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the article I began last time rethinking regional disasters. On March eleventh, twenty eleven, a section of the Pacific Plate east of the Japanese mainland shifted at a spot eighteen miles below the surface, releasing energy equivalent to two million Hiroshima bombs. Seismic waves reached Japan's main island, Hanshu less than a minute later. While around one hundred people were killed by the quake, many more in estimated twenty thousand

lost their lives in the tsunami that followed. Further havoc was wrecked by the nuclear reactor at Fukushima, which suffered a core mailtdown after floodwaters snuffed out the plant's generators. The total economic damage caused by the quake exceeded three hundred billion dollars, which ultimately led to a raft of

new protections and ways to use the land. With seventy with seven hundred sixty million dollars of funding in place, Big began a period of discussion with stakeholders, not just local residents, but also city agencies like the Parks Department. This work is collaborative in nature, Seagull says. In the design field, we're used to being the genius with a pen that does the sketch, but this work really requires collaboration and compromise and listening. You have to be open

to relinquishing control a little bit. It's famously hard to get anything built in New York City. The Mayor's office demanded nature changes that nearly doubled the prime cost, and neighborhood residents protested not being consulted about the revised plan, but eventually the wrinkles were ironed out and construction began in twenty twenty. The first section of the ESCR project opened in twenty twenty three, followed in twenty twenty five by the first sections of East River Park, whose remaining

sections are slated to open in twenty twenty seven. The whole dry line is expected to be finished sometime in the twenty thirties, few of the most creative elements from the original big U prop proposal made the transition to physical reality. Neither a reverse aquarium nor the wide overpasses were ultimately deemed practicable, but other innovative features were included, like seventy seven foot long floodgates that slide out sideways

when needed, and the overall spirit of playfulness endured. As we approached the top of the berm Ziggi pauses to relieve himself on a newly planted shrub. Overhead, a subway rumbles across the Wingsburg Bridge. A couple of teenage bicyclists come rolling over the new swooping pedestrian tide arched bridge, fabricated in Italy and installed in a single night, that connects the park to the city. Two men are arranging charcoal in one of the grills, set amid an archipelago

of cheerful green umbrellas. Beyond, sunlight sparkles on the Blue River. For a moment, you can almost forget that it's really all flood control. Infrastructure on Takia and the dry Line represent some of the most ambitious reconstruction projects in the world, and their proponents would like them to serve as models for how planners can dream big even in the face

of urgent need. But there are a lot more places in the world that are smaller and that will never command large scale resources for redevelopment, and yet they are still managing to implement impressive visions of the future. There are some little guys out there that are doing some unbelievable stuff all around the world, says ConA Gray, president of the American Society of Landscape Architects, which held a series of conferences in twenty twenty five about disaster recovery

around the United States. Take the mountain town of Paradise, home to twenty six thousand, five hundred people before it bore the brunt of the Camp megafire that swept across two hundred forty square miles of northern California in twenty eighteen. Built along the top of a wooded ridge, Paradise was essentially wiped off the map. Eighty five percent of its structures were destroyed, and eighty five people died in the aftermath.

The town enlisted Pittsburgh based architecture firm Urban Design Associates to collaborate on a recovery plan that would both help prevent catastrophe from recurring and result in a place that was more economically resilient and enjoyable to live in very long. The firm's principal first visited Paradise less than a month after the fire, when the town was still sealed off. We had to go through secure ready to get in long recalls. It was like nothing I'd ever seen. The

majority of buildings had been burned to the ground. There were burned out vehicles lining the streets. Everything was black, except it looked like there were pumpkins all over town. These were large propane canisters that the paint had burned off of, and then when the rains had come, they'd rusted, so there were bright orange. The rebuilding process was run by the town's government, which didn't have a lot of

resources at its disposal. Unlike in on Takia, where the national government funded a citywide reconstruction, the building of Paradise was largely left to the individual lot owners, many of whom had to wait for insurance payments to come through. All the town could do was write codes and ordinances to guide change and lobby for state and federal money to fund improvement projects. We had a very large community engagement process, Long says. The overriding message that we heard

was please don't redesign our town. We just want a better version of what we had before. To make the town more fire resilient. The plan called for expanding the street grid to provide for better escape routes, varying electricity infrastructure that can cause wildfires, requiring fire resistant materials in rebuilt homes, and removing dangerously flammable trees and debris from

around all structures. It also envisioned an overall improvement in equity and quality of life by creating a walkable downtown, adding green space, and building a network of bike and pedestrian trails. The plan has been only partially implemented. The town is still struggling to find funding for a new sewer system and is back to less than half its pre fire population, which is holding back its ambitions for the revitalized downtown. But the healing is underway. For several years,

it has been the fastest growing community in California. They're building back and there's a lot of community pride, Long says. Around the world, many other small communities are responding to natural disasters or trying to prepare for them by thinking creatively.

In twenty twenty two, after having heavy flooding in eastern Kentucky and southwestern Virginia destroyed hundreds of homes and killed forty five people, officials in Kentucky allocated hundreds of millions of dollars to create eight communities totaling five hundred homes on high ground. Half of those communities will take advantage of a local feature that had long been considered an iesore and a nuisance, the flattened hilltops left behind by

the strip mining of coal. Planners envisioned the sites to consist of small clusters of houses, like those being built in the Sky View Estates subdivision in the town of Hazzard, where proximity will foster a sense of community, and many of the homes will be energy efficient and solar powered, making them affordable and environmentally friendly. In some places where rebuilding seams in, there's also the question of how to

honor what was lost. One remarkable memorial has arisen in Italy, where a series of destructive earthquakes tour through Sicily's Belie Valley in January nineteen sixty eight, killing hundreds and leveling the relatively isolated village of Gibbelina. Officials decided to rebuild on a site a few miles away that had better access to the road network, But the original village wasn't

simply abandoned. Artist Alberto Buri began a decade's long project to turn the site into a vast concrete artwork that follows the former street grid to entomb the ruins. When it was finally finished in twenty fifteen, the project ensured no one would ever build there again. Today, however, more places are fortifying themselves for the next seemingly imminent threat.

In Iceland. After an active volcanic area threatened the small fishing town of Grindavik in twenty twenty three, officials built several miles of dikes to try to divert lava, but magma flowed below the surface and dangerous cracks opened in the earth. Although the town's residents had already evacuated, lava destroyed three homes, and a heavy equipment operator fell into

a crack and died. Recently, afterducting the most intensive geological study ever carried out in Iceland, officials have begun devising plans to reinhabit the town. The reconstruction plan calls for dozens of homes to be destroyed and for new building to be banned in high risk areas. Still, Grindavic residents will be on their toes for a long time. Geologists say the eruptions could continue for centuries. Unlike in eastern Hansho, Japan.

The coastal Chilean city of Constitucion has also proved that it's possible to rebuild in an inviting way against multiple potential disasters after much of it was leveled by the one two punch of an earthquake and tsunami in twenty ten. To Land architect Alejandro Aravegna worked with the local communities to incorporate nature and individualism into the rebuilding and resilience effort.

Instead of using concrete retaining walls to divert future floodwaters, the city planted a forest in a newly created riverfront park to reduce their speed and absorb their wave energy. To make a new housing more affordable, displaced residents were given half built houses that they could complete themselves using their own material and ideas. Today, many of them stand

as completed homes. Andy Fox, a professor of landscape architecture at North Carolina State University, thinks that smaller communities that build back better after a natural disaster could be more generally useful models for future recovery efforts than big, expensive projects like the dry line. If these ideas work in really small communities that have limited resources, then you can scale them up into places that have lots more resources.

They can be bigger and better, he says. In on Takia, Imren balances carefully as he walks back toward his shop along a narrow ridge of dirt separating two newly dug foundations, Passing a row of unfinished storefronts, he points to one after another. The owner of this shop died, he says. The owner of that shop died, and that one over there too, And not just the owner, but their whole families, children, parents, grandparents, everyone.

This is a city where almost everyone has been profoundly traumatized. Everyone has lost loved ones, and everyone knows people whose loss has been so soul breaking that they wonder if they can go on. I talked to one Turkish architect who told me that after pouring himself into the rebuilding project for a year, he now avoids coming to Antakia because the experience of hearing people's stories has become too painful for him. In his shop, Imren swipes through photos

of his friends and relatives work gone. He pauses on one, a fellow weightlifter who was coach, mentor and dear friend. After the earthquake, Immrens spent weeks looking for him. He finally located his body within the ruins of a gym fifty two days after the quake. How is it possible for a place to come back better after that kind

of loss? For his part, Yemez feels that the void that has been created is all the more reason to build a better version of Ontakia to make sure that pain on such a scale is never felt here again. And this isn't the only place in the world that needs this kind of vision. There is so much damage that needs to be repaired, not just from natural disasters, but from human made ones as well. So many places need to be made safe and good. So many things

are doable, he says, so many things are changeable. What Yemez and his colleagues are doing in Antarchia is an experiment, and they hope that if it's a success, it can be replica by others. The idea is to heal and create a place where people can be secure and lead their best lives together as a community. This can be a model, he says, for any city in the world that needs it. Yumez anticipates that the first shops in the rebuilt region will begin opening in February, with residents

moving into their new homes soon after. Even with all the pain, he feels optimistic when this is finished, I think it will be a happy place for people, a place that connects human to human. Grin Davik, Iceland volcanic eruptions. When a volcanic area rumbled to life in twenty twenty three, the Icelandic government began constructing a series of barriers designed to hold back the flow of lava. Over the past two years, nine eruptions have released lava flows that have

threatened Grindavic. By carefully studying the area's geology, scientists and engineers are determining where the town may be impacted next. Officials are using maps of potential danger zones to decide where residents can safely return. Paradise, California, creating a new standard the camp fire of twenty eighteen was both the deadliest and most destructive wild lands fire in California history, with eighty five fatalities, most of them in the town

of Paradise, an unincorporated community until nineteen seventy nine. The town had grown up without a master plan, and aspects of its layout would prove dangerous when fires swept over it. Many of its streets, for instance, ended in cul de sacs, from which escape was practically impossible. A post fire long term recovery plan has eliminated dead ends and calls for other improvements yet to be implemented, such as buried electrical

transmission lines. To reduce future fire risk, new homes must be surrounded by defensible space, free of flammable vegetation, and built of fire resistant materials. Other measures like bike and pedestrian trails will increase the residence quality of life. Next article. Elephants talk with their trunks. A new study shows that they exhibit communication traits once thought unique to primates for years.

Scientists believe that when elephants swung their trunks or flapped their ears at humans in certain scenarios, they might be gesturing to communicate their wants, but no one had proved this in experiments. Then two years ago, a research team began studying semi captive African savannah elephants near Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. The animals were offered either a tray with

apples or an empty one. If given the empty tray, they would use up to thirty eight different gestures to ask for the apples, but only when the experimenter was there. The most surprising thing was that they were so creative, says University of Vienna biologist Vesta Julietti, a lead researcher. It's as if they're really thinking about what to do next. Until now, such flexible intentional signa using many gestures had only been documented in apes and a few other primates.

As Eluteri noted, the discovery that this kind of communication isn't unique to primates opens the door to exploring how this behavior exists outside of the elephant human dynamic. Next, the team will study wild elephants to see if, as expected, they gesture to one another during activities like foraging, greeting, and playing. This by Kelsey Nowakowski. Next how to build the perfect hike Around the world. Trail designers are quietly

employing surprising techniques to engineer awe. You've probably felt it without even knowing why. Inside the creative science that's transforming your time. Outside this article by Gloria Lieu. In southern Patagodia, a trail ascends a mountain to a renowned and beautiful lake. The trail was formed over several decades by climber's intent

on scaling the ground spires of Argentina's Fitzroy Chain. Climbers, being who they are, walked straight up the mountain from their camp at the chalky and rushing Rio Blanco below. In the nineteen nineties, hikers began to outnumber the climbers, drawn by the site of the Emerald Lake, surrounded by

an amphitheater of rock and ice. The trail eventually took the name of the lake Laguna de ros Trace, colloquially translated as Lake of the Three Peaks, and over the next thirty years, the number of visitors who flocked to the nearby town of el Chatten to hike the fourteen mile out and back trail swelled from roughly thirty a day to three thousand. As these crowds trampled through the vegetation exposed soil that was carried away by wind and water.

Parts of the trail gradually expanded into a rock strewn abrasion as wide as the two lane highway that leads into town. On a cloudy March morning, Ted Jed Talbot, forty nine, peered through a device called a clinometer that he wore on a necklace as he scouted the woods around Laguna Denus traces most problematic pinch point, the rutted and extremely steep final one point two miles to the lake.

He and his partner on the project, forty five year old Willie Bittner, were using clinometers to shoot grades or find a sustainably grated track across the slope. The pair of work together to build new trails and rethink deteriorating old ones for decades, and they resemble one another in both appearance and spirit, Bearded and woodsy, with a wholesome field savviness of Boy Scout troop leaders. Bittner walked ahead of Talbot, stopping several yards away. Talbot squinted through the

clinometer and called adjustments. We can go higher, he said, until Bittner reached a ten percent rise about the limit of a standard treadmill. Then Talbot walked to him while running the GPS tracking amph Gaia on his phone, so that as he moved, the app mapped his route up the hillside. By the end of the day, ideally it

would be a track that would become a trail. A lot of trail builders rough out a line on a map before they venture into the field, but Talbot rarely sketches before he scouts, purposely avoiding preconceiving notions of a route before he can walk the area. He wants to see where the terrain leads him. I feel like the guidance from the landscape versus a line I draw in

the office, leads to a different result, he says. Talbot is among the top designers in the booming professional trail building industry from the United States to Saudi Arabia to Romania. Community planners have realized that finding affordable ways to bring people back in touch with nature not only boosts their happiness,

but also represents a solid investment for tourism. In the past decade alone, Talbot has led the design on two of the field's stand out projects, both in remote Patagonian locations. More than sixty miles of new trails in Perito Moreno National Park, created from twenty seventeen to twenty nineteen, and over thirty miles of trails around Cave of the Hands, a UNESCO World Heritage site in the Pinturas River Canyon, designed and built from twenty twenty to twenty twenty four.

The Perito Moreno project, in particular, was a tour de force of trail building in a notoriously rugged and remote environment in just two seasons. Talbot and Bittner designed the trails and also trained an Argentinian crew of over one hundred, many of them mountain guides, to hand build them. The nonprofit American Trails recognized it as the most extensive trails development and training effort in Patagonian history when granting it

an International Design Award in twenty nineteen. Now, Talbot has been hired by a coalition of El Chatin locals to propose a redesign of the famed Laguna Delos Trace trail for Argentina's and Ministracion de Park Nazionales a p N. The main problem with the current path is at its route straight up the mountain channels water and forcess hikers to displace rocks and dirt as they scrabble up the

steep slope. The section Talbot is assessing rises about fifteen hundred feet and at some points attains the steepness of a black diamond ski run. It culminates in a near vertical rock staircase that becomes a treacherous creek when it rains, and a two way traffic jam during peak hours, often at the same time. The eroded trail is dangerous and also not much fun to hike. The energy on this final section is anxious. Talbot tells me hikers are stuck

in a bottle neck and its physically gruelling too. As we walked through the thick forest of Linga beech trees, Talbot says, you have one chance to make a scar on this landscape. I don't take that responsibility lightly. He aims to make that scar. Surgical trail builders want to design and build roots that transport and delight us and

stand up to the accumulated impacts of our footfall. The final project is more than a path through the woods, as a reflection of our relationship with the natural world. Erosion in is the nemesis of any trail unmitigated, it can turn the most beautiful track into a gaping wound. Water Winded people are the culprits, but water is the most problematic, relentlessly flowing down the path of least resistance

and carving deep ruts. Focused water can do more damage to a trail than any user, states the International Mountain Bike Association's Trail Solutions Manual. Most trail building techniques thus focus on managing hydrology through grade A sleeps a slope's steepness. A sustainable trail follows guidelines that can read like a civil engineering manual. The half rule, for example, states that the grade of a trail shouldn't exceed half the grade of the slope it's built on, lest its channel water

instead of shedding it. Trails also incorporate rolling grade reversals undulations that drain water at low points and are out sloped, meaning the outer edge is slightly downhill, in order to facilitate water shedding. They're generally no steeper than ten percent on average, which prevents user caused erosion. Sustained grades greater than that will cause hikers to loosen more dirt as

they work harder to travel uphill or down. Many trails in the United States weren't built with these principles in mind, in part because they weren't built at all. Early hiking trails often subsumed what are called legacy trails or old game trails, Native American paths, and other human and animal thoroughfares. Trails that were constructed beginning in the nineteenth century, especially

in the Northeast, often went straight up mountains. While many of the practices of sustainable trail building were established from the nineteen twenties onward by trail builders in agencies raging from the Civil Civilian Conservation Corps to the U. S. Forest Service, Arguably no group did more to popularize the idea of sustainable trail building in the modern era than

mountain bikers. The International Mountain Bicycling Association organized in nineteen eighty eight in response to hiker's fears that cyclists would destroy trails, and it helped promote guidelines through its nationwide

trail building program and its Trail Solutions Handbook. In the nineties and early two thousands, when sustainable design was taking hold of trail building, a lot of us had the zell of the newly converted recalls Alaska Bay's trail builder Gabe Travis, who helped Talbot design trails in Perito Moreno. But it soon became apparent that trails adhering blindly to the rules of sustainable design were getting cut by users.

We started to realize that meeting the needs of the intended users just as important a rule of sustainability, Travis says. Over time, trail designers became savvier in the art of managing hiker behavior and designing toward the goals of a trail's target user group. Because if a trail doesn't go where users want to go, or how up or down a hill efficiently, for instance, for a fourteen er summit trail, they will create their own roots, called social trails or

desire lines. Desire lines or lack thereof, are the evidence of a trail. Trail builders grasp of not only the hard sciences of the trade hydrology, geology, and geography, but also psychology. Trail builders know you can't just stop people from doing what they want to do, says Robert Moore, author of On Trails and Exploration. Hences blocking desire lines in New York City parks, for example, simply get stopped down, the art becomes shaping people's desires instead of thwarting it.

War says, if we do all this stuff really well, people will never know we did anything. Says Colorado, Colorado based trail builder Scott Gordon, they don't feel like they're being managed. In Perito Moreno, Talbot highlighted a clumsy attempt at user management, putting to what he calls a gardening path that was built after his tenure, a trail bordered

by pebbles on either side. Besides drawing the hiker's eye from the environment, bordered trails trap water and feel like a prison for the hiker, he says, borrowing an idea from trail builder Troy Scott Parker, author of natural surface Trails by Design, rebellious hikers will walk outside them. Talbot prefers to use confidence markers, large stones placed intermittently to suggest the route when needed. It's even better if he

can just hide the trail from you. And Perito Moreno, Talbot and Bittner design the trails to be invisible from other points in the park by nestling them among the terrain. They'd flag a section of trail, walk to another vantage point, and make sure they couldn't see the flags. Not only does this tactic create a sense of wilderness and solitude, but hikers are less likely to cut a trail if

they can't see where it's going. Directional changes turns can also interrupt flow and encourage trail cutting, so Talbot deploys them thoughtfully, avoiding stacks of frequent and visible switchbacks. When he does turn a trail, he tries to wind it around a small rise in terrain so the exit can't be seen from the entrance. He also favors climbing turns, wide uphill bends where a hiker is gaining elevation while turning over switchbacks, which kill more momentum and are easier

to cut. But it's a tenuous balance. This concludes readings from National Geographic Magazine for today. Your reader has been Marsha. Thank you for listening, Keep on listening, and have a great day.