CU Making Universities Green (With Envy)

What’s something you can do to save the planet? You can stop drinking bottled water for one. Or you can always skip the elevator and use the stairs. Or of course, there’s dressing up like a Spartan and running around collecting people’s recycling.

Here at the University of Colorado at Boulder Environmental Center, people do a lot of crazy things to keep this planet green. Just ask Associate Director Marianne Martin, who’s been with the Environmental Center for 11 years now.

“Guerilla marketing is getting great attention. As far as getting people to think about their trash, it’s really quite effective,” says Martin. A CU graduate, Martin has seen it all, from the “Milk Carton Spartan” helping with a national collegiate contest called “recyclemania” to the center’s CU Bike Program, which this week has staged crash dummies around campus to simulate irresponsible cyclists. There’s a lot on her plate, and that’s just the way it should be.

“We want to help CU to be the most sustainable campus that it can be, not for the recognition, but to change the culture on campus,” Martin states. Some of the efforts of the Environmental Center to attain this goal include multiple partnerships on campus as well as within the city of Boulder.

Martin states, “Really all of our programs act as partnerships; you can’t really do anything alone.” These include the CU athletics department, in which the two coordinate zero-waste football games, Parking and Transportation, which provides the student buss pass (this has grown from 300,000 users to 1.5 million since its inception 6 years ago), and the CU Bike Program station, which gets 300 visits a day.

The success of these efforts has not gone unnoticed. Martin proudly says that this year Sierra Club has named CU the greenest university in the nation. Perhaps this comes as a result of its alternative energy (the solar array on top of the University Memorial Center provides more power than the Environmental Center uses), decreased energy consumption campus wide, or a diversion rate—how much trash is diverted from the landfill to recycling—of over 30%, to name a few. Martin recognizes the importance of effective programming.

“I don’t think we’d be getting a Sierra Club rating if it was just a bunch of programs on paper. It has to be real, with strong participation numbers,” she says.

But it’s more than a couple of solar panels that makes CU’s sustainable efforts so successful. Without the people, the energy—no pun intended—would dissipate.

“The push from students is what really makes it happen,” says Housing and Dining Promotions Coordinator Casey LeFever. Described as “above average for a student-oriented center,” the CU Environmental Center is almost entirely run by students, from volunteers to those who sort the recycling at the Intermediate Processing Facility, states Martin. Even the center’s $1 million budget comes from student fees, because it’s part of the student union.

However, other universities aren’t so advanced in their green efforts.

“Michigan State just started their program and got their students organized last year,” states LeFever. CU established its current center in 1970 and is used as a model for colleges across the nation, according to LeFever.

“The level our students are at is so much more forward,” he says.

With so many big ideas, it might seem intimidating to visit such ambitious people. But upon entering the Environmental Center, tucked upstairs in the University Memorial Center, one is surprisingly at home. The furniture is comfy and made of recycled materials, there’s a bowl of handpicked berries on the front desk, and people are pulling objects out of the trash to make jewelry.

“One time I was in there, someone had taken a bunch of old computer paper and sewn it together with old yarn to make notebooks,” LeFever says.

From old computer paper, to bright and innovative minds, nothing goes to waste at this Environmental Center.

It’s only a matter of time before the idea catches on.

DIRCs the Jerks?

Lock up your women and children. Stay off the streets. Keep a vigilant eye:

the DIRCs are on the prowl.

Say, what is a DIRC? Walking across the Boulder campus at the University of Colorado, many pedestrians are asking the same question. The issue stems from a measure by the CU Bike Program, which this week started posting numerous signs around busy crosswalks warning pedestrians of these DIRCs. The stick-figure drawings depict “dangerous,” “irresponsible,” “reckless” and “careless” (ah, we’ve solved the riddle) bicyclists colliding into pedestrians, obliviously listening to headphones, and even running over someone’s neck.

Peter, a representative from the CU Bike Program, said it is “staging crashes that are representative of the risks that cyclists, skateboarders and pedestrians face in a reckless or irresponsible environment.”

Yet the publicity fails to address the other side to these biker collisions: careless pedestrians.

So why the campaign?

It doesn’t take a CNN investigation to know that cyclist-pedestrian collisions are an issue on this campus. Just try riding a bike every 10 minutes to the hour. You’ll find 25,000 students and little room for those on wheels. According to testimonials from numerous students at http://recklessatcu.blogspot.com/, the blog created to take comments and complaints about bicyclists, crashes are a serious issue at CU.

“I have observed that CU has some of the worst bike commuters I have ever seen, doing some of the craziest things in traffic and around pedestrians,” wrote one commenter on the blog. Another visitor to the site wrote of the issues with bikers and cell phones, headphones, texting, and obeying right of way laws.

The DIRC signs cite examples of bikers and skateboarders running into Seeing Eye dogs, clipping the canes of blind people, and even hitting parked cars.

But another commenter cited an incident where they had a head-on collision with another biker.

The culprit?

Pedestrians walking four-people wide in the bike lane. Most of the testimonials on the blog acknowledged that our bikers need some caution, but on the same side, so do pedestrians.

“Pedestrians exhibit the same behavior. Take out the headphones! Stop texting and walking!” wrote Kyle Fitzroy on the page.

There are multiple sidewalks that have specifically labeled bike lanes (by the University Memorial Center, Muenzinger Psychology and Macky Auditorium, to name a few), yet pedestrians continue to meander through them, forcing riders to find alternative routes, sometimes into each other.

Adam Scurto, a CU walker and rider, stated that when he’s had an encounter with bikes as a pedestrian, it’s because “I wasn’t paying attention, or reading, just not with it.” Precautions such as bells, lights and good brakes always come in handy.

But why is this a one-way street? Why aren’t there signs for COWS (Clueless, Oblivious, Wandering, Slow pedestrians)? CU is finally acknowledging a pressing problem with cyclists, but when will the pedestrians step up?

September Temptress

Skiing is not my thing. I’ve been fumbling down the slopes since I was about 5 years old, but somehow that effortless poise so many develop has never graced my wobbling knees or flailing poles. Each season I return home from the mountains wind-burned, sun-burned, and ready to pick up a cheaper hobby.

Yet every year just before winter arrives, inexplicably, I find my melancholy spirit buoyed by the crisp mountain air that rolls in and the freshly spilt pinecones that crunch under my feet, and I vow to take those hot pink skis and try one more time. After this week’s bought of frosty wind and hint of flurries, my bunny-slope slumber has ended, and I’m ready to return.

And there’s no where to get my fix.

The Loveland Resort camera currently shows snow falling, but at a leisurely pace, a mere inch collected so far. As for the snowfall last weekend, Ski Barn employee and University of Colorado student Alex Umbhau says, “I don’t think they got as much as we thought. The last I heard there was 6 to 16 inches.” Even my amateur knowledge of the sport tells me that somehow 6 inches won’t cut it.

And just when I thought the precipitation from Monday and Tuesday meant great things in the ski world, predictions for the season have led to different conclusions. “I’ve heard both ends. ‘It’s gonna be mild,’ and ‘It’s gonna ridiculous,’” adds Umbhau. Former snowboard team member at CU, Casey LeFever predicts something a little different.

“There’ll be lots of off and on weather—warm in January, cold in April. For

skiers it means lots of strange conditions.” I’m already shaking in my

ski boots; this doesn’t sound like beginner conditions. But he reassures me this only makes skiing different, not difficult.

“It just means you have to look at your weather more; you can’t go up expecting one type.”

Colorado resorts typically open sometime around or before Thanksgiving, with steady snowfall until April. But September beckons, and the rusty red leaves skipping across the pavement are calling—the cold will arrive in the mountains soon, and inevitably, so will I.

An Homage to a writer

1. Introduction

Textbooks are not my friends. The long, dry explanation of how planets are formed or the irrelevant descriptions of advertising techniques from twenty years ago not only put me to sleep, they irritate me—I do not, and will not, care about chlorophyll. Sorry. So with this attitude toward assigned readings, I do not come to expect the occasional treasures that we students stumble upon. But when it happens, when that special excerpt grips your eyes and quickens you heart so that you can keep up with the words, you’re a changed student.

For me, that change occurred with a travel book.

Almost twenty pages long, Elizabeth Gilbert’s account of her two week trip in France mesmerized me, made me laugh, and made me want more. Her insightful little anecdotes (we can call these elaborate experience accounts, to keep in the textbook fashion) created an environment in which I actually wanted to do my homework. What a novel idea. I only hoped the rest of the story would prove to be as delightful.

2. Body

And it was.

The rest of her narrative (fluidly alternating between sensory descriptions, opinion, and thought fragments) gave me a clear picture of France. And I want to go there now. The food, the people, the places, the food. It all created an experience that Gilbert enjoyed so much that her piece seemed effortless. And did I mention the food? It sounded fantastic.

The story about the waiter, whom she could only describe as “he cared,” served as the fulcrum to many of her astute observations about the country. France, a country known for its “Frenchitude,” does not necessarily produce warm thoughts for many foreigners. But that’s not the experience Gilbert narrated. She created a different France, one in which bakers were the local artists, matrons were, well, matronly, and life was experienced through food and good conversation, not a clock. Her encounters with the people painted a sleepy, light-hearted place that somehow made you weep or chuckle. Not to mention the circus debacle, which if it didn’t make you laugh, you probably don’t have a soul.

Well that sounds harsh, but seriously, it was raucously entertaining. And that’s how Gilbert played it for much of the piece.

3. Reflections

I finished the story (glowing with pride at my accomplishment, sad that it ended) and sighed. Why couldn’t my other readings for the evening be as fun? But, alas, such is the fate of the College Student, a non-too rare breed that trudges through pages upon pages, rarely stopping to see the gems for what they are. Luckily for me, Gilbert didn’t give much of a choice—I liked it before I could help myself. Now if only Dr. Sam Schneider of Biological Development in Amoebas could do the same…

Picture this

It was the summer of 2007 and I was braving China—10 days of cultural fascination as I traversed the Central Kingdom. I had just graduated, and my friend and her parents had allowed me to accompany. On our trip, we stopped at an imperial garden in Xi’an, somewhere in the middle, or as close as I could guess was the middle, of China. It proved to be a slow-paced land, in a sedated, calming kind of way. Bright orange koi fish dawdling in green ponds, red angular roofs reflecting in their waters, and that unnamable smell that is China —something between mildew, lizard, and honey—enticed my senses (and my camera). But the nearly 100 degrees of heat marinating through slush-like humidity left much to be said about my mood, let alone my hair, which was starting to plaster to my head not unlike a swim cap. But then, limp hair and sweaty brow aside, a young lady and her male friend approached me with their camera.

Brave, if you ask me.

“Picture?” she asked me, trying out the foreign word. She wore tiny bejeweled shoes and was gripping a camera. Understanding her request, I made an attempt to take the camera so she and her partner could photograph this moment. You can imagine my confusion when she handed the camera off to the gentleman and stepped next to me, a shrine with blue tiles as our backdrop. Puzzled and mouth wide open, I heard the click go off. The boy gave a thumbs-up and pocketed the camera. Before I could say ni hau, I had become a victim of a surprise picture (I’m sure I looked fantastic). The couple nodded their heads in thanks and continued down the pebbly steps. Before I could think about the bizarre paparazzi moment, my group and I were whisked off to Beijing, nudging pigeons in Tiananmen Square and staring at Mao’s mug painted on the palace gates.

And it happened again.

The elderly couple with smiles in their wrinkles had followed me for about two minutes before they spoke.

“Picture?”

This time I approached with caution; I thought they were peddling guidebooks. But when I saw the man—he was three inches short of my 5’4”—raise the bulky black camera, my spider senses started tingling. The wife was putting her arms around me and the husband cranking the film. Could it be? No…But sure enough, repeat offender: I had just become a celebrity in another photo shoot, smiling nervously and patting these strangers on the back.

What was going on? I started to convince myself they thought I was some famous actress. Drew Barrymore? I fancied… After three more instances of Chinese tourists selecting me from our group of dark-haired, brown-eyed Caucasians, though, I realized why I was the chosen one: my light red hair, an explosion of freckles, and shorts you can’t wear to grandma’s hardly belonged in China. I was no longer the typical girl-next-door, although I’d been labeled it many times at home. Nor was I Lindsay Lohan.

I was just different.

My First Time Camping (ish)

Jack London couldn’t have asked for a more picturesque view. The lake’s chilled water lapped softly at a crumbling bank as its ripples fell between tiny pebbles. The air smelled like, well nothing, and the sky, peppered with cottony clouds, disappeared behind tufts of green on tops of mountains.

My friends and I were spending three days at Rampart Reservoir in early May, and the cool wind and still-budding aspens were just enough to keep away the crowds but entice our group of college kids looking for a cheap escapade. This was our great adventure, our chance to ditch the parents and assume our responsibilities. It was just us and nature. And all I could think was I hope we brought firewood.

“You all set?” my mother asks with eagerness, hovering on panic, as I load up my boyfriend Adam’s red Expedition with sleeping bags, tent, stove, and who knows what else she was able to shove in a bursting-at-the-seams duffel. I’m sure if she tried, we quite literally would have taken the kitchen sink too. She gives me our last bin, the camping dishes my family always uses, and I find room in the loaded car.

“Wait, what’s this tub?” I pull on a stuffed green Rubbermaid in the backseat, its lid barely locked in place. My boyfriend shrugs, something his dad insisted on packing.

It’s another tub of dishes.

My friends Lauren and Wes show up next, much to my relief. Wes is an experienced camper; he’ll know to leave the extras behind.

“Hey, here’s just some stuff my dad tagged on for our trip.” I hesitate as he hands the bag to me. I give a laugh, or perhaps a cry, at its contents: a ball of cord, three pocket knives, and dishes. Leaving behind the parents is going to be harder than I thought.

“No, no, that’s not level; we have to put our heads uphill,” one of the boys grunts. I refrain from commentary as Wes and Adam try to set up our tent—anyone who’s been camping at least once knows that it’s best to wait it out when it comes to men pitching tents; they do not want your “advice.” Lauren and I smirk at their flailing of the tarp and spider web of ropes as we decide to peruse the campground.

But the victorious boys slap each other on the back as they finish the tent and proceed to the fire—Wes brought the logs so he’s in charge. As they do, two more friends arrive and our group of college bums suddenly snaps into hungry-bear mode, scrubbing our hands at the water pump—even campers can be clean!—putting hot dogs on sticks, and plunking a can of beans right on the flames.

We may have been inexperienced packers, but when it came to camping, we were downright pros. Or so I thought.

“What’s up with the fire?” I look at its meager flames and the dwindling pile of wood. No problem, I think, I’ll nab the rest from the Expedition. But my search proves fruitless.

“Wes, where’s the rest of the wood?” Lauren asks our designated Boy Scout and fire-master. But the sad woodpile leaning against the pit and Wes’s blank face immediately tell us the answer.

“I didn’t know it would take up this much fuel,” Wes trails off; none of us point out that this is only night one. We quickly devour our hotdogs and sit in silence. Moments later we realize we don’t have enough chocolate for s’mores. ‘Day Two’ is looking more and more like ‘Day Go Home.’

But, inexplicably, our wood lasts the night. Day two dawns after a full moon of whirring insects and hooting owls. The world looks a prettier place (disregarding the pee bush we baptized the previous day). We hike along a path, running with our hands in the air like a roller-coaster ride and swimming in the reservoir in our underwear. Wes teaches us girls how to chop firewood from fallen timber and scavenge scraps, and we spend our evening reading Poe and Shelley and Yeats around our now crackling fire.

When it’s finally time to return home, we smell like pond, have splinters in our hands, and probably look like wrung-out mops. But most importantly--and because of this I have convinced myself we are ready for trip number two— we return each set of dishes clean: we never even used them.

you flew all this way for what?

I’ve gotten a flat tire in Dublin. I’ve been escorted through a Chinese airport for carrying too much jewelry. I’ve even gotten motion-sick in a revolving restaurant in the Swiss Alps. Traveling misfortunes are no strangers to me. But they never characterize my trips.

Coming soon

Following the Boulder county election this evening; stay tuned.