Bridge Project Update

I haven't talked about my senior thesis project in a while. Consider yourself lucky, because up until now it would have been crabby complaints about making meetings and writing papers.

The honeymoon phase (of I HAVE A RESEARCH PROJECT! BATS YAY!) quickly transitioned into the mire of bureaucracy involved with anything university-related. Which is not unexpected, so it's fine (although my lack of sleep and stress level might disagree. . . ) Also, I am truly enjoying the study design aspect of the project. I like the challenge of the research and planning side of it--soon I will find out if I like the boots-on-the-ground part just as much.

Maybe not quite like this.

I suspect my field surveys will come with their own frustrations and rewards and decisionmaking. For instance, I honestly need an assistant. I need help navigating to the bridge sites while I drive, and for someone to hold the spotlight while I search for bats, etc. I could ask the student chapter of the Wildlife Society for volunteers, but I quickly realized that bringing strangers out on field excursions would be a whole new can of worms--having to worry about someone else's comfort, gear, food, and general well-being. I don't mind pushing myself to miserable limits, but torturing someone else is another story.

(Aside: Holy crap, an operation the size of the Bear Crew is suddenly horrifying and unimaginable).

STAHP! THINK OF THE LIABILITY!

 So here's the plan: drive around all day long, stopping to examine bridges closely for bat sign, checking every little crevice and cranny. Repeat for 5-10 more days. Take a day or two off for caving or hiking. Repeat as necessary for the summer's duration.

Now, this may not sound too fun or exciting. But it's like a treasure hunt for bats, where either outcome (finding them or not) will be useful information. I will be driving on Forest Service land, which means I get to spend many of these days in the woods. Perhaps I'll take a short hike break for lunch, or I'll camp out in the woods and go for an evening hike after my work is done. Roving across the countryside, camping out where I like, perhaps sleeping in the bed of the truck.

Without said volunteer, it will be a lone wolf sort of operation. But. ..  it sounds a little romantic, a little lonely, a lot of fun.

Like this! I mean, except under the bridge. . .

That's more like it.

 Just a few more weeks to finalize everything. . . cross all the fingers for me!

-Batgirl

Trains and boats and whales

Spring break, California coast.

It's popular.

Not hanging with the usual crowds. . .

Risso's dolphins

Humpback whale

With plenty of beach time, of course.

Black bear coming for volleyball.

The result: one happy, broke college student.

The Great Migration

Every once in a while, you encounter something in your chosen career path that makes you go, "YES!! I do want to be this when I grow up!"

 I had just that type of moment this past weekend.A lovely group of wildlife ladies invited me to join them on a trip to Freezeout Lake, MT to observe migrating snow geese. I did not expect too much--some geese flocked together on a lake, that's cool--but I haven't seen snow geese since Alaska, so I was pretty excited.

It turns out that it isn't just a flock of snow geese that spend a few weeks at Freezeout every year. It is ALL THE BIRDS. So many geese that pictures cannot do the event justice (though I did try). Their constant honking created a cacophony across the water, a constant background noise to our viewing experience.

Sure, that's quite a few birds...

It is not only snow geese, either. Tundra swans and pintail ducks (also old friends from the Arctic) and many more species also congregate on their way north. Some of these guys could be heading straight back up to Barrow eventually! How I wish I could join them. . .

That's a decent amount of geese.

Okay, that's even more birds. . .

THOSE ARE NOT INSECTS.

You get the picture.

The geese left in small bursts at first, lighting out over the water to land in nearby fields. Then, as the giant group straight ahead of us lifted off and swarmed as they had done several times before already, something changed. A giant mass of them lifted all at once and roared over our heads. I gave up trying to capture the moment, overwhelmed.

In surrounding fields, we spotted bald eagles, golden eagles, and numerous rough-legged hawks. We were peering at a short, magical window in which this place comes vibrantly alive. And it was truly awesome.

Small group landing in a nearby field.

As we drove away, we were all talking animatedly about what we'd just seen, excited about this amazing world we live in, and about being biologists someday.

It is a marvel. I have a hard time imagining myself doing anything else.

--Ellen

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...)

Project Crabby

This is only vaguely related to the Bridge Project; however, because I am staying in Montana for the summer, having a pet just became a possibility.

I have never before committed myself to any living creature that is solely my own--as it stands, my mother is still taking care of a certain cactus named Giselle for me, because my life is too unstable to support a cactus.

Giselle is a pretty lady. (Courtesy of Clint Whittle)

As pathetic as that is. Anyhow, being a wildlifer, animals are a pretty important part of my life, and recently my roommate's cat was relocated, leaving a cat-sized gap in the household.

If you think this is leading to me getting a cat, you're quite wrong, but I did choose another pet that is reserved and a little prickly.

Introducing la bella crab, Belle!

Up until about a week or two ago, I wasn't even aware that people kept crabs as pets, because I am that well informed. But my other animal-starved roommate and I looked into getting a fish and somehow stumbled onto other beginner aquarium animals.

We spent quite a while researching the needs of hermit crabs before we decided to get them, but I must admit I was sold as soon as I heard the crabs' homes referred to as "crabitats." Because that's just darn cute.

Call him Indiana.

When Winston first crawled out onto my palm, my reaction was both excitement and a little terror. Their alien legs are so hard and pointy, and the large purple pincer is a little intimidating. I've never played with a bug-eyed crustacean before--my usual pets are of Class Mammalia and a bit cuddlier.

Belle and Winston would make a great indie band!

They are actually really great pets. They seem stimulated by human attention, and will come out of their shell to see what's up when we hold them. They also poke their heads out to be misted with water. Curiosity is an admirable trait in any animal, and it's almost surprising to see in a crab. As a wildlife biologist hopeful, it seems like a good idea to learn such things. (This is where I justify getting a pet as a valuable learning experience).

Also, they seem pretty self-sustaining, which is a plus because I'm going to be on the move all summer. Speaking of which, Bridge Project is slowly progressing. 2/3 of my thesis committee is on board, and I am approved to register for Thesis 499. I've started writing my proposal, and it's all gettin real folks!

Coming soon to a bridge near you! (photo mdt.gov)

I am still a little sad about not returning to Alaska this season--not because I am not grateful for this amazing research opportunity, but because I wish I could divide myself like an amoeba and send Second Me to Alaska while First Me gets down with the bats here in Montana.

Amoebas aside, the future is looking pretty bright right now. More caving, more friends to meet and experiences to share. No complaints here.

-E.W.

*Update* Belle comes out of her shell!!

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