Teaser 3269
Phil buys a four-figure combination lock where each dial can be set from 0 to 9, and needs to decide what number to set to unlock it. He opts for a number with all different digits and a leading zero so he only has to remember a three-figure number. When the chosen number is set for the lock to open, nine other four-figure numbers are visible. For instance, if he chooses 0123, then 1234, 2345, 3456, 4567, 5678, 6789, 7890, 8901 and 9012 are all visible. As a retired Maths teacher with a natural interest in numbers he examines the other nine numbers that are displayed when the lock is set to open. None of these numbers are prime but two of them
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The Sun
an hour ago
- The Sun
Bank boss & dad-of-three, 43, drops dead after repeatedly scaling mountain six times in crazy ‘EVERESTING' challenge
A NEW York banking executive has died after rapidly hiking up and down a Wyoming peak in an "Everesting" challenge. Dad of three Slava Leykind suffered a cardiac arrest during the event at Snow King Mountain in Jackson Hole. 3 3 3 The challenge sees contestants hike 1,500 ft up and down the mountain until they match the distance of climbing Mount Everest. The world's tallest peak stands at a vast 29,032 ft high. But Leykind had completed six laps before first responders rushed to his aid. Jackson Hole Fire and EMS rushed to the mountain at 11.28 pm to bring medical assistance. He was taken to Eastern Idaho Regional Medical Center in Idaho, where he sadly died on July 2, Jackson Hole News & Guide reported. The 43-year-old died from an "electrolyte imbalance causing cardiac arrest" according to Teton County coroner. Leykind lived in Westport with his wife and their three children. He had worked for two decades as an executive at the New York City-based investment bank CG Sawaya Partners. His obituary reads: "Slava Leykind, 43, of Westport, passed away on July 2 from complications sustained while participating in a mountain endurance event earlier that week." It goes on to describe him as a "perfect soulmate" to his wife Amy Keller Leykind and a "superhuman father" to their three kids. "Despite his significant professional success at a young age, Slava's role as a husband and father was his greatest achievement, passion and pride," the obituary adds. "He fervently supported his children, bringing love and a sense of calm to the wonderful chaos of a full house." Contestants in the Everesting challenge have complete to the feat within 36 hours. The Everesting website says: "A straight shot up under the gondola makes this one of the most direct ascent routes in the 29029 family. "Short and steep, this mountain asks for 19 climbs to reach Everest. The majority of the trail consists of hard packed dirt, gravel, and grass. "The summit offers stunning views looking back at the Tetons." Leykind was born in Minsk, Belarus - then in the USSR - in 1982. He emigrated to the United States in 1988. His tragic passing comes after the owner of one of South Africa's top game reserves was trampled to death by an elephant. Chief Executive Officer FC Conradie, who co-owns the exclusive Gondwana Private Game Reserve, was charged at by the animal. He was said by staff to have a "love for elephants and nature" and would often go out to photograph them.
Daily Mail
2 hours ago
- Daily Mail
Bizarre reason for Alaska plane crash that killed congresswoman's moose hunter husband revealed
A plane crash that killed a congresswoman's hunter husband was caused by the aircraft being overloaded with moose meat and the unapproved installation of antlers on the right wing, a report has found. Eugene 'Buzzy' Peltola Jr., 57, was killed nearly two years ago when his plane crashed about 65 miles northeast of the small western Alaska community of St Mary's. The small Piper PA-18 Super Cub had taken off from a remote hunting camp but went down shortly after takeoff on September 12, 2023. Peltola, whose wife Mary Peltola was a congresswoman at the time, was found conscious but died at the scene. He was the only person on board the aircraft. Federal investigators have now revealed the plane was overweight for takeoff and encountered drag from a set of antlers mounted outside, the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) said in a report released Tuesday. The avid moose hunter was a former Alaska regional director for the Bureau of Indian Affairs and worked for decades for the US Fish and Wildlife Service. He received his commercial pilot's license in 2004, requiring him to use corrective lenses at all distances, according to an FAA database. His death came almost exactly a year after his wife was sworn in as Alaska's lone US House member, following a special election for the seat. A small plane crash that killed Eugene 'Buzzy' Peltola Jr. was overweight for takeoff and encountered drag from a set of antlers mounted outside, the National Transportation Safety Board has determined Peltola was killed when his small Piper PA-18 Super Cub crashed shortly after takeoff on September 12, 2023, about 65 miles northeast of St Mary's, Alaska Peltola flew the plane above its maximum takeoff weight and affixed a set of moose antlers on the right wing strut that caused a drag, along with turbulent flight conditions in the area, the NTSB report states. Downdrafts, 'along with the overweight airplane and the added drag and lateral weight imbalance caused by the antlers on the right wing, would likely have resulted in the airplane having insufficient power and/or control authority to maneuver above terrain,' the report states. The Piper PA-18-150 Super Cub crashed Sept. 12, 2023, northeast of the small western Alaska community of St Mary's. Peltola had days earlier taken five hunters, a guide and equipment from the community of Holy Cross to an airstrip at St Mary's. The group set up camp next to the runway, which was near hilly terrain and about 70 miles northwest of Holy Cross, the agency said. The day before the crash, the group got a moose and made plans with Peltola, via satellite messaging devices, for him to transport the meat, the NTSB said. On the day of the crash, Peltola had already picked up a load of meat and had returned for another. He did not use scales to weigh the cargo, the agency said. Mary Peltola and her husband Eugene Peltola celebrate after results showed her to be the apparent winner in Alaska's special US House election on August 31, 2022 The Piper PA-18-150 Super Cub crashed Sept. 12, 2023, northeast of the small western Alaska community of St Mary's Two hunters were at the site when the crash occurred and provided aid to Peltola, but he died of his injuries within about two hours. 'Given the remote location of the accident site, which was about 400 miles from a hospital, and accessible only by air, providing the pilot with prompt medical treatment following the accident was not possible,' Tuesday's report states. The agency said carrying antlers on the outside of a plane is a common practice in Alaska but requires formal approval from the Federal Aviation Administration, with a notation in the plane's logbooks. 'There was no evidence that such approval had been granted for the accident airplane,' the report states. Eugene was laid to rest at Bethel Memorial Cemetery in September 2023, where several Alaska bush planes conducted a flyover in a missing man formation. Mary stood nearby stoic and clutching an American flag as loved ones delivered their tributes to her late husband. After the service concluded, the casket was opened for a community viewing and one by one, everyone in attendance waited to say their final goodbyes. Mary Peltola, (pictured with Eugene) was the first Alaska Native in Congress. She won a full, two-year term in November 2022 but lost her reelection bid last November. She has kept a relatively low public profile since then The congresswoman personally thanked everyone as they filed by. Mary Peltola, who is Yup'ik, was the first Alaska Native in Congress. She won a full, two-year term in November 2022 but lost her reelection bid last November. She has kept a relatively low public profile since then.
The Guardian
6 hours ago
- The Guardian
America's new wave of hunger is here. A Maine food bank is tackling it head on
One Sunday in June, it's 20 minutes before opening time at the No Greater Love food pantry in Belfast, Maine, two hours north of Portland. A line of cars stretches down the block and curls around the corner. I lean into a car window and ask the driver if he will speak with me. 'Nah,' he says, 'I'd rather not.' 'How about you?' I ask his passenger. The younger, skinny man recoils, shrinking into the far corner of the car. 'I'm good,' he mutters, hiding his face. Maine is the most food insecure state in New England. One in seven people here are often hungry, including 50,000 children. Nationwide, 53 million people – 15% of all Americans – are food insecure, meaning they lack reliable access to a sufficient quantity of affordable, nutritious food. But asking for help still makes people burn with shame. Mary Guindon gets it. Today, Guindon is 63, a grandmother, church secretary and the diplomatic assistant director of the food pantry, a woman who is somehow always busy and never flustered. Decades ago, she was a single mother working full time. Some nights, she didn't have enough food to make dinner for her kids. Finally, friends persuaded her to visit a pantry. 'Standing in that line and swallowing my pride was probably one of the worst moments of my life,' she says. Behind the two men who will not talk, I find a patron who will: another woman named Mary. This Mary, 75, leans crookedly on a walker. She smiles, a small woman with bright eyes and short, white hair. I'm reminded of a chickadee. 'I'm house cleaning,' she says, referring to her car, filled to the brim with stuff she is reorganizing. A former housekeeper, Mary lives alone in a trailer. Food prices soared 25% from 2020 to 2024. 'Chocolate chips and baking things doubled,' she says, her eyes wide. 'Bread, meat – all the basics.' You can stretch social security only so far. Mary now buys only essentials. That means losing her favorite activity. 'I just love to cook and give it away,' she says. She parked here, outside the rundown Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) hall that houses the pantry, before 8.00am – more than two and a half hours early. This is how she spends every other Sunday morning, when No Greater Love is open for a scant 90 minutes. Months ago, Mary learned the importance of getting a good place in line to get fresh vegetables and fruits before they run out. Behind her, Donna, 71, also waits. She grew up on a farm in Maine. She leans toward me and gives a conspiratorial smile. 'I used to give chewing gum to the pig,' she says. 'But one day the pig was gone. I knew where it went.' She, too, lives alone on a fixed income. 'I give people rides to make a little extra money,' she says – her own personal Uber service. She won't charge the two neighbors she has brought with her today, though. Like Mary, Donna is also hoping for good fresh produce. Today, they will be disappointed. No Greater Love's volunteers began noticing it in January: a slow but steady increase in need. The line of cars, barely visible through a dirty window in the pantry's small kitchen, stretches a little longer every time: a new family here, another elderly patron there, finally accepting that as costs climb, they can no longer keep hunger at bay by themselves. Food pantries, non-profits, and school feeding programs distributed almost 6bn meals' worth of free food in every state in the nation last year. When Congress's historic cuts to Snap (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) and Medicaid take effect, that need will almost triple. Somehow, food pantries like the scrappy, all-volunteer-run No Greater Love, will need to come up with enough food. That line outside the VFW hall? It will snake down three blocks and take up who knows how many hours of waiting time. If, after 12 years of serving people like Mary and Donna, No Greater Love is able to keep its doors open at all. Tanya McGray moves cases of canned food, her hands flying in practiced motions. Nearby, Mary Guindon packs cardboard boxes two rows high on a metal dolly, piling them with corn, beans, peanut butter and elbow noodles. They try to fill each box with several meals' worth of food. They are overstocking them with canned goods today, making up for a surprise shortage of fresh produce. 'Make another row,' McGray barks. 'You sure?' Guindon says. 'Last I counted, we had 18.' She's referring to the 18 families in line outside. Before long, there will be more. As quiet and languid as it is outside, the pine-paneled hall hums with energy inside. There is a lot to do before 10.30am – before McGray, the pantry's director, can allow the first patrons in. Guindon grabs three more banana boxes. The white, yellow and blue Chiquita boxes are ubiquitous in the emergency food system, the standard luggage of the servers and the served, the charitable and the hungry. Often, these two groups are the same. I offer to help, feeling useless holding my digital recorder rather than flexing a muscle for these women. McGray is 52, 11 years younger than Guindon. Working alongside them is McGray's mother, Candy, her gray hair tied in a ponytail. She is 74, a not uncommon age for volunteers in Maine's food pantries. In fact, it's not an uncommon age for the volunteers who keep the entire nation's fragile emergency food network afloat. At least in Maine, some 75% of the state's 250 pantries are run solely by volunteers. Her long, brown hair swinging as she works, McGray waves me off. Her loud, cigarette-tainted voice is as rough as sandpaper. 'We're a well-oiled machine,' she says. 'But thanks.' There is an air of tense anticipation in this small room, lined with metal shelves crammed with canned corn, low-fat milk and soup. Like a crew setting the stage before the curtain rises, they must be completely ready when the doors open. They have less than 30 minutes. Behind them is a handful of refrigerators and freezers. One refrigerator has been broken for months. Some freezers are full of food; this week, it is leg of lamb that Guindon paid Good Shepherd, Maine's only food bank, $1.82 a case for. 'It's what we can afford,' Guindon says. The meat is coming up on its expiration date in a month. What she doesn't say is how hard something like leg of lamb can be for many patrons to cook. Some don't know how. Some only have microwaves. Others have no kitchens. McGray wears a fist-sized tattoo on her left shoulder. Her large, brown eyes, ringed with gray shadows, are framed with schoolgirl bangs. She is the third generation of her family to serve in food pantries. Forty-five years ago, her grandfather distributed government food in a Belfast parking lot. Her aunt, Cindy Ludden, has run the Jackson, Maine, food pantry for 34 years. Ludden is mentoring the fourth generation: her eight-year-old granddaughter, Scout, wants to direct a food pantry when she grows up. McGray began helping out at No Greater Love when her church founded it years ago. 'It was just something I did,' she shrugs. But when the church decided it needed to reclaim the space for other programs, McGray says, 'Then it became something I fought for.' 'I'm always fighting for the underdog,' she says. 'I do it everywhere I go. Not intentionally, it just happens.' By day, McGray drives a public school minivan for unhoused kids. By night, she is a foster mom. In April, she had an infant at home. Guindon, shorter and with a soft, round face, gray hair and glasses, fundraises and orders food. At the end of their shift, the two women, along with other volunteers, will deliver food to those who can't come in: people with physical disabilities. Those without cars. Veterans with PTSD who can't be around people. Without McGray, Guindon and a tall, rangy 57-year-old volunteer named Kenna Dufresne, No Greater Love wouldn't function. Outside this storage room, Dufresne sprints from one end of the long VFW hall to another, hefting heavy boxes into a staging area. From there, she will help move them to the 25ft-long conveyor belt that runs down the center of the hall. 'Do you work out?' I yell. She flashes a wide grin. 'This is my gym,' she yells back. If it is her gym, she is diligent about training several times a week. To keep the pantry stocked, volunteers collect unsold food from Hannaford grocery stores up to an hour away. (Last year, Hannaford donated 14m lb of food in Maine alone.) Every two weeks, Dufresne drives from store to store, slinging thousands of pounds of food a year into the pantry's van. She has been on pickup duty for nine years, ever since McGray plucked her from the pantry's patrons and put her to work. She loves it. 'It's a family,' she says. 'Even our patrons.' As rewarding as it is, the work is also physically strenuous, emotionally exhausting and logistically complex. Every political, economic and cultural problem in America shows up at a food pantry. Funding is tight. The cost of living is rising. Hunger is growing. Stigma remains enormous. Volunteers are essential, but in rural areas like this one, it can feel impossible to recruit younger helpers. Years ago, No Greater Love was open every week. 'We had to cut back to twice a month because I couldn't get volunteers,' McGray says. And that was before March, when an email arrived and everything got even harder. On 13 March, Guindon opened her computer to an email from Good Shepherd. The food bank distributes government and donated food to Maine's 600 anti-hunger organizations, including its 250 pantries. What Guindon read alarmed her. The Trump administration planned to cut more than $1bn from the federal emergency food assistance program. Almost overnight, No Greater Love would lose half to two-thirds of the food they receive, for free, from the federal government. The USDA would also end another program that helps sustain small farmers while providing local produce to food pantries. In Maine, pantries would lose up to 600,000lb of produce. No Greater Love had $5,000 in the bank. When I first visited in April, a few weeks after Good Shepherd's bombshell email, No Greater Love's menu had already shrunk. 'We used to be able to provide seven or eight meals a week,' Tanya McGray says. Now, they were down to three or four. In April, they had received 1,100lb less food than they had in March. On 22 June, they are down another 700lbs. There has not been any free meat in weeks. Luckily, the pantry still has extra donated food to offer. Guindon and I survey today's choices. Her teenage grandsons, Bentley and Liam, hover nearby. In April, these boxes were bursting with carrots, lettuce, apples, bread, almonds and crackers. Today, eight bruised apples barely cover the bottom of a box. In another, I cringe at an oozing nectarine. The day before, high winds had knocked out power to the local Hannaford. They lost much of their produce. This is the result. But then some gorgeous kale catches my eye. I spot magenta rhubarb longer than my arm. Local farms provided them. They will be a happy surprise for those at the front of the line. Bentley taps Guindon on the shoulder and points to his watch. 'Two minutes,' he says, glancing at the door. The boys preside over bags of bread and desserts. Before food began dwindling, patrons could take what they wanted from the heaping boxes I had seen in April. Now, Bentley and Liam hand it out to avoid hoarding. The doors finally open. The volunteers' quiet hum swells into a hubbub of conversation as patrons enter. I catch Mary's eye as she drops a $5 bill into a donation jar on the kitchen counter. That $5 is meaningful. No Greater Love's bank account has shrunk to $3,500, all of it allocated to rent, electricity, gas, vehicle maintenance and maybe some extra food, like the inexpensive leg of lamb. Guindon has already started on the next grant applications. The future of this food pantry and thousands like it now rests on their ability to raise private funds. For now, McGray and Guindon will put one foot in front of the other. They will send another box down the conveyor belt. They will welcome another new patron in the door. They will spend one more day fulfilling three generations' worth of persistence in the face of hunger. The doors are still open. So far.
