Danger, Will Robinson

chasing tornadoes. The list goes on and on. There's an excitement to putting yourself at risk, an adrenaline joke that reminds someone of what it's like to be alive. And then, of course, there are people who feel the opposite impulse to minimize risk at every opportunity, unity, to whom the simple act of leaving the house is a decision fraught with considerations. What either category of person might not understand, though, is that we have tools to measure danger that are

extremely specific. Just like how we measure earthquake intensity or measure radioactivity, there are also tools that have been developed specifically to measure general peril. One such tool is known as the Duckworth Scale. Frank Duckworth began his career as a scientist in the nuclear power industry, but that's not

where his passions lay. His passions were in statistics. After the Chernobyl disaster in the mid nineteen eighties, he devised a scale for measuring this sort of catastrophe, officially called the International Nuclear Event Scale. This measures nuclear disasters on a scale of one to seven, one being an anomaly and seven being a major accident. Now, the purpose of the scale was actually to calibrate media response and to help prevent news outlets from overreacting should a minor anomaly occur.

He took early retirement in nineteen ninety two, but he would continue to develop formulas to apply statistics to everyday life. As a side note, five years later, in nineteen ninety seven, he would become famous for co developing the Duckworth Lewis method, a mathematical formula to calculate ideal cricket scores. It's still used today by cricket statisticians. But after cricket, he began to turn his mathematical skills to something a bit more universal,

risk assessment. Using data taken from the British Medical Journal the man who developed the criterion for nuclear disaster severity, developed the scale of his own for measuring general danger. Similar to the Richter scale for earthquakes. The Duckworth scale is logarithmic in nature, essentially a scale based on orders of magnitude. The Duckworth scale measures a given activity over time and how likely it'll be to cause death. The scale measures each activity from a zero to an eight.

For instance, Russian roulette with six bullets is an as on the Duckworth scale, meaning certain death. A train journey of one hundred miles lands very low on the scale at a point three. This leads to some curious statistical oddities, though, like the fact that vacuum cleaning and washing up carries a higher Duckworth's scale number five point five than the average risk of getting murdered four point six. So what do we do with these numbers now that we have them? Well,

humans are pattern seeking creatures, but we aren't earthquakes. After all, the usefulness of this scale has likely faded over time. After all, the statistics that doctor Duckworth pulled from likely aren't still accurate over twenty five years later. They're mostly useful as a reminder, human beings are more than just

statistics of their most common activities. And while you could become intimidated by the high numbers of smoking cigarettes or a lifetime of rock climbing six point nine and six point three, respectively, these numbers provide more than just reasons to never leave your house. After all, it can be

strangely comforting to see how low certain activities. A flight of over one hundred miles ranks at a mere one point seven lower than driving the same distance, or even lower than taking an average fairground ride, which scores a solid two point zho. And look, people die every day, and they are always doing something when they pass away, whether it's something as mundane is going for a walk,

or as thrilling as deep sea diving. The Duckworth scale shows us that the possibilities are nearly endless, not just in how people die, but in how people live. And as always, it's much more curious to be a statistical anomaly. Imagine it's a sweltering summer day in the Victorian English countryside. The air is hot and heavy, the bees are buzzing in the heather, and you're sweating through your petticoats. Today to cool down, you might reach for a tall, cool

glode of water. Back then, it was much the same. The only difference there was the ice, specifically where the ice came from. It wasn't like the Victorians could reach into their ice maker and grab a few cubes instead. Back then, ice was big business, and in the days before refrigeration, most of the ice that chilled drinks and preserve food from England to Australia all came from one single lake. Before the early eighteen forties, ice was a

family affair across the United States and in England. When local streams and ponds froze in the winter, people would harvest ice from them and store it in special ice houses packed in salt and straw. The ice would mostly last until summer, when it was used to keep food from spoiling in the heat. However, this hyper local way of harvesting ice really only benefited the people who lived near the source, and the quality of the ice depended on the lake or the stream that it was harvested from.

Some bodies of water weren't exactly the cleanest, which could cause problems as the contaminated ice melted and then got into the food. Seeing an opportunity. Some ice companies sprang up shipping their frozen goods to other countries, but the ice business really didn't take off until eighteen forty two, when two guys, Charles Lander and Henry Ropes, launched the Wenham Lake Ice Company. Wenham Lake is a stream fed

body of water in northeastern Massachusetts. The ice produced by the lake in the winter was so pure it was thought to be able to last in high temperatures without melting. With the lake's location close to the port of Boston, Ropes and Landers saw an opportunity, so in eighteen forty two they started building an ice empire. They crafted state of the art ice houses and their own personal railroad

all to ferry those frosty blocks back and forth. And when they launched their first ice ship into the sea, they struck the jackpot. Sure, they lost a good portion of their inventory along the way, but when the rest of it reached England, France, and even Australia, the cold cargo sold like hotcakes. Now part of this was branding. Wenham Lake Ice built itself as pure while it insinuated

local British ice was dirty. The company had a display in a London Street merchant's window with a two foot solid block of ice sitting in front of a newspaper. The ice was so clear that shoppers could read the newsprint right through it. Local ice just couldn't compete. Within a few short years, ice went from a finite local luxury to a widespread necessity. It was used in hospitals to keep milk from spoiling and to treat sunstroke. Butchers

and fishmongers used it to preserve their wares. Brewers used it to make their beer, and it became a core part of the home as well. People began putting ice in drinks to cool them and using ice boxes to keep butter and milk fresh. They began making iced desserts, churning Wenham Lake ice with cream and sugar to make ice cream, pudding, custard, and all sorts of frozen delicacies. Ice wasn't just cool, it was a way of life, and Wenham Lake was the ultimate name and luxury ice.

Queen Victoria even awarded the company a royal warrant to supply ice to the palace. Of course, it wasn't long before other companies tried to get in on the action. While Wenham Lake ice was seen as the highest quality. People also imported ice from other places in Boston and from Norway, which led to a curious phenomenon. To get in on the luxury ice market share, one company in Norway did something drastic. They renamed Opaguard Lake near Oslo to Lake Wenham so that they could export their own

Wenham Lake ice. Ice continued to be big business through most of the Victorian era, with Wenham Lake and Boston area ice seen as the best, but it finally came to a halt with the rise of a new technology. Beginning in the eighteen fifties, several different commercial methods for creating ice took off. While people were still buying natural ice,

mass produced ice slowly became the main market. By nineteen thirteen, the home refrigerator had been invented, and by the late nineteen twenties it was popular enough that nearly everyone can make ice in their own homes. Wennam Lake's name may have melted into history, but the story of the Victorian's favorite ice remains refreshingly cool. I hope you've enjoyed today's guided tour of the Cabinet of Curiosities subscribe for free on Apple Podcasts, or learn more about the show by

visiting Curiosities podcast dot com. The show was created by me Aaron Mankey in partnership with how Stuff Works. I make another award winning show called Lore, which is a podcast, book series, and television show, and you can learn all about it over at the Worldoflore dot com. And until next time, stay curious.