Muir and Pinchot are both two amazing figures who profoundly shaped a uniquely American institution, public lands. Any book that details their lives, so long as it was legible, would likely be worth reading. Though the structure of this book was quite odd, it was definitely worth reading. The book doesn’t quite know where to focus. It makes quick work introducing Muir and Pinchot and setting them up as opposing, yet complementary, forces in conservatism. Then it proceeds to give a brief history of public lands debates with Muir and Pinchot being just two of the important players. All three of the stories are fascinating and worth reading in isolation, but the attempt to string them together into a grand narrative produced mixed results. Questions of structure aside, the book relays some really incredible and memorable stories. This description of the relationship between Pinchot and Theodore Roosevelt was particularly entertaining to me.

Pinchot and Roosevelt were cut from the same cloth: wealthy, outdoorsy, Protestant, educated, immersed in masculine physicality, and appalled by America’s destruction of forests, wildlife, and natural beauty. They first became friends in 1899 when Roosevelt was governor of New York State. When Pinchot visited the governor’s mansion, Roosevelt challenged him to a wrestling match. Roosevelt, seven years older and six inches shorter but thirty-five pounds heavier, pinned Pinchot—and then they moved to the boxing ring, where Pinchot’s longer arms proved superior. p. 110

This was also an unexpectedly good choice to follow The Libertarian Mind as the concept of public lands runs entirely counter to a purist view of libertarianism. It offers plenty of practical counter examples to the libertarian’s assertion that private ownership and market dynamics can introduce a spontaneous order where competing incentives are able to properly balance interests including those of the collective. A notable example of this is the retelling of the oil boom in Pennsylvania in the 1860’s and 70’s where central planning had to be provided by way of the Rockefeller monopoly in order to preserve both the land and the industry.

This is a good clear description of the underpinnings of Libertarianism. Much of the clarity derives from the fact that it avoids giving much air time to the arguments of Libertarianism’s critics. For instance, on the question of whether public education should exist at all, Boaz cites only a brief quote from the economist W. Allen Wallis suggesting that “schooling had become nearly universal” before “free” schooling was introduced. One would expect such a crucial claim to be better supported than a passing quote with scant context. The book is more like a pamphlet to entice you into Libertarianism than a defense of a Libertarian’s beliefs. As a primer to libertarianism, it does quite well. The underlying principles are clearly presented in an easy to read format. For those who remain curious or skeptical, there are plenty of references for further exploration.

I was initially drawn to this book for a number of reasons. First, a friend had read it and described bits of it. Second, Sowell’s name emerges repeatedly on conservative and libertarian podcasts. Third, I had dug fairly deeply into the ideas of anti-racism earlier in the year and those always seemed to land, unsettled, in the debate about equality of outcomes versus equality of opportunity. Sowell, I had read, addressed this debate in Discrimination and Disparities and so it seemed a reasonable way to explore some of his writing. Having now finished the book, I’m not sure why Sowell’s writing is widely ignored by those whose ideas run counter to the ideas presented here.

One of the best technical books I’ve read in a while. I really like this format. Kleppmann presents an intuitive description of each of the topics but includes thorough references to the underlying paper, article or book. Since reading this, I’ve recommended it many times. My only criticism is that an editor should have removed the sermon at the end, Doing the Right Thing. I don’t necessarily disagree with his case for building software systems responsibility and guided by a sound sense of ethics. However, I think this diatribe suffers the same problem of all such diatribes. First, it doesn’t offer any practical guidance to an inexperienced engineer attempting avoid ethical traps. Second, it greatly overstates the danger of data-driven software systems. As is typical he enumerates the popular targets to support the claim that the tech industry is ethically off kilter without putting the practices into perspective. I hope more technical authors emulate this format without the closing sermon, of course.

After the killing of George Floyd generated almost unanimous condemnation, this book was on everyone’s recommendation list. It topped the rankings on Amazon for quite some time. My employer included it at the top of a list of book recommendations for those wanting to be better allies to their black co-workers. In early April, this book was inescapable so I decided it was likely a rewarding read that would probably challenge my view of the world. Sadly, this was perhaps one of the worst books I’ve ever read. Frankly, I’m amazed it has become so popular. Partway through the book, I remember pausing and wondering if any of the people who had featured this book prominently on a reading list had ever even read it. I’m not going to say very much at all about this book; I’ve wasted enough time on it already. Many good critiques have emerged since April, including those by Matt Taibbi and John McWhorter. One of the most infuriating things in this book is that DiAngelo proposes new broader definitions for emotionally charged labels like “racist” and “white supremacist.” She then uses her definition, which is only known and accepted by a small portion of the population, as the basis for charges against the people attending her seminars. Obviously, these people do not agree with the charges and object ... and thus demonstrate their white fragility. The reasons for their objections are obvious but DiAngelo does not accept the obvious. For her these objections are a purity test allowing us to detect the hidden crimes within a person. As others have pointed out, this is the formula of religions, not reasoned and rational discussion.

This is the second time I’ve read this book and I’ve consulted it many times in between. I originally bought it on Kindle to better acquaint myself with the popular backpacking attractions of the state. Those attractions are primarily in the western part of the state, in the mountains. I live over six hours away in the coastal region so the vast majority of trips in this book require significant planning and aren’t suitable for a typical 2 day weekend. So while I’ve day dreamed about scaling the ladders on Grandfather Mountain after reading this book, I’m not closer to actually making the climb. I do now know, however, that’s a climb I’d like to make. And since I haven’t made many of these trips, I can’t really speak with authority on whether the trips work well as described. For the few coastal area trips, like the Neusiok Trail and Bear Island, the advice seems practical and very well considered. I also see this book recommended time and time again in various Facebook groups. I hope to eventually do some of the trips described in this book. I hope to climb my way up Grandfather Mountain at some point in the next few years. As long as that yearning persists, I'm sure I'll keep re-reading and consulting this book.

I read this book entirely via audiobook. A few days before we began our holiday travels, I was listening to Mark Kenyon talk about his book on the Meateater podcast. I had already started to search for an audiobook for the sixteen hours of driving I would soon be doing. It wasn’t a purchase I was overly excited about but a history of American public lands seemed far better than any of the other alternatives I was considering. The book wildly exceeded my expectations. After finishing it in the new year, I was regretful that I had listened to this book rather than reading it in print. I would like to have taken some notes. Instead, I tried desperately to keep some key facts and names in my head that I thought warranted further reading. These includes names like Gifford Pinchot, John Colter, Stewart Udall and many others who had a hand at shaping the geography of the United States by contributing to the federal policy that governs the 610 million acres of the country that are allocated to “public lands.” The historical recounting alone makes this book well worth a read, but my favorite part is Kenyon’s nuanced look at the current political landscape affecting public lands. When various members of the Bundy family had been in the news resisting BLM policies, I had done some reading to try to understand the dispute. I had failed, however, to connect all the dots to both the Sagebrush Rebellion of the 70s and the continued effort to transfer public lands into the hands of states. The most recent attempt at state control was both championed and eventually withdrawn by Jason Chaffetz in 2017. Kenyon, of course, is adamantly opposed to the efforts of land transfer movement and was active in the public outcry that would cause Chaffetz to eventually back down. He represents his opponents’ views fairly and even admits that they aren’t bad faith positions. It’s refreshing to read a case for policy that avoids the extremist rhetoric that you find in all political writing these days. I was also thankful to hear his somewhat exasperated take on the poor state of political representation for those interested in the outdoors. The favorable policy positions for much of the outdoor community are currently split between the two parties. Voting alone can’t save us and so unlikely coalitions among all of those who like to hike, hunt, fish, camp, bike, climb, and boat have lead the way in recent years to pressure lawmakers away from anti-outdoor policies. It’s a reminder that outside of the tribal theatrics of politics, there are people trying to protect “real” interests that intersect in various complex ways to the small set of hot button issues that talking heads argue about on Twitter. It presents the kind of “well actually” moment that partisan Twitter zealots have come to loathe and I’m totally here for it.

The format of the book is also quite nice. It’s relatively short. After sixteen hours of driving, I was on the last chapter. The way that Kenyon drives the historical discussion by linking it to his own personal adventures on public land works far better than I would have expected. I came into the book far more interested in the historical discussion and hoping I could tolerate the personal stories. They were beyond tolerable; they were delightful. I spend most of my television time each week watching people camp and hunt on YouTube so I’m not sure why I went in with such low expectations. The oscillation between the two narratives creates a nice rhythm in the book that makes it both more readable and, I suspect, more memorable. I’ve recommended this book to others already and I’ll continue to do so. I may even read it again, in print.