening across this guy whose name she couldn’t quite remember.

Tanner, however…

After an EDM show at the Ogden Theater in December 2018, Tanner waited outside the theater for 45 minutes to see if she’d come out, not knowing she’d already left.

“My friends had to drag me away,” he says. “It was the first night we talked, and I remember thinking, ‘Come hell or high water, she is going to be my wife.’”

A few weeks later, at the 2018 New Year’s Eve Decadence festival at the Colorado Convention Center, MacKenzie walked up to a group and put her arms around the two nearest people, one of whom happened to be Tanner.

By that point, she remembered his name. SnapChats were exchanged. They were officially Talking with a capital T—not dating, but it wasn’t 100% platonic, either. “After we’d been talking for a while, he looks at me and says, ‘Were you at Fiske on this day wearing this color beanie at this show?’” MacKenzie says.

On Feb. 4, 2019—yes, they remember the exact day—they decided: We’re doing this.

MacKenzie Zurfluh (left, with husband Tanner Zurfluh) graduated at Fiske Planetarium and was a speaker at the ceremony. (Photo: MacKenzie Zurfluh)

Black holes and relativity

In the beginning, MacKenzie left base on Friday afternoon, arrived in Boulder late Friday night and drove back to South Dakota Sunday afternoon. Tanner made the trip north a few times, but they both agreed there was more to do in Colorado.

However, MacKenzie was also getting ready to deploy to the Middle East and tried to give Tanner the ol’ “Go live your life, don’t worry about me.”

“And I remember he goes, ‘That’s fine if you don’t want to have a relationship, but can I still be your friend?’” MacKenzie says, adding that while the deployment ended up being canceled, she was still there and he was here. “That gave us the opportunity to build a really strong friend foundation. There were times where things sucked, and I had him to talk to.”

When she planned to exit the military, MacKenzie knew she wanted to pursue a degree but wasn’t sure where. On the cusp of returning home to California, Tanner offered her an alternative: “Come live here."

Without MacKenzie knowing it, he’d spent months finishing his mother’s Frederick basement. She could live with him there and study astrophysics at �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder, which is what she did. In the middle of earning her degree, while she was going to school full time and working as a server at a brewery in Longmont, she applied for a job at Fiske and got it.

“I wouldn’t be making as much, so I was really worried about how I was going to pay my bills, but I kept thinking that NASA doesn’t care if I was a waitress, they care if I worked at Fiske,” she says.

“You were chasing your dreams,” Tanner adds. “Studying space and being in the field was always the goal.”

“So, he said to me, ‘We’ll figure it out,’” MacKenzie finishes, and that’s what they did.

In class she was studying black holes and relativity, and at work she was helping them come alive. And in the middle of all this, on the last day of finals in May 2022, kneeling in the chaos of their home remodel—because they’d bought a house in Dacono—Tanner proposed.

She said yes, but with the caveat that they couldn’t even think about planning a wedding until after she graduated—which she did at Fiske Planetarium in May 2024. Seven months later, their wedding in California was essentially Fiske West because so many of MacKenzie’s colleagues attended.

“Our director (Professor John Keller) calls Tanner a Fiske in-law,” says MacKenzie, who is now the Fiske off-site education lead. “Any time there’s an event, he’s here helping.”

“It’s great to be part of the Fiske family,” says Tanner, who co-owns Jayhawk Tile LLC. Fiske has been part of many of their important moments, MacKenzie adds, and in fact her colleague Amanda Wimmer Flint, Fiske on-site education lead, programmed the ILLENIUM show at which they unknowingly first “met.”

Now, sitting in MacKenzie’s office in the depths of Fiske, Tanner can be honest: “As cheesy as it sounds, I fell in love with her smile and her laugh. I genuinely felt a connection.”

MacKenzie beams at him and gestures to her left. “And it happened right out there.”

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For Fiske Planetarium off-site education lead and �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder astrophysics alumna MacKenzie Zurfluh, the famed dome isn’t just where she works, but where she found love.

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Welcome to the Camping Games (now please show up)

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 20 Jan 2026 15:06:01 +0000

Welcome to the Camping Games (now please show up) Rachel Sauer Tue, 01/20/2026 - 08:06

Rachel Sauer

The world of campsite reservations is increasingly cutthroat, so why are so many campers not showing up? �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder economist Jon Hughes applies numerical modeling to understand campground no-shows

Throughout the United States, and especially here in the West, snagging a preferred public-land campsite has become a take-no-prisoners battle royale with little room for weakness or sleep or mercy.

If your friends seem especially haunted and jittery these days, it’s possibly because they’ve been up for hours, hitting refresh every 30 seconds on every computer, tablet and smartphone in the house, trying to reserve a summer campsite the millisecond it becomes available online—six months to the day in advance and at midnight for Colorado state parks and 8 a.m. MST for federal lands.

With so much summer enjoyment on the line, then, and reservations more precious than gold, it’s a central mystery of outdoor recreation why park managers and users report high summer campground vacancy rates due to no-shows.

Jon Hughes, a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder associate professor of economics and Renewable and Sustainable Energy Institute fellow, found through numerical modeling that that increasing fees, either overnight fees or no-show fees, decreases campsite no-shows.

“I think we’ve all probably had this experience,” says Jon Hughes, a �鶹��Ѱ�� associate professor of economics and Renewable and Sustainable Energy Institute fellow. “You show up and the campground is half empty, and you think, ‘How is this possible? It was so hard to get this reservation.’

“I think part of it is it’s hard to know what our schedule’s going to look like in six months, so we make these reservations and optimistically tell ourselves we’ll be able to go camping—even up to the last minute.”

Based on his experiences as an outdoor recreator seeing no-shows firsthand and as an economics researcher who has long studied transportation and climate issues, Hughes wondered: How do park pricing policies contribute to no-shows—and the associated inefficiencies—and can policy changes correct these inefficiencies while meeting park managers’ goals of adequate revenue and improved access?

In research recently published in the Journal of Environmental Economics and Management, Hughes aimed to answer these questions via numerical modeling, simulating pricing policies at a hypothetical but representative national park. He found, among other results, that increasing fees, either overnight fees or no-show fees, decreases no-shows, which on one hand is a positive outcome but doesn’t address the perennial issue of equitable access to public lands.

“One of the things park managers are always really worried about is equity,” Hughes says. “This is all of our land—this isn’t only for rich people. If you want to design a system where every site is used and sites go to people who most want to camp, you could just auction (reservations) off. In economic terms, that would be very efficient, but if you think your desire to camp is maybe positively correlated with income or wealth, it might create a system where certain folks are able to camp and others aren’t.”

The economics of no-shows

In part because of his own experiences trying to get a summertime campground reservation, and based on his previous research studying access to and use of public lands, Hughes began considering how to understand the economic impact of campground no-shows: “We have finite capacity (on these lands), so how we best use these resources I think is a really interesting question.”

He consulted with Montana State University Professor Will Rice, a former park ranger, whose research on management of public lands inspired Hughes to call him—a conversation that highlighted the growing problem of no-shows.

“I got off the phone with him and wrote down a simple, intermediate microeconomics model for how consumers would think about this decision (to cancel or no-show),” Hughes says. “There’s some desire to go camping, some understood utility you’d get from having a campground reservation and you pay some monetary fee to take that reservation, but then there’s some uncertainty.

“If you don’t go, you might have to pay a fee or you might have to pay with your time if you decide to cancel. If you can’t go, you think about, ‘How do I minimize the cost?’ That lends itself to a really simple economic model that generates some interesting predictions: If you make it more costly to cancel, people aren’t going to cancel and you’ll have more no-shows. If you charge a fee when people don’t show up, they’re less likely to no-show. The theory model predicts that raising (reservation) fees will discourage no-shows, but it actually leads to another effect where if you increase fees, that just makes it more expensive for everyone, whether they camp or no-show.”

“When I decide to no-show, I’m robbing you of the benefit of camping. My decision negatively impacts you, so how do we ensure that people who want to enjoy public lands are able to?” says �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder economist Jon Hughes. (Photo: Dave Hoefler/Unsplash)

Through numerical modeling, Hughes found that cancellation fees can increase or decrease no-shows when campground capacity constraints are not binding, but they strictly increase no-shows when capacity constraints are binding. Further, he found that increasing trip prices strictly decreases no-shows and that increasing no-show fees strictly decreases no-shows.

Simulating a $40 increase in reservation fees or no-show fees, he found that higher reservation prices could increase park revenue by as much as 56% but reduce consumer surplus. However, a $40 no-show fee might modestly increase park revenue but increase consumer surplus by as much as 12%.

Further, he notes in the paper, a $40 increase in reservation price increases the mean income of reservation holders by $2,900, or 2%, while a $40 increase in no-show fee causes little change in income. This could mean that no-show fees wouldn’t push access to public lands further out of reach for those in less wealthy income brackets.

He also estimated outcomes under an optimal no-show fee of $150—equal to the marginal external cost of a no-show, or the lost consumer surplus of a user denied a reservation—which eliminates no-shows and increases consumer surplus by 14%. But even the more modest $40 fee captures nearly all of the benefit of the optimal fee, Hughes found.

Enjoying public lands

All of this, of course, leads to the question of how to collect no-show fees.

“Your doctor is going to charge you if don’t show up, your car mechanic will charge you if don’t show up, my barber will charge me if I don’t show up,” Hughes says. “Logistically, charging a no-show fee is one of the challenges in managing public lands. The only places where it’s currently possible are staffed campgrounds, because hosts are there seeing who hasn’t shown up, but oftentimes a host doesn’t want to cause problems.

“I think technology can save us here. Recreation.gov has implemented an app with the added benefit of your phone knowing where it is all the time, or there are some areas now where you use geofencing. If you want to do the Wave at Coyote Buttes in Arizona, you can get a permit a day or two before your trip, but you have to be within a certain geographic area to get it. It might be possible to do the same with no-shows: You reserved this site, you go, your phone knows if you were there. This is a problem that’s solvable with technology.”

These findings, which Hughes will present to a group of economists with the U.S. Department of the Interior next month, solve two problems, he says: how to best optimize the limited capacity of America’s public lands, which are increasingly in demand, and how to address a “negative externality.”

“When I decide to no-show, I’m robbing you of the benefit of camping,” Hughes explains. “My decision negatively impacts you, so how do we ensure that people who want to enjoy public lands are able to?”

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Top photo: Xue Guangjian/Pexels

Wally the Wollemi finds a new home

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 01 Dec 2025 14:30:00 +0000

Wally the Wollemi finds a new home Rachel Sauer Mon, 12/01/2025 - 07:30

Rachel Sauer

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder alumni Judy and Rod McKeever donate a tree once considered extinct to the EBIO greenhouse, giving students a living example of modern conservation

Wally probably doesn’t know he’s a dinosaur.

He’s just living his best life in a bright spot—but not directly sunny, he doesn’t like that—in the Department of Ecology and Evolutionary Biology greenhouse on 30th Street.

This guy! Talk about charisma. People have certain stereotypes and expectations for what he should be, and he defies them. For starters, he’s here and not, after all, extinct.

Yes, Wally the Wollemi is something special—a Cretaceous Period pine tree thought to have gone extinct 2 million years ago, rediscovered in a secluded Australian canyon in 1994 and, with a few steps in between, recently donated to the greenhouse.

. “Where we are right now with climate change, we’re losing plants and animal species and insect diversity at an extremely rapid rate, so as scientists and horticulturists and curators it’s our job to maintain the diversity of the world in collections, and Wally is an important part of that," says Malinda Barberio, EBIO greenhouse manager.

“The Wollemi pine is an interesting story about paleobotany as well as conservation,” explains Malinda Barberio, greenhouse manager. “Where we are right now with climate change, we’re losing plants and animal species and insect diversity at an extremely rapid rate, so as scientists and horticulturists and curators it’s our job to maintain the diversity of the world in collections, and Wally is an important part of that.”

Back from extinction

How Wally came to live in a quiet spot in the 30th Street greenhouse is a story that started in the Cretaceous. Scientists theorized that herbivorous dinosaurs living then dined on Wollemi pines, which belong to a 200-million-year-old plant family and are abundantly represented in the fossil record dating as far back as 91 million years.

Where they weren’t abundantly represented was in the living world. They were theorized to have gone extinct, living only in stone impressions.

However, in 1994, New South Wales (Australia) National Parks ranger David Noble was rappelling in a remote canyon about five hours west of Sydney when he happened upon a stand of pine trees unlike anything he’d seen before. They had fern-like foliage, distinctive bumpy bark and a dense, rounded crown. They towered over other trees in the canyon.

“Typically, you think of pines as Christmas tree-shaped, fairly triangular, so that dense top crown that’s very rounded is a little odd for pines,” Barberio says. “And you typically expect large, fluffy branches, but the Wollemi’s branches are covered in thicker, flat needles that are in two rows parallel to each other along the sides of branches, which is really distinctive.”

Intense scientific investigation followed Noble’s discovery, including comparison to the fossil record, until it was agreed: This was the Wollemi pine—back from extinction.

The ongoing threat of extinction loomed large, though, because there were fewer than 100 trees in that canyon, whose location remains a closely guarded secret. So, in 2006, and in an unusual partnership between the National Geographic Society, the Floragem plant wholesalers, conservationists, botanists and scientists, 10-inch Wollemi pines were offered for sale in National Geographic’s holiday catalog.

Follow Wally and his friends in the greenhouse at @CUBoulderEBIOGreenhouse on Instagram.

“You are now the owner of a tree that is a survivor from the age of the dinosaurs, a miraculous time traveler and one of the greatest living fossils discovered in the twentieth century,” began the catalog description of the 10-inch saplings selling for $99.95.

That’s what caught Judy McKeever’s attention.

A tree named Wally

“My husband (Rod) does bonsai and loves his bonsai garden, so when I saw the advertisement for National Geographic selling these trees, and it was a love story about finding a dinosaur in an Australian canyon, I thought it would be the perfect addition to his collection,” recalls McKeever (A&S’76). “But he never got bonsaied or really trimmed at all, and just kind of grew out of control.”

The couple named him Wally because it sounds like Wollemi, and he lived in a sheltered, south-facing spot on their Boulder deck in the summer and under a grow light in their basement in the winter. Between seasons, they toted him up and down the stairs—and every year he was bigger.

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder alumni Judy and Rod McKeever donated Wally the Wollemi pine tree to the EBIO greenhouse in October.

“We didn’t really do anything special, just treated him like every other plant we have,” McKeever says. “He lived a sheltered little life, occasionally got fertilized, and he was very happy. We just let him do whatever he wanted to do; he’s an Australian free spirit.

“We just loved Wally, but he grew a few inches every year and with the soil and pot, he just got to be too heavy to take down to the basement every winter.”

In early autumn, McKeever began looking for places that might be interested in adopting Wally and found the EBIO greenhouse. There was an element of homecoming since both Judy and Rod are 1976 �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder graduates (Rod in chemical engineering); Wally would be staying in the family.

“We are very happy to bring Wally into our collection,” Barberio says. “For the university to have a Wollemi pine is a really special privilege. It allows students to have an example of conservation efforts that are modern and recent in history and shows them that they have the opportunity to participate in these efforts as well.”

Plus, she adds, Wally is a great opportunity for public outreach: People can schedule time to visit him in the greenhouse and see science, conservation and worldwide partnerships at work. And students in future paleobotany classes will be able to see just how close scientists and artists got in visually rendering the Wollemi pine from fossil evidence.

“It’s surprisingly accurate how well they were able to reproduce (Wollemi pines) in theory,” Barberio says. “We have all of these animals and plants that are extinct, and having this living example is a really cool way to show how close we got it.”

A part in plant diversity

As for the care and feeding of Wally, who actually isn’t only male since pines produce both male and female cones, he likes acidic soil and bright but not direct light, given that he’s prone to sunburn. He likes regular watering and doesn’t like his soil to completely dry out, but he also dislikes “wet feet,” or for the bottom layer of soil to be damp.

Because his very few wild relatives live in a protected canyon, it may be implied that Wollemi pines prefer protection from rapid temperature changes, Barberio says, adding that so far, he’s shown no signs of producing cones.

“We would love to have Wally produce cones in the future,” she says, “and of course we would try to plant and grow them.”

Until that time, Wally the Wollemi pine will be a signature plant in the greenhouse collection and an example, Barberio says, “that we can play a part in maintaining the diversity of the plant world.”

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�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder alumni Judy and Rod McKeever donate a tree once considered extinct to the EBIO greenhouse, giving students a living example of modern conservation.

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Students nurture a heart to give back

Rachel Sauer — Fri, 21 Nov 2025 14:30:00 +0000

Students nurture a heart to give back Rachel Sauer Fri, 11/21/2025 - 07:30

Rachel Sauer

Undergraduate students Josiah Gordon and Miles Woods formed a nonprofit to provide scholarships for students at their former high school, determined to make positive change in their community

Josiah Gordon and Miles Woods have been friends since kindergarten. They know each other’s families, have been in and out of each other’s Denver homes and can communicate in a shorthand that comes only with knowing someone that long.

They played on some of the same basketball and Arapaho Youth League football teams, had many of the same teachers at Highline Academy and moved on to Thomas Jefferson High School with similar attitudes toward education: Eh, it’s fine.

“I understood (education) was really important because my parents harped on it, but I couldn’t really say I enjoyed it,” Woods says.

Josiah Gordon (left) and Miles Woods (right) are �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder pre-med students majoring in integrative physiology and participating in the Miramontes Arts and Sciences Program. Last year, they decided to raise money for scholarships for students at their alma mater high school.

“For me,” Gordon adds, “when I was younger it was not stressed. I come from a low-income family, but as Miles and I were growing up and our moms were getting to know each other, I was picking up a little bit on that emphasis on education.”

The COVID year changed everything. It was a reset button for both of them, helping them connect with their faith, giving them a bigger-picture perspective on what they want their lives to be and making them realize they really needed to get serious about school.

Fast forward several years, and they’re both pre-med students majoring in integrative physiology at the �鶹��Ѱ��. Both are also part of the Miramontes Arts and Sciences Program and both focused on goals that are big enough to motivate hard work but not so big that they’re out of reach.

They also know, however, that the future can’t happen without everything that came before it, so last year they hatched an idea to help students at their former high school who see the value of higher education but aren’t sure how to pay for it.

In 2024, the two undergraduates with no previous experience doing anything like this started the Hem of Hope Foundation—originally called Manum Dare, which means “to lend a hand” in Latin—to fundraise and award scholarships to students at Thomas Jefferson High School.

“Senior year, I think I applied to something like 26 different scholarships—everything I could find,” Gordon says. “For me, that was the start of this—just going to school with our peers, a lot of individuals who wanted to go to college and worked hard but just couldn’t make it happen financially. I think we just have a heart to give back and do what we can to help.”

Learning to love learning

Both will admit, though, that the path to this point has been winding, and they didn’t always care this much about education. Woods had the example of his mother, who was the first in her family to go to graduate school—she’s an attorney—and his father, who was the first in his family to go to college. They emphasized education to Woods and his sister, who recently graduated the University of California at Berkeley, and to Gordon when he visited the Woods’ home. The message took a little while to sink in.

“I wouldn’t say I was a bad kid by any means,” Gordon recalls, “but I was definitely not a teacher’s pet. I gave my teachers a little trouble growing up, and that’s common in young boys. I just didn’t like school. I would say it wasn’t until I got to high school that I started to take things a little bit more seriously. Plus, I had little more autonomy with choice for classes, and that made a difference.”

They took a human anatomy class together, which planted a seed: “It was like, wow, this stuff is pretty cool,” Gordon says, so he tucked the thought away for future reference.

Miles Woods (second from left) and Josiah Gordon (right) with the two Thomas Jefferson High School students to whom they gave scholarships for which they fundraised. (Photo: Josiah Gordon)

“We were learning about the body in a way that’s really applicable,” Woods adds. “Sometimes I’d be sitting in class like, why am I learning this? Sitting in algebra or whatever, it could get kind of boring. But in that class, it was really interesting, really immersive, and it got me thinking about the body and thinking ‘Oh, that’s how that works.’ I remember one day (the teacher) was teaching us about tattoos and why they are permanent and how they stay in the body, and thinking that was so interesting.”

Both young men were also chasing dreams of playing college basketball, but things worked out how they were supposed to work out, Woods says. He originally committed to play basketball at another Colorado school, but the arrangement fell through a few weeks before the deadline to accept his admission to �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder.

Meanwhile, Gordon broke his foot during his senior year, but because he’d applied for so many scholarships, he was able to pursue an academics-based path rather than a basketball-based one.

“We’d been planning to go our separate ways and chase the hoop dream, but then here we both were at Boulder,” Woods says. Gordon declared pre-med from the beginning, but it took Woods a semester of studying business to know for sure that medicine was his path.

‘Let’s just try’

In Summer 2024, Gordon and Woods participated in Startup Summer through the �鶹��Ѱ��Law School, a 16-week program that supports students in entering the world of startups, innovation and emerging companies. The program helps students come up with business ideas, work on pitches, partner with mentors in the business world and, at the end of the program, pitch a business proposal to a room of investors.

They had some business ideas and even developed one as far as the pitch stage, but their thoughts kept returning to the idea they’d had in high school, from which they were only a year removed.

“We kept thinking about our close friends who couldn’t make it to college because they couldn’t afford it,” Gordon explains, so they thought: What if, instead of a business, they started a nonprofit?

It was an audacious thought for people still in their teens, but they’d spent the summer in rooms with great business minds, people who’d started incredibly successful companies, and they’d soaked up the lessons.

“We thought, why not do it now?” Gordon says. “Let’s just try to raise a little bit of money and give it to someone at our alma mater.”

Josiah Gordon (striped shirt) reads to children at an elementary school in the neighborhood where he grew up. He and Miles Woods (not pictured) are active community volunteers in addition to scholarship fundraisers. (Photo: Josiah Gordon)

Their initial goal was to raise $1,000, so they established a GoFundMe, promoted what they were doing on social media and harnessed the power of word of mouth. A day and a half after they started, they’d raised $2,000. Not long after, a web developer who’d seen what they were doing offered to build them a website. Other Thomas Jefferson alumni contacted them and offered support, including former NFL player Derrick Martin, who gave them a shout-out on social media.

They figured they should get serious about the nonprofit, so Brad Bernthal, then-director of the Startup Summer and an associate professor of law, put them in touch with law students who helped them create a 501(c)(3) as Manum Dare, later renamed Hem of Hope.

They established scholarship criteria—a 3.25 GPA and involvement in extracurricular activities among them—and developed an application on their website, which included an essay. Gordon’s mother helped them read the essays, and in the spring they selected two $1,000 scholarship recipients.

“It’s definitely kind of rough knowing you can’t help everybody how you want to, but I think you can find solace in the fact you’re helping somebody, and the little bit you can do right now for someone is better than not doing anything,” Woods says. “I think that’s the stance you have to take.”

Bring positive change

Since awarding the first two scholarships, they have renamed the foundation Hem of Hope to reflect their faith, established a board, brought on �鶹��Ѱ��School of Medicine student Sandra Appiah as a community impact ambassador and are exploring opportunities for mentorship and community collaboration. They’re also discussing fundraising strategies for next year’s scholarships.

“We’ve been thinking of bake sales, maybe a 5K,” Woods says. “Now that we have a 501(c)(3), we’re hoping to find businesses to partner with on grants.”

Gordon adds that they’ve talked with representatives from other nonprofits, who have given them advice on grant writing, fundraising and community outreach.

They balance this with being third-year students in a demanding major, volunteering as practice players for the �鶹��Ѱ��women’s basketball team and planning for MCATs, medical school applications and graduation.

“Just being on the pre-med track itself is tough, but I think the way we grew up and some of our values definitely pay off,” Gordon says. “We don’t party; we don’t go out to the Hill or anything like that, so that gives us extra time. The analogy that pops in my brain is a see-saw: You’re not ever really going to be perfectly balanced, but I think that act of teetering is a kind of balance itself, kind of learning and establishing a good routine.

“And it’s important to us. You make time for the things that are important to you, and we want to bring positive change to our community.”

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Undergraduate students Josiah Gordon and Miles Woods formed a nonprofit to provide scholarships for students at their former high school, determined to make positive change in their community.

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Top image: Miles Woods (left) and Josiah Gordon (right) at the spring scholarship presentation. (Photo: Josiah Gordon)

Eat, pray, learn

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 18 Nov 2025 03:13:10 +0000

Eat, pray, learn Rachel Sauer Mon, 11/17/2025 - 20:13

Rachel Sauer

Bali Global Seminar in Sustainability and Social Entrepreneurship helps students see real-world work to balance tourism with environmental and cultural preservation

Tourists certainly visited Bali before Elizabeth Gilbert’s 2006 memoir Eat, Pray, Love, but they came in droves after it became an international bestseller. And when the film based on Gilbert’s memoir and starring Julia Roberts was released in 2010, some frustrated residents began hanging “Eat, Pray, Leave” signs.

Bali, like many heavily touristed—some might say over-touristed—spots around the globe, exists in an uneasy détente between the tourism that represents 80% of its economy and the growing recognition that with tremendous tourism comes previously unseen environmental, economic and cultural impacts.

Students who participated in the Summer 2025 Bali Global Seminar in Sustainability and Social Entrepreneurship not only learn first-hand how Bali’s residents and leaders are grappling with previously unseen environmental, economic and cultural impacts related to tourism. (Photo: Laura DeLuca)

Participants in the three-week Bali Global Seminar in Sustainability and Social Entrepreneurship not only learn first-hand how Bali’s residents and leaders are grappling with these issues for which there aren’t many roadmaps, but how they’re creating innovative, sustainable solutions for dealing with these environmental and socioeconomic challenges.

“It’s a very hands-on course,” explains seminar director Laura DeLuca, a �鶹��Ѱ�� assistant teaching professor of anthropology and faculty member in the Stories and Societies Residential Academic Program. “Students are seeing first-hand these social innovations that are designed to improve human and ecosystem viability in ways that are effective, efficient, long-term and just.

“These innovations also serve as models that can be adapted to other cultural and socioeconomic contexts beyond Bali. The application of these approaches is driving the emergence of new and creative ‘solutionary’ paradigms that address the concerns of people, animals and the environment.”

Potential benefits, potential impacts

The Bali Global Seminar in Sustainability and Social Entrepreneurship first took place in Summer 2024 and was led by Caroline Conzelman, an anthropology teaching professor in the College of Arts and Sciences Residential Academic Programs (RAPs).

The seminar had its genesis in “this idea of decolonizing the study abroad experience and challenging some of these notions of extractive tourism or ‘voluntourism,’” Conzelman explains. “Sometimes we don’t really examine our positions of privilege and power when we are just regular tourists, even with study abroad, so I always bring this into the conversation with students: What are we doing here, what are potential benefits, what are potential impacts?”

Conzelman and DeLuca, who were in graduate school at �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder together, both brought a passion for sustainability to their respective areas of anthropological study—Conzelman in Bolivia and DeLuca in Tanzania—and together developed a 1000-level course on sustainability, social responsibility and entrepreneurship that they taught in several RAPs.

Apply by Dec. 1

Applications for the three-credit Summer 2026 Bali Global Seminar in Sustainability and Social Entrepreneurship close Dec. 1. Students from all majors are invited to participate.

For more information, contact Scott Funk, Education Abroad program manager for the Bali Global Seminar in Sustainability and Social Entrepreneuriship.

Learn more

Though neither had previously studied or done research in Bali, “I’m on a listserv for environmental anthropology, which has always been my focus, and I kept seeing information about the Bali Institute,” Conzelman says. “On Oct. 13, 2021, I had my first Zoom meeting with the director of the Bali Institute, and we talked for an hour and a half. We were on the same level in terms of being extremely aware of differentials of power and privilege that exist in study abroad and other sorts of programs like that.

“We talked about upending the status quo of voluntourism, we talked about creating a viable business model for longer-term engagement in terms of Balinese people inviting foreigners into their own communities and guiding them in this cultural exploration.”

Tri Hita Karana

Working with the Education Abroad office and with the Bali Institute as a local partner, Conzelman began developing a three-week summer program that would allow students to study community-led coral restoration and regenerative rice farming projects, spend time with social entrepreneurs and learn about local traditions in medicine, food and religion, as well as strategic efforts to make tourism more sustainable.

The Balinese practice of Tri Hita Karana is woven throughout all the lessons, DeLuca says, which is the “three causes of wellbeing” or the “three causes of prosperity and happiness”: harmony with the divine, harmony among people and harmony with nature and the environment.

“The principle of Tri Hita Karana guides many aspects of life on the island and is seen as a strong pillar for maintaining the residents’ sustainability and quality of life,” DeLuca explains.

Clementine Clyker, a senior majoring in environmental studies, first participated in the seminar as a student in 2025 and then as a teaching assistant (TA) in 2025. As a student, she says, “some of my most memorable experiences were getting to know the Balinese people, especially our guides. I still remain in contact with most of them. They have shown me different ways of life that put my own into perspective. Additionally, I met many loving individuals who work hard to promote social equity and equal opportunities for marginalized groups such as women.”

Because of her experiences in Bali as both a student and a TA, she adds, “I have also started to prioritize community more. Bali is a warm and welcoming place that is deeply rooted in community, something I feel we lack in the States. Getting to see the lives of Balinese locals has made me realize how important it is to have that community and to nurture it.”

For Cal Curtis, a sophomore majoring in biology with a leadership minor, participating in the Summer 2025 Bali Global Seminar "opened my eyes to a new community and ecosystem. I learned about the devastating impact of overfishing on our oceans, which sparked my passion for conservation.”

"Bali taught me so much about empathy, the importance of community and the impact that our actions directly have on the environment," adds Summer 2025 participant Skylar Armstrong, a sophomore majoring integrative physiology.

DeLuca notes that Bali is at the frontlines of addressing the exploitative overtourism also seen in places like Barcelona, Cairo and Venice, “which, basically, takes more than it gives,” she says, and has led to crises of pollution, reef destruction, affordable housing, access to health care and maintaining private places to worship.

“Because of the partnerships we have with people who live there, Bali is a living classroom for our students,” DeLuca says. “It’s a place that’s really romanticized and that I think a lot of people dream of visiting, but it’s also a place where the people who live there are trying to figure out how they can sustainably undo some of the damage that’s being done by this industry that represents the majority of their economy. And we have these deep connections and relationships with people there who are willing to teach our students about this work.”

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Bali Global Seminar in Sustainability and Social Entrepreneurship helps students see real-world work to balance tourism with environmental and cultural preservation.

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Top image: Guillaume Marques/Unsplash

It was a very good year (for movies)

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 12 Nov 2025 20:51:36 +0000

It was a very good year (for movies) Rachel Sauer Wed, 11/12/2025 - 13:51

Rachel Sauer

The films of 1975, currently featured in �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder’s International Film Series, reflected the times and the culture in ways that hadn’t been seen before, says film scholar Ernesto Acevedo-Muñoz

It wasn’t all bad news in 1975. On July 5, Arthur Ashe became the first Black man to win Wimbledon, and several months later, on Oct. 11, Saturday Night Live debuted, the same day that Bruce Springsteen earned his first Top 40 hit with "Born to Run."

But then…

It was also the year that Saigon fell, the Edmund Fitzgerald sank, two assassination attempts were made on Gerald Ford and U.S. unemployment peaked at 9.2%. Jimmy Hoffa was reported missing, and Patty Hearst was captured in San Francisco.

“Between the political context and the historical context and technological developments 50 years ago, it created this environment for a lot of exceptional filmmaking,” notes Ernesto Acevedo-Muñoz, a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder professor of cinema studies and moving image arts.

The times felt raw and upside-down, so filmmakers responded by making indelible, groundbreaking art.

Of course there have been other momentous years for films now considered classics, but perhaps none so densely populated as 1975: Jaws, Nashville and Dog Day Afternoon. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Barry Lyndon and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Shampoo, The Stepford Wives and 3 Days of the Condor.

“Between the political context and the historical context and technological developments 50 years ago, it created this environment for a lot of exceptional filmmaking,” says Ernesto Acevedo-Muñoz, a �鶹��Ѱ�� professor of cinema studies and moving image arts.

A new era

Some might argue, Acevedo-Muñoz says, that the films of 1975 had their genesis in November 1963 with the assassination of John F. Kennedy: “It’s seen as this breaking point in American history that leads to a decade of cynicism and that ends with the fall of the Nixon administration. From ’63 to ’75, a number of historical events—from Kennedy to Johnson to the Tet Offensive, My Lai, the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert F. Kennedy, the end of Vietnam, the end of Nixon—we haven’t had, I don’t think, that amount of public and social turbulence in such a compact amount of time since then.”

The filmmakers who began creating during this time—including Francis Ford Coppola, Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, Stanley Kubrick and others now considered legends—were not only embedded in and products of the times but represented the first generation to study the history and craft of filmmaking and cinema at university, Acevedo-Muñoz says.

Further, they came of artistic age during a time that wrote the epitaph for Hollywood’s Golden Age, when the producer was king and the studio system ruled everything from actors’ contracts to production and distribution deals with movie houses. This new generation of filmmakers ushered in the era of the director and the so-called American New Wave, because they were not only studying filmmaking, but were strongly influenced by international films and filmmakers.

This was the time that also saw the end of the Hays Code—Hollywood’s self-imposed morality guidelines that some say creatively cowed the industry from 1934 to 1968—and the “rise of the rating system that we know, which allowed for more frank representations of sex and violence,” Acevedo-Muñoz says.

See the films of 1975

The International Film Series is Boulder's first arthouse series and has been locally programmed since 1941. Its main venue is Muenzinger Auditorium, with a secondary venue in the Visual Arts Complex Auditorium.

This semester, �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder's International Film Series has highlighted notable films from 1975 among the other films on its full schedule and will feature two more before the winter break: Barry Lyndon Sunday, Nov. 16, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show Thursday, Dec. 4.

Learn more

“So, there’s this context of general pissed offness, there’s the generation gap of the ‘60s, we’re getting our asses whupped by guerillas in Vietnam, we’ve seen a U.S. presidency collapse, and there’s this sense of, ‘Let’s be pissed off and make movies that rattle cages.’”

‘Nothing to compare it to’

For Acevedo-Muñoz, one of the great examples of this evolution is Robert Altman’s Nashville, which he considers the best movie of the ‘70s because “there’s nothing to compare it to. It’s sui generis. This movie was in production in 1974, and it’s about a presidential primary with a third-party candidate who’s challenging the establishment. And then it’s got this massive scope of 24 principal characters and five days of continuous action and this music that goes from magnificent to abject—I think some of the advertising for Nashville said it’s ‘the damndest thing you ever saw’—and it ends with the assassination of a celebrity by a nut with a gun.”

The films of 1975 not only mirrored the political and social upheaval of the times but represented a certain creative daring and willingness to explore previously taboo topics. The Rocky Horror Picture Show—which wasn’t an American movie but made its way to Hollywood via Australia, the West End and Broadway—made the case that “everybody’s queer and it’s perfectly fine and even monsters are not really monsters, it’s the normal people who come off as squares and weird," Acevedo-Muñoz says. "It’s one of the reasons why Rocky Horror has never really gone away, and if anything has become more and more of an anthem for all things marginalized and all things kicked off center by The Man and a sign of rebellion.”

The events and themes in Dog Day Afternoon, including robbing a bank to help pay for a character’s gender-affirming surgery, had never really been seen in a major Hollywood production before, said �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder film scholar Ernesto Acevedo-Muñoz. (Photo: Warner Bros.)

And the events and themes in Dog Day Afternoon, such as robbing a bank to help pay for a character’s gender-affirming surgery, had never really been seen in a major Hollywood production before, Acevedo-Muñoz says.

“Sidney Lumet directed it, and he was bringing to the discussion topics that would have been unthinkable a decade before, starting with a trans character,” Acevedo-Muñoz says. “And he was highlighting the frustration and the anger of the times, and we see that evolve into the street crowd that starts being curious about what’s happening in the bank and then ends up cheering for Al Pacino’s and John Cazale’s characters and applauding as they drive away to the airport.

“That anger from a criminal element previously would have been completely marginalized, not just in the decade and a half before, but also in the censorship system that predated the current rating system, where the bad guys could never be sympathetic. They could be charming, which Hitchcock did in the ‘40s, but they couldn’t be sympathetic. But here everybody’s heartbroken when Al Pacino’s character gets caught. The crowd outside of the bank are you and me in the movie theater, and the bank is a symbol of The Man, of the establishment, of capitalism. It’s a beautiful and, in so many ways, a beautifully shocking movie.”

Irreverence and creativity

The filmmakers of 1975 also saw the introduction of the Steadicam, a revolutionary camera stabilizer mount invented by Garrett Brown that entered the market that year. The technology allowed for greater movement and mobility in shooting and was notably used in filming Rocky the following year.

Even if filmmakers weren’t using the Steadicam, the growing preference for dynamic shots with more movement was still evident in many of the films of 1975, Acevedo-Muñoz says. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is noted for its gritty, almost handmade quality. “Suddenly movies didn’t have to be so pretty anymore, and they could do things like lens flare, they could play with grain in ways we hadn’t seen before.”

He adds that it wasn’t all gritty political and social commentary in 1975. Shampoo, for example, could best be described as a sexy romp—women and men having fun in a hair salon, legendary actors at their height of beauty, a loving farewell to the hippie era.

The films of 1975 are bookended by other exceptional films released in the previous and following years but symbolize the core of a decade when everything seemed to change, Acevedo-Muñoz says, adding that subsequent eras have seen the events of the times reflected in their films, but not in the way that they were in 1975.

“Take September 11,” he says. “It was a traumatic event, and what did it lead to? It led to more Marvel movies, it led to vision after vision after vision of New York being destroyed and a group of good ol’ Americans dressed in red, white and blue kicking alien ass. We’re now getting a couple of good movies that appear to address January 6—Civil War is the best, I think—but we’re not seeing a wave of it and we’re not seeing a concentration as we did, not coincidentally, a year and a half after the collapse of the Nixon administration. (The year 1975) was exciting because anger brings irreverence and also creativity.”

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�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder commits to green chemistry

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 04 Nov 2025 18:47:17 +0000

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder commits to green chemistry Rachel Sauer Tue, 11/04/2025 - 11:47

Rachel Sauer

In May, campus leaders signed the Green Chemistry Commitment to practice and teach sustainable chemistry—an effort being encouraged and advanced by students

For much of the history of chemistry, the science was done how it was done—with fleeting or no thought given to things like lab energy consumption or the environmental persistence of toxic chemicals used in experiments. Those things were simply considered the wages of scientific progress.

As early as the 1940s, however, some chemists began asking if there were better, less hazardous, less environmentally damaging ways to do the science. By the 1990s, chemists Paul Anastas and John Warner had given a name to this new approach: green chemistry. In their 1998 book Green Chemistry: Theory and Practice, they detailed the 12 principles of green chemistry, which include preventing waste rather than trying to treat it or clean it up after the fact and designing chemical products to preserve efficacy of function while reducing toxicity.

Since that time, green chemistry has become a movement as universities and labs around the world evolve the practice and teaching of chemistry to reduce its impact on environmental and human health and safety.

In May, �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder Chancellor Justin Schwartz and Department of Chemistry Chair Wei Zhang signed the Green Chemistry Commitment, not only committing �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder to green chemistry in practice and principle but joining a worldwide network of universities working to expand the community of green chemists and affect lasting change in chemistry education.

The �鶹��Ѱ�� has been very involved in the green chemistry movement, and in May Chancellor Justin Schwartz and then-Department of Chemistry Chair Wei Zhang signed the Green Chemistry Commitment, not only committing �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder to green chemistry in practice and principle, but joining a worldwide network of universities working to expand the community of green chemists and affect lasting change in chemistry education.

“Signing (the Green Chemistry Commitment) is an important step toward integrating green chemistry into curriculum, theory, toxicology and lab applications,” says Forrest Yegge, chair of the Green Chemistry �鶹��Ѱ��Student Government (CUSG) Environmental Board subcommittee and a junior studying philosophy and ecology and evolutionary biology.

“Social justice-wise, I think it’s our responsibility to be more aware of the effects we are having on the environment,” adds Jules Immonen, a first-year student studying chemistry who serves as secretary of the CUSG Environmental Board. “Obviously, sustainability is something I’m passionate about, but even people who aren’t should be able to learn how to incorporate these practices in an easy way.”

Doing better chemistry

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder’s embrace of green chemistry has been growing for years, says Kathryn Ramirez-Aguilar, �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder Green Labs Program manager. The Department of Chemistry and Green Labs have been partnering on green chemistry efforts on campus, leading initiatives on everything from education opportunities to sustainable lab practices. Signing the Green Chemistry Commitment (GCC) is an important step, Ramirez-Aguilar says: “It’s a huge opportunity to involve students in designing curriculum, and it aligns with CU’s Climate Action Plan outlined last year.” In fact, she adds, members of the CUSG Environmental Board have been at the vanguard of bringing the GCC to the attention of campus leadership.

Ashley Ley, a chemistry graduate candidate and member of the Green Chemistry CUSG Environmental Board subcommittee, emphasizes that green chemistry is most importantly about practice, not just theory. “If you look at someone like Dr. (Jacquie) Richardson, she’s been making changes to methods, working toward greener methods using less harmful chemicals in the Organic Chemistry Teaching Labs. In Organic Chemistry 2, there’s a lab focused on atom economy, and one of the previous (Green Labs Chemistry) team leads worked with Dr. Richardson to incorporate acetone recycling, so now organic chemistry teaching labs only use recycled acetone for cleaning.

“These labs have also started using water recirculatory buckets because there are reflux reactions where you need a ton of water and normally it would go through the condensers and down the sink. Now it’s being recirculated, and we’re saving a lot of water. Last summer, they incorporated no-touch doors in the labs [as part of a collaborative project with Green Labs], so you can get in and out of the labs without having to take off your gloves.”

In another campuswide green chemistry application, Amrita George, a professional research assistant of many years in the Department of Integrative Physiology and volunteer lead for the Green Labs Team, is working on introducing a chemical sharing initiative in which research labs share chemicals within their research building.

Kathryn Ramirez-Aguilar (left), �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder Green Labs Program manager, and Matt Wise (right), director of chemistry instruction and Department of Chemistry associate chair, give a presentation about incorporating green chemistry into the introductory chemistry curriculum. (Photo: Kathryn Ramirez-Aguilar)

“This has a lot of support from the Environmental Health and Safety group,” George says. “It aligns with one of the principles of green chemistry, which is to reduce the total amount of hazardous chemicals used and, therefore, waste created. [The initiative] allows researchers to see the chemical inventory of other labs within their building and share amongst themselves rather than ordering new stocks for each lab, which is usually what researchers do. Often these stocks sit on the shelf and expire before the lab ever uses them again.”

Ramirez-Aguilar adds that the chemical sharing initiative is also a money saver for labs by reducing purchasing—which also benefits a reduction in carbon emissions similar to a campuswide focus on reducing labs’ energy consumption, as labs are among the most energy-intensive spaces on campus.

Valentina Osorio, a chemistry graduate student and member of the Green Chemistry CUSG Environmental Board subcommittee, adds that General Chemistry teaching faculty have adapted student experiments and lab processes so that they can use drops of a chemical rather than milliliters of it. This makes a significant difference when thousands of students are conducting the experiments each year.

Performing research sustainably

While the benefits of green chemistry practice and teaching are broad and affect many communities and populations, among those most affected are students, says Ana Curry, a chemistry graduate student and member of the Green Chemistry CUSG Environmental Board subcommittee: “I’m currently working in materials chemistry, and I believe strongly that if my research is focused on sustainability, I should also be performing that research sustainably.”

Osorio notes that while her research focus is environmental chemistry, “I’m studying the impacts of air and water pollution, and while I’m not really synthesizing anything, what I’m researching is largely impacted by what humans are doing.”

Yegge adds that in addition to the environmental and social justice benefits of green chemistry, “as I prepare for grad school and I’m increasingly worried about securing funding, I think that sustainable practices on campus and in labs are crucial for resilience in academia and in research. We need to be adopting these strategies so we can keep doing the science we’re doing.”

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In May, campus leaders signed the Green Chemistry Commitment to practice and teach sustainable chemistry—an effort being encouraged and advanced by students.

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Students learning dam good lessons from nature's busy builders

Rachel Sauer — Fri, 31 Oct 2025 13:54:40 +0000

Students learning dam good lessons from nature's busy builders Rachel Sauer Fri, 10/31/2025 - 07:54

Rachel Sauer

In a capstone project partnership with the Boulder Watershed Collective, Masters of the Environment students study what it means to live alongside beavers

Beavers are so much more than nature’s most eager builders. In many ecosystems, they play a key role in nature-based solutions to flood control, habitat restoration and fire mitigation.

They are a keystone species that can increase biodiversity in suitable habitats, according to Colorado Parks and Wildlife (CPW), but they also are a source of human-wildlife conflict in Colorado. For example, beavers have been known to build dams and inadvertently flood areas that ranchers or homeowners don’t want flooded.

Jack Carter, Amanda Opp and Colin McDonald (left to right) completed a Masters of the Environment capstone project studying beavers and how they live alongside humans in partnership with the Boulder Watershed Collective. (Photo: Masters of the Environment program)

The question for conservationists, land managers and any human who cares about wildlife, then, is how to live alongside this native species that broadly engenders mixed feelings. It’s a question that �鶹��Ѱ�� Masters of the Environment (MENV) students Amanda Opp, Jack Carter and Colin McDonald addressed in their capstone project, which they will publicly present today at the 2025 MENV Capstone Symposium.

Partnering with the Boulder Watershed Collective (BWC), Opp, Carter and McDonald examined the social perceptions and ecological impacts of beavers via surveys, research and data collection. They talked with land and wildlife managers across the Front Range to study how public agencies make beaver management decisions, and they participated in two beaver reintroductions, developing a monitoring plan to measure ecological metrics at the sites where the beavers were reintroduced.

“I think we all read the book ‘Eager’ by Ben Goldfarb, about beavers in America and how there was a high reduction in numbers from trapping in the 19^th century,” McDonald explains. “Now there’s a movement to reintroduce them, and we have this thing about ‘coexistence’ as one of those kind of trigger words. We tried to come up with multiple things like ‘living with beavers’ in place of ‘coexistence’ or ‘reintroduction,’ which somehow give off the vibe that your life is going to change by the presence of these animals coming back, which isn’t necessarily the case.”

Back from the brink

Not too long ago, the North American beaver was on the verge of extinction because of 19th-century fashions that required the under fur of beaver pelts. At their population peak before the fur trade began in earnest, there were anywhere between 60-400 million North American beavers, according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS), but by 1900 there were fewer than 100,000.

As beaver populations began to rebound in subsequent decades thanks to conservation and reintroduction efforts, another issue emerged: Humans had moved into beaver habitat, converting “wildlife-rich wetlands into agricultural lands” and building towns nearby, according to USFWS.

For many years along the Front Range, beavers and humans have lived in an uneasy and sometimes nonexistent détente, so one of the goals of the students’ capstone project was to gather data that might help inform CPW’s beaver conservation and management strategy, which is currently being developed.

Some of the points of conflict that Opp, Carter and McDonald learned about as they collected data included ranchers concerned about losing rangeland to flooding and homeowners who were “very concerned about mosquitoes and thinking that if beavers are creating marshy areas, the risk for West Nile increases,” Opp says.

One of the beaver releases on private land near Nederland in which Amanda Opp, Jack Carter and Colin McDonald participated for their MENV capstone project. (Video: Colin McDonald)

Working with the Boulder Watershed Collective, they learned the nuances of effective conservation, which must include education, collaboration and partnership between stakeholders, Carter says: “Due to conflicts over public infrastructure and Colorado water law, reintroducing beavers is not as easy as it may seem.”

At the beginning of the 20th century, the North American beaver was on the verge of extinction because of 19th-century fashions that required the under fur of beaver pelts. (Photo: Amanda Opp)

“I think BWC, and a lot of people involved with conservation, when they’re conveying the message of ‘Hey, these are beneficial animals,’ they have to meet people where they’re at,” Opp says. “One of biggest concerns in Colorado is fire mitigation, so when we’re thinking about unique solutions, nature-based solutions that might not have been considered in the past, beavers have been a really important pitch: ‘If you have a wet environment with wet soil and healthy grass, you’ll probably have reduced risk of fire reaching your property.’”

Not just a cute animal

The two reintroductions in which Opp, Carter and McDonald participated happened on private land near Nederland, with the landowners inviting BWC to release beavers in ponds or wetlands on their land. Several of the reintroduced beavers came from Aurora, where they had been causing problems, McDonald says, so BWC and Aurora wildlife officers worked together to ensure that the beavers were trapped in families so they could be released together.

“Beavers aren’t endangered anymore, so there’s zero protection for them,” Carter explains, adding that the areas in which the beavers were released are far from settlements, hopefully giving the beavers the greatest chance to thrive.

At one of the relocation sites, the beavers had monitors attached to their tails, enabling researchers and wildlife officials to track their movements, Opp says. And at both locations, the landowners are reporting their visual observations of beaver movement to BWC, which is included in the MENV students’ monitoring plan. Their plan also includes measuring how wide the bodies of water into which the beavers were released become.

For the students, each of whom came to the MENV program as committed conservationists, their work with beavers for their capstone project was about more than busy, charismatic rodents.

“I’m really passionate about conservation and passionate about protecting animals in the wild, and this project instilled in me how rewarding this work is,” Opp says, a sentiment that McDonald echoed, adding that he appreciated learning how to build community partnerships and how to maximize impact at small nonprofits.

“Before this, I don’t think I really appreciated beavers,” Carter says. “I didn’t realize how important they are to an ecosystem. One of the biggest things that’s happening right now is biodiversity loss, and beavers create essential habitats for moose, for certain amphibian species. A lot of amphibians are going down the drain, especially in a state like Colorado, and beavers can help solve that problem.”

“The best way to move forward with all the damage humans have done is to realize we’re not separate from our environment,” Opp says. “We have to do everything we can to protect it, and beavers are a really awesome keystone species that’s not just this cute animal; they can play an important role in solving the climate crisis.”

Jack Carter, Colin McDonald and Amanda Opp (left to right) on their way to release a beaver on private land near Nederland. (Photo: Amanda Opp)

A beaver after being released on private land near Nederland. (Photo: Amanda Opp)

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In a capstone project partnership with the Boulder Watershed Collective, Masters of the Environment students study what it means to live alongside beavers.

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Rachel Sauer

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