Priorities

More than any other time in college, this semester has called into question my priorities.

I feel as though I've spent more time out of school than in it, this time around. Maybe it's because I am a senior and this is a natural progression. Maybe life outside is tugging at me and beckoning me out.

How could you resist?

I have chosen life experiences over a higher letter grade, this time. I might regret it when it comes to graduation, but for the last two months of school, I have been busy balancing my classes, caving, volunteering, the thesis project, and my coffee shop job. Small wonder I haven't updated this blog.

In that time I have struggled to complete assignments before taking off on a long cave trip. Apologized to friends that I haven't seen in ages when I cancel on them yet again. And I've cried in frustration when the careful balance of my schedule tips the wrong way, and I drop one of the items I'm juggling.

Except this drop.

I know that this is temporary, though. And from the limited life experience I have, I've noticed that the hardest things are usually the most worthwhile.

So much bus sickness for this...

Maybe my priorities are completely wrong. But I wonder if I'll look back and regret a day I could have spent in school instead of out finding bats, getting filthy, getting to know some fantastic people.

Mr. Myotis says "I'd rather you didn't..."

I doubt it.

--Batwoman

Mud and Guts: Caving in the Wilderness

Over a year ago, I started caving. And while I say "I", no one can start themselves into caving. You have to rely on the kindness of established cavers to train you and make sure you don't do anything too stupid at first.

This calls for the head-first approach, right?

I was overwhelmed even by small caves then, but I listened to stories and dreamed about some caves that had achieved an almost mythical status in my mind.

So when I was invited to tag along with some of the most experienced, expert cavers in the country on their caving expedition in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, I accepted even with the awareness that I was probably going to pee myself in fear. Ten days in the wilderness was about 8 days longer than I'd ever been in the Wilderness before, and easily the most remote caving I had ever done. Just hiking around on the surface you are pretty much beyond rescue, let alone in the depths of the caves themselves.

Ten days of backpacking, caving, and rafting, with a group of mostly strangers--I was well out of every comfort zone I have. When the day of departure came, my farewells to my family had almost a note of finality to them.

I had one main goal: don't cause trouble for the group.

Wilderness sign...OF NO RETURN!

There were so many things to worry about that by the time I started hiking I couldn't possibly worry about them all, so I just focused on one step, one mile at a time. I stuck by the side of an older and wiser friend who tolerated my beginner-ness with saintly patience.

For the first time in my life, I didn't need an alarm clock. My inner alarm (i.e. fright) woke me consistently at 5:30-6:00 AM each morning. Afraid of being too slow and left behind, I jumped up to get ready each morning. I saw something like 9 sunrises in a row, easily a record for me.

I learned more in these days than, I suspect, an entire semester of school. I slowly got to know each of my companions and became even more awed by the company I was keeping. These were incredibly intelligent, competent adults, miles ahead of me in every aspect of life, with PhDs and life experience to their name. They taught me to run survey instruments and gain vertical caving skills. And they never passed up an opportunity to make a dick joke.

It's so big!

Every day scared me, but the work was fun. I helped map a new section of cave where no human had ever been before. In the meantime, the others were pushing deeper in a cave that would prove to be the deepest in the US. After 3 days of caving, I took a rest day to hike around and look at plants, clean my gear and nap in my tent. It was absolutely gorgeous, of course.

I thought I wanted a day to enjoy the beauty of the wilderness. But that day, as I lay in the full sun surrounded by flowers and swatting at numerous flies, I realized I would actually rather be underground.

So I went.

The next day, I found myself at the bottom of Virgil the Turtle, one of the deepest caves in the US. I had told myself around a year ago that this was the cave I wanted to get in someday, thinking it wouldn't be for a very long time. Sitting at the bottom of Virgil was a surreal experience. I wasn't sure if it was actually happening, or if I had somehow died and was having a very realistic fantasy.

Although a very dimly lit fantasy.

Then one of my companions reached over and smeared some of the abundantly present mud on my face, breaking the spell. In the midst of wrestling to try to mud him back, I realized that this was definitely real, and there was nowhere else on--or in--the earth I'd rather be.

Plenty more mud where that came from!

At the end of the trip, we floated out on tiny, inadequate rafts on the South Fork of the Flathead. Even that part was scary (maybe the scariest!)

But it wasn't with a group of strangers anymore.

Lead the way!

 I accomplished my number one goal (well, mostly), plus a few others. And I have no regrets.

The cave suit, tragically, did not survive.

Into the Mines!

         The Cave Club has taken me to some interesting places, but this one was truly unique. It was a cave that has not been open to the public in a decade, and getting inside is a feat worthy of Indiana Jones.

We have found the den of the redneck zombies!

     This cave boasted the sketchiest entrance I have ever encountered. The actual cave is accessible only through an old mine adit sunk in the side of a mountain. To get there, we were escorted up the steep, crumbling road on UTVs (while alarming, I might be spoiled for hiking to caves now). When the old mining road became impassable, we walked the remaining few hundred feet to the gate.

With drawings of horrible death like that, who could resist?

 The first group waited outside while the rest of the kids could be shuttled up. It began to rain, driving us to wait inside the entry chamber (into the mines!!) despite the potential zombie attack.

We were warned that the adit was the most dangerous part of our journey, but we would be fine as long as we didn't touch the walls and potentially collapse them, or breathe too much of the funky fungus. Well if that's all...

I SAID NO BREATHING.

We hustled through the tunnel, only sacrificing one or two high school students to appease the fungus. One by one we climbed a thin, slippery metal ladder and poked our heads up into the actual cave. It was time to get to work surveying, though it became apparent that this was going to be a solid task.

The job of the cave club was to catalog the formations within the cave and assess their damage by humans trampling or touching them. The first few rooms we assessed were totally wrecked, and by the time we were done with them, our clothing was too.

All that remains of the last cave photographer...

Everything was coated in several inches of thick, sucking mud. If I stood in one spot to write down notes for too long, my boots threatened to become permanent fixtures. Movement was slow and awkward. My partner and I spent a solid five hours surveying speleothems in four main upper rooms. There were some interesting--and even some fantastic--formations, but overall it wasn't extensively decorated (at least, anymore).

I can't tell if they're giving me the peace sign or flipping me off.

Afternoon had slipped into evening, although I was in a cave trance and didn't think more than an hour or two had gone by. We had one final large hall to survey, and it was the most difficult. The path down was guarded by a narrow crawl lined with perfectly breakable stalactites. I slithered down on my back, desperately avoiding the stalactites hovering centimeters above my face. It was like playing a grueling game of Operation with your whole body.

Four of us finally emerged on the other side, guiding each other through with helpful shouts of "Keep your butt down!" The rest of the cave club party started back out of the cave. For us, just a quick survey to do then--

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven--wait, let me start over--

Or maybe not.

It was some of the most intense cave decoration I've personally seen. My survey notes fizzled into "thousands of stalactites & helictites, size range. . . oh crap" or something similar. I tried to take pictures, but I knew even then that none of them could convey the awe of the towering speleothems and intricate curling helictites that I was seeing. My teenage companions were similarly stunned, although my partner steadfastly attempted to continue recording estimates of what she was seeing. The fearless club leader pressed on ahead to keep us moving, where surely we would have stood frozen for a long time.

There was more cave to see--one more room that would have had impeccable formations, and was supposedly even better than this hall. But our eyes were worn out by the beauty, and were still reeling from our notetaking attempt. We couldn't do it justice today, and anything we did would just impact the cave further. Our leader called it a day, and we began the reverse journey.

So we leaped into an old mining cart and--oh wait, that's Indiana Jones again...

The door sealed shut behind us, closing off the cave once again to the world. It exists in silence except for the drip of water, slowly growing its garden of wonders. 

People should see it again someday--but how they see it needs to be managed (which is where the Club comes in). In the meantime, we have the pictures, we left plenty of muddy footprints, and we killed some serious cave time.

--The Cave Troll

 

There and back, and there again

This past weekend, I had a unique opportunity to revisit one of my very first caves, as I previously wrote about. This time, I was with real professionals. I was curious how this cave experience would match up. I remembered Ophir as being an exhausting, incredibly difficult trip--and last time we were able to drive within 3/4 mile of the cave entrance!

This, except almost completely buried in snow.

So here's the thing. I was glad for the opportunity to go on this trip, and it was fun. But it was also humbling. Sometimes I get so caught up in my pursuit of adventures that I forget the true goal is the camaraderie that goes with it.

Part of this is my desire to prove that I am not weak and that I don't need help. Like the stereotypical short man (sorry guys), I am compensating for something. I feel like I have to be able to do everything easily and without asking for help, or else I'm failing. What I don't realize is that my refusal of any help or kindness that is offered to me just comes off, well, assholey.

The truth is that I am 20 years old and new--so very new. I have this idea in my head that I should be experienced and wise by now, but what the heck? As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm pretty new to all this stuff. I didn't start backpacking or even seriously hiking until college. I've only been at this stuff for about two years, but I already think that I ought to know best.

This caribou calf has more worldly experience than me.

Ophir--my second wild cave and first technical, vertical cave--was less than a year ago. It was a very different experience this time, but I still have an incredible amount to learn. If I close myself off to learning new things I will be missing out.

So, I promise to open my ears to the people around me. But what is even harder is admitting my ignorance. I know more now than I did a few years ago, but that sure as heck is not saying much.

I'm all ears!

Every new adventure I take, I am scared, to a certain degree. This trip to Ophir with real cavers scared me so much, I nearly wished that I would get sick and have a reason to stay home. I'm not brave. I'm often motivated by pure cowardice.

While I'm at it, I might as well confess that I yelped when a bat flew toward my face. Big bad biologist that I am.

I am young, dumb, and I am going to try to do better.

Kirk out.

Over the hills, through the woods

A cave adventure (caventure?) in north central Montana

Step One: Wakeup

 The cast assembled bright and early on a cold Saturday morning: a crew of five teenagers, two adults, and whatever I count as. Our mission was to reach two caves by plodding across the snowy hills, so that we could check them for hibernating bats. Everybody strapped into their snowshoes and followed the somewhat erratic guidance of my GPS.

During the first mile or so of a hike, I realize I actually hate hiking and should give it up and find a cozy chair and a book somewhere. Fortunately endorphins kick in after that, and I start to enjoy it (at least that's what I assume is happening).

Not too proud for hands and knees.

 We huffed and puffed our way over the hills, floundering in the dry, sugarlike snow. The views of the sweeping plains made it a pleasant experience, but we were relieved to reach the first cave, Wind Hole. Unfortunately, there was still a mile and a half to our real destination, the next larger cave, and there was a formidable ridge between us and it.

Crawlway into the Wind Hole

We would have to climb the mountainous ridge twice. A few members of the party decided it wasn't going to happen and called it a day, turning back to follow our packed-down trail out. The rest of us needed to pick up the pace if we were to get out before sundown.

Step Two: The Work

The way in!

 There was so much snow, we worried that the entrance to Cave #2 might be sealed off--a legitimate fear, as it turned out, as there was a giant mound of snow filling it. We rode the snowpile down in, crawled in the low entryway and got to work. Our efforts paid off--bats!

Or frozen batsicles.

Because of their presence, we placed a data logger to record temperature and humidity, snapped some shots of the bats for ID purposes and got out. It was a small cave, but combing every inch of it for bat sign still took time. We were in a race to get back before the sun set (and the temperature dropped even further).

Step 3: Get the Heck Out

Attempting a time-saving glissade down a snow chute

I don't usually feel that I am all that much use as a chaperone. The kids are spunky and resourceful, and could make it back on their own if necessary. But I was still happy that I was there to check in and make sure no one's fingers were getting frostnipped, and to herd them onward whenever they got sidetracked.

Eventually, we all made it back to the warm, waiting bus. It was well after dark, and the kids and I were pretty well exhausted. I found it surprisingly easy to nap during the six hours on the bus ride back to my car, adopting all sorts of contorted positions.

Step 3.5: Learning

It seems like I am learning more than the cave clubbers are, despite my supposed chaperone status. I'm trying to be patient but still push them on. Learn how much to help them, or let them figure things out on their own (so far, erring on the side of the latter).

One of the main things I am discovering is how much these kids are capable of. It is an amazing thing to watch a group of 15-year-olds take a burly hike in freezing temperatures and still get down to business and take their work seriously in the cave.

When I was 15, I would have literally died in the attempt.

It is the club leader, their high school teacher, who pulls off this magic. All I can do is come along and hope to pick up some of his wisdom, if he'll allow it.

Some days, I don't feel qualified to oversee grass grow. I am making mistakes, and I don't know what I'm doing most of the time. I can only hope that I stay humble and open toward these lessons. If I don't learn from them, there isn't a point.

After all, I have something important to work toward.

           Snuggling this adorable creature. (jokes, of course...)

Bridge Project: Stage 1

First off, I have to apologize--these blog posts probably won't be very exciting. When I get all nerded up it's hard to stop me. I'll try to throw in an interesting picture or two to shake things up.

For example.

Anyway: I get the impression that no one has tried to do a Wildlife Senior Thesis at my wonderful university this century, since no one seems quite sure what the guidelines are. I'm not sure if this is terrifying or reassuring, because we can all screw up together.

However, I can say that the faculty has been wonderful and supportive. I have begged help from university affiliates who aren't even paid professors, and they have gracefully agreed to give up their time for me. I intend to figure out the favorite cookie/food item of every person who helps me out and deliver them before this is all over.

In all seriousness, it is wonderful and surprising that people in my chosen field are such willing mentors. I hope I am in a position to do the same one day, and that I remember how much I was given.

That being said, I am certainly at the bottom of the slope of effort concerning this project.

The Mountain of Responsibility!

Meaning, all the work lies ahead of me now. Is it sick that I am a little excited about that? I like work, I really do. (Contrary to what I'll tell you if I have to wake up early).

When I first discovered that caving was a thing that actually happened in Montana (yes, this was less than a year ago. . . ) I went to the library and whiled away an entire afternoon buried in books about caving. I was supposed to be studying for an exam, but, y'know. . . For the rest of the semester, I kept a old black book, Caves of Montana, at my bedside. I stayed up late and made meticulous sticky-notes throughout the book. Here was a cave I wanted to visit one day, or here was a cave that had been lost--maybe I could find it?

Second example: when the first tundra wildflowers began popping up during my summer in Barrow, my excitement grew to a level of obsession. Armed with a semester's worth of plant study, I embarked to identify and know every species of plant I saw on the tundra. For two months, I obsessively photographed, catalogued, and fell in love with every flower and willow I saw. After my real work was done for the day, I retreated to work on a 55-slide powerpoint with the taxonomy of every plant.

You rare beauty, Mare's Tail. . .

I repeated their Latin names to myself until I memorized them. Devoted myself to studying them as I have never in my life devoted myself to schoolwork.

Should this come off as bragging, I would remind you that I've never been able to summon this depth of fascination and focus on things that I am supposed to be doing--just my own side, pet projects.

Which is why I hope to summon this nearly insane-level devotion for the Bridge Project. I will do whatever it takes. Stay up however many nights I need, spend many lonely hours collecting data solo this summer. I want to do this, and I want to make it work.

You see, I'm not a born scientist. Not a logical, ordered thinker. I have always been more of a dreamer type. But every so often, something fires me up like Arctic plants, and I think, maybe I do belong here. Maybe I could actually contribute something worthwhile.

I am not naturally skilled, exceptionally smart or talented. But dammit, I can make up for that with sheer, overwhelming drive. . . I hope.

Wish me luck.

--Ellen

Urgggh choices

It's that time of year again! That period of midwinter restlessness and desire to see the days grow longer again. When you've exhausted the snowshoeing/skiing options (or the snow just doesn't want to cooperate).

Ha. I wish.

For us wildlifers, it's also job season. I am applying and interviewing for summer seasonal work, which means my head is already way past spring semester. Considering I have 18 credits' worth of class to get through, that could be problematic.

Summatime!! And animals yeah!!

Last year, I already knew by February that I was going to be spending my summer in Barrow. It provided a welcome incentive to get through the drudge of spring semester. However, last year the choice was simple. I received few offers (due to it being a terrible, terrible year for federally funded projects), and of those offers, Alaska was the only real option because of timing conflict. (Note: I had zero problem with this).

This year the game has changed. There are actual projects to choose from. I also have an aim--if possible, I'd like to start working with bats. I've never before had an interest in a particular species, so I am excited to see where it goes.

It probably goes into some large, dark hole.

Someday it's going to exasperate me, but for now, I am enjoying the fleeting nature of wildlife work. I don't want to be trapped in one place or one career. I want to travel around, see new places and meet new people every few months. I love Missoula--this place has become my home while going to school here.

Beautiful from so many angles.

After just three years, Missoula is already full of memories. I complain about college a lot because there are a lot of problems with the system, but it has been very good for me. I came to UM a nervous, naive 18-year-old. I kept my head down through public school in conservative, rural Montana. I was so busy trying not to stand out that I never questioned what I actually liked.

Except motorcycles. Motorcycles always win.

Three years ago, I'd never been rock climbing, kayaking, caving, or even backpacking. I hadn't hiked hundreds of miles in the backcountry or swam in icy mountain lakes, or run in Arctic races.

Or played with baby caribou in the mist.

 It's amazing how easily I can take all that for granted. I get fed up with long days of school and work and little sleep, but the truth is, it's already been worth it. I am incredibly graced with everything I have found here. Kind, welcoming people, unique experiences, maybe even a tiny bit of self-confidence that I didn't have before.

In other words, I need to suck it up, quit complaining, and get ready to work my ass off this semester. Summer will come, and hopefully some sort of paid employment with it.

Stay weird, lovely Missoula.

--Ellen Marie

Going Batty

While I have talked about caving here, I have not mentioned the main characters:

Well hello, handsome.

I never quite understood why some people are creeped out by bats on the same level as spiders. They aren't lurking under your couch cushions waiting to bite you. They are minding their own business, scooping up pesky insects or pollinating your crops. In short, they have way better things to do than hang out and give you rabies.

 I have always thought these leathery, furry creatures were pretty neat, but didn't give them much more thought until recently. Just by existing as the only flying mammal, bats are entirely unique.

So are their Spiderman skills.

Insect-eating bats like Little Brown Bats save the U.S. agriculture industry as much as 3 billion dollars per year in pest control. And we've lost a million of them in the Northeast.

A million. Most people have heard of White Nose Syndrome, but they probably don't know the extent of the damage. What does it matter if fewer bats are hanging around, getting ready to tangle themselves in people's hair? Obviously, it matters a lot. Bats provide all kinds of interesting benefits, but would be terribly sad if they disappeared, if only because the world would have a little less magic without them.

Think of all the tiny corpses. Think of them!

Besides White Nose Syndrome, bats are also losing ground due to habitat loss and the impact of wind farms (which they seem oddly drawn to).

They are not all the same, either. The variety of bats make up a quarter of the world's total number of mammal species. And yet it is easy to not think about them. They belong to the darkness, are quiet, and do not draw too much attention to themselves. But heck, if we can support a superhero who dresses up like one, we can support the real thing too.

 (

               Even if you are wearing hockey pads. (comicvine.com)

I do not know precisely what direction I would like to go in the wildlife field. But I am drawn to this particular critter. I want to do something for them--I want to be in a position to help them. I never imagined wanting to run my own project--and grad school was never even remotely tempting--but now I am beginning to see.

They are an exciting species to study. Tracking down bats requires you to tour some interesting places, since they roost in trees, bridges, mines, caves, etc.

Just chillin in this hole!

There isn't always a clear reward in such work. But bats are an important part of our ecosystems, and they make give life to otherwise empty passages. Caves are shelters for some crazy awesome animals. They are homes.

I am napping. Do not disturb me.

Get to know bats, and don't be afraid of them.* Maybe buy some cool bat-related stuff and help them out. Hang upside down for a while, until people start giving you weird looks. Who doesn't think that hibernating through winter sounds awesome?

And me, I'll get back to studying. I have a lot to learn.



*(Like any wild animal, of course, don't go around handling them).

Wonder Women

*This may rapidly devolve into a rant. Fair warning.

I am a hiker. I am a skier, and a caver, and every so often a mountain climber. I am happiest when I am sweaty, filthy, and in some kind of danger. I am happiest when I am pushing my own personal limits.And, yeah, I'm a girl.

I rarely thought about gender differences as a kid. My brother and I played with each other's boy or girl-oriented toys equally, and my parents didn't try to change that.

My dad took me fishing, taught me to ride horses, and dragged me into skiing. As my original adventure buddy, he challenged me to ski races down the mountain at breakneck speed. He always encouraged me to get out and do what I wanted, and never once told me that my interests were unusual for a girl.

In short, I wasn't praised for being a girl who enjoyed boyish activities. I was just one of his kids who happened to enjoy the same things he did. I was confused when I was called a tomboy at school--I didn't think I was acting like a boy. I was just being myself.

I bring this up because of several recent reminders. First, attending the Banff Mountain Film Festival (www.banffcentre.ca). Second, reading a book by Verna van Schaik, who holds the record for deepest dive by a woman.

Banff is fantastic, and I love going each year and getting inspired by the adventurers on screen--real people doing unreal things.

 I am less inspired by the lack of women. Even this year, the only documentary with women even featured in it was a film completely focused on the idea that lady climbers are doing things that are unusual for women.

Banff was in the back of my mind even as I read Schaik's book, available for purchase on Kindle, called Fatally Flawed: The Quest to be Deepest. Anyone who believes that gender bias no longer exists should read her account of setting a world record. Her writing isn't perfect, but it is honest.

Schaik writes, "I spent years trying to imitate [men], to be become a man and so be accepted. I gave up my personal strengths so that I could cultivate the strengths that the men around me needed to see. . . What I have come to realize is that I am not a man." (166)

Her message resonates with me in a way I did not expect. Even though I consider myself an advocate of equality, I am always trying to prove I can be just as good, that I am not slowed down by being a woman. Any reminder of my differences, like trying to hike fast even with agonizing cramps, pisses me off.

It would do me good to remember that I am not unusual. I am not looking for attention from guys. I am not a tomboy. I do not pursue male-dominated activities; I pursue my activities.

Anyone who believes social equality has been achieved should also hang out with some teen girls.

It is painful for me to see girls like those in the cave club curse their own bodies for not being thin enough. They hate themselves for not living up to some bullshit ideal of what fit, adventurous young women ought to look like. It is painful to realize that I have the same insecurities.

I am grateful to have met these girls and shared these experiences. I felt the euphoria after making it through a tight passage called the Seizure Squeeze. We dared to free climb down passages that grown men would not attempt.  For hours on end, we examined poop in close detail.

In short, it is completely unsexy--awesomely so.

Giving birth to herself.

We aren't trying to be anything. This is what we are.