The Last Remnant Igg

[Lucrecio Houle]

Miller was doing research on Baffin Island in 2009 when he realized the ice cap had noticeably shrunk compared to images of it from a few decades ago. He then recruited Adrien Gilbert and Gwenn Flowers from Simon Fraser University to develop a model for determining how the ice cap might behave in the future.

In the new study, the researchers used the model to estimate when the ice cap would disappear under different greenhouse gas emissions scenarios. They found the ice cap is melting at all elevations and they project it to be gone within 200-500 years under all future emissions scenarios.

They found it to be extremely rare for the Barnes Ice Cap to completely disappear, even during warm interglacial periods. The rock samples showed the ice cap shrunk to its current size only three times and disappeared no more than twice in the past 2.5 million years.

The new study is yet another demonstration that humans are pushing the Earth system outside of conditions that have existed over the last million years, said Richard Alley, a glaciologist and climate scientist at Pennsylvania State University in State College, Pennsylvania, who was not connected to the study.

Journalists and PIOs may also order a copy of the final paper by emailing a request to Lauren Lipuma at [email protected]. Please provide your name, the name of your publication, and your phone number.

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I've been, in a way, retracing the steps of the late James L. Heisterkamp. I walk up and down the blocks of the outer Sunset district. looking for Carville homes that might still exist. I think they're out here. What about the narrow box that is 1218 46th Avenue? I inspect the seam that splits the two stories of a Kirkham street home near 48th Avenue: a couple of cable cars stacked up?

A San Francisco State student creating a special study report, James L. Heisterkamp kept a detailed diary of his 1994 search for Carville's "last remnant". He chatted with people in libraries, people on walks, people he met in cafs and laundromats. He knew from Natalie Jahraus Cowan's California History article (Winter 1978/79, Vol. LVII) that 1415-47th Avenue used to be a Carville home, but the owner, Frank Lemus, told him there wasn't any sign of streetcars left inside. When he headed to the beach and turned onto Great Highway he met a kid about twenty pushing a bicycle out of a suspiciously narrow house. Mr. Heisterkamp asked whether it had once been a cable car. The young man didn't know, but gestured to the home next door, which was for sale.

The bicyclist pointed Heisterkamp to the last, best Carville home left. And the researcher knew it was a lucky break. Other locals he met had never heard of Carville. "During my trekking up and down 47th, 48th, and the Great Highway, looking for the elusive remnant Carville cable cars, I was amazed by the number of people who never heard of the previous history of their own neighborhood. One man, in his forties or fifties, lived in the area about a half a block from the [Carville] address, for over 20 years and was unaware of cable cars ever being a part of some of the structure in his area."

During an open house, Heisterkamp had the opportunity to take photos and chat with the owner. The old railcars made up the second floor, with the front door opening on a large room of two cable cars side by side, their interior sides removed. The property was on the market for $309,000. (By January 1995, the price was $299,950.) 1

Enter Scott Anderson, a filmmaker who lived in an apartment in the neighborhood. Anderson walked by the home one day, saw the "for sale" sign, and took a look inside. Stunned and entranced, he ended up buying the quirky structure.

Pat Halloran, Anderson's tenant, gives me the great privilege to walk around inside his home. 2 Like James Heisterkamp and Scott Anderson before me, I marvel at the amount of original, historical fabric in the home. One wall has the wooden benches of the old cable car still built in. I sit where passengers in the 1890s sat, under the original tongue-and-groove slat ceiling, peering out side windows. Glass lanterns, old kerosene lamps, hang over the space, and it doesn't take much to believe the room is about to rumble down a pair of rails. Pat's bedroom and bathroom is an intact horse car, complete with a sliding panel door separating the two.

"I'm trying to do the best I can to keep it in the state it is," Anderson tells me on the phone. Preservation and restoration is a tricky business. Obviously the aluminum windows in the back aren't original to the streetcars, but does he replace them with window frames from the structure's time as rolling stock or its incarnation as a residence? Should we look at the house on Great Highway as a collection of transportation artifacts cobbled together, or a single architectural landmark?

I'm so smitten with the place I ask Halloran if he has plans of moving anytime soon. He says, "If I ever leave, I'm going to really miss it." But surprisingly, he doesn't mention the special architectural elements of his apartment, but its location, echoing with a modern twist the sentiments of the Carville residents from a hundred years ago: "Being near the beach, especially on a day like today, when I can just take off boogie boarding in the waves... it's great."

It's a nice sentiment to hear, because it isn't hard to find opposing views of the district. Map makers labeled the area the "Great Sand Waste" in the 1860s. In 1999, Preservation magazine did an article on the Carville house which featured lines such as "...the Sunset may be [San Francisco's] only neighborhood without a trace of apparent charm or history, a vast, drab tract of stucco houses sloping down to the sea." 4

During his time in South Florida, Henry was also credited with planting the first avocado on the Charles Deering estate in Cutler, popularized Australian pines as a wind break in the early years of Miami Beach, and perfected the first white poinsettia plant. Coppinger was also credited with being the first to introduce a strain of red bougainvillea that he incorporated into the Royal Palm gardens.

While Coppinger was responsible for the design and implementation of the gardens in 1897, it is not clear if the banyan tree removed in 1955 was planted in 1897, or a few years later in 1903. Early photos of the gardens do not appear to include the sapling that would become the grand old banyan seen in the cover photograph of this article.

However, when a dining room extension was added to the back of the hotel in the summer of 1903, it appears some changes were made to the landscape which appear to have included the addition of a young banyan tree near the west wall of the extension. While the reporter covering the removal of the tree in 1955 claimed that it dated to 1897, it is likely that it was actually planted in 1903 during the addition of the dining room.

There were several milestones that marked the end of the Royal Palm hotel and surrounding property beginning with the great hurricane of 1926. Prior to 1926, the FEC organization had already considered closing the wood-framed hotel given the obsolescence of the building in relation to newer hotels, but the hurricane inflicted enough damage that its owners decided to close it permanently in the aftermath of the storm.

During the construction of the Brickell Bridge in 1928, the city used eminent domain to acquire the land occupied by the western edge of the hotel requiring the FEC to begin demolition of that part of the structure. By 1930, the Royal Palm Hotel was mostly razed with the exception of the dining room extension that was added in 1903. An aerial photograph of the demolition on October 30, 1932, shows the dining room and the mature banyan tree as two of the last remaining relics of the old hotel.

A few years after the photograph, the area once occupied by the Royal Palm hotel and gardens was referred to as Dupont Plaza and consisted primarily of downtown surface parking lots. The plaza stretched from SE Second Street to the Miami River and east toward Bayfront Park.

When the Dupont Plaza Center complex was announced in 1954, the city felt it needed every possible parking spot it could muster which led to the issuance of a demolition permit for the banyan tree. Although the gain of parking spots was considered nominal, the city felt it was time to remove what stood out as an orphan tree in an expanse of asphalt and concrete.

On Saturday, December 10, 1955, the last tree that once stood in the Royal Palm gardens was felled and removed from a parking lot in downtown Miami. Years earlier, the banyan tree was rooted along the west wall of the Royal Palm Hotel dining room extension which overlooked the tropical gardens behind Flagler\u2019s Royal Palm Hotel.

When the hotel was progressively razed from 1928 through the early 1930s, the once beautifully landscaped green space, as well as the footprint of Henry Flagler\u2019s former inn, slowly evolved to a vast sea of surface parking. The rationale behind removing the tree was to provide an additional \u201C6 or 8\u201D parking spaces in an already 338-car lot as downtown Miami was preparing for the construction of the Dupont Plaza Center.

According to a story published in the Miami Herald on Sunday, December 11, 1955, the sentiment from the public for the historic banyan was \u201Cwoodmen spare that tree\u201D, but sentiment did not change the fate of what occurred on the prior Saturday afternoon. The tree had survived storms, a fire, and the removal of the structure it was planted to shade. When it was toppled by the great hurricane of 1926, workman righted the tree, allowing it to take root and thrive for another three decades. However, the last remnant of the Royal Palm gardens would not survive its removal order in December of 1955.

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