We arrived as immigrants, strangers to each other and to the primeval realm we were about to encounter. Twelve students, four faculty, three teaching assistants, and me, on a journey of discovery. The plan: Travel the length of the Grand Canyon down the Colorado River in five rubber rafts, studying all the way.
When we drove out 15 days later, back into the world of jumbo Slurpees and who is dating Ashton Kutcher, we carried some of the canyon with us. (Figuratively, of course, but also literally. I picked sand out of my gear for days.)
Spending more than two weeks in the belly of one of the oldest places on earth staggers your perspective. Down there, surrounded by billion-year-old rocks and landscapes only nature could imagine, you recognize how tiny and temporal the human scale really is. But then you recover and settle into a pleasant equilibrium, a negotiated settlement with your speck-like existence.
The subject of the Sophomore College course that brought us to the canyon was water. Where it comes from, who gets it, who controls it, how much is left. Anyone paying attention and living in the western United States knows that water is the linchpin to a prosperous future. It slakes thirsty cities, powers industries and homes, irrigates a rain-deprived region and lubricates the economy. And it's one commodity that can't be replaced.
You can read about some of that learning in our cover story on page 44. What also emerged during the trip was that those 12 students were a special group of humans. The next time I worry that the current generation of young people is too addled by entertainment or too entitled by privilege or simply not hungry enough to compete, I will remember how these dozen kids—I mean that as an endearment, not to suggest any lack of maturity—responded to every challenge put in front of them, whether it was a vertigo-inducing climb up a gnarly cliff face, or trying to write cogent lecture notes in 100-degree heat, swatting biting ants off their legs. As one of the guides noted on the last day of the trip, "They're made of good stuff, aren't they?" I was proud of them, and proud to be associated with a school that makes such opportunities available.
When we split the Class Notes section into two versions in 2008, we were driven by two primary goals: To enable longer columns for individual classes, and to be more environmentally responsible. Our research showed that most alumni read their class column and those of the classes near theirs, but not the entire section. Publishing the notes all in one place was needlessly expensive and wasteful.
We knew that version B (with classes 1973 and later) would get larger as time passed, and that eventually it would be necessary to bring its size into alignment with version A (class of 1972 and earlier). Version B adds one new class each year; version A does not. Rebalancing the split to make the size of the magazines as uniform as possible will save thousands of dollars in printing and postage.
Beginning with this issue, the split will occur in 1977—alums in that class year or earlier will receive version A. Alums in 1978 and later will receive version B. Classes 1975 through 1980 appear in both versions.
Not everyone "moving" into a new version will be pleased, but we hope the upside—a continued strong presence of each class—outweighs the downside. If you would like to receive both print versions of the magazine, please contact us.
Thanks for reading, and best wishes for 2012.
Kevin Cool is the former executive editor of Stanford. Email him at stanford.magazine@stanford.edu.
