Most bench marks were antequated mooring points for collective webs of security that seemed to belong to another era. Bench marks of local heights offer evidence of past spatialities one runs into by chance, set in pavement as relics or reminders of past collective efforts of measurement. In California and the Bay Area, many attempt to track the lines of fault lines that run beneath the ground –including under many California cities, known for registering occasional seismologic tremors that are intrusive (and alarmingly unwanted) reminders of our location beside fault lines, or just hidden-in-plain-sight overlaps of spatialities past.
More a million such markers exist across America as relics of an earlier age when geographical datum was not readily registered by GPS, a spatiality inscribed in fixed points of elevation in the ground–and sought to prohibit their removing them from the stone in which they were set prominently displayed for what was once a hefty fine, as they would undo their accuracy as surveying points. The city of Berkeley is not especially dense in surveying points, but a large number of classical horizontal bench marks exit near the shore, as well as downtown, with many designations of height, that were useful in city planning and property development, that NOAA allows us to scan.
–and far denser horizontal bench marks on the old Army base of Alameda, built on landfill, which rapidly developed as a site for residences, as well as horizontal and elevation markers in downtown Oakland.
It is hard to date the placement of USGS markers set up by the early Bureau of Land Management, but the bench marks that were sent in pavement or concrete monuments provided a needed surveying datum for construction, as well as staking property claims and mapping the west, and while many relate to the first coastal survey of 1836-78, interrupted by the Civil War but completed just before it broke out, the completion of the project of transcontinental triangulation expanded needs for such claims to the west. They are relics of a national form of mapping, but an invitation to local triangulation: these markers offer an interactive infrastructure for future development as a spatially distributed encyclopedia of orthometric heights.
The geodetic markers set into the land as benchmarks of orientation recall points of surveying, but are the remaining residue of a dream of inscribing a one-to-one relation to a map, recalling Borges’ fantasy of a map coequal to the territory, inscribing locations on the ground as fixed points, predating Geographical Positioning Systems. They created a network over the terrain, preceding GPS, in the postwar period, with the adoption of he Universal Transverse Mercator projection (UTM), as benchmarks stabilized a broader metageographic system. Bill Rankin has argued that the new “geo-epistemologies” that were unmoored from nationa bequethed a logic of debordering, able to bridge land, sea, and air that altered geographic space within a geodetic imaginary of unparalleled intensity and coverage of which these markers were reminders–but increasingly lost their function of needing to affirm a geodetic imaginary as they were intensified from the 1990s.The authority of gridded space that was a response, Rankin argues, to the two world wars–and emerged victorious from them as a new global spatiality–provided the very spatial subjectivity which I was trying to navigate my way out of on my walks.
The products of a pointillist geographical imagination of establishing a sense of geospatial security for surveyors, property owners, and indeed drivers was moored in the benchmarks that affirmed the stability of the maps still made by surveying, survive only as traces of an old spatiality, if they now enjoy a sort of renaissance in the age of geocaching. I was, of course, doing something in the reverse: mining a sense of the meaning of the local with a growing sense local memory was being eroded and lost. Finding these names, and past spatialities, of the Bay Area, and locating impressions of the stamps of sidewalk pavers, seemed to constitute a sort of orientational act of saving them from oblivion.
The shift in the sense of mappability is suggested in the rich terrain for geocaching that the USGS bequeathed Bay Area residents, especially in the East Bay.
Or excavate the hidden early history of laying out San Francisco, from the comfort of one’s cel phone, and the readings of the height of Knob Hill.
Geodetic mapping were modernized through a wide range of constituents by GPS in alternative surveying techniques from the mid-1990s, to share new benchmarks of a height modernization for future mapping, carting and navigation, that that made the old markers true relics of a land-based precision of the past.
11. In the Bay Area, of course, the e ground is hardly stable beneath our feet, if the sense of that instability had seemed to grown. In San Francisco and the Bay Area, the geodesic markers are, we increasingly realize, shifting in elevation on the ground underneath our feet. Despite the huge effort that went into the placement of those bench marks in the previous century, the bench marks have a half-life that the folks who placed them in concrete monuments did not foresee: plate tectonics of the California coast spaceborne geodesy allows have created a disturbing picture of shifting elevations across the region, as sediment contracts in drought; subsidence of low-lying region coastal lands reveals vertical land motion (VLM) is as much as several centimeters/year, independently of land movement of fault lines of the converging Pacific and North American tectonic plates.
Aquifer depletion can create subsidence of up to tens of centimeters per year, far beyond the ‘slow subsidence’ California experiences, droughts create considerable subsidence with sediment contraction on California’s coast–here measured in VLM of up to 2.5 mm upwards, or subsidence of the same interval.
In California as a whole, the sinking of a mere two centimeters annually may seem less striking, but in a population center of such low elevation, it is alarming. The picture of California is alarming, and something of a serious counterweight or undertow to the huge pull of coastward migration in the past fifty to sixty years.
We can now integrate a remarkably large dataset of vertical uplift in the western United States, to image the vertical velocity of uplift across the western United States, here focussing on the Sierras, that are important to investigate in relation to climate change and anthropogenic activities to get bearings on a changing world–to briefly move way from the shoreline, and place its vertical movement in a broader context of geodetic change.
The markers on the ground in the Bay Area are tokens of a residue of optimistic push for collective projects of the past, affixed as a memory in bronze disks or medallions, of eight to ten cm. diameter; they remind me of the slightly smaller antiquated media the MiniDisk, even if they are not encased in crystal but set in stone or pavement. From the 1880s these benchmarks for surveying proliferated as benchmarks for a network of national mapping, including a triangle on summits of mountain peaks, remainders of a spatiality we have lost, and also a form of my focus and absorption of discarded geographic information, as if a sort of refuge from the vacuuming up of geolocation data. As much as celebrating my own visibility as a flâneur of urban space, the markers were a sort of rejoinder to the “cyber-flânerie” of online worlds, these old geodetic markers seem to retain an old use-value in their own visibility has led me to fetishize them as a traces of a counter-spatiality that needs to be redeemed.
The markers provided something of a n evocation of local pasts and past spatialities for the city walker and flaneur, as well as a timely reminder, at a difficult time, that in Berkeley, CA, that the external world only exists in the mind of the beholder, as much as their eye. Reading the ground was taking a time-dive of sorts; this was an always open library, scattered, off the shelves distributed for collective consultation on the ground and across public lands.
The seventeen markers of the Hayward fault line that run through Oakland CA make one wonder why the fault is named Hayward, but is also a bit of a hidden landmark in the urban ground, on which we could trace outdoor walks along fault lines–a nice place for a picnic in the pandemic that promised outdoor science lessons for greater familiarity with the hidden topography of seismic risk.
The sense of these networks thrown atop the landscape, but that existed within our collective consciousness, seem to have cousins in the markers, about the same size–half the diameter of a compact disk, to use a similarly antiquated medium as a metaphor–that remind folks in Berkeley of the underground network they would do well to visualize and understand by which curbside waste drains from local points to the bay, added, at a far later point, by the advocacy group Save the Bay, as a water pollution prevention program, putting stock in the signs on all storm drains with stainless steel markers, to encourage public awareness of links of natural and built environment that were less clear to many urban residents. If most Berkeley residents understood how watershed drains to the bay, the exceptions one might give oneself to pollute car oil–“out of sight, out of mind”–the greater in-migration from other cities called for a collective consciousness of pollution’s costs, encouraged by an improvised logo. If the estuary drains 64,000 sq miles, by far the greatest number of pollutants enter the bay as urban run off, after all, from streets, homes, businesses, and cars, often through the storm drain system that directly enters the Bay, without filtration. (Educational outreach of Save the Bay asks students map storm drains near their schools, to realize the local sites of such drainage sites near the school that might introduce pollutants into bay water.)
If the shift to emulate geographic benchmarks was a visible change in the East Bay’s strategy to stave off the local entrance of the amazingly high estimate of oil residents 11,000 gallons of oil Bay Area residents send to the San Fransisco Bay daily–twenty times greater than the estimated leak of from an underwater pipeline off Richmond’s Long Wharf that spread a sheen over San Pablo Bay as 600 to 750 gallons of water and diesel fuel spurted over two hours into the Bay waters and left the coast smelling like a gasoline station, and polluting its protected habitat.
Attempt to instill consciousness of oil drains at a local level in the East Bay seemed a Sisyphean struggle.
But the shift to bechmark-like curbside disks that replaced spraypaint as a public education about pollutants, inviting us to trace clearer interconnections between road drainage and coastal pollution of nearby waters:
12. I had first noticed a set of faux bench marks while walking on a suddenly far less busy street. These pseudo-waypoints were not as part of networks of spatiality otherwise unseen, as fault lines or survey points, but days of social distancing made them seem voices of past inhabitants, written into the pavement I barely noticed in other years. If placed in the manner of a survey marker, their meta vein was a geographic joke, as if a hint at a past generation of geographers who lived in the same space, who planted the marker on the edge of the modest mini-park that a community devoted weekends to redesigning an empty parcel on weekends?
My enhanced attention to the urban environment grew as the silences of the pandemic transform my walks into explorations of birdsong as Prince Street in the early morning from about 6:15 when they start to rouse to 8:50, when swallows, crows, and sparrows exult in the absence of the sound of driving and construction to rouse themselves collectively. The chorus of calls and occasional song is a side-benefit of the eeery absence of traffic. Cries from magnolias and other trees seemed a soundtrack liberated from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, as birds are increasingly bravely swooping across the street–the sounds seem or suddenly transported the residents of the laboratory to my doorstep, an invitation to identify yellow-rumped warblers, California towhee, song sparrows, and finches beyond the cacophonous highly social corvids whose recent crowding the Bay Area bird population may have pushed out more melodious mourning doves and even kites. Renewed immersion in an aural sea of birdsong prompts me to consider new forms of inter-connection–birds had indeed become increasingly more vocal and entered new aural registers as ambient noises reduced; I was an unintended beneficiary of a new range of their register of trills, perhaps squabbling over open airspace as they mapped the return of long-unheard aural spaces of listening not only in residential neighborhoods.
It performed the reverse operation of being lifted out of the city de Certeau so eloquently described in the aperçu that began his reflection on city walking, but played perfectly with a problem of geographic comprehension: the disk disguised as a USGS marker announcing being at a precise geographic location, and suddenly throwing one up into a UTM projection–if hardly in the manner of a topographical place-mark, but using the familiarity of a contraction–and an indulgent taste for Nabokovian parenthetical phrases–in its text.
The winking steel disc pressed into the pavement playfully declared itself the site to create an Earth sandwich, ludically describing itself as a global point designating whatever you made of it. The marker offered instructions to its reader that seemed from another age as well, echoing the Whole Earth movement of the early 1970s, by asking you react in antipodal relation to a spot southeast of Madagascar, or asking you consider this place on the curb of an improvised neighborhood park in a global context. If the curb was poured for the mini-park circa 1998–four years after the unveiling of the “navigational utility” of GPS–it cannily channeled Stuart Brand’s “Whole Earth” thought, and seemed to predate the hexadecimal coordinates. As much as offering bearings, it relished the vertiginous sense of global interconnection GPS promised to reorganize geographical knowledge–and one’s individual experience of the global map–around inter-related individual points as a public utility, and the common man, rather than a strategic tool of military specialists.
But how to date cement? The forward facing marking of a place that had no real significance appeared a sly cartographic joke, hard to date, but questioning the utility of GPS coordinates by enjambing them with an early modern spatiality as much as a postmodern instrument of geodetic accuracy. I laughed aloud. As I envisioned how soggy bread at the bottom of the Indian Ocean could create this ambitious “Earth sandwich,” geography seemed the ultimate mind game of displacement: the metageographic conceit threw me for a pleasant loop, as I recalled the optimism of the paperback “bibles” Brand published between 1968 and 1972, promising an uplifting comprehensiveness that Steve Jobs saw as an unlikely antecedent of the internet.
The seemed a residue of the globalism of the folio-sized softcover volume that curated a database, collating a cornucopia of DIY information, made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroids as a sort of luddite samizdat for dissidents of box stores or the business world. Steve Jobs remembered their amazing appearance “before personal computers and desktop publishing,” as prefiguring the promise of personal computers: Jobs called the volume the “bible of my generation,” a series concluding by the inspiring injunction “Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish“–rather than, one can assume, moored in space.
The faux benchmark seemed just such an act of wide-eyed resistance with immediacy, an optimism one might expect to find in a neighborhood mini-park named “Halcyon Commons” that suggested a somewhat utopian vision of a radical geographic past. The issues of the Catalog–my late father was a proud owner; I spent hours trying to guess what I might mail order anything from its pages long before having a checking account–hardly prepared me for the distance of observation, but it seemed to jump out of the ground in the pandemic with welcome disorientation akin to looking through the wrong end of a telescope.
Juxtaposing the global space of terrestrial coordinates with the mundane sandwich was the point of the marker. A USGS marker asked one to relate to the world, from where you are–“be here, now“–as much as abstract your geographic position; seeing the “sandwich” marker made my day, if it slipped from my mind. My next encounter with one of these pavement markers occurred months later into the pandemic.
But it made me wonder if I was living in the former neighborhood of radical cartographers, intent to inscribe the pavement with faux USGS topographical markers of the sort one found usually on mountain tops or in the nearby state parks, but in urban life, and made you reconsider your position as a street walker in more of a global context. Who planted these things? I was tempted to scoff at Berkeley performance art, or a distributed art practice piece, but hoped to mine the Berkeley-Oakland border by a radical geocaching, imagining kinship with a radical cartographer set markers in pavements for passersby who noticed to engage, as I met another marker just a few weeks later, that I almost missed, that promised an interest in reorienting my relation to the world.
More pasted onto a paved surface than set in the cement that had been recently poured, the marker was even more absurdist, declarative, and philosophical in tone, if it was clearly the same in its poetic address, situated in another section of pavement, not lying far off, if more clearly affixed to the ground in what almost looks like tufa. I appreciated its absurdist direct address, hungry for meaning; its message actually seemed to have gained additional resonances in the pandemic in what would have been unforeseeable ways.
“Reorientation” openly absurdly invited we shift our perspective on the world, but not by geolocation but something like its inverse: telling you that you are lost–rather than where you were–played with the whole notion of orientation, in a lovely pre-GPS way, dispensing with coordinates and asking you where you made that wrong turn that got you there, and encouraging you to wander in the city, rather than follow its straight lines, or if you were able to go back to where you came from, to leave this corner, because this simply isn’t where you ever expected to be, and if you shouldn’t have turned left on Telegraph Avenue, instead of right.
The absurdism of the direct address more indebted to Samuel Beckett than Mercator was welcome; in the pandemic, the marker spoke across time in what seemed as good a sense of orientation we have all started to feel. These were waystations that punctured any sense of confidence or assurance, acknowledging accident and happenstance of remaking one’s relation to space by improvising how one inhabited the paths that have perhaps become overly familiar to many of us, not necessarily trudging along downcast, but feeling a bit less interactive with the spaces where we live. It was so refreshing for a moment that the mapped talk back, and I relished that it did so in an openly destabilizing manner, rather than provide a promised point of reorientation at all. “Just return to exactly where you began to restart your journey again.” If only we could.
The kinship that all this made me feel was to a group of radical cartographers mapping new ways to inhabit the space I’d been living for longer than I’d like to admit. There was an archeological pleasure of unnoticed waypoints jumping out and finding a community lying before me in the ground. The public-facing waypoints–and I am sure there must be more, and became a bit desperate to find a third in the name of triangulation if not a fourth and fifth, if only in order to become part of the radical cartographer community, placed me in time and space on the Berkeley-Oakland border. These imaginary waypoints to a different sort of future than had been mapped seemed an invitation of sorts to join a project of radical cartography–a commitment to staying both hungry and foolish and resisting any sense of satiety and confidence that the world was fully mapped–lest we grow too removed from the neighborhoods and the world in which we live.
Or was the whole affair just a local adoption of a dated if recent piece of performance art? While I delighted in the juxtaposition of global and local, the marker by Halcyon Park followed how performance artist Ze Frank enjoined users to explore interactive platforms to make an antipodes sandwich over a decade back. The online performance artist sent many folks to the online mapping tool “find my the opposite,” as a path to connect to someone living in the antipodean relation to one’s position, on May 16, 2006, to use two bread slices to make an antipodean sandwich of global embrace: placing pieces of bread at an opposite one global position spark the rage for “antipodean sandwiches” as an interactive offline game, not in Berkeley.
Ze’s request to the spirited followers called “sports racers” had since 2006 prompted hundreds of “earth sandwiches” that traced lines of global embrace with entertaining abandon between Madrid and Auckland or Fiji and Mali. to “promote awesomeness” by a free online tool. Geoawesomeness, anyone?
As a luddite hack to processes globalization, Ze invited his viewers to follow a pleasurably crude platform to place themselves in a global context, in a GoogleMaps sort of hack. If Google Maps was launched for desktop as an interface to help people “get from point A to point B,” Ze’s 2006 hack was a mash-up giving new relevance to an early modern spatial conceit of antipodes that spawned a host of interactive imitators inviting users to place themselves on a global map, but by trying to making contact with someone in antipodal relation to them–in places that mapped antipodally onto solid land. It prompted a host of cartographic imitators online by 2020, search engines that had probably experienced a mini-boom in an era of social distancing. If the Tang dynasty Chinese called block-printed playing cards that were first block printed c. 1070 paper dice as they sought to find a term for these new games of chance, the hexadecimal coordinates GPS and Google put into the hands of map users allowed anyone with wifi and a tablet to use their phone hookups potential opportunity to contact someone at a specific antipodal point, or imagine them sticking their own heads into the ground in a virtual cartographic space.
As American audiences confronted the harsh fact they were in antipodean relation to the Indian Ocean, using two pieces of bread to make an “earth sandwich” seemed to come to terms with globalization with apparent DIY brio, and a bit of ingenuity while taking their eyes off the map. To be sure, the remapping of coordinates in peninsular Malaysia are currently moving with the Sunda tectonic plate, meaning, among other things, that the geodetic reference system demands some quick recalculation if existing bench marks are to be used for earth sandwiches. But it is good to know that these things happen, and that geodetic infrastructrues need remapping, even if this means potential difficulties for motorists, airplane pilots, and airplane passengers who depend in a globalized world on GPS. On a more personal note, my web-searches for “Antipodean Sandwich” disappointingly suggested the waypoint a radical cartographer had placed in the pavement near my house was but the diminished echo of something streaming globally. I could still smile while passing it.
However, given the dense accumulation of survey markers strewn around the East Bay, and the University of California, one was also a bit surprised that there was less of an attempt to stare back at the map.