Uncommon Ground

Monthly Archive: September 2026

Industrial tourism

A Google search returns a list of sites that describe industrial tourism as “a type of travel that involves visiting active factories, decommissioned industrial plants, craft workshops, and industrial heritage sites to learn how things are made and explore economic history”1. I think of it differently.

I first encountered the phrase in Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire, a chapter entitled “Polemic: Industrial Tourism and the National Parks.” Abbey’s polemic is directed at mechanized tourists, those who visit national parks in cars, trucks, and recreational vehicles and who rarely stray beyond the most convenient paths.2 His complaint? “Industrial Tourism” is a threat to the national parks. Why? Because

A weird, lovely, fantastic object out of nature like Delicate Arch has the curious ability to remind us—like rock and sunlight and wind and wilderness—that out there is a different world, older and greater and deeper by far than ours, a world which surrounds and sustains the little world of men as sea and sky surround and sustain a ship.

Industrial Tourism deadens us to the world out there. It disconnects us from the sublime. Industrial Tourists see beautiful things, but they miss the sublime, which is “vast and mysterious, while the beautiful tends to be confined and groomed.”3

Congress recognized that places without industrial tourism should be protected when it passed the Wilderness Act of 1964.

In order to assure that an increasing population, accompanied by expanding settlement and growing mechanization, does not occupy and modify all areas within the United States and its possessions, leaving no lands designated for preservation and protection in their natural condition, it is hereby declared to be the policy of the Congress to secure for the American people of present and future generations the benefits of an enduring resource of wilderness. (Section 2(a))

It defined wilderness as a place “where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain” (Section 2(c)).4

Abbey proposed three principles to govern the future of national parks:

  1. No more cars in national parks.
  2. No more new roads in national parks.
  3. Put the park rangers to work.

He was confident that millions of citizens would embrace the “adventure, difficulty, and challenge” of parks in which visitors traveled only by foot, horseback, muleback, or shuttle. I admire the vision he describes, but I do not embrace it.

He dismissed those “unwilling to crawl out of their cars,” either forgetting or ignoring those whose abilities do not allow them to travel far from their car. He avoided the dilemma of simultaneously protecting wilderness for those who can enjoy it and providing access for those who cannot hike or climb.

  1. From that AI Overview that Google provides. ↩
  2. Before going further, I should confess that I will soon be an industrial tourist. On Wednesday, my husband and I will fly to Salt Lake City. From there we will drive to Zion, Bryce, Capitol Reef, Canyonlands, and Arches National Parks. We will only drive through Capitol Reef on our way from Bryce Canyon to Moab, and we will spend no more than a day in each place. ↩
  3. Marcus Willascheck, Kant: A Revolution in Thinking, Harvard University Press, 2023. ↩
  4. In 1964 even most scientists would probably have imagined that there were places in the world without human influence. We know better now. ↩

And another thought about AI and education

Now that I’ve started, I can’t stop seeing new angles on this topic.

I just started Adam Gopnik’s The Real Work. It’s a book-length meditation on how to find mastery in your life.1 He’s talking about mastery on page 2, but he could have been talking about effort and satisfaction in learning:

What really moves and stirs us is accomplishment, that moment of mastery when suddenly we feel that something profoundly difficulty, tenaciously thorny, has given way, and we are now the Master of It, instead of us being mastered by it.

That’s what we need to inspire in our students, a feeling of mastery, that they are masters of the subject, not the other way around.

  1. “The real work” is a phrase magicians use when talking among themselves about their craft. It is, in Gopnik’s words, “what makes a magic effect magical.” ↩

A bit more about AI and education

Education is like the gym. No one lifts weights because they from the floor because they are trying to move them. They lift weights because they’re strengthening their body to meet challenges they don’t know about yet. Education strengthens the mind for mental challenges we haven’t anticipated.

That’s not a new analogy. I’m sure you’ve read it before. I mention it because Dan Rockmore1 has a nice essay in The New Yorker making the point again: “Should the classroom be more like the gym?”

The great challenge of teaching is not to transmit information—machines do that cheaply now—but to engineer those moments of genuine understanding reliably enough that students come to crave them. The intellectual equivalent of the body’s feedback is real and, when it arrives, more powerful than any endorphin.

  1. Rockmore is the William H. Neukom 1964 Distinguished Professor of Computational Science at Dartmouth. https://faculty-directory.dartmouth.edu/daniel-rockmore ↩

A few thoughts about AI and teaching

OpenAI released ChatGPT on November 30th, 2022. I knew immediately that it would change how educators. I thought I would encourage students to use ChatGPT help them write code in R for my population genetics coursein Fall 2023. Fall 2023 arrived and I didn’t know how to tell them to use it, so I didn’t even mention it. Fall 2023 was also the last time I taught in a classroom. I retired in July 2024. ChatGPT, Claude, and other large language models (LLMs) had little effect on classroom instruction before I retired.

I know from talking with colleagues and from reading the Chronicle of Higher Education, Inside Higher Ed, and Times Higher Education that college faculty are struggling to adapt to a new world. Some are embracing LLMs. More are banning them. Some are encouraging students to use them and helping them understand how to use them. More are returning to in-class assignments and blue book exams.

Maybe it’s because I’m retired, but I’m less worried about LLMs than many of my colleagues who teach. I remember the ruckus that exploded when hand calculators became common. People were sure that students would no longer be able to do arithmetic.1 But the world hasn’t fallen apart. Engineers still build bridges that don’t fall down, and pharmaceutical companies still make drugs with the right composition and concentration. No one uses a slide rule.2 We need to make a similar transition with LLMs.

Students should learn subjects, not regurgitate answers. Learning means reasoning independently, evaluating evidence and argument, and applying that knowledge in new contexts. I presume that students still learn how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide in grade school even though most of them will use calculators or spreadsheets when they do calculations later in life. In the same way, students must learn the principles of philosophy by grappling with them, not by asking ChatGPT to produce an essay about them. Education should not be collecting facts. It should be learning how to think. As instructors we’ve put too much emphasis on the products our students produce and too little on the processes they used to produce them.

We must focus on evaluating the processes. Term papers and take-home exams were once a way to do that. We were at our best when we evaluated how students reasoned, not only what they produced. Doing that in an age of LLMs requires a new approach. Let’s flip the classroom more completely.

Set aside class periods where students write papers or solve problems—with pen (or pencil) and paper. For homework have students transcribe their solutions into an LLM and prompt the LLM to critique the solution. When the student returns, have them annotate a paper copy of the LLM critique with pen (or pencil) and evaluate that.

This approach will require colleges to change scheduling practices. The class periods for problem solving will need to be longer than the typical 1-hour lecture, and it will probably be necessary to add the problem solving period to the existing lecture schedule rather than reducing the number of lectures.3


I wrote the first draft of this post before I happened across this post on Substack by Liz Dubelman. I highly recommend that you read it. Dubelman describes an approach very similar to what I describe here, but she describes it in more detail and much more effectively than I did.

  1. To be sure, some younger people don’t recognize non-sensical results from a calculator, spreadsheet, or statistical package, which often arise because of input errors. ↩
  2. But I learned to use one in college, and I still have the one my father used in college in my office. ↩
  3. This is an example of how scheduling practices might be changed. The details will depend on the subject and the academic calendar of the college or university. ↩

Thinking about Rachel Carson

Beginnings are apt to be shadowy, and so it is with the beginnings of that great mother of life, the sea. (The Sea Around Us, p. 3)

Rachel Carson was born on May 27, 1907 in Springdale, Pennsylvania. She is probably most remembered for Silent Spring, her 1962 book that led the US to ban DDT. Silent Spring helped sparked the modern environmental movement. She began her career in the mid-1930s with the US Bureau of Fisheries (now the US Fish & Wildlife Service) writing scripts for Romance Under the Waters, a series of educational radio broadcasts. After the success of The Sea Around Us, which spent 86 weeks on The New York Times bestseller list and which won the 1952 National Book Award for Nonfiction, she left the Fish & Wildlife Service and bought a cottage on Southport Island, Maine.She lived there until she died in 1964.

Two years after her death, Congress established the Coastal Maine National Wildlife Refuge, which was renamed the Rachel Carson National Wildlife Refuge in 1970 to recognize both Carson’s dedication to conservation and her long connection to the coast of Maine. I’ve walked the Carson Interpretive Trailin Wells, Maine at least once a year since the early 1990s. Returning to the trail is like meeting an old friend. Every year the scene is familiar and timeless, but every year both of us have changed a little. Still, the affection grows deeper.

The Merriland River and Branch Brook wander through cordgrass, forming the eastern and western boundaries of the upland trail. Just beyond, they join to form the Little River, which bends lazily through the salt marsh on its way to the Gulf of Maine. A simple scene, but one that I treasure.

I took the photo at the top of this post a few days ago. It shows a view of the Merriland River from the Carson Interpretive Trail.

Why I’m not on Substack

I’m not on Substack because I’m not writing. My last post is nearly three years old. But that’s about to change. I plan to make one post a week starting on the 14th of September. If I’m sustain that for a few weeks, I’ll duplicate the posts here on Substack. Then I might write a post about why I’m on Substack.