Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No! It’s thousands of satellites circling Earth.
I’VE GOT PERSONAL BEEF WITH ELON MUSK BECAUSE THE FIRST TIME I SAW HIS SATELLITE TRAIN MY MATES WERE ON ACID, AND IT SCARED THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF THEM.
I was babysitting some friends in the Matukituki Valley, gazing at the indifferent stars above. Then, peeling over the horizon, came possibly the worst thing you could see under the influence of psychedelics: twin lines of somethings in outer space, marching like ants across the celestial dome. Could this be real, and if so, what the hell was it?
A feeling of horror descended as we realised these bands of light were gonna be there for the rest of time, expanding and interlocking until the entire starscape was obscured by a web of satellites. It was unfolding in front of our eyes.
The satellites are part of Starlink, though I didn’t know the name at the time. Starlink is the spawn of Elon Musk, a project with a name noticeably prettier and easier to pronounce than the one he gave the youngest human child he shares with the musician Grimes (it’s X Æ A-Xii Musk, FYI). Developed under the umbrella of Musk’s private spaceflight company SpaceX, Starlink is a global web of low-orbit satellites that aims to provide the entire planet with high-speed internet and cell reception. As of writing, there are 3,912 satellites in the array ̶ more than half of the total active satellites in orbit. The SpaceX team hopes to deploy a total of 42,000. When they’re launched from Cape Canaveral in Florida, they form the dotted trails that spooked me in the valley.
There is nothing nice about having something from the “outside world” invade your trip, be that a psychedelic one or a physical one. Or both. Starlink is a funny example here, because it invades the backcountry in both ways: physically, you can see it. It brazenly trots across an otherwise pristine sky. But Starlink, and the promises it makes, threaten the psychic experience of the backcountry, too. “100% cell coverage”, they claim, thanks to a newly-inked exclusive deal with One NZ (formerly Vodafone). That’s every last hill, hole and hut in the wild, slung straight into the digital age. Not only can you see Starlink invading this space, you can feel it. Out here, you are no longer detached. You are no longer alone.
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The night sky in Dubai
In theory, the Starlink megaconstellation offers a great service, especially if you are based somewhere remote. Less ugly infrastructure, better internet access for rural communities, that sort of thing. Live in the boondocks? You can easily kit yourself out from Noel Leeming; the hardware costs about 200 bucks, shipping another $170, and then the monthly fee is $160. You receive a Starlink satellite dish, a WiFi router, a cable to connect the two, and boom, you’re livestreaming the Black Ferns taking it to France in HD.
In a discussion on the NZ Hunting and Shooting Forum, one member shared their enthusiasm for the setup, saying the $160 per month was well worth it. “We bought Starlink over a year ago for our off-grid block,” a user called ‘Husky1600#2’ wrote (presumably ‘Husky1600’ was already taken). “Best money I have spent on electronic stuff ever. Simple to put together, simple to turn on, and it sure beats the hell out of any other Internet provider I’ve used in the backcountry. We can have three devices going, and watching Netflix… it’s almost instantaneous. Never had that good a service ever!”
The backcountry experience will be different, for now. You can’t carry a dish into the bush with you, so the “total coverage” touted by One NZ is restricted to text messages and voice calls, albeit with a slight delay. As Chief Executive Jason Paris explained in a statement to Stuff, “it’s not for watching Netflix.” Not yet, anyway. Musk is developing “next-gen” satellites, which will allow your mobile phone to handle bigger jobs like streaming no matter where you are. They’re about 25 metres across, much larger than the dinner-table-sized ones currently up there, and there will be 7500 of them, though none of them have made it into orbit yet. The Starship launch craft designed to carry them hasn’t made it either, with a test rocket exploding in April. And although Musk promises this will be up and running by 2024 (for the US at least) he doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to deadlines. It is literally rocket science, after all.
Still, even if it’s just texting, cell service in the backcountry is a game changer. And it seems like those with the most to lose ̶ trampers, remote communities, animals that rely on stellar navigation (including moths, seals and dung beetles) ̶ are also those with the least say in the matter. How many uncontacted tribes did Elon ask before plastering the night sky with satellites? How many hikers did he consult? People in big cities, people who tout the benefits of Starlink, are the least likely to notice it. There’s a Starlink HQ in Dubai. You can’t see the night sky from Dubai.
While we’re at it, last year, one of my fellow reporters interviewed Dr Ian Griffin, Director of the Otago Museum and a big name in astronomy, on the subject. He’s discovered three planets and thinks Elon Musk is a dick. Iain pointed out that the only regulatory body that can deny Elon permission to launch his satellites is the FCC, the United States’ Federal Communications Commission; the same one that blatantly ignored public opinion in 2017 and torpedoed net neutrality, and the same one whose head honchos have repeatedly been accused of cozying up to private businesses in exchange for a cut of the profits (looking at you, Ajit Pai). They also have bugger-all to do with astronomy. There is very little standing between Elon Musk, corporate American telecommunications, and the entirety of Earth’s orbital real estate.
A mixed reception
Trampers are livid, as a general rule. The “100% cell coverage” story broke right as I was heading out to the Matiri Range, where I ran into a father-daughter duo on day six of a through-hike. I started to ask the dad if he’d heard the news, but he cut me off: “Stop right there. I don’t even want to know.” That night, he cooked his meal the old-fashioned way, circling a fire with a worn-out sheet of aluminium and balancing a pan on top while he up-down looked our Jetboils. There was no reception in the hut, but twenty metres up the track you could get one bar of 3G.
Cell service does already exist in Aotearoa’s wilderness, though patchily. In fact, it was only thanks to that single bar that I was able to pitch this story in the first place. The irony is palpable; that I got the news on my way into the bush, got fired up about it on the walk, realised I had a touch of 3G, stopped walking, emailed my editor, kept walking, then got confirmation at the summit of The Haystack the next day. We toasted some whiskey to the story’s approval, and continued talking about how terrible it is to have cell service in the backcountry.
“It’s not all bad”, another tramper said. “It’s certainly going to prove useful in case of an emergency. If even one life can be saved, it’ll probably be worth it.” And it’s true that Starlink helped connect people in the wake of Cyclone Gabrielle. Waimatā resident Chris Williams, for example, was able to give live updates on the flooding because of a Stalink array he’d recently set up with solar power at his rural property. His car was stuck in metre-deep mud, but he cycled around Tairāwhiti Gisborne to check in on neighbours and film updates on his phone – all of which was uploaded to social media via Starlink, providing information and reassurance to worried relatives and friends. Chris became a de-facto news correspondent in an area reporters quite literally couldn’t reach.
But while technology can save us in a pinch, it can also put us in that pinch in the first place. Like when those tourists blindly trusted their GPS to get them to Brisbane’s North Stradbroke Island, which then sent their car on a course through nine miles of ocean. Oops. “I’m worried about the people that will think ‘oh, I have service, so I’m sweet’ out here, and then come unprepared as a result”, a Department of Conservation worker told me on the trail. “I’m worried it’ll give a false sense of security.” No amount of reception equates to preparation, and no amount of data will make the rescue chopper fly faster. “Will people think they won’t need PLB’s? What if you drop into a sinkhole? Will you still get reception then?”
Speaking of reliability, online discourse has plenty to say on the matter. Back on the NZ Hunting and Shooting Forum, the user ‘gonetropo’ argued that while the tech might be there, he suspected Vodafone/One NZ’s ability to pull off the service might not. “Hell, for 18 months, the wife [got] someone else’s phone bill every month … Voda couldn’t organise a wet fart in a laxative factory.”
Anyway, a global array of emergency satellites already exists; the worldwide inter-governmental search and rescue network that allows Personal Locator Beacons (PLB’s) to function has been in place since 1982. Unlike Starlink, no one company or country holds all the cards. The physical hardware is different, too. A smartphone screen (the Starlink mobile service only works on smartphones) can crack or get water damaged, unlike a durable PLB. Phone batteries hold a charge for a limited time, while PLB battery only starts burning when it’s activated, and stays alive for at least 24 hours. And a PLB both alerts the global network and pings your precise location to a rescue team. Even if you could type out a message after a serious fall, you might not know your precise coordinates. “Stuck in the river” isn’t exactly helpful.
You can hear the difference
The Abel Tasman Coast Track is a bit of a case study of what most trampers cite as their key phone-specific concern, safety aside: the loss of hut culture. Many huts along the walk already have service, brought in over the last few years as the wild world shrinks away. There’s WiFi at Anchorage and Bark Bay huts, and service on the high part of the track between Bark Bay and Onetahuti. A tramper I found on Facebook said there was “loads of reception” in March, spotty on the track, but “fine” at the huts.
Aotearoa’s National Parks are a bit special in the sense that most of them don’t already have mobile coverage. (In America, more than 50% of Yellowstone National Park is already covered, and the Grand Canyon has excellent reception at the rim. Not so much within the canyon, though. Also covered are Arches, Death Valley, Canyonlands and Grand Teton National Parks, to name a few.) Unplugged, unreachable huts offer trampers a literal refuge from the outside world and its daily realities, and from the digital silos that so often prevent humans from chatting in person. One of the joys of tramping is that you have no choice but to interact with your hut-mates, especially on Great Walks like the Abel Taz, where you can reliably run into dozens of like-minded strangers over a game of cards or dice. But the vibe there changed as phone service spread along the trail.
“You can hear the difference,” one tramper familiar with the area said. “There’s no chit-chat. It’s quiet in there. People rock up, unpack, and then sit on their phones until bedtime. It’s entirely noticeably different than before it had reception. It sucks.” His solution? Geofence-off the backcountry. Put a digital barrier up around wild areas that would still allow access to the network, but only in the case of an accident or rescue. “That way you could still make an emergency call,” he explained, without ever being able to TikTok. But while geofencing might solve the psychic problem of Starlink, it wouldn’t solve the physical one. You’ll still see the satellites, and know they are there.
PHOTO: Fox Meyer
Sandflies to the rescue?
Then again, reception might not be the only factor here. As the DOC worker’s more loose-lipped mate put it, “I don’t think people will be in a hurry to sign up to this to use it for tramping, because trampers don’t care. It’s the influencers who want to do live footage from Fiordland or wherever the fuck. They’ve got the money and the means to get out here, and giving them the ability to do it is the last thing we need.” But there may be an unsung hero in the equation. “I just can’t wait to see their faces when they learn about sandflies. Maybe that’ll end up being the last great barrier to the backcountry. Thick skin.”
I came across a group of younger trampers, uni students, who shared a similar sentiment. “I don’t know if it’s worth it,” one said. “This is the last place on the planet that humans settled, and it feels weird that it might be the first place to have total coverage. That feels backwards.” The group was happy to bring their phones out and show pictures of recent summits, but they felt no need to post them. 100% cellular service seemed to fly in the face of everything the backcountry was meant to represent. “I just don’t think we should let it happen.”
But there’s no point putzing around about the “should we or shouldn’t we” of the matter, because it’s happening already. As a second DOC worker on the trail told me, “this has all moved so fast. I remember hearing about Starlink only a few years ago, and it’s already happening. How? I would’ve thought there would have been some sort of insane bureaucratic process to go through to pollute the night sky like that, but I guess I’d be wrong.”
Their non-DOC friend was more concise: “nobody fuckin’ asked my permission, that’s for sure.” I tried to ask some weka for their take on the matter, but they seemed confused by the question. I guess no one’s told them.
FOX MEYER
