For the Record

Pleading the Filth
Those searching for answers to America's epidemic of senseless violence might want to turn their attention from the likes of Pulp Fiction to more insidious evils — perhaps manganese, lead, and cadmium. Or so suggests a controversial new report linking environmental pollution to criminal behavior. "I've been called everything from a genetic determinist to an environmental wacko," says Roger Masters, a Dartmouth College government professor whose study will appear as a chapter in this month's Environmental Toxicology: Current Developments. "People say, 'If you do this research, someone will plead not guilty by reason of environmental pollution.'" According to Masters's findings, "Pollution interacts with poverty, poor diet, alcohol or drug use, and social stress, to put some individuals at risk for subclinical toxicity, leading to a loss of impulse control and increased violent crime." Translation? Inhale too many toxic fumes and things can get ugly. Predictably, not everyone in the scientific community is convinced — especially given the fact that Masters based his research on statistics rather than actual case studies. "Scientifically, his theory doesn't hold water," says Peter Breggin, director of the Maryland-based International Center for the Study of Psychiatry and Psychology. "I doubt we'll ever be able to pinpoint violence to a biological factor. To do so would be to avoid looking at all the other relevant social and economic factors that contribute to crime." While Masters agrees that continued research is essential, he also says he won't be bullied into backing down. "I'll admit it's risky business," he says, "but I think I'm on to a factor that's doubling the crime rates in American cities."

Yesterday's News — and Perhaps Tomorrow's
"The first time I left, everybody from CNN to Paul Harvey radio came to see this fool set off to row around the world," says Mick Bird of his August 1996 launch from Monterey, California. But when faulty wiring forced him to call it quits less than 150 miles offshore, things changed. "This time, the only ones around were a couple of sea lions. Everybody else had bailed." Finally, late last fall, 64 days and 2,600 miles after his chilly send-off from Fort Bragg, Bird rowed his 28-foot wood-and-fiberglass vessel onshore at Hilo, Hawaii, completing the first leg of his attempt to circumnavigate the globe by rowboat — an unprecedented feat he hopes to finish sometime in the year 2000. Despite enduring 20-foot swells and a near-collision with a 30,000-ton tanker, the 41-year-old Hawaii native insists that he's no do-or-die wacko. In fact, he took controversial safety precautions, including accepting a 70-mile tow to skirt dangerous currents. "Let the nautical purists howl," declares Bird, who hopes to begin leg two sometime this month. "I have a wife and kids, and if I have to throw my line to a tanker, I will."

Anatoli Boukreev, 1958-1997
Russian mountaineer Anatoli Boukreev's life swung between extremes over the last 18 months. Beginning with his controversial role as a guide during the May 1996 disaster on Mount Everest, Boukreev swooped in and out of triumph and tragedy. In 1997, he summited four 8,000-meter peaks in an 80-day period — securing his reputation as one of the most accomplished Himalayan mountaineers of his generation — and wrote The Climb, an account of the Everest expedition that took to task Jon Krakauer's report in this magazine. Sadly, Boukreev's fabled career ended last Christmas, when an avalanche buried the 39-year-old climber and Russian cinematographer Dimitri Sobolev on Nepal's 26,334-foot Annapurna. Boukreev's Italian climbing partner, Simone Moro, survived but could find no trace of the others, and helicopter searches by the Nepalese army proved fruitless. Controversies aside, Boukreev's greatest legacy will likely be his herculean strength at high altitude. "He was the perfect climbing machine," says veteran Himalayan climber Ed Viesturs. "Talented and phenomenally strong."

Life's a Bitch
For Nancy Broadbridge and husband Tony Lopetrone, last December's Christmas Marathon in Olympia, Washington, was supposed to be the grand finale of their hard-to-fathom quest to become the first people to run a marathon in every state in a single year. That is, until they discovered that 51-year-old Texan Rick Worley had edged them out by a week. "I saw him the weekend before Olympia and he didn't say anything about the record," snaps Broadbridge, who reportedly harangued the understandably fatigued Worley during the Olympia race. More worrisome to Worley than the fuming Michigan couple, however, was whether South Carolina's Big Butt 50k counts toward his record, as much of the race was out of state. "Rick beat them fair and square," says Dean Rademaker, founder of the 50 States and D.C. Marathon Group and de facto father of "multimarathoning." "But refereeing squabbles isn't what I had in mind."

Breaking Through the Granite Ceiling
"It really is about time," says Alison Osius, 39, somewhat reticently, of the American Alpine Club's decision last December to elect her the first female president in its 96-year history. And in many ways Osius, a three-time national sport-climbing champion, seems an obvious choice for a group dedicated to recognizing the accomplishments of American climbers. After all, Osius's youthful image and exhaustive knowledge of the sport (she is an editor at Climbing magazine) complement the club's recent makeover, which included waiving stringent climbing prerequisites to attract younger members and moving its headquarters from Manhattan to a new, $4.2 million facility in Golden, Colorado. Yet when the annual meeting convened, old-liners nominated club vice-president Michael Browning — a move perhaps motivated by Osius's limited mountaineering rësumë. "We agreed to disagree," explains Osius backer Ralph J. Erenzo of her narrow victory in the 18-member board vote. "This shows that we're no longer a group of elitist old men."

A Crude Scheme
"We're not a mail-order business," frets Mary Jane Pilgrim, chemistry director at Alaska's Division of Environmental Health. "We're an analytical chemistry lab!" True, but things have certainly changed since Pilgrim decided to sell 2,000 oil samples from the 1989 Exxon Valdez spill as historic mementos. Scraped up during the five-year cleansing of Prince William Sound, the oil-seaweed-and-rock mixture was released from evidence by Alaska attorney general Bruce Botelho last fall and left to Pilgrim for disposal. To dodge the $6,000 incineration fee, Pilgrim's lab announced, via its Web site, its decision to sell jars of the foul-smelling slick for $5 apiece — only to be overwhelmed by hundreds of orders from science teachers and rabid memorabilia collectors. Now, with the incoming cash flow barely covering shipping costs, Pilgrim is praying that the requests will slow down. "We can only hope," she says wearily, "that whatever gods look after chemists will help us out."

Sinn Hoof
Being the Gerry Adams of the animal-rights movement certainly has its drawbacks. Just ask Craig Rosebraugh: Though he has never been indicted for so much as a misdemeanor, he claims that authorities from three federal agencies have been staking out his home in Portland, Oregon, tapping his phone, and hauling him before grand juries (once in handcuffs). "These people have been pretty rude," says the mild-mannered Rosebraugh, 25, who maintains that he doesn't participate in acts of sabotage himself but speaks on behalf of groups that do, most notably the Animal Liberation Front, an international group that's been waging an underground animal-rights crusade since the 1970s. Authorities began pressuring Rosebraugh last fall, after the ALF launched a campaign that included torching a barn the BLM used to house some 500 corralled wild horses. "The animals were outside when it was set ablaze," insists Rosebraugh. "These aren't just random acts." As for his ALF-approved argument that the campaign's $1.5 million in damage doesn't constitute violence, since no bloodshed occurred, Assistant U.S. Attorney Stephen F. Peifer isn't swayed: "Arson? Destruction of property? That's certainly violence under federal law."

— TODD BALF AND PAUL KVINTA (WITH CHRISTOPHER WEIR)

Photograph by Clay Ellis