Field Magic

I spent the past week in a spectacular area of western Montana, the Seeley/Swan valley. Despite the slow torture of some brutal allergies and quarter-size mosquito bites, I was staggered by its incredible beauty. I feel as though I've been asleep for the past 3 years, to not notice some of the gorgeous places around me.

DIE MOSQUITOES DIE!

 It's hard to put my finger on it, exactly.

There was the pleasant surprise of early huckleberries...

The younglings hatching everywhere...

The kindness of the wonderful Anastasia, who let me use her kayak to paddle around and watch for bats, after meeting me for only a few minutes.

You're going to have to take my word for it--there are bats out there.

Becoming familiar with new faces.

 

(And old faces).

And the fact that I had a comrade, a volunteer who is willingly exposing herself to me and my crazy driving and doing so in good humor.

Yup, that's pretty magical.

-the Batwoman

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

Arctic Summer

I remember how the walrus sunned

Himself, how geese rose oft with a purpose,

How the lemmings disappeared,

Imperceptibly as the summer,

Or the flower I had pressed in a book.

--Celia Brown

Alaska Season

When I first came to Barrow, everything around me seemed alien. From the moment I walked off the plane and inhaled the crisp 20 degree air, I didn't know what to expect.

I definitely thought the plane was going to touch down on the Arctic Ocean.

My new crewmates were immediately calling out names of birds I didn't know. On the first night, we surveyed birds from the vehicle until 1 AM (3 AM for my time zone). I was exhausted, eyes blurred from looking at tiny dots in the distance that were supposedly birds, and most of all freezing my ass off. I wondered if I was really prepared for this. At first the tundra seemed dead and cold. As the days passed, I was forced to open my eyes and really look.

It started with one tiny little buttercup blooming amongst the brown dead matter. I earned the nickname Princess Buttercup because of my excitement over this one little flower. But it meant the world to me.

When I started working up here in Alaska, birds flying overhead were just birds. The tundra was just a thick mat of brown sludge to tread over. But if I have learned anything here, it is that everything is something. By which I mean, that bird flying overhead has a name, and it matters. It might be a loon winging past, or a jaeger or a duck--maybe even a snowy owl if you're lucky. And the nameless husks of plants I walked over? I made it my goal to know them all, and fairly well succeeded.

Photo taken on the "desolate" tundra

The eider crew members became like a family, each of us with our unique quirks. On memorable occasions we cut off our own hair to fashion ourselves mustaches just to prank someone, or baked and decorated a cake just to eat it in front of the Cake Eater Road sign.

But mostly, we hiked. We walked--or more appropriately at times, slogged--through miles and miles of the tundra each day. I caught the eider bug, and came to adore the creatures (and identify them from quite a distance).

Seeing double male Steller's eiders

Another incredible part of this adventure has been experiencing a different culture and living very close to it. The Inupiat people give us permission to conduct these studies on their land, and everyone I have met has been very welcoming. We were invited to their gatherings, such as their Fourth of July games where everyone takes part in competitions. I joined in on the annual marathon (two laps around town, or 6 miles), my longest race yet.

In two short months, I have learned a considerable amount. Above all, I think I have begun to think like a scientist. It doesn't come naturally to me. But I was curious about everything I saw here. What appeals to me about science is that it all starts with that--just plain old curiosity. Without it, you have nothing.

You wouldn't have these adorable goslings!

Tomorrow is my last day in Barrow. My last day to soak up this experience. It seems like I just got here but it is already time to move on to new ventures--namely, my junior year of college. Life has to keep moving, as always. But this place is unforgettable. And I have no regrets.

I do not regret doing my required polar plunge shortly after this photo was taken.

School what?

It probably seems as if I don't do a whole lot of schoolwork what with all this adventuring going on, so I'd like to state for the record that that isn't the case. To all appearances I goofed off a lot this past weekend, but in reality was hard at work.

Photographing plants is exhausting. (Viola nuttalli)

It might appear from my numerous photographs that I was just on a fun jaunt looking at pretty flowers, when in reality. . . okay, it was a fun jaunt with flowers, but it was also homework!

Lupinus!

This semester I am taking Rocky Mountain Flora, my first real wildlife class. It is an encouraging sign of things to come that while it is challenging, I also enjoy it a lot. Surprising considering I never gave much notice to plants before, but now I'm totally nerding out on them.

The plant world might seem staid and boring--after all, they don't run around hooking each other with giant horns like some game animals are wont to do. They are easily trampled underfoot without uttering a squeak of discomfort or protest.

And yet, silently, plants are at war with one another. War, incest, sometimes even SELF-incest (that's a new one. . .), murder, and genocide ensues wherever there are plants.

In short, plants are pretty badass.

If you don't immediately believe me, remember that there are such plants as Venus Flytraps out there in the world that snap up and digest prey with their juices. And those "pretty" petals on that lupine up there are really a siren song designed to call insects away from other plants and toward itself instead. Don't fool yourself--every plant you see is risking its life to stake out the best possible territory to survive and pass on offspring. A meadow of flowers is more like a battleground, and your prancing through it aimlessly is altering the outcome of those battles. (So, watch your step.)

MURDER DAISIES!

Sometimes--by which I mean a lot of times--seeking a career in wildlife biology is a bit discouraging. It is a lot of hard work for very little payoff. But sometimes, it is also awesome, and the only place I can imagine myself being. It is a career I pursue, definitely not for the money, but purely because of my own personal motivation and love of all things wild (animal or not).

There is something to be said for that.