Eminent Harvard biologist E.O. Wilson says that fully half of the planet’s higher life forms could be gone within 100 years, joining the dodo bird, sketched here, which has been extinct since the 17th century and whose fate was directly attributable to human activity. Photo: ThinkstockDear EarthTalk: I heard that species of flora and fauna are dying at a growing rate globally. How is this calculated and which types of species are dwindling faster?–– Colin Gooder, Franklin, NCResearchers believe that the rate of species loss currently underway is 100-1,000 times faster than what was normal (the so-called “background rate” of extinction) prior to human overpopulation and its negative environmental effects. But thanks to overhunting, deforestation, pollution, the spread of non-native species and now climate change, we are likely in the midst of the sixth mass extinction in the geologic history of the world. The previous mass extinction, 65 million years ago, wiped out the dinosaurs and other species; the previous one, 250 million years ago, killed off 90 percent of all species on the planet.While the current mass extinction might in reality not be that bad—only time will tell—eminent Harvard biologist E.O. Wilson predicts that the rate of species loss could top 10,000 times the background rate by 2030, and that fully half of the planet’s higher life forms could be gone within 100 years. This jibes with statistics from the non-profit International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN)—keeper of the global “Red List” of endangered species—which currently considers 37.8 percent of the world’s already classified species to be threatened. Of course, this is far from the whole story, as biologists think that we have only classified 10 percent or less of the world’s total number of plant and animal species.Which types of species are being hit hardest? An analysis of IUCN statistics from 2008 found that of the world’s fauna (animals), invertebrates (animals without backbones, such as earthworms, shellfish and insects) were suffering the most, with 40.5 percent of those classified considered threatened. Next hardest hit were fish species, with 36.6 percent threatened, followed by reptiles at 30.5 percent and amphibians at 30.4 percent. Meanwhile, 20.8 percent of mammal species were threatened and 12.2 percent of birds.More shocking was the statistic that some 70.1 percent of plant species are at risk. However, a more recent (2010) study found that only 22 percent of the world’s classified plants are actually facing extinction. This finding has led analysts to question conservationists’ estimates in regard to animal species loss as well.In lieu of any direct way to measure the rate of species loss, conservationists have relied on reversing the so-called “species-area relationship,” whereby scientists tally the number of species in a given area and then estimate how quickly more show up or evolve as viable habitat increases (or decreases in the case of reversing the concept). But lately this method of tracking and predicting species losses has been criticized for generating overestimates. “The overestimates can be very substantial,” argues UCLA evolutionary biologist Stephen Hubbell, “…but we are not saying [extinction] does not exist.”However many species may be dying, it’s clear we are in the midst of another mass extinction, and if you believe 70 percent of biologists, unlike previous mass extinctions humanity is most likely the cause. Conservationists remain optimistic that we can marshal the resources to turn the tide—and we’ll need to if the planet is to remain habitable for our species, given our own dependencies on the world’s biodiversity.CONTACTS: E.O. Wilson Biodiversity Foundation, www.eowilson.org; IUCN, www.iucn.org; “Species-area relationships always overestimate extinction rates from habitat loss,” www.nature.com/nature/journal/v473/n7347/full/nature09985.html.EarthTalk® is written and edited by Roddy Scheer and Doug Moss and is a registered trademark of E – The Environmental Magazine (www.emagazine.com). Send questions to: firstname.lastname@example.org. Subscribe: www.emagazine.com/subscribe; Free Trial Issue: www.emagazine.com/trial.
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Ironically, one of the first things I did when the road racing season ended was sign up for another bike race, the Shenandoah Mountain 100. Each fall, I recover some technical skills and maintain some fitness by training on the trails with Virginia’s mountain bike hero, Jeremiah Bishop. We piece together routes around Bishop’s home town, Harrisonburg, and mine, Charlottesville, always eager to show off our latest discoveries. Although we rack up huge rides, it never feels like training. The lack of structure is relaxing after a year of carefully calculated efforts. These unscripted rides are too fun to call work. Plus, at the end of a day on our fat tires, we can drink one. We aren’t training for anything, just riding for the love.Bishop and other friends pressured me into the Shenandoah Mountain 100 (SM100), but I was an easy sell. The race captures the titillating spirit of adventure that hooked me on cycling.I had dreamed of riding the SM100 ever since age 14, when seven bucks was equivalent to an hour of yard work. I couldn’t come up with the entry fee and asked my dad to sponsor me. He thought the race was too heavy for a 14- year-old and would ruin my cross-country running season. It’s been on my bucket list ever since.My road season ended earlier than the past six years, and I finally had a chance this year. The hitch was that I hadn’t ridden my mountain bike since I left Virginia last December. Fresh off the seven day Tour of Colorado, I didn’t worry about my legs or cardio, but when suspension buckling boulders and loose shale downhills rattled my roady hands, t-rex arms and bony back to failure after three hours, I’d be like a gorilla driving a Porsche straight into a tree. My friends actually made bets on which section of the technical course I would most likely eat it. I must have looked as amateur as I felt, because one rider in the parking area muttered, “Who’s the poser in the RadioShack kit?” Therefore, the race was more about the experience than the competition for me.Most riders added to the experience by camping at the Stokesville Observatory. The campground was coming to life when I arrived at five in the morning. Like the beginning of a medieval battle scene, riders sipped coffee, stretched, tuned their weaponry, and mounted their steeds in the moonlight. At the race director’s command, we lined up and charged into battle against each other, ourselves, the clock, and the terrain. As we climbed a gravel road, the sun rose with us lighting the first section of singletrack.We plunged down a trail called Tillman, an exhilarating new piece of the area’s ever-growing trail network. When Bishop introduced me to Tillman on one of our 2012 escapades, we rode it three times in a row. Roadies never use words like “stoked,” but we were literally in Stokesville. At the base of the descent, nearly everyone I saw was grinning and behind us we heard the whoops of riders hitting the table top jumps and banked turns.It didn’t take long for my upper body to cramp and blister, but something about being in the race zone and the Jay-Z song stuck in my head combined to create “mad flow” despite the pain. I think the song goes, “Still that mountain biker—stayin’ alive.” And, when I followed Bishop on the downhills, that’s what it was—stayin’ alive. When it started pouring rain on a rocky, off-camber, sidehill trail, I nearly surrendered to good judgment. But I was having too much fun to stop. It felt like driving a roller coaster.My giddiness began to fade farther into the race. Each steep climb and harrowing descent trimmed the lead group. Bishop led most of the single track. He knew everything about the course so I picked at him like a toddler in the back seat. “How long is this descent? How far till the climb? When is the aid station? Are we there yet?” We approached a segment nicknamed The Death Climb, and I attacked. Only Bishop came across and we worked together to build our lead over the chasers.When Bishop’s rear tire went soft, I waited. He had coached me through the race and I didn’t want to take advantage of a technicality. In fact, I had relied so heavily on his experience and skills that if we came to the line together, I wouldn’t have contested. However, we made the same calculations. With a two minute lead over Christian Taguay minus three minutes for Bishop to repair the flat tire, I had to leave him. At his home race, it hurt him to say, “Go on, man. I have to change this thing.” We parted as gentlemen, then raced like savages.My lead stretched over the final kilometers and it was enough to win. Jeremiah regained second place, and Taguay placed third. Although I never crashed, I was wrecked. It was a week before I could stand up straight or give a firm handshake.Stokesville Observatory, where the battle began, became a field celebration, with burgers and beer and muddy warriors cheering on other finishers. Like most of the 600 participants, I showed up to enjoy the outdoors, try something extraordinary, and do so amid a community of like-minded people. Mission accomplished.Ben King is a national champion cyclist living and training in Charlottesville, Va.
Perched high in the mountains of Western North Carolina, Robbinsville, North Carolina is the county seat of Graham County. The town itself is tiny, with a year round population of just over 600, but the nearby public lands are vast and varied in their scenic value.For starters, there is the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest. Dedicated in 1936 to honor a poet killed in action during World War II, the Joyce Kilmer is an inspiring place where old growth yellow poplars, some as many as 400 years old, tower as much as 125 feet above the forest floor alongside oak, basswood, giant hemlocks, and sycamore trees. Other outdoor attractions include the Nantahala National Forest, the Cherohala Skyway, Lake Santeetlah, and the Cheoah River.Did you know? Once a hiding place for Cherokee Indians trying to evade the Trail of Tears, the 10,000-acre Snowbird Backcountry Area makes a great venue for primitive camping and backcountry fly-fishing.Vote for your favorite outdoor town now at blueridgeoutdoors.com!
Contest winner Corbin Hayslett appears with Keb’Mo, Dolly Parton, and more on Orthophonic Joy.I once heard that there was a fine line between playing old time and not being able to play at all.I won’t tell that to Corbin Hayslett, though.Last summer, the now 21 year old Hayslett, a Virginia native and recent graduate of The University of Virginia’s College at Wise, was chosen from a myriad of entries to record a song on Orthophonic Joy: The 1927 Bristol Sessions Revisited, which released on May 12th.After winning the contest with a rendition of “Darlin Cora,” which was (no lie!!) recorded in the living room of my grandmother’s house, Hayslett headed to Nashville to record the tune with famed producer Carl Jackson. He now appears with such luminaries as Dolly Parton, Vince Gill, Keb ‘Mo, and Brad Paisley on the two disc set that commemorates the original Ralph Peer recording sessions that took place in Bristol in 1927, sessions that many people consider to be the big bang of country music.Hayslett’s inclusion in the project is no fluke. Hand him an instrument with strings and, most likely, he can play it. Hayslett also has a mastery of the banjo that far exceeds what one would expect from someone in his early twenties.And now, the full disclosure – Corbin Hayslett is a friend of mine. He lives in my grandmother’s house and has played music in a band with my son. I consider him a friend. I am also a fan. Of all the blog posts I have written, there have been few that have brought me as much joy to write. Considering the title of project in which Corbin is now featured, that is only appropriate.I recently chatted with Corbin about banjos, old time music, and getting involved with Orthophonic Joy.BRO – Describe the moment you found out you had won the Orthophonic Joy contest.CH – I was sitting at Mountain Empire Community College eating lunch on the next to last day of Mountain Music School, where I was teaching banjo. I had no idea that I would win the contest, but folks at Mountain Music School knew that I had and set up a bit of a hoodwink on me. When Leah Ross, director of the Birthplace of Country Music, took the stage and announced that I was the winner, I was in utter shock. I was dumbfounded and just kind of sat in my chair in a stupor as the crowd cheered before I headed up to the stage.BRO – What does it mean for a young musician like yourself to be involved in this project?CH – For me to be involved in such a project is an honor that I have difficulty comprehending. With this project, my name has been placed among the ranks of musicians, artists, and producers who combined have centuries of experience and thousands of hits. It is an honor I am still trying to put into perspective. Being on this project also opens up new worlds of of people with whom I can share this music.BRO – Of the four songs from which you could choose, why “Darlin’ Cora”?CH – I heard “Darlin’ Cora” for the first time on a Mike Seeger album called Southern Banjo Sounds. The song, with its constant drone and locomotive drive, immediately captured me and made me want to learn it. I had played the song in shows for years in different styles – sometimes solo like Seeger, sometimes in a fiddle and banjo duet with Jumpin’ Jim Robertson in The Hogwallow Mudstompers, and as a mash up with “I Know You Rider” with Mis’ry Creek. The song is adaptable, and for the competition I wanted to mimic the style that B.F. Shelton used in 1927, but also give it a wee kick in the pants.BRO – Considering you are just 21 years old, you have been playing banjo for a long time. How does a young guy get into music that is so old?CH – I grew up with music a constant part of my life. My mother is a wonderful singer, pianist, and organist, and has led music in churches since I was a child. I was always listening to music and singing with her. She also taught piano lessons out of our home. My father is a great singer, and he and I would sing together often, mostly old time and vintage bluegrass. I would spend hours reading, playing, and drawing, all the while listening to old time and bluegrass that my dad had bootlegged off the radio back in the eighties. The music was always part of my life. I suppose I just grew up with it in my blood.BRO – Know any good banjo jokes?CH – Sure. Want to hear some good banjo music?Corbin Hayslett will be heading to East Tennessee State University in Johnson City, Tennessee, this fall to continue his academic career with a graduate degree in Appalachian studies. He’ll also be out on the road with his banjo, keeping alive the musical heritage of the Appalachians.For a taste of Corbin’s banjo wizardry, take a listen to this recent performance of “Darlin’ Cora.”Also, many thanks to AJ at Music City Roots for letting me use the great pic of Corbin up above!
“I want to go back to the Islands,” my four-year old looked up with me with his blue eyes rimmed with golden flecks. He asked it with a hint of expectation, as if going to the Caribbean was as easy to pull off as a jaunt to the park.I brushed his golden locks off his forehead with my fingers, as I stumbled through an explanation of how special our sailing trip had been.When we spent a month on a sailboat, he’d tell me, “I want to go home.” He missed hanging out with guys and would complain, “These girls are giving me a big, hard time.”Once when the boat got so heeled over that we stared at the sea passing within a few inches reach, he screamed, “I don’t want to drown.”Hearing his high-pitch scream undid me that afternoon. I worried I’d pushed his comfort zone too far. Instead of exposing him to an incredible learning opportunity, I’d terrified him.I wondered: Where does one draw the line when challenging their kid to get outside, pushing them to try new sports and new experiences? I asked myself whether a month was too long for my son to be out of his routine, how many hours was too long to sail each day. One day I’d think I’d made a bad decision, and the next something on the boat sparked his interest. He’d ask how the engine worked or poke his head in while we were doing the morning engine check, asking us about each part. My son asked how the boat turned and how the anchor held us in place.Getting comfortable on the boat wasn’t immediate. One hour he’d be full of questions and ideas, I could see the excitement in his eyes. The next he’d be complaining that didn’t want to go sailing. Later on he’d pee off the side of the boat and I’d see him shine with pride that he felt comfortable doing things on his own in a new environment.By the end of the month, he’d be the first to point out a surfacing turtle or a swooping pelican. He knew how to turn the engine on and off, and could even steer the dinghy on his own. At four, he could explain how the windlass worked to lower the anchor and what we needed to do in order to sail upwind. I glimpsed the person he’d become. He would want to help out and get right in the mix, learning. He would have an easy relationship with his own skin and be most comfortable outside.If I’d balked when my son was the uncomfortable, he wouldn’t have struggled, faced with opportunities to grow. The big leaps in his development sometimes happened suddenly, after days of struggling with his attitude. I realized that sometimes to know where the line is between what our kids can and can’t take on requires that parents cross them. Boundaries aren’t linear nor do they stay constant.
“Y’all better hurry.”Those were the words trumpeted from the window of the BMW parked on the bank as we urgently paddled our canoes down the James River.Thanks for the tip, buddy.The storm had crept up from behind us as we lazily floated along, casting at the bank and generally enjoying the pleasant weather and hot sun on our backs. But one quick look to our rear and we realized we could be in for a spot of trouble. The thunderheads were looming large and heading right down river with us, so we got on the paddles and tried to outrun it. This turned out to be a mistake, but one with no real alternative. It was also the first in a comedy of errors and misjudgments that often occur during trips of this nature: sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.Our party of three intrepid river runners had set out for an overnight canoe-fishing trip on the upper James River earlier in the afternoon. To go along with its stunningly good looks and historical significance, the James is also one of the best smallmouth bass fisheries in the Southeast. The plan called for a float of about four miles the first day and a 12-mile float the next day. We would camp along the river, fly fishing for smallmouth bass and sunfish, catching our dinner along the way. That was the plan at least, and we even managed to follow it for about two whole hours before all hell broke loose.But, oh, what a glorious two hours that was. Following a supremely satisfying, no-incident shuttle and put in, I put a bend in the rod on my first real cast of the day, pulling in a nice 14-inch bronzeback. I followed that quickly with another stout smallie of similar size and a couple sunfish in quick order. We were not even 300 yards from the boat ramp and already the fishing was hot. Thoughts of “trip of a lifetime” and amazing camp fish tacos floated through my head as we continued downriver to some of the best river structure I had ever seen. Sunken logs, rocky riffles, undercut banks – the juiciest of prime smallmouth bass habitat – and we were fishing hard, tagging the honey holes with blue, white, and green poppers. But just as fast as the fishing had gotten hot, it got cold – very cold.But we remained undeterred. Those were the breaks: if it was that easy it would be called “catching,” not “fishing” right? Still, you can put your fly right in the sweet spot and not get a take only so many times before the frustration creeps into your psyche. It happens to all anglers, but especially smallmouth bass fly fishermen due to all the places the fish can hide from you on a big river. It could have been this mild frustration that caused us to miss the signs of impending doom in the form of a classic late summer Virginia thunderstorm breathing down our necks. At this point it seemed like that movie cliché when the hero (us) thinks he is scaring all the bad guys (the fish), only to realize too late that there is something bigger and more sinister behind him (storm) scaring all the bad guys. It was around this time that the BMW weatherman felt the need to chime in.Once dark clouds entered our peripheral vision, we knew it was time to find some cover and wait it out. And wait it out. And wait it out. Under the trees, one of us pulled out a rain jacket while the other two gave each other that “Wish I brought a rain jacket” look as the bone-jarring thunder nearly shook us off the bank. We watched our canoes fill up with rainwater and passed the time by shivering and discussing the typical fishing-trip subjects: what GORP actually stands for (inconclusive), schemes for getting rich (conclusively bad), and when the rain was going to stop (exactly one hour from now it turned out).By the time the rain let up and the thunder wore itself out, there was little daylight left to dry our bodies or find a campsite so we were back on the paddles in short order. No time for casting as we compared the actual river to our soggy map of the river looking for suitable places to pitch our tents. We decided the spot with the burned baby doll hanging from a noose was probably not the best choice, but we eventually found a semi-good rocky beach that would do in a pinch, and, by God, we were in a pinch. As I pulled my bedding out of my not-as-dry-as-I-thought bag, I realized I was in for a long, damp night.With no fish to sacrifice to the camping gods, we were forced to fall back on Protein Plan B for our burritos: ranchero beans. This would have dire consequences on our olfactory systems, especially when we gathered around our quickly deteriorating map to figure out where we were and how long we had to go tomorrow. After much debate and civilized discourse we came to the conclusion that, yes, we were still on the James River. Turns out we had blown past our intended stopping point by about five or six miles.Putting this behind us, we soon settled into watching the moon dance with the wispy clouds and listening to the water play its tune across the river valley. It was very sublime and reminded us why we took this trip in the first place. Sure, we hadn’t caught many fish, our camp was not ideal, and our gear was a little soggy, but our bellies were full and we were embracing our natural surroundings in the purest form. We were on the side of a beautiful river, contemplating life and celebrating friendship. It was very peaceful and comforting, until the first train came screeching through our campsite. Well, not exactly through, but close enough to feel the wind coming off the tracks that, in our haste to settle down for the night, we had failed to notice. The next morning, over eggs and cowboy coffee you had to chew instead of drink, we all recounted bolting upright from one of 15 30-minute naps to make sure we had not accidentally set up camp directly on the tracks of this 1,000-decibel train.Given the events of the trip, it was a relief to awake to our canoes still firmly planted on the bank. If they had floated away during the night, I would not have been all that surprised. One look at the water though and we knew that the hopes and dreams of catching fish – any fish, one fish – were dashed. An already swollen river had been blown out by the same storm that sent us scurrying for the riverbank the previous day, rendering my entire supply of poppers obsolete – and by entire box of poppers, I mean my entire fly supply as I had brought nothing but poppers. Smart move.So, it turns out that having no idea how far down river we were was a blessing in disguise as we were that much closer to the takeout, the end of this train wreck of a fishing trip. We stashed the rods and paddled for Glasgow, only stopping once to check out a rope swing and salvage the trip with some classic river fun. Alas, the swing must have been hung by the same guy as the doll because the physics were off, and each attempt ended with impact on the downswing, which is not the way it’s supposed to work. That was the last straw.Except that it wasn’t. At Glasgow, we missed the takeout and had to portage the Maury rapids, dragging our canoes up twin waterfalls to the boat ramp, nearly flipping them in the process.And so concluded the worst fishing trip I’ve ever been on. Sure, I’ve been on trips where I got wet and cold, didn’t catch any fish, had nightmares, and been heckled from the river bank, but usually not all at once. But here’s the thing: we were still on a fishing adventure. We were still out there on our own, making decisions. Yes, they were not life and death, and they turned out to be bad ones, but there is a certain sense of self worth and accomplishment when you get yourself back to the car in one soggy depressed piece. If everything had gone right, there would be no story to tell, no hook, no lasting memory. Now, I’ll have a tale I’m sure will grow over time to include lightning strikes, raging rapids, us cracking the GORP code, and many, many fish because if we are honest with ourselves, reality is just the starting point for a good fish story.Tips for Catching Smallmouth Bass on the FlySmallmouth bass are a great gamefish due to their hard fight, large size, year-round availability, and aggressive topwater takes. Here in the Southeast, the bronzeback is the top warm water species to target and are prevalent in most rivers and streams. Despite their assets, the smallmouth is often overlooked as a gamefish on the fly as most serious bass fishermen head for lakes and most serious river anglers head for trout streams. Fishing big rivers for smallies is the best of both, so here’s what you’ll need.Rod: 8-9 foot, 6-8 wt depending on the line you are using: bigger rod (8 wt) for sinking line, lighter rod (6-7 wt) for floating with 7-9 foot 2-3x leaders.Flies: For summer topwater action poppers, divers, gugglers, and sneaky pete patterns in a variety of colors are best. Crayfish, clousers, helgramite, wooly buggers, sculpin, and baitfish patterns are prime for early spring, fall, and winter fishing.Habitat: Smallmouth bass behave very much like big river brown trout, staying deep during the colder months and coming to the surface once the water temperatures rise, so choose your flies seasonally. Like largemouth bass, they love structure, so target sunken boulders, logs, and other debris, along with riffles, undercut banks, and back eddies.Five Other Smallmouth RiversNew River (WV, VA, NC)The New River has the distinction of being a world-class smallmouth bass fishery in three states: North Carolina, Virginia, and West Virginia. Once the New gets into Virginia and West Virginia, it turns into trophy water with bigger fish, but with lower numbers. The New is considered one of the top fisheries in the country. Hot tip: New River smallies love a silent bug on top.French Broad River (N.C.)Big water equals big fish and the French Broad has them. There are over 40 miles of prime smallmouth habitat on the French Broad as it flows from Brevard, through Asheville, and into Tennessee.Holston River (TN)This tailwater is a favorite for anglers seeking big brown trout, but it is also a great smallmouth bass fishery, especially during the summer months when the trout get stressed. Watch the dam flows and bring a boat as riverside access is limited.Shenandoah (VA)One of the prettiest rivers in the East, if not the country, the Shenandoah has two forks that cut the Shenandoah Valley. This river has had some issues with spawning years past, but is bouncing back. Both the South and North forks are quality “numbers” fisheries, but there are also big fish to be had. The North Fork also holds a healthy habitat of largemouth bass.Youghiogheny (PA)The Yough is known for its population of brown trout, but it is also a great place to target smallmouth, especially during peak summer. The section just below Casselman River is the most productive.
Nothing screams “Happy holidays!!!” quite like a collection of horn-driven hip hop anthems and protest songs. If you need a break from incessant carols on the radio, or perhaps need to channel the frustration that comes from long lines and crowded parking lots during this festive season, take a listen to Brass Against The Machine, a collection of musicians from NYC who give the brass treatment to tunes from the likes of Rage Against The Machine, Living Colour, Led Zeppelin, A Tribe Called Quest, and more. Get your head bob on as you sit in the car with Brass Against The Machine’s take on Rage’s “Killing In The Name Of.” It will be a nice catharsis.Are you tired of all those same old Christmas tunes? Feel like your holiday play list needs a shot in arm? This month’s collection could have you covered. Check out some soon-to-be holiday classics from Zach Schmidt, Joey Sweeney & Neon Grease, Lowland Hum, and Parker Longbough.Old friends also turn up on this month’s mix. New releases from Grayson Capps, Birds of Chicago, and The Oh Hellos show up in the Trail Mix player.New tracks from Richie & Rosie, Stills, Hank Williams, The Shelters, Louise Goffin, , Mapache, Travis Meadows, Lake Jons, The Searchers, and Trio Da Kali & Kronos Quartet round out this month’s mix.Keep an eye on this month’s Trail Mix blog, as chats with Eagle Johnson & Clean Machine and Marcus King are on tap, as is a chronicling of favored albums from the past year.And tis’ the season to buy music for people, so get out and grab a bunch of these records and give them away to loved ones and friends! Support the great bands that let us share their music! Mountain Song Mapache 6:11 Don’t Kill Yourself This Christmas_16-44 Joey Sweeney & The Neon Grease Better Boat Travis Meadows 4:32 Audio PlayerMapacheMountain SongUse Up/Down Arrow keys to increase or decrease volume.00:000:00 / 5:13 Ain’t That Rockin’ All Night Lowland Hum I’m Drunk Again This Christmas Zach Schmidt 4:53 3:42 Eh Ya Ye Trio de Kali and Kronos Quartet 3:20 Hearts In Her Eyes The Searchers Killing In The Name Brass Against The Machine 4:26 4:34 3:30 4:32 Rita Is Gone The Marcus King Band Let Me In Again Louise Goffin 5:13 4:09 4:52 2:24 3:04 Jambalaya Hank Williams 4:27 So Get Out The Shelters 3:29 5:27 Pacific Coast Stills 4:50 Torches The Oh Hellos Hero Eagle Johnson & Clean Machine Embed 3:01 Breathe Out The Fumes Lake Jons Secret Santa Parker Longbough Scarlett Roses Grayson Capps 3:19 American Flowers Birds of Chicago Nowhere in Time Richie & Rosie Copy and paste this code to your site to embed.
Runner Jessica Anderson wanted to set the world record as the fastest woman to run a marathon dressed as a nurse. Anderson is a nurse, and has worked at the Royal London Hospital for nearly seven years. When she crossed the finish line of the London Marathon—wearing her scrubs—in three hours, eight minutes and 22 seconds, she beat the previous world record for a woman running a marathon in a nurse costume by 32 seconds. Nurse’s marathon world record denied because she wore pants Anderson was thrilled, until she learned that Guinness World Record rejected her application because she was wearing her scrubs “with trousers.” Guinness informed Anderson that a nurse’s uniform must include a blue or white dress; a pinafore apron and a traditional nurse’s cap and that the outfit she wore too closely resembled the dress requirements for a doctor’s uniform. Guinness World Records has since pledge to look into, and possibly update, it’s costume policy.
NEW COVER COLORING PAGES! VOLUME 3!Download CLICK TO DOWNLOAD COLORING PAGES – NEW PAGES ADDED!Download Here’s an indoor activity for outdoor lovers (and parents who need a minute of peace and quiet!) We have created these lovely Blue Ridge Outdoors coloring pages for people (of all ages) to enjoy! Click below to download printable pages and get coloring! Share your pages on social media and tag @blueridgeoutdoors