tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36391212900760989302024-03-13T14:22:56.447-07:00TD's Rarely Blogged BlogTD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-66744183725382429282020-12-13T10:38:00.000-08:002020-12-13T10:38:44.515-08:00Timber Wars from the Lower Decks<p> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bHP3pgD6AlY/X9ZeYE3b6uI/AAAAAAAAAQc/vU4MaEOiKXUJKADv2lHvjfRkYd_GAIn3wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/pexels-jacob-colvin-1719995.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="352" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bHP3pgD6AlY/X9ZeYE3b6uI/AAAAAAAAAQc/vU4MaEOiKXUJKADv2lHvjfRkYd_GAIn3wCLcBGAsYHQ/w308-h352/pexels-jacob-colvin-1719995.jpg" width="308" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by <b><a href="https://www.pexels.com/@jake-pnw?utm_content=attributionCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pexels">Jacob Colvin</a></b> from <b><a href="https://www.pexels.com/photo/suspension-bridge-1719995/?utm_content=attributionCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pexels">Pexels</a></b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">The <a href="www.npr.org/podcasts/906829608/timber-wars" target="_blank">Timber Wars podcast</a> from <a href="www.npr.org" target="_blank">NPR</a> and <a href="www.opb.org">OPB</a> was, for me, like traveling in time.
Although I was an insignificant cog in the grand wheel of the controversy, I
was witness to some of the drama. It was a brief, important experience that has
resonated through my life. Being a young outsider, I was perhaps ill-equipped
to recognize the complexity and nuance of what was happening in and around
those old growth forests, but I was a witness nonetheless.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s fair to say that I knew very little about the world I
was entering in 1994. I remember sporadic national news reports about battles
over logging controversies in the late 1980s and 1990s but that seemed very far
away from central Texas, where I grew up. Expansive swaths of federal lands are
unknown in the state and, while logging is economically important, less than
10% of Texas forests are located on public lands. The case was much different out
west, due to complex interactions between federal land management policy,
old-growth forest ecology, global economics, the regional logging culture of
the Pacific Northwest, the idealistic fervor of the conservation movement, and
a maturing understanding of ecological systems – and I was ripe for an
education.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I skipped my college graduation ceremony in exchange for a
paid internship with the Bureau of Land Management, a federal agency I’d never before
heard about. I drove 2000 miles west to Oregon, with little more than some
clothes, a few books and a pair of cheap hiking boots, in a two-door Mazda. My
job, in a nutshell, was to drive around at night, playing recorded hoots into
the night and listening for a response from actual Northern Spotted Owls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Within weeks, I had worn the soles of my boots off. I
learned to quote Jerry Franklin’s research. I picked up the mantra of my
co-workers, “It’s not about the owl.” I explained to skeptics that it was
efficient technology and shipping logs overseas for processing – not owls or
salamanders or hippies – that killed logging jobs. Then I learned to avoid
skeptics.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">People in our small community noticed a bunch of kids
driving government trucks around in the forests, often at night. It was
suggested, unofficially, that we tell our neighbors and grocery cashiers and
gas station attendants that we were surveying for Fishers. At the time, I
didn’t even know that Fishers were rare mustelids (<i>Pekania pennanti)</i>,
but I understood that no one would threaten me over weasels. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That summer, I barreled through the tangled complexity of
the old growth landscape in pursuit of the much-maligned owls, my naïve and
powerful youth relieving me of any concerns about broken ankles. I shivered in
the cool Oregon summer, I nervously piloted agency 4x4 trucks down harrowingly
narrow logging roads, and I tripped and fell over my laughing co-workers. I
remember the impossible darkness of those eastern Cascade Range forests, and how
we would blink in pain and grasp for sunglasses when we encountered a clearing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I learned a lot that season in the Oregon old growth. I
learned how to fight wildfires and imitate owls. I learned how to raft rivers
and use a compass. I will always remember the ridiculously simple-minded and
intoxicating freedom<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>of the place. I
was two thousand miles from anywhere I’d ever been and anyone I knew, further
from home than my own designs had ever carried me before. I was truly on my
own, with no one to rescue me and no one to blame for my life. Every day I woke
up, got out of bed and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">made my own fate </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">among those ancient, venerable trees</span>.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I said, ridiculous. While it’s not hyperbole to say that a
summer in the cathedral-like forests of the Pacific Northwest determined the
course of my life, I must consider the experience in light of my youth and
excitement, which largely removed me from the academic, economic and societal
upheaval roiling the region. These were serious issues and Timber Wars revealed
that many still continue today.</p>
TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-71470683072138231512018-08-23T12:30:00.000-07:002019-05-04T17:22:16.336-07:00 Relocating Commotion-Causing BeaversMany Utahns have experience with beavers. Unfortunately, much of that
experience is less than desirable: beavers plugging up culverts,
chewing down trees and flooding parking lots. The reality is that
beavers can be a problem when they're stuck in the wrong places. The
flipside is that beavers are very beneficial when they're in the right
places.<br />
<br />
<div class="photo-right visible-desktop">
<a data-rokbox="" href="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog_photos/relocating_beavers1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" height="193" src="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog_photos/relocating_beavers1.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
There are several options available when beavers are causing conflicts.<br />
<ul class="li-plus">
<li>One: they can be legally trapped during Utah's beaver season or by a permitted nuisance trapper.</li>
<li>Two: they can be left in place, <a href="https://wildlife.utah.gov/?option=com_wordpress&p=4700&Itemid=141" target="_blank">using engineering alternatives that can alleviate some issues such as flooding</a>.</li>
<li>Three: they can be moved to a more welcoming locale.</li>
</ul>
Moving beavers is not as simple as it may sound. Despite the DWR's
safeguards, animals can die during trapping, holding or transport. Transplanted beavers can make desperate attempts to return home or find a
mate, invariably dying in the process. Beavers can be caught unaware by
predators at their unfamiliar release site.<br />
<br />
In the southern part of the state, the DWR is trying to help beavers
get from areas where they're not wanted to areas where they are needed.
But that's not all. Heather Talley, DWR Wildlife Recreation Programs
Specialist and the region's head beaver wrangler, is trying to determine
how successful those relocated beavers are.<br />
<br />
DWR wildlife technicians trap beavers that are causing problems in
local communities using Hancock or Koro traps: large, clamshell-shaped
live traps that are strong enough to hold an angry beaver. The trappers
keep working until there are no beavers left in the area. The goal is to
capture the entire colony (an extended family unit) and then release
them at the same site because research has shown doing so helps the
beavers survive and prosper.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog_photos/relocating_beavers2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog_photos/relocating_beavers2.jpg" width="320" /></a>The beavers are then transported to the DWR's holding facility, where
they undergo a period of decontamination — just like waders and boats,
beavers can carry aquatic hitchhikers like whirling disease or exotic
mussels. Yes, we wash and dry the beavers.<br />
<br />
After their time in decon is over, wildlife veterinarian Annette Roug
and DWR biologists like myself and Heather use a special drug
combination to sedate the beavers for handling. They are allowed to fall
asleep, then transferred to a table (carrying a totally relaxed beaver
is a bit like holding a 30-pound sack of marbles) with several people
hovering in wait. For a few minutes, the beaver disappears under the
silhouettes of a half-dozen DWR staff, each of whom is working to get
the animal processed quickly.<br />
<br />
One person supplies the unconscious beaver with oxygen via a mask
placed over its face. Another monitors the animal's vital signs such as
heart rate and respiration, struggling to hear the quiet beat of a
beaver's little heart over wind and cars and sometimes even aircraft.
Body measurements are taken. The gums and paws are sampled for fungus,
the fur is examined for ectoparasites (yes, we comb the beavers), and
any pre-existing injuries are treated.<br />
<br />
Then comes the messy process of determining the gender, which I'll
simply say involves expressing anal glands and examining the secretions.
A radio-transmitter is applied so that Heather's team can track the
beaver. Medication to kill parasites and provide pain relief is given.
Finally, the beaver is weighed and promptly returned to the holding pen,
where they are given a 'reversal' drug: this counteracts the sedative
effect of the initial injection and allows the beaver to slowly wake up.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog_photos/relocating_beavers3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="221" src="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog_photos/relocating_beavers3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
After they have been processed, DWR staff and volunteers transport the
beavers to their new homes. If things go well, once they adjust to their
new surroundings, beavers get to work.<br />
<br />
It turns out, without houses and businesses and schools in the mix,
the things beavers do are powerfully transformative — and potentially
healing — to the environments in which they live. Their activities
result in what we like to call 'heterogeneous aquatic habitat.' That
means they create places where the water is shallow, as well as places
where it is deep, and everything in between. That makes for a wide range
of water temperatures. Felled trees in the water create places to live
and hide. The dam traps sediments and cleans water. In the multichannel,
braided waterways, some water moves faster and some moves slower. The
substrate becomes more variable. All of this results in a greater
diversity of fish and aquatic invertebrate species, in addition to
helping struggling amphibian species like the boreal toad.<br />
<br />
More fish and clean water is just the start. Beaver activity restores
environmental resiliency by storing water, which is directly beneficial
to both the land and the people who live there. Flooding areas behind
the dam recharges groundwater and raises the water table. This aids
plants like willow, aspen and cottonwood, creates wet meadows that
benefit species like sage-grouse, and even helps keep crops green. The
wetter landscape functions as a firebreak during wildfires. By changing
the hydrology of the stream, beavers decrease erosion of streambanks and
widen deeply incised creeks. Their dams and the newly-modified stream
extend the seasonal release of water and mitigate downstream flooding.
Beavers also change the streamside vegetation, increasing the diversity
of bird species and small mammals in addition to creating habitat
preferred by moose.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SspBP7NWUr8/XM4qYPmPK8I/AAAAAAAAALc/nVto66eLsrEo0uTHQicJroI33CTNf13DACLcBGAs/s1600/Heather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SspBP7NWUr8/XM4qYPmPK8I/AAAAAAAAALc/nVto66eLsrEo0uTHQicJroI33CTNf13DACLcBGAs/s320/Heather.jpg" width="240" /></a>Heather and her crew have translocated 136 animals since the program
started. These beavers, with an unspoken promise of industriousness,
have been escorted to post-fire sites in need of rehab, wetlands with
toad declines and incised creeks. Transmitters have been placed on 57
animals so far. Heather's crew is conducting ongoing surveys to see how
the transplanted beavers are doing.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As the benefits of beavers are being recognized around the arid west,
people are increasingly referring to the furry little marvels as
'ecosystem engineers' and 'keystone species.' State wildlife agencies,
ranchers, water managers and even businesses like the <a href="https://www.usu.edu/today/?id=55215" target="_blank">Logan, Utah, WalMart</a>
are realizing that, far from being an intractable nuisance, beavers can
be a low-cost alternative to heavy equipment or expensive wetland and
stream recovery projects. Indeed, beavers help not only streams, but the
people who depend on them. If you like water, thank a beaver. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-80564230087050660292018-08-12T15:49:00.000-07:002018-08-12T16:20:55.837-07:00The Paths of Pelicans<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-top: 12px; padding: 0px;">
In 2014, the Utah Division of Wildlife Resources (DWR) began efforts to place transmitters on American white pelicans. This was the culmination of ongoing cooperative efforts between numerous partners, including U.S. Army Dugway Proving Ground, the Utah Department of Natural Resource’s Endangered Species Mitigation Fund, the Salt Lake International Airport and the Tracy Aviary Conservation Science Fund.</div>
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Cutting-edge satellite transmitters were procured for the pelicans. Every ounce is vitally important when placing transmitters on birds. The solution is solar power, obviating the need for heavy batteries and allowing the transmitter to draw power from the time birds spend in the sun. To prevent interference with flying or grooming, the solar-powered transmitters sit on birds’ backs — in the case of pelicans, between their shoulders like a backpack. Properly fitting the transmitter to the pelican is also crucial, so Utah biologists were trained to attach the backpacks by experts from Mississippi Wildlife Services and The Nature Conservancy.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/image.png" style="color: #a64e00; margin: 0px auto; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none;"><img alt="" class="wp-image-5120" height="400" sizes="(max-width: 350px) 100vw, 350px" src="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/image.png" srcset="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/image.png 576w, https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/image-61x80.png 61w, https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/image-229x300.png 229w" style="border: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy Sam Hall/Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Pelican migration routes.</div>
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<span style="color: #333333;">Transmitters in hand, the next step was to catch the pelicans. The DWR has </span><a href="http://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/2015/the-low-speed-stampede/" target="_blank">a history of banding younger birds</a>.<span style="color: #333333;"> Adults, however, </span><a href="http://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/2016/round-trip-flights-salt-lake-city-to-mazatlan/" target="_blank">required a bit of a learning curve.</a><span style="color: #333333;"> After discovering the best method to catching the wily adult pelicans, DWR biologists set about distributing transmitters at Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge, Ogden Bay Waterfowl Management Area, Farmington Bay Waterfowl Management Area and Strawberry Reservoir.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;">Catching birds and outfitting them with fancy new backpacks is only the first part of the story. The DWR wanted to see where the pelicans were going. In the past, this meant waiting for people to see the birds and report it. Using this method, Utah white pelican sightings have been reported from 10 states including some as far away as Iowa. Scientists used </span><a href="https://www.usgs.gov/centers/pwrc/science/bird-banding-laboratory?qt-science_center_objects=0#qt-science_center_objects" target="_blank">pushpins on topographic maps and spreadsheets to track these sightings.</a></div>
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Advanced equipment like that deployed on the pelicans, in contrast, communicates with satellites which in turn send their data to a website. The webpage then automatically translates those locations to a dynamic, colorful map.</div>
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<a href="https://wildlife.utah.gov/pelican_webmap/" target="_blank">The Pelitrack site offers unprecedented acces</a>s to the lives of these majestic birds. The website and all its data is available not just to the people studying the birds but to anyone at any time. Users can see where birds currently reside or they can use a query tool to see where the pelicans have been in the past. They can look at locations from multiple years or the last week.</div>
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The Pelitrack site has shown us fascinating things about these birds. Collectively, we see that most of the pelicans head south in fall, seeking the warmer climes of Mexico. A pelican christened Loretta is a classic example of this path: she follows I-15 southward, then flies to southern California before heading down the western Mexican coast. The bulk of the birds pass through Arizona and southern California like this but a few, like Gregory, ‘wobble’ in their southward journey, passing through New Mexico. These wobblers largely parallel their compatriots for they too end up on Mexico’s west coast.</div>
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Individuals, however, reveal surprising variation in the Utah birds. Five backpacked pelicans (Bartholomew, Kirk, Hook, Lupita and Quentin) have proven outliers in terms of seasonal migration. In previous years, they left Utah on a strong eastward track, Bartholomew stopping in South Dakota before nearing the others’ paths through Kansas and Texas. Their tracks diverged again in Mexico: the other pelicans crossed the nation to winter on the west coast while Bartholomew spent his winter on the Gulf coast — the only backpacked bird to do so.</div>
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Chester was another iconoclast, holding the distinction of being the first bird to demonstrate that, despite previous thinking about state populations, the American white pelicans of Utah are part of a much more widespread, regional population. Summer locations from pelicans like Chester show a previously unknown degree of connectivity between the Great Salt Lake wetlands, the nesting colony at Gunnison Island, Utah Lake, Strawberry Reservoir, other bodies of water in Utah, the nesting colonies along the Snake River in Southern Idaho, as well as nesting colonies in Montana, Wyoming, Nevada, California and Oregon. Wing tag reports had exposed pelican movements between these locations in the past but they were assumed to be once-in-a-lifetime trips. The satellite data, however, revealed that it’s far more common for a pelican to travel among these sites than previously believed: some birds made multiple trips in a week!</div>
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During Chester’s wanderings, his backpack dutifully recorded points as he literally broke barriers, flying back and forth over California’s Sierra Range – long thought to have been a formidable obstacle for pelicans. Following Chester’s pioneering performance, Uma and Everett were seen to likewise traverse the mountain range.</div>
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Age and experience may contribute to some of the variation we see. Many pelicans follow each other with amazing fidelity but other birds like Gerald and Penelope made their own trails. It’s risky for a water-dependent bird to fly over unknown territory, but perhaps the cumulative experiences of these birds led them to safe routes. For instance, Barnabus followed his fellows through the Salton Sea in Southern California in 2015, but the next year he took a new path through New Mexico.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/pelicans-with-Cascade-in-background-crop-by-scott-root.jpg" style="color: #a64e00; margin: 0px auto; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none;"><img alt="" class="wp-image-5127" height="260" sizes="(max-width: 370px) 100vw, 370px" src="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/pelicans-with-Cascade-in-background-crop-by-scott-root-300x211.jpg" srcset="https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/pelicans-with-Cascade-in-background-crop-by-scott-root-300x211.jpg 300w, https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/pelicans-with-Cascade-in-background-crop-by-scott-root-80x56.jpg 80w, https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/pelicans-with-Cascade-in-background-crop-by-scott-root-768x539.jpg 768w, https://wildlife.utah.gov/blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/pelicans-with-Cascade-in-background-crop-by-scott-root-800x562.jpg 800w" style="border: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="370" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Pelicans in Utah.</div>
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The details of the Pelitrack maps show unequivocally that the paths of pelicans predict water. On their seasonal journeys north and south, and during other wanderings, pelicans fly from water body to water body where they rest and refuel by cooperatively foraging for fish. Zoom in on any Pelitrack path and you will find lakes, reservoirs and rivers. Certain places, like southeastern New Mexico and western Texas, are devoid of satellite points from Utah pelicans probably due to the fact that these areas have precious little water — evidently less than required to entice the water-loving birds to pass over.</div>
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As time passes, more stories appear. Pedro decided to spend his days in Mexico westward of his fellow Utah birds; he was the only backpacked bird to settle on the peninsula of Baja California. In 2016 Hector visited locations apparently unknown to other backpacked birds – he was the only Pelitrack bird to fly to Oregon. Ongoing analyses have revealed that pelicans like Iris and Sylvester have ridden thermals to 27,000 and 33,000 feet, respectively. At such dizzying heights, the temperature hovers at -30 degrees and the air is lethally thin, placing American white pelicans into a small fraternity of fantastically hardy birds capable of surviving those conditions. Only the future knows what other secrets the transmitters will whisper to us in the form of satellite data.</div>
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Sam Hall, a DWR Senior GIS Analyst, custom-built the Pelitrack website for Utah’s pelicans but it has proven so useful that the code is currently being used by five other research projects to study California condors (The Peregrine Fund), golden eagles (US Fish and Wildlife Service), long-billed curlews (Intermountain Bird Observatory), short-eared owls (Hawkwatch International) and burrowing owls (University of Idaho). The reception to Pelitrack has been positive and we believe that the satellite-to-website model will continue to bring enlightenment and entertainment to birders young and old.</div>
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See the pelicans’ fall migration below (image courtesy Sam Hall/Utah DWR).</div>
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<iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Mpyx86hFHgs?feature=oembed" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="500"></iframe></div>
TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-77023557690038132072017-10-12T18:02:00.000-07:002019-05-04T17:28:36.673-07:00The One that Got AwayIt was May. I looked to the east, idly wondering whether I
could see the tiny hamlet of Koosharem, Utah, from our position on Monroe Mountain. My vantage
point was elevated that day, as I was not only on a mountain, but atop a
mule on a mountain. It had been a long hard day and the animal’s mood
was characterized by a desire to return to the trailer.<br />
<br />
I was tired as well but I had enjoyed the day. We had left the truck
and trailer that morning in search of a female mountain lion who needed
her collar changed. This happens when animals grow, as is often the case
when bear cubs are collared, or when a collar’s batteries are nearing
the end of their expected lifetime. The goal was to catch her, remove
the old collar and put on a new one.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1fjQpnJnm6A/WhTYKvfO-SI/AAAAAAAAAHI/suxLzCOzkjomeUNdkKzYNqK_um_pIgGaQCLcBGAs/s1600/Clint-in-his-element.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1224" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1fjQpnJnm6A/WhTYKvfO-SI/AAAAAAAAAHI/suxLzCOzkjomeUNdkKzYNqK_um_pIgGaQCLcBGAs/s320/Clint-in-his-element.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Annette Roug, DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dogs are key to this process. Given the age-old animosity between
cats and dogs, lions generally flee and eventually climb a tree when
pursued by canines. Properly trained hounds have the discipline and
gravitas to keep the cat treed until the panting humans arrive. A
sedative-filled dart is shot into the large muscle mass of the cat’s
hindquarter. After it succumbs to the drug, one lucky crewmember gets to
climb the tree and either carry the lion down or attach a rope in order
to lower the cat down to the ground. Sufficient time is given for the
cat to relax and slip into unconsciousness, for it would be jarring
indeed to climb a tree and meet a half-asleep (and therefore half-awake)
mountain lion.<br />
<br />
The group that set out to accomplish this goal contained myself, then-Utah State University PhD
student Peter Mahoney, the Utah Division of Wildlife's (DWR) veterinarian, Dr. Annette Roug, and one of the DWR’s predator specialists, Clint Mecham. The group was
rounded out by several hounds and four mules whose names I’ve since
forgotten.<br />
<br />
We set off with high hopes. The female lion’s signal — the beeping on
a specific frequency emitted by her collar — indicated that she was
above us on the mountain. I spent the next two hours trying to conform
myself to the shape of the saddle as we labored upwards.<br />
<br />
We reached a ridgetop and again broke out the telemetry gear. Clint
watched his hounds critically for their input as where this cat might
be. We determined that she was on the next ridge over. It seemed
tantalizingly close but was in reality separated from us by a deep,
heavily wooded drainage.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vbrxSUxzEW4/WhTYnJNrgwI/AAAAAAAAAHM/BlsevL9vDPMUq6NjA31wSxa-DoN9H4AgwCLcBGAs/s1600/Shes-out-there-somewhere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vbrxSUxzEW4/WhTYnJNrgwI/AAAAAAAAAHM/BlsevL9vDPMUq6NjA31wSxa-DoN9H4AgwCLcBGAs/s320/Shes-out-there-somewhere.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Troy Davis, DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We headed towards the other ridge (and into the drainage) trying to
find the least steep route. It was a good idea in theory but we soon
encountered the first wave of what turned out to be an expansive sea of
downfall. The steepness of the terrain, combined with the crisscrossed,
piled-up tree trunks dictated that we dismount the mules and lead them
through the maze.<br />
<br />
I learned the value of mules that day. As we climbed over fallen
trees, weaved between the creaking, leaning trunks known poetically as
widowmakers, and ducked under logs, the mules followed without
complaint. Their attitudes about the situation may not have joyous but I
was impressed. I suspect that a horse dropped into that mess of fallen
timber would have rolled up its eyes and died on the spot.<br />
<br />
I myself felt a twinge of hopelessness when looking at the downfall
surrounding us on all sides. But I knew from prior experience that
following lions is rarely easy in mountainous terrain. And I had the
utmost confidence in Clint. He was comfortable in the backcountry after
decades of experience and led the way as his hounds snaked back and
forth amid the legs of our mules.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0yDelzzYFrg/WhTZAkHWqYI/AAAAAAAAAHU/V-iIdhujyTgD98fpsmCVz57ToXLdbA0xQCLcBGAs/s1600/Troy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="1000" height="318" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0yDelzzYFrg/WhTZAkHWqYI/AAAAAAAAAHU/V-iIdhujyTgD98fpsmCVz57ToXLdbA0xQCLcBGAs/s320/Troy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Annette Roug, DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Our position in the drainage meant that our telemetry signals were
bouncy at best and even the dogs weren’t having much luck. There was
nothing to do but get to that next ridgetop. Once there, we could
formulate a plan as to how best approach her position.<br />
<br />
It took time, and more climbing through the ever-present downfall,
but we eventually approached the top of the ridge. We were all ready to
be done with fallen trees, as evidenced by the fact that my mule was
using his head to push me out of the downfall zone.<br />
<br />
We topped the ridge with a palpable sense of relief. Peter slowly
rotated around, using the telemetry antenna to seek the strongest
signal. I noted with some consternation that when he found the signal,
it was coming from the wrong direction. Clint consulted his hounds. The
dogs’ noses agreed with the beeping telemetry receiver: the cat was
behind us, likely on the very ridge we had left a few hours ago. While
we were toiling to reach her location, she was silently gliding past us,
determined to keep at least one drainage between herself and this
bothersome group of humans, mules and dogs. It was afternoon already and
we knew it would take us too long to return to that ridge. Basically,
she skunked us.<br />
<br />
“Atta girl,” I said quietly into the cool mountain air. My mule’s
ears swiveled around. The animal was likely confused by the strange mix
of disappointment and respect emanating from his rider. After all, we’d
come all this way, ridden and hiked for hours to catch this cat and we’d
missed her.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oat5YI6coTw/XM4uB5nHIgI/AAAAAAAAALo/Nu9c_6qsh8AJPsL-w6Ks2p92ilrsEj-9wCEwYBhgL/s1600/Annette_Monroe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oat5YI6coTw/XM4uB5nHIgI/AAAAAAAAALo/Nu9c_6qsh8AJPsL-w6Ks2p92ilrsEj-9wCEwYBhgL/s320/Annette_Monroe.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
To me, however, that is the essence of working with lions: it’s
humbling at times. It’s not supposed to be easy when dealing with one of
the most secretive large carnivores on the continent. Mountain lions
are distributed from Canada to South America and one reason for that
success is the ability to be invisible. When conditions are right, cats
can cease to be flesh-and-blood animals and become an ethereal, ghosting
presence on the land.<br />
<br />
That was no small feat in this case: This female lion successfully
bested a group with combined 75 years of wildlife experience in addition
to dogs, mules and a telemetry receiver. She showed us that no matter
how powerful the dogs’ sense of smell, no matter how experienced the
tracker, no matter the technology, this was <i>her</i> home ground.
With her quiet defiance, she demonstrated unequivocally that we were but
temporary interlopers in her realm. We had all the advantages but she
won the game that day, fair and square.<br />
<br />
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Addendum</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
This was the last time I got to work with Clint. He was a woodsman
through and through, an unpretentious expert in the ways of Utah’s
wildlife. Clint was one of the best houndsmen and cat handlers in the
western US, guiding hunters and academic researchers for decades. The
southern Utah landscape, the people of the state and the DWR lost a
loyal and steadfast friend when Clint passed after a battle with cancer.
He will be missed.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-82551995574751498702016-06-22T17:45:00.000-07:002017-11-21T17:48:07.901-08:00Grabbing Geese from AirboatsOur airboat pilot spied a goose and swerved, accelerating over the water
towards the lone bird. As we approached, the goose honked in surprise –
or possibly avian outrage – and slipped underwater in an attempt to
escape. Leaning over the bow of the airboat, I was able to pluck the
bird from the water. He joined his fellow geese in a wooden containment
crate strapped to the boat.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4Gnw4fFrnQ8/WhTVQZvmjDI/AAAAAAAAAGw/2O1l3W952zgOksK7cIL3jWJ0DIM66ugOwCLcBGAs/s1600/geese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4Gnw4fFrnQ8/WhTVQZvmjDI/AAAAAAAAAGw/2O1l3W952zgOksK7cIL3jWJ0DIM66ugOwCLcBGAs/s320/geese.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In mid-June, Canada geese in Utah are in the process of replacing
their flight feathers, leaving them temporarily unable to fly. This
makes them available to Utah Division of Wildlife Resources (DWR) waterfowl biologists and motivated
volunteers. During this time, the DWR captures hundreds of adult and
juvenile geese. The birds are fitted with leg bands which identify when,
where and at what age they were caught.<br />
<br />
Geese are caught in two general ways: in urban settings, such as
Lagoon Amusement Park, the birds are herded into corrals of soft mesh
netting, or sometimes hand-caught by nimble technicians and volunteers.
It sounds like a bit of a rodeo and it can be.<br />
<br />
Geese are often unwelcome in such urban locations, where they are
free of natural sources of mortality. Canada geese have reached damaging
or simply annoying densities in parks, greenbelts, airports and along
waterways all over the country. To combat this, the DWR transports urban
geese to undeveloped release sites. Juvenile birds are released with
wild adults near the Great Salt Lake and adult geese are taken to more
distant natural waterfowl habitat. Data from bands indicate most of the
birds taken from urban locales and released in this fashion will return
to the natural areas the following year, instead of coming back to
befoul city lawns and parks.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VEqtHfHXiv8/WhTVivYTKXI/AAAAAAAAAG0/L3KBZMtb1U4U0N8NpnnMcYOTak7wx0yQACLcBGAs/s1600/goosing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VEqtHfHXiv8/WhTVivYTKXI/AAAAAAAAAG0/L3KBZMtb1U4U0N8NpnnMcYOTak7wx0yQACLcBGAs/s320/goosing.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In less civilized locations, such as the numerous duck clubs north of
Salt Lake City or Farmington Bay, geese are captured using airboats.
Geese are among the many seasonal visitors to north-central Utah’s
expansive wetlands, along with Wilson’s phalaropes, American avocets,
green and blue-winged teals, white pelicans, redhead ducks, ruddy ducks,
black-necked stilts, white-faced ibises and black-crowned night herons.
Because these geese do not pose problems to Utah residents or
businesses, they are released on-site after banding.<br />
<br />
I could describe the process of catching geese utilizing airboats in
technical terms: explaining the massive organizational effort to
coordinate multiple government agencies, detailing the required piloting
skill to simultaneously maneuver ten airboats through a maze of
vegetation chasing agile geese without crashing into each other,
describing the chaos of a dozen people sitting in a circle calling out
band numbers to a harried scribe as another two dozen people stand
waiting with an unbanded goose in each hand, or capture success relative
to different models of airboat.<br />
<br />
Instead, I’ll simply say that the procedure is a lot of fun – a lot.
Much like birdwatching in the wetlands, you can detect a capture
operation by attentive observation. A long train of DWR trucks with
trailers in tow can be spotted slowly driving along dikes in the
wetlands. A number of agency people in waders can be seen applying bug
spray as each truck deftly deposits an airboat into the water, then
pulls away to provide a few inches of room for another truck on the
crowded levy. As some boats are crewed and loaded, a few take off at
high speed to push the geese away from areas where they can hide in
thick vegetation or otherwise confound capture efforts. Each time an
airboat leaves, people can be witnessed trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid
the blast from the prop.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vQhp0oriF58/WhTV8cUCvbI/AAAAAAAAAG8/4sTl_gpwH9gFdxdwg_FP-oGYouHp6mpwACLcBGAs/s1600/trap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vQhp0oriF58/WhTV8cUCvbI/AAAAAAAAAG8/4sTl_gpwH9gFdxdwg_FP-oGYouHp6mpwACLcBGAs/s320/trap.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Once the operation is underway, crew members take turns laying down
on the bow of the boat. The pilot searches from the elevated driver’s
seat of the airboat, skimming over the water towards any detected geese.
Upon seeing a pursuing airboat festooned with grabby humans, the geese
dive under the shallow water to escape. Their underwater ‘flight’ leaves
a trail of disturbed soil in their wake, allowing the pilot to follow
them. Once close enough, the catcher leans out, plunges their hands into
the water, and snatches a wet goose from among the streamers of green
algae. Sometimes a goose is caught on the first try, sometimes a
particularly wily bird requires more effort.<br />
<br />
The captured goose is handed to another crew member who places the
goose into a wooden or plastic crate designed to hold the birds until
the boat returns to shore. At one point, I found that my crewmate,
Heather, had caught three juvenile geese at once – eclipsing my
one-adult-at-a-time ability. I was in charge of placing these small
geese into the crate, but handling those three without injuring them<i> or</i> letting them wiggle free <i>while</i>
not falling out of a swerving boat was quite literally a balancing act.
I hugged the juveniles to my chest, putting the heads of two angry
geese and the tail feathers of one presumably confused goose in my face.
Unlike the more fatalistic adults, these juvenile geese took this
opportunity to attack me about the head and shoulders, biting me
ineffectually but with great gusto. I suffered their ire, awkwardly
clinging to the geese and the boat’s frame, until I could introduce the
angry teens to the inside of the containment crate.<br />
<br />
When the boats have captured their maximum load of geese – our crates
were full and Lynn, our pilot, had two geese in his lap when we finally
stopped – the airboats head for a central location where skilled
biologists apply the leg bands and record the data.<br />
<br />
With all the local geese caught, banded and released, the airboats are
loaded onto trailers. If you listen carefully over the roar of their
engines, you can hear people comparing their catch numbers as the train
of trucks prepares to leave. TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-71228801600052996892014-07-14T17:26:00.000-07:002017-11-21T17:38:11.471-08:00Stay Low. Stay Still. Survive.The mulie bounded across the road in front of us. Powerful leg
muscles flexed under her summer coat, propelling her through effortless
20-foot arcs. Five heads swiveled to watch the deer, some of them
lurching from reclined positions of slumber.<br />
<br />
“I doubt <i>she</i> has a fawn,” I grumbled. I judged that the doe
was moving far too fast to have a wobbly newborn in tow. A collective
sigh filled the truck. Two people slumped back to sleep and a third
resumed texting.<br />
<br />
<i>Then again</i>, I thought, <i>she did look a little panicked</i>.
Something gnawed at my subconscious, demanding attention. Though I
couldn’t have quantified the intuition, I sensed there was something
more to the situation than a deer crossing the road.<br />
<br />
When the doe had appeared, I was busy working the gears of a Utah Division of Wildlife Resources (DWR) Ford
F-150, easing us down a narrow, rock-strewn dirt road situated on a
ridge of Mormon Peak. Given the risks of driving in steep mountainous
terrain, I dismissed the doe and returned my attention to the truck. But
there remained a persistent buzzing in the back of my skull.<br />
<br />
A few seconds passed and the truck rolled another fifteen feet.
Suddenly, I gasped and hit the brakes. We slid to a bumpy stop. I
blinked my bleary eyes, forcing them to focus. “Fawn! I see a fawn!”<br />
That was the announcement for which everyone had been waiting since
roughly 5 a.m. Faces were pressed against every available window.<br />
<br />
“Where?” Nate, the lead research assistant, asked.<br />
<br />
“Right there,” I said, pointing over the dashboard.<br />
<br />
“Where?” repeated the three volunteer hunters in the back seat.<br />
<br />
“In front of us,” I explained.<br />
<br />
Nate, an expert deer spotter and fawn wrangler, strained his neck. “<i>Where</i>?”<br />
<br />
I turned put the truck in park and turned off the ignition, so I
could concentrate on convincing a truck full of people that I was not
losing my mind. “It’s right in front of us. On the road.”<br />
<br />
Nate raised himself up in the seat, peered down at the road, and smiled. “Yeah!”<br />
<br />
We grabbed the capture bag and stepped out slowly. It became readily
apparent, though, that the fawn was too young to run away. It was less
than two days old, still weak and completely reliant on motionlessness
and natural camouflage for protection.<br />
<br />
The five people exiting the truck at that moment — myself, Nate and
three volunteer hunters — formed the vanguard of a much larger audience
anxiously awaiting data from the local mule deer. The ongoing wildlife
study on central Utah’s Monroe Mountain, involving not only deer but
coyotes and mountain lions as well, involves Utah State University,
Brigham Young University, the Utah DWR, and a
cadre of professors and graduate students.<br />
<br />
Yet while we were prowling the central Utah landscape that morning in
search of a big game species, we were in fact most interested in the
most diminutive representatives, the littlest players on the big game
stage: newborn fawns. One of the goals of the Monroe Mountain study is
to follow the destinies of neonate fawns in order to determine what’s
happening to these deer during their first few days and weeks of life.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HMF-21UxYd8/WhTTAsX-XrI/AAAAAAAAAGk/li6rwubabOYycMcsmJaw2y8zmCtSSRo2QCLcBGAs/s1600/fawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="350" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HMF-21UxYd8/WhTTAsX-XrI/AAAAAAAAAGk/li6rwubabOYycMcsmJaw2y8zmCtSSRo2QCLcBGAs/s320/fawn.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of the Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In order to understand that short, dangerous period of a mule deer’s
existence, we must catch and mark very young fawns — sometimes less than
a day old. Fawns rely on cryptic coloration and immobility to protect
them from all predators, including researchers, making finding and
capturing them a difficult and time-intensive effort.<br />
<br />
So, during fawning time, crews of technicians, students, and
volunteers scour the sagebrush and oak brush for mulie fawns. They drive
endless dusty miles in trucks and ATVs, hunched over spotting scopes in
the sunrise chill and evening haze. Binoculars scrutinize every dark
shadow or brushy plant capable of screening a dappled fawn from view.
Everything is suspect when it comes to finding fawns: does acting
vigilant, does standing in one spot too long, does’ gazes lingering in a
certain direction, and so on. Normally, a doe on the run was not
considered a likely candidate for a new mother, until now.<br />
<br />
Nate and I approached the fawn, accompanied by the dedicated hunters.
We donned gloves and began to process the little animal, taking its
weight and measurements and allowing the hunters to take pictures and
help when appropriate. The fawn emitted no distress call, as older fawns
often do. The little male did no more than struggle feebly, trying to
return his chin to the ground as I held him.<br />
“What’s he doing?” asked the youngest hunter, a boy of 13.<br />
<br />
I said that the fawn was trying to hide. That explanation didn’t seem
to make much sense to the boy. His confusion was understandable. How
could this little deer expect to hide from the five people surrounding
him? But the fawn wasn’t thinking logically. He wasn’t formulating a
plan of escape. The gangly deer was responding to a supreme evolutionary
imperative shared among neonate ungulates across the globe: Stay low.
Stay still. Survive.<br />
<br />
To avoid stressing him further, we quickly completed our work. Our
last task was to slip on a custom telemetry collar specifically designed
for the size and growth patterns of mule deer fawns. The collar
featured numerous loops closed with fragile tread. As the fawn’s neck
grows, threads break and loops add to the collar’s circumference.
Thereby the collar expands, growing with the animal. A weak link in the
collar would eventually rot away and drop the device from the adult
deer.<br />
<br />
I set the fawn down, safely clear of the road, and returned to the
truck. I imagined the whole scene: Moments before we’d appeared, the doe
had been moving her small, helpless fawn to a new resting site. She
expected no disturbance so close to the windy peak of the mountain. She
moved slowly, watching the little male struggle along behind her.<br />
<br />
Then, suddenly, they heard our truck. The fawn dropped to the ground,
blending into the brown background of the dirt road, and froze. The doe
moved away so as to avoid altering the big, silver-painted predator to
the fawn’s location. When we continued to bear down on the little fawn
(completely unaware of his presence) the doe finally made a desperate,
flashy attempt to distract our attention away from her offspring. She
almost succeeded.<br />
<br />
I climbed in and started the ignition, sighing with delayed relief.
The fawn had been roughly three yards from the truck when we stopped.
Another moment and I’d have driven right over him, crushing the fawn
without even knowing it.<br />
<br />
It may be hard for some to imagine why an animal wouldn’t move away
from such a deadly situation. I, however, understood. For thousands of
years, mule deer fawns have been successfully hiding from predators of
all kinds. The success of staying low and staying still has resonated
through time, protecting them from contemporary dangers, be it the Cave
Lion, the North American cheetah, the stone spear point or the .30-06.<br />
<br />
Such responses have served mule deer well for many generations.
Today’s world, though, is a rapidly changing place. Humanity, for
instance, raced from horse-drawn carriages to walking on the moon in
fewer than 100 years and sometimes I find myself struggling to keep up.
So I can certainly forgive a newborn mule deer buck for being a little
confused as to how he should respond to the new-fangled mechanical
beasts of Utah’s DWR.<br />
<br />
In the end, the tiny fawn survived his encounter with the modern
world, giving him the chance to employ those ancient, time-tested
instincts as he grows and explores Utah’s wild landscapes.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-45425629768498952752013-08-14T19:52:00.000-07:002017-11-21T17:25:48.896-08:00Bring On the Bats<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I looked up at the brilliant night sky
of the desert arching over our heads, unpolluted by humanity’s fondness of
bright light. I was able to see those stars clearly because I was among several Utah Division of Wildlife Resources (DWR) employees standing in the darkness at Nash
Wash in southeastern Utah. We were not alone in the desert:
25 hardy members of the public stood under the Milky Way with us. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Despite the
fact that we were closer to Grand Junction, Colorado, than to Salt Lake City,
some of the attendees had driven from the Wasatch for the occasion. Utah loves
its wildlife, and had this event featured such charismatic species as mule
deer, trout or eagles, I wouldn’t have been as surprised by the attendance. But
the focus of this nighttime gathering was bats.</span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; height: 226px; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left; width: 226px;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yGLFos0mX30/WhOkEfS8ruI/AAAAAAAAAF0/hLwAN_35YS0BFwnDDPk4xCFe4izIZ9MiwCLcBGAs/s1600/Public-looking-at-bats.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="350" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yGLFos0mX30/WhOkEfS8ruI/AAAAAAAAAF0/hLwAN_35YS0BFwnDDPk4xCFe4izIZ9MiwCLcBGAs/s200/Public-looking-at-bats.jpg" width="183" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Brent
Stettler, Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Bats. To biologists, they are an incredibly diverse and fascinating
group of mammals, ranging from the tiny Asian ‘bumblebee bat’ measuring
only an inch in length, to three-pound tropical fruit bats sporting
five-foot wingspans.<br />
<br />
Of all the mammals, bats are the only group to fly, taking them into
realms otherwise reserved for birds and dreamers. In contrast, many
people fear bats. They unfairly characterize bats as ‘flying rats’:
disease carriers, which Hollywood assures us will become tangled in our
hair at any opportunity. Remember the ‘giant vampire bats’ in <i>Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom</i>? They were actually fruit-eating bats; you have nothing to fear from them unless you’re a mango.<br />
<br />
Many years ago, I worked for Bat Conservation International in
Austin, Texas. I learned first-hand as a naïve college student how many
people are frightened and misinformed when it comes to bats. It was my
job to explain that bats aren’t dangerous, that they consume tons of
insects annually (Texas could still use more mosquito-eating species)
and that spraying harsh pesticides into bat colonies was unnecessary and
illegal.<br />
<br />
“Oh, and by the way,” I always tried to mention, “they pollinate sugarcane. Sugar is used by Bacardi. <i>Bats make rum</i>, dude.”<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7lEX7V7QMLw/WhOlIoj46UI/AAAAAAAAAF8/J4qY41ZjCEkOiOldDpSmVO7PvoDMt3k0QCLcBGAs/s1600/Bat-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="339" height="190" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7lEX7V7QMLw/WhOlIoj46UI/AAAAAAAAAF8/J4qY41ZjCEkOiOldDpSmVO7PvoDMt3k0QCLcBGAs/s200/Bat-1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Brent Stattler, Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My experiences with the bat-phobic didn’t prepare me for this DWR
bat-viewing event. The number of spaces available to the public was
completely filled: there wasn’t, figuratively speaking, an empty seat in
the place.<br />
<br />
There were kids, young couples, older folks and one dog. Tony, the
southeastern region’s Sensitive Species Biologist, greeted several
people whom he recognized from previous bat events. There were a few
Subarus with pro-Chiroperta
bumper stickers and even one young woman with a bat tattoo. Everyone was
eager to not only see these mysterious creatures up close, but to touch
and even smell the furry little flyers. Seeing everyone in the dark was
difficult, but characterizing the mood of this group was easy: Bring on
the bats!<br />
<br />
Before walking down to the small pond, Tony gave the group an
introduction to bat biology. He explained that only a small percentage
of bats carry diseases dangerous to people. Rabies is in fact less
common in bats than in raccoons and dogs. The perception of bats being
disease-ridden comes from the fact that, as humans, we don’t interact
much with healthy bats; they’re too busy fluttering silently through the
dark skies above our heads. It’s the sick bats – those lying on the
ground or weak flyers, easily caught by cats and kids – which we often
meet, and some of these ill bats can transfer diseases to humans who
handle them incorrectly.<br />
<br />
People don’t seem to be drawn to ailing raccoons or deer, but they
can be counted on to pick up and examine a sickly bat. Proper training,
vaccinations and careful handling of sick bats minimize these health
risks.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Djb2CZulsY8/WhOm5kB1ZKI/AAAAAAAAAGI/LlfeN6d7m2cUr8pFFjjEj09j2s6eJe8owCLcBGAs/s1600/Canyon-Bat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="245" height="148" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Djb2CZulsY8/WhOm5kB1ZKI/AAAAAAAAAGI/LlfeN6d7m2cUr8pFFjjEj09j2s6eJe8owCLcBGAs/s200/Canyon-Bat.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Brent Stattler, Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Tony also described the incredible complexity of bats’ echolocation
abilities. Imagine, he said, sending and receiving intricate acoustic
signals at the same time, while moving rapidly (sometimes 23 feet per
second) through the air, tracking a tiny insect, which is also moving.
While they’re processing those signals, bats must make rapid flight
adjustments accurately enough to snap a panicked mosquito or moth out of
the air.<br />
That doesn’t sound much like an animal likely to clumsily smack into someone’s head and get tangled in their hair.<br />
<br />
Finally, even given recent rainy weather, Tony had seen very little
standing water in the area. This might, he offered, help increase bat
activity around our little water source. We adjourned to the pond, where
several mist nets were already set up. It wasn’t long before the bats
began to arrive.<br />
The small Western pipistrelle was the first to careen into the nets.
They were disentangled and brought to the table for identification and
processing, where I suspect each bat must have imagined that they’d
somehow become a pop culture celebrity.<br />
<br />
Cameras large and small took countless pictures from every conceivable angle, accompanied by “<i>oohs”</i> and “<i>aahs</i>.”
Photographers jostled for position and many slowly worked up the
courage to reach out and stroke the soft fur of the little bats.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CF4ceZXYY7k/WhOnPz7gPAI/AAAAAAAAAGM/9LOfgVf0Shkmm_rGFiCkHtNy4fL3RvlYQCLcBGAs/s1600/bat_perched.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="300" height="134" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CF4ceZXYY7k/WhOnPz7gPAI/AAAAAAAAAGM/9LOfgVf0Shkmm_rGFiCkHtNy4fL3RvlYQCLcBGAs/s200/bat_perched.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Brent Stattler, Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After so many well-behaved, six-gram bats<i>,</i> the Pallid bats made
for an impressive change of pace. The first one, an adult female,
emerged from her sample bag reaching forward with her thin wings as if
to grab the nearest headlamp. She gaped threateningly, displaying her sharp
teeth to the entire group. She was backlit, with her translucent wings
and ears creating a ghostly halo around her. The effect lent her a
respectably intimidating look for something that weighed a scant 16
grams. The group, as bat loving as they were, collectively kept their
distance while taking their photographs.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X8djpQ1QxVE/WhOnsoseVNI/AAAAAAAAAGU/In64QAMUevsKOMM0oazYZdItKOnVyIudgCLcBGAs/s1600/Pallid-Bat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="247" data-original-width="280" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X8djpQ1QxVE/WhOnsoseVNI/AAAAAAAAAGU/In64QAMUevsKOMM0oazYZdItKOnVyIudgCLcBGAs/s1600/Pallid-Bat.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Brent Stattler, Utah DWR</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We caught many other Pallids that night, some of which were more
personable. None, though, were overly pleased with being handled, and
they regularly latched on to the fingertips of gloves.
Their teeth, Tony explained, serve them well when they catch and
consume their preferred prey: hard-bodied scorpions and beetles.<br />
<br />
A storm rolled over the mountains around midnight, forcing us to
close the nets to prevent wind damage. The trapping thus ended early,
but it was entirely worth the time: six species of bats, all in all. Not
bad for one night sitting next to a tiny, muddy pond in the middle of
nowhere.<br />
<br />
The people who chatted under the desert sky that night value bats.
Most people, however, don’t know very much about them. Many don’t even
see bats often — perhaps only when they roost in a building, becoming an
unwelcome inconvenience.<br />
<br />
We are determined to prevent that unfamiliarity from breeding
indifference. It’s up to those of us who appreciate bats to educate
people about their importance as insect predators and pollinators. With
continued effort, funding and popular nocturnal gatherings, the DWR can
continue to study, understand and cultivate a love for the bats
acrobatically working Utah’s night skies.<br />
<br />
Did I mention that bats make rum?<br />
<br />
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TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-19138389733345997082012-08-05T10:52:00.000-07:002012-09-30T10:58:45.456-07:00A little validation goes a long way<br />
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A little before 5am on the morn of my 42<sup>nd</sup>
birthday, I left the Cataloochee Valley. The Catalooch, as it is locally known,
is in Great Smoky Mountains National Park and, moreover, it’s where I currently
live. This secluded valley is visited by a tiny minority (~thousands) of the
million-strong throngs who explore more well-known sites along the main thoroughfare
of the park.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wanted to honor my tradition of getting high (uh, in terms
of elevation, that is) on my birthday, and doing so meant that I would have to
venture to those locations more familiar to the tourist crowds. In fact, the
high point I sought is one of the most famous places in the Smokies, aside from
Dollywood: Clingman’s Dome.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had hoped to watch the sunrise from Clingman’s, which
explains why l strove to reach the trailhead before 6:45am. Alas, although the
2+ hour drive to Newfound Gap was bathed in morning glow, the Dome was shrouded
in fog so thick that I couldn’t see across the parking lot. I drowsed in my
truck for an hour waiting for the fog to show some hint of surrender, but it
only seemed to grow heavier. The booming, disembodied voices of obnoxious
groups of college kids and families pierced the gloom. Touring motorcycles
appeared and disappeared, trailing the musical choices of the Harley-mounted dentists
and contractors through the mist. Some people appeared to be hiking up the
trail to the dome itself, a structure known for both its position on the
mountain and its gaudy tackiness. I don’t know what those intrepid day-trippers
expected to see; I suspected that the experience of being in the dome would
have been akin to being wrapped in wet cotton.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I finally gave up and drove away from the parking area. As I lost elevation, the dripping fog began
to lessen. I stopped briefly at the dedication site, where Franklin D. Roosevelt
officially proclaimed the existence of Great Smoky Mountains National Park back
in 1941, watching tendrils of fog drift among the green ridges visible all
around. I wound my way ‘down the
mountain’, as we say here in the Smokies, stopping at a few short nature trails
and spots of interest. I relaxed next to a stream, watched a man back his F-150
into his wife’s minivan while trying to park in a picnic area, honked in panic at
inattentive people drifting into my lane over the double yellow line – in other
words, I had a typical national park experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Having entered the park at the south end of 441, in the casino-funded
town of Cherokee, NC, I decided to exit in that most ‘gatewayish’ of the infamous
gateway communities, Gatlinburg, Tennessee. I had an ulterior motive in doing
so – I could stop in and do some quick shopping while most people were still
standing in line at the pancake houses. One
stop was the Nantahala Outdoor Center. Without going into icky details, I had
realized that one of my hydration bladders was supporting what threatened to
become intelligent life and I planned to pick up a cleaning kit from the NOC. <o:p></o:p></div>
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While in the NOC, I fell into discussion with an older
staffer about various gear and gizmos, as we men of the outdoors are prone to
do. As we talked about the usefulness of various devices for designed to signal
for help, this fellow chanced to mention that he was careful about such things,
because he sometimes guided less-than-capable folks into the woods and he had
to be conscious of his MS. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was intrigued by his mention of our shared disease, and we
talked more. He was a former attack helo pilot (he flew ‘snakes’, which I
suspected meant AH-1 Cobras or variants). His tours in Vietnam and that
technology likely put him a little beyond my father’s age; he was also an ‘SF’
medic. That means Special Forces – I presumed Army – in the acronym-filled and
often unpretentious parlance of the infantry-based Spec Ops community. In sum, then, this old guy was a badass who
had seen and done a great deal but didn’t see the need to brag too much.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I told him that I was in the same boat, medically speaking.
We chatted about this confusing, crippling disease for a few minutes. He said
that he was a ‘reader’ – he started reading about MS after his diagnosis but
almost immediately stopped. I call myself a ‘researcher’ – I too, delved into
the research about MS, but quickly quit:
there is, simply put, not a lot of good news out there. Neither of us
wanted to read the obligatorily horrible stories of tragedy and disability, and
lives destroyed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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His combat medic background allowed him to rationally dismiss
the MS theories about milk allergies, plastic exposure, or bee sting cures,
just as my EMS training led me to do. He’d been diagnosed more than 30 years
ago, and he just kept doing what he wanted to do and hoping for the best. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Jesus</i>, I thought
as I stood there leaning on the GPS cabinet, surrounded by wealthy tourists
buying over-priced backpacks and bear bells. <i>This man is the only other person I’ve met with this damn disease who’s
acting like me</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Two . . ahem . . mature men who’ve spent our lives doing
things, sometimes tough things, outside the norm. No picket fences, no IBM or
WalMart health plans, no 401k. More than that, we continued this wandering life
in the face of the staggering uncertainty that MS uses to crush many people.
We each ignored the wacko theories, tried to dismiss the ubiquitous bad MS
news, worked to stay in good health, and kept on pushing ourselves. We had a
good bit in common, this stranger and I.</div>
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We said farewell and I went on my way. I reflected that our 10-minute
conversation had taken place amid kayaks, backpacks and compasses, parts of a
lifestyle that some people tell me I can’t have any more. Well, they told this
man the same thing – decades ago. His plan worked for him into his 70s, and so
I take this random, unexpected experience as validation of my hopes that my
plan will work for me. I listened to Kasey Chambers on the way home and decided
to squeeze some more travel into my future.<o:p></o:p></div>
TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-90466629928014975912012-07-11T17:50:00.001-07:002020-10-02T04:35:54.662-07:00<br />
It was nearing the end of April, and my first day of driving across the isle of Newfoundland had been uneventful, with sunny – yes, sunny – skies and dry roads, something no one expected. I reached Corner Brook having encountered a minimum of traffic, something which was expected. The ferry website revealed that the nightly crossing had been cancelled due to high winds. I hoped the dawn would bring better weather and retired early in anticipation of driving the remaining 216 km to the marine terminal by 9am the next day.<br />
<br />
I was approaching the terminal in Port aux Basques Saturday morning, having driven 200 of those 216 km, when an automated message informed me that the morning crossing also had been cancelled. Ahead, a truck had been forced off the road (but not rolled over) by the classic Wreckhouse area winds, so I stopped and bowed to the inevitability of the North Atlantic. I returned to Corner Brook and spent most of the day drowsing in my truck in the WalMart parking lot, and walking around the mall when I needed to step out of the truck (the same harsh, frigid wind which was keeping the ferries docked also made outdoor strolling unpleasant). I finally prevailed upon a fellow LESA (Landscape Ecology and Spatial Analysis) labber, Stacey, and her landlord/roommate, Isabelle, a school chum of Yolanda’s, for a place to stay that evening. Thanks, ladies.<br />
<br />
I rose early yet again on Sunday and struck out for the Port aux Basques terminal. The weather front had passed through and the ferries were running. Because of the cancellations over the last few days, my morning crossing was almost empty; even though I was pretty far back in the boarding queue, I parked one row back from the front/unloading door of the ship. The ship’s crew said the evening crossing was scheduled to be full, but there were plenty of empty seats and berths for my cruise.<br />
<br />
When the ferry finally lurched into motion, I went out on the deck and watched Newfoundland’s harsh south coastline retreat rapidly into the snowy distance. The Long Range mountains and the south barrens looked rugged and inviting in a challenging sort of way. It is the landscape of Random Passage and The Shipping News and reflects the singularly brutal introductory narrative by which millions of people have come to know Newfoundland. They are taught about the austerity and little else. It would take too long to contrast the stories of lonely, isolated and backward outport life with my academic, multinational, pseudo-cosmopolitan experiences in St. John’s over the last two years. I’ve come to believe that we’ve struggled, all of us who’ve lived and laughed and loved and learned on The Rock, but in very, very different ways.<br />
<br />
After a mildly unpleasant sensation experienced while assisting Emily ‘Captain Cod’ Zimmerman in her statistically-driven gadiform-jigging duties, I feared that I might get seasick on the passage, given the whitecaps and swells. After wolfing down a really crappy sandwich, however, the huge ship promptly rocked me to sleep. I snoozed in the viewing lounge facing out over the Cabot Straight, under a sign which explained in four languages that no one was allowed to sleep in the lounge. Over the six-hour ride, almost everyone in the room was asleep at some point. Some slept soundly, snoring, while others, like me, woke and quickly returned to sleep whenever a strong wave hit the hull and sent spray high into the air, splashing against the large observation windows, seven decks above the water.<br />
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Within four hours, Cape Breton had replaced the horizon featureless horizon of the North Atlantic on starboard. Two hours later, with little fanfare and considerably less shouting, gesturing, exhaust fumes and general complexity than my last superferry deboarding (February 2010), I set foot on the mainland of North America for the first time in over two years.<br />
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For those years, the bulk of the continent had been so near and yet so far, in terms of mail service and politics and shopping and weather, that my sudden transition from the Rock to the Rest of the World seemed a little surreal. Unlike other MUN students, I had not flown home from St. John’s for holidays or concerts; I still have no idea how they afforded all that travel while I went into debt buying groceries and spark plugs. The sensation of arriving in a new world was intensified as I stopped at a small road-side motel and paid $40 for a room. My 6-hour stay in a Corner Brook Holiday Inn cost $150.<br />
<br />
I arrived at the international border crossing in the hamlet of Houlton, Maine, armed with itemized lists of my belongings and protracted explanations as to where I’d been for the last two years. Unlike my entry into Canada, the DHS border guard simply asked me where I was born, where I was going, and if I was bringing anything into the country that I didn’t have when I left it. As one might guess, I hadn’t done a lot of shopping for durable goods as a grad student, and the few expensive things I’d bought were all shipped from the US anyway. As I looked at him, broad-chested, buffed, crewcut and wearing military-style BDU clothing and flak gear, I thought about:<br />
<br />
(a) joking that 30% of my truck was now comprised of Canadian auto parts; or<br />
<br />
(b) explaining that the RNC, the RCMP and the CBSA had been surprisingly effective - for competing federal agencies, I mean - in their conspired efforts to confiscate and destroy my Marlin .22 rifle<br />
<br />
but in the end I bowed to expediency and simply said ‘no’. He gave me a perfunctory 'welcome home' and waved me through.<br />
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Home? I thought. Personally speaking, that’s a much more complicated concept than it was even just a few years ago. In the name of road-numbed half-consciousness, I shrugged off the pending introspection and prepared myself for the loud, aggressive onslaught of NE US traffic. This preparation neglected the fact that I was still in northern Maine. The roads of Maine where hemmed in by timber on either side – dark forests brimming with moose, and in that way they continued the trend of the roads on which I’d been since I left Regina Place. But as I left the coast, the Maine sun revealed itself in a blue sky and soon the bulk of the northern terminus of the AT and that storied outdoorsperson’s mecha, Katahdin, appeared. I’m no Main-ah, but it was a beautiful area.<br />
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The rest of the trip was characterized by linking numerous interstate highways together to take me on my southeasterly course, in the process avoiding New York city, Philly, Washington, D.C and New Jersey entirely. I passed through so many states that I had trouble keeping track of which jurisdiction I was in at any given time. The traffic did get heavy at times, but remained surprisingly well-mannered. I stayed in cheap motels along the way, slowly reminding my body what beds feel like.<br />
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After skimming north of the most thickly-populated areas of my homeland, I met my boss at the BP (that’s not a BP station; it is the BP which serves as my main social outlet - Britney, Amanda and that friendly old guy - and main source of last-minute groceries, batteries, morning pastries and gas). Then I proceeded to wind along the narrow mountain road which led to the secluded and historically significant valley simply called Cataloochee. I pulled into the ranger station and introduced myself to my flatmates and neighbors: elk, pileated woodpeckers, two species of mice, a toad or two, quite a few turkeys, and a few bears. <br />
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While my arrival in the Cataloochee Valley was not celebrated (the mice may have even complained), it did mark the end of my 2700-mile odyssey, including as it did long hours, complex intersections and signage, variable road conditions, exhaustion, delicate negotiations with all manner of large, fast-moving tractor-trailer rigs, rain, fog and night driving. Naturally, my first assignment for GRSM was to click through a three-hour DOI online training about safe/defensive driving.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-25962636361376553212012-04-26T14:01:00.001-07:002012-04-26T14:01:39.939-07:00Friday: Corner Brook, or as close to the west coast (of Newfoundland) as I can get<br />
<br />
Saturday: mainland North America and all points east<br />
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I leave the Rock in the same manner in which I arrived - a six to ten hour ferry ride (let's hope for six, shall we?) with my truck and RocketBox loaded to capacity, although I don't seem to own much other than clothes, camping gear, and books. This will be followed by Nova Scotia, then New Brunswick, then into the good 'ol US of A via Houlton, Maine.<br />
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Provided CBSA lets me out, and CBP lets me in, I should re-enter the country of my birth on Sunday. This marks the first time in 27 months that I've been in the US or even on the continent proper. I hope there are no firearms issues: Canada took away my .22 rifle; will the US allow me to enter unarmed?<br />
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I leave having defended, but not finished, my thesis. The onus is on me to keep writing each night in hopes of producing a draft to my committee this summer. Being the oddball scientist, writing is easier for me that numbers, so I think I can pull it off. I will be doing that pulling from the Appalachians. I return to the green and gray in the early days of May, joining the ranks of those harassing the elk of Great Smoky Mountains National Park.<br />
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Yes, the thought of finishing my thesis alone is intimidating, but first I have to concentrate on starting my new job. Yes, the thought of starting my new job is intimidating, but first I have to concentrate on driving from Maine to North Carolina. Yes, the thought of driving down the eastern seaboard is intimidating, but first I have to concentrate on getting across the island. Yes, the thought of driving across Newfoundland is intimidating, but first I have to finish packing . . . ah, well, you get the point. Generally, my plans involving avoiding Boston, New York, New Jersey, the Washington, DC, area, trying to minimize sleeping in the driver's seat and encountering no snow.<br />
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So, in sum, tomorrow begins another series of days lived entirely on the road (or in the belly of a superferry) with most of my life on my back, much like a turtle or a snail. I hope to make better speed than either of those taxa, but safe and slow(er) has gotten me through snowy Montana mountains and icy Newfoundland roads, and hence it should get me to the southlands.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-67707552424612113042011-05-25T16:47:00.001-07:002011-05-25T17:18:23.011-07:00Permanent VacationTo anyone who might be interested, May marked the publication of <span style="font-style: italic;">Permanent Vacation</span>. Not to be confused with the 2001 album from Aerosmith, this is a collection of musings and stories from National Park Service employees about their times living amid some of the continent's most unforgettable landscapes. They are western tales, including one from yours truly and four others, new and old, from good ol' Yellowstone.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Edwz0raeUo/Td2bUb0kC3I/AAAAAAAAAD4/IL8AbdQIzHw/s1600/PV.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Edwz0raeUo/Td2bUb0kC3I/AAAAAAAAAD4/IL8AbdQIzHw/s1600/PV.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 186px; height: 299px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Edwz0raeUo/Td2bUb0kC3I/AAAAAAAAAD4/IL8AbdQIzHw/s320/PV.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610811486141418354" border="0" /></a><br />The book is published by the hip artisans at Bona Fide Books, a small press in Tahoe deserving a lot of support. There is more information at their website . .<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> http://www.bonafidebooks.com<br /><br /><br /></div><www.bondafide.com>their cool book-promotion site </www.bondafide.com>. .<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">http://www.pvstories.net<www.bondafide.com><www.pvstories.net></www.pvstories.net></www.bondafide.com><br /><www.bondafide.com><www.pvstories.net></www.pvstories.net></www.bondafide.com></div><www.bondafide.com><www.pvstories.net><br />and even . . (gasp!)<br /></www.pvstories.net></www.bondafide.com><div style="text-align: center;"><www.bondafide.com><www.pvstories.net>Facebook</www.pvstories.net></www.bondafide.com><br /><www.bondafide.com><www.pvstories.net></www.pvstories.net></www.bondafide.com></div><www.bondafide.com><www.pvstories.net><br />This fantastic little book is available from Bona Fide and Amazon.com (but NOT amazon.ca . . sigh . . don't get me started.)</www.pvstories.net></www.bondafide.com>TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-42288045370431377502011-02-13T03:29:00.000-08:002011-02-13T04:24:29.745-08:00Happy Anniversary to meToday the sun rises (speaking theoretically; we don't actually see the sun very often but we continue to believe in its existence) on the first anniversary of my arrival on The Rock. <br /><br />Yes, it was in the bygone days of 2010 that I found myself at the mythical eastern terminus of the Trans-Canada Highway. Despite the assurances of maps and a number of apparently knowledgeable people, I was not in Halifax. Not even close. On the 13th of February, I was on Kenmount Drive in St. Johns, Newfoundland (NOT Saint John, New Brunswick, DUH!), sitting in the parking lot of the Traveller's Inn, trying to dig my laptop out of the copious amounts of clothing which I'd piled up in the truck to keep me warm during previous nights of sleeping in the cab. Those nights had grown increasingly abusive on my body and I was determined to steal some Wifi and find a cheap motel in which I could crash. Now, after a year, I'm not convinced there are any really cheap hotels in Canada. <br /><br />There was (luckily) nothing like the snow last February as we have this year, so driving around back then was much easier even though I got lost in town a lot. I was going to talk about how things have changed, but I continue to get lost in town a good deal. Now, though, I recognize the places in which I become disoriented. 'Ah, yes,' I think, 'I know this #$%*&ing area - I've been lost here before.'<br /><br />Some things, of course, have changed. I know more about Newfoundland and Atlantic Canada's academic environment than I ever thought I would, and probably more than 99% of the human population. I am almost - again, in theory - halfway through my graduate education: three semesters out of six. During those semesters I've explored and rejected the possibilities of six or seven theses, but now I have a thesis topic and I sort of even kinda understand it. Mostly.<br /><br />Well, there it is. A pretty insignificant, insular and fairly esoteric anniversary in the tragically uninteresting life of the oddest CFA (Come From Away = not born here) at Memorial University. It does however lend itself to a body of evidence: like spotting a tiny, blinking light in the distance though an icy North Atlantic wind-driven fog, it's proof that I'm still afloat. Raise your glasses, ya'll in Texas and Montana and California and Washington - I'm still alive and kicking.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-25819535823529237162010-09-06T18:18:00.000-07:002010-09-06T18:27:50.406-07:00It Begins<center>The Poop Neareth the Fan<br />or<br />Let the Games Begin</center><br /><br />Dateline: St. John’s, Newfoundland (that’s in Canada). I went to Signal Hill today, desperately to avoid the MUN campus and its attendant crowds of undergrads and families carrying furniture and musical instruments into the dorms.<br /><br />Signal Hill is a notably famous site among many such historical structures and localities in St. John’s – known as North America’s oldest city, the first North American city to see the sun rise, the easternmost community in North America, or occasionally sin city (from rural Newfoundlanders). Like many of these historical places, one cannot really talk about Signal Hill without starting at the beginning, which ‘round here usually takes one back to the 1600s if not earlier. I’m way too tired for that. Google ‘Parks Canada’ and ‘Signal Hill’ if ya want a tour.<br /><br />Suffice it to say that I left Florida, where I lived among long-silenced coastal defense batteries, to live in the Officer’s Quarters of Fort Yellowstone, only find myself once again standing among coastal defense canons with a strategic view of my community. And yet I’ve never been a soldier.<br /><br />Anyway, walking the hiking trails around the hill gives the observer great views of St. John’s Harbor, the city, the Narrows, the endless horizon of the North Atlantic and more gulls than I thought possible. A walker is also exposed to gale-force blasts of salt-laden air, which are locally termed ‘breezes’.<br /><br />Being the tail end of the Labor Day holiday (excuse me, Labour Day), I was surrounded by tourists. Still, better that than the activity on campus, resembling as it does a disturbed anthill where the ants wear really big sunglasses and spotless white baseball caps.<br /><br />Classes start on Wednesday, and it was only with some digging that I was able to determine when one of my classes meets, and where. I had to query students who’d already taken the class, as no such information is posted anywhere, online or otherwise. Sort of an academic oral tradition, I guess.<br /><br />I don’t know which classes I’m TAing either. Makes it kind of hard to prep, as I see it, but I’m told not to worry. Teaching assistants fall in line after a Lead Lab Instructor and an Assistant Lab Instructor, both of which are professional, union positions. I’m sure you can imagine how important the contributions of grad students are under such circumstances.<br /><br />Despite the promise of meaningless TAships, it was explained to me that, starting at sunrise on Wednesday, my future is best understood as ‘feeling like you’re running around with your hair on fire’. I’ve precious little hair to burn, but I have been a graduate student for eight months now and it’s probably about time that I actually spend some time in school. Minitab, here I come, ready or not.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-75467836058367700132010-09-02T07:27:00.000-07:002019-05-04T16:35:34.719-07:00Hurricanes? Again?Given my tenure aboard a precariously thin barrier island situated along Florida’s northern gulf coast, I can honestly say that I’ve weathered my fair share of hurricanes. In those years, I somewhat grudgingly learned that despite the dangers and the inconveniences hurricanes bring, like most things in life, they have their upsides as well. <br />
<br />
I recall those powerful tropical storms as the only force which could disturb the Floridian high-pressure Shangri-La – blue, cloudless skies, highs in the 90s (35 C), lows in the 70s (23 C). Indeed, a hurricane rolling in was one of the only things that could thin the crowds of tourists, so adamantly were they determined to be On Vacation. The winds created exciting surf from the usually flat, placid coastal waters of the gulf. Given the endlessly repetitive, admittedly perfect Florida summer days, storms provided some relief from the innocuous, mundane weather sought with fervor by vacationers, beach bums and sun worshipers.<br />
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The highly-organized weather systems which so often damaged and sometimes completely obliterated the frail human toeholds on the coast were in fact an ecological process with generally beneficial results for the rest of the gulf’s denizens. True, some sea turtle nests drown, and some nesting shorebirds colonies are flooded when the storm arrives, but the following season those turtles, terns and skimmers return to newly-created habitat, wrested from the grip of coastal plant succession and high-rise condos. Psychological escape from fair-weather boredom and the maintenance of ecological diversity: these things, at least to me, represented the benefits of hurricanes and tropical storms.<br />
<br />
The less enjoyable aspects of hurricanes are well documented and innately understood by those who choose to live near the coast. The economic costs of the damage and the invariable post-storm cleanup, the disruption – and tragically – the loss of human lives, the days or weeks without power or roads, the flooding, the fear and worry.<br />
<br />
I will likely be spared such serious consequences in my current location, situated on a hunk of ancient rock jutting out into a remote section of cold water in the north Atlantic. However, I have been horrified to find that I won’t be spared one of the more, well, as Lisa might be temped to say, <i> annoying</i> aspects of a hurricane season: incessant media coverage.<br />
<br />
The current storm of interest to eastern Canada is named, sadly, Earl. I guess Edwin and Ernie were unavailable. I’ve already been through a hurricane named Earl, which I referred to as ‘the lame storm with the goofy name’. <br />
<br />
This new storm called Earl is the subject of hourly updates by the local news agencies. Much like along the US coasts, the objective of the Canadian media is evidently to accurately pinpoint Earl every time he moves more than 12 miles. What is more, they too display every projected track (called ‘spaghetti diagrams’ on CBC; I don’t recall hearing that in the US), overlaid with the general track, various windspeed zones, and satellite photos. The importance of this intense effort is somewhat dampened by what folks like to call the Cone of Uncertainty.<br />
<br />
Referring the large swath, at times stretching from the eastern coast of Newfoundland to Jacksonville, Florida, and often colored red to freak everyone out, forecasters admit – every freakin’ hour – that a hurricane may choose to make landfall anywhere in the Cone, contrary to any early predictions.<br />
<br />
“Here’s what we know right now, ladies and gentleman, but this projection is 100 hours out and will likely change as time goes on.”<br />
<br />
“Folks, you can see the storm right here on the map, and the projected landfall in five days is looking like here<insert choice="" location="" of="">, although that will probably change.”<br /><br />The size and force of the hurricane is always another source of nebulous information:<br /><br />“Earl’s winds have increased 7 KPH and he is now a Category 4 storm!”<br /><br />“Windspeeds have fallen by 4 KPH so Earl is now a Category 3.”<br /><br />“Wait, we’re just received an update and Earl is now a Category 4 . . no, he’s back down to a 3 . . oh, just a moment, he may be a 4 again. Yes!”<br /><br />I actually heard this morning that he's a '4 and a half'. I have to wonder if there is an albatross out there somewhere laughing about the human preoccupation with difference between 204 and 211 KPH winds.<br /><br />And so, with a deep, calming, breath, I listen to update after update – and qualifying statements about how uncertain those prediction are – on TV each day. As an experienced storm watcher, though, I know that this is only the pre-game show: as the storm nears landfall, the media can only wait and make repeated guesses bolstered by reports from the Canadian Hurricane Center (I didn’t even know there was such a thing until a few days ago). <br /><br />But once the hurricane begins battering its way onshore, however, the next phase begins. I can’t be sure about Canada’s media, but in the US it is customary to find the youngest or otherwise lowest-ranked member of the news staff, give them a North Face jacket, a mike, and a similarly undervalued cameraman, and then send them out into the storm. Anyone living in US hurricane country is familiar with the images of soaked, wind- and rain-pelted reporters, a species born in the proverbial shadows of towering eyewalls and swirling stormclouds, which for a brief time become a more frequent sight than disoriented frigate birds and floating cars (by the way, if you’re curious – Gore-Tex doesn’t breath in Florida).<br /><br />I suppose I’ll just have to wait for landfall to see how the Canadian media handles the sea-land transition of violent low-pressure weather systems, although I don’t suspect it will be that different from the US. I’ll get hell for saying that, but there it is.<br /><br />The concluding, and often most painful, stage of this process occurs once the storm has pushed inland. After the hurricane loses integrity and organization, the massive amount of moisture present in the storm falls as rain determined to make its way back to the sea as floodwater. The reporters then descend on ruined communities, seeking returning residents and the shock-numbed dumbasses who decided to ‘ride out the storm’. To get the scoop as to how they feel about the destruction of their homes and neighborhoods, you see. Particularly, it seems, they seek out the most thickly-accented, dentally-challenged people for such interviews. Well, Canada ain’t exactly lacking in rednecks, though their health care system promotes better tooth and gum care, so I’ll have to wait and see.</insert>TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-74999982637715291002010-07-02T19:22:00.000-07:002010-07-18T07:26:58.583-07:00“Well, that’s a &^%*ing game changer,” I said, looking down at the broken trap in my hand.<br /><br />For her part, Teresa kept her own counsel and remained uncharacteristically quiet as I ranted at the bug-filled darkness outside the cabin. The disgust finally subsided and I sat down at the indoor picnic table that serves as our desk, kitchen and map-reading locale.<br /><br />“I’ll have to talk to Yolanda (my major professor) about this,” I growled to no one in particular as I scribbled this simple little phrase in my field notebook: ‘situation is worrisome’.<br /><br />Worrisome, indeed. On the first night of one particular trap set, it was raided by a black bear sow and her widdle COY. That was not unexpected; as most of my friends and everyone else <i>should</i> know, hang some some meat in the woods and bears will eventually show up. I should say that when you’re trying to trap bears, they sometimes refuse to cooperate. Because I was after coyotes, I’m sure this particular ursid felt no compunctions about stomping all around my 6-trap set. <br /><br />Her arrival, then, was not a big surprise at that point. I was mostly disappointed to lose bait (a tiny little moose calf quarter) in a place where dead animal parts are ridiculously hard to come by. To wit: 700 moose struck by vehicles a year and I can’t even frikking buy dead meat. I got lucky with a sympathetic Parks Canada biologist and a young Conservation Officer – thanks, guys – who took pity on me, allowing me to create a grand total of about 10 hunks of meat (little moose, big moose, and one bear) for the entire summer. Not much to work with, especially with bears stealing it.<br /><br />Back to the trapping. Given the structure of a bear’s foot, I thought the most that my 3.0 soft-catch foothold traps would do to an adult bear is grab a few toes. The dexterity and strength of an irritated bear would quickly take care of the rest: they’d growl, bite the trap and generally throw a fit, in the process quickly pulling their toes free – they still have three other hands, mind you. This is, in fact, exactly what happened. The toe-catch did so little to bother her that she thoroughly explored the area and found the rest of the satellite baits I’d spread around the site. <br /><br />I should mention that the possibility of catching a cub was also there, for which I had already arranged a release plan involving two very watchful people, two cans of bear spray and hopefully no more than a bluff charge. Luckily I didn’t mention this to anyone, being later assured that such a plan would have apparently caused a meltdown in university Risk Management circles.<br /><br />If some yummy critter had stumbled into these traps, I would have reset them. A trap site smelling of hare, rabbit, or some such would have been a gift from heaven. A trap site stinking of angry bear does not promote visits by a wary canid. So I dug the traps out, annoyed and a little amused. Bears 1, TD 0. As big game hunter Robert Muldoon famously said of that lethal and oversized species of Velociraptor in Jurassic Park, she was a <i>clever girl</i>.<br /><br />I threw the traps in the truck and moved on. It was not until later that I picked up that particular trap, only have the 'butterfly' (a kind of anchor so named for its shape) fall free from the chain. The butterfly and the chain are, of course, what keeps the trap anchored to stakes. These are driven into the ground, the combined effect of this arrangement being that the theoretical trapped coyote is unable to leave. Ideally. <br /><br />I stared at the trap for a long time. One of the chain links had been broken – instead of forming an O, it now looked more like a C. The stakes and anchor had held while she pulled, but the chain came within a hair’s breadth of completely failing. If luck had not intervened, that sow would have walked away with a trap on her foot.<br /><br />I remain fairly confident that an adult bear would still get a trap off fairly soon, yanking on the trap until his or her toes popped out. However, any number of other things could happen in the interim: this bear could get shot raiding a cabin, or hit by a car, or just run out in front of some guy on an ATV. In each case, the image presented to the pubic is a bear walking around with a trap on its foot. My trap. That’s not cool.<br /><br />Upon presenting these ugly scenarios to my major professor, I indicated that I would fall on my dull sword – pack my bags and leave today – rather than have a critter loose out there with one of my traps on it. <br /><br />To be uncomfortably and abrasively honest, I’ve had more than few dark thoughts about how I sacrificed my career, not a few belongings, all of my savings and much of my life to end up as a foreigner at the edge of the continent, while so many friends seem to have found projects that allow them to work, retain their house, and keep their significant other, the aforementioned boy- or girlfriend feeding the dogs and visiting every few months. That was not meant to be my path; so be it. Things are not any easier for those folks than for me and I suspect that Newfoundland has things to teach me yet. But even with all the sacrifices I’ve made, including those yet to come, a degree just isn’t worth putting an animal through that.<br /><br />Being much wiser than I and less pre-disposed to self-sacrifice, Yolanda agreed that – with me leading the way – we’ve collectively reached The End of Trapping. The coyotes of the Newfoundland boreal forest have ignored scent lures, visual lures and dug up trail sets. And though I still maintain we could catch ‘em on carcasses, a) I can’t find a carcass to save my life and b) all the meat is moot if the bears get there first.<br /><br />So with her blessing and guidance, I’ll just have to come up with a new project, that’s all. As a favor, please don’t ask me what that will be, for I have absolutely no ___________________________ ing clue.<br /><br />Well, there it is. I’ve been here six months. And in less than a month of actual fieldwork, I officially ended our lab’s multi-year and multi-student attempt to catch Newfoundland coyotes in the boreal forest. I'm off to the woods for the next two weeks, but when I get back I think I'll hang up one of those ‘Mission Accomplished’ banners.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-17715368759270987252010-03-21T16:35:00.000-07:002010-03-21T17:19:00.351-07:00 Aboot Town <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UGFfkr_NaIE/S6a2MpAbG1I/AAAAAAAAACo/ANk1khMSuU4/s1600-h/Ranger+Plaque.JPG"><br /></a><br />I combined two activities today, sightseeing and geocaching. I’ve done very little touring (unless you count driving around lost in this $%*ing town) since I left Yellowstone; I’ve never tried geocaching at all before. <br /><br />I broke out the GPS, a street map, and a Google map (generally, experience has shown that if I consult all three I reduce the odds of getting <i>completely</i> lost) and navigated to a geocache which was located at a small monument to the Newfoundland Ranger Force. Before they were assimilated into the RCMP, the NL Rangers served as the law, EMS, wildlife enforcement, firefighters, SAR, relief agents, and truant officers. To the 80% of the island too far away from a comfortable bed to be served by the RNC, rangers were the representatives of a far-away national government (the Republic of Newfoundland). Modeled after the Irish Constabulary, they served the island’s outports and small communities for almost twenty years before confederation. There wasn’t much at the site, except a plaque to the Ranger’s training house, which burned down years ago, and a little geocache next to a running/biking trail.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UGFfkr_NaIE/S6a2MpAbG1I/AAAAAAAAACo/ANk1khMSuU4/s1600-h/Ranger+Plaque.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UGFfkr_NaIE/S6a2MpAbG1I/AAAAAAAAACo/ANk1khMSuU4/s320/Ranger+Plaque.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451244727260879698" border="0" /></a><br />Geocaching is a niche sport, combining outdoor treasure hunting with GPS technology, because Heaven Forbid (!) anyone should go outside without an electronic device in their hand. Likewise, who would think to look at a tree or examine the ground if there’s no promise of a container full of notes and trinkets? Ever heard of tracks? Hmph.<br /><br />Despite my old-school grumbles, geocaching has its place – and it does get nerds out of the house; I’ve seen proof. I myself spent at least 30 minutes outside of my truck/campus lab/bedroom. I also should admit that since sources of information about anything other than (a) guided bird-watching tours, (b) snowmobiling trails, (c) snowmobiling trails, (d) guided whale-watching tours or (e) snowmobiling trails are few and far between in Newfoundland, geocaching was how some of my CFA (Come From Away) brethren have discovered little areas of parkland or decent hikes ‘round these parts. Break out the beat-up eTrex and the spare batteries, I guess.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-63560890300960339202010-03-19T08:23:00.000-07:002010-03-19T08:40:34.981-07:00 I must be lucky Probability is a funny thing. We who are not statisticians tend to create perceptions of risk based on our own personal experiences, which is understandable and just as obviously out of whack with reality (‘I’ve never had a car accident, so the likelihood of my having one is low’). Many people drive their cars through frighteningly heavy traffic every day, yet find the risk of bear attack so intimidating that they hike in abject fear during their once-a-year visit to a national park.<br /><br />I carried a ‘major injury’ health policy during the Montana winters, supposing that the risk of breaking my leg while trying to ski was a moderate to high probability. I was completely oblivious to the probability of contracting a rare disease. Low and behold, I didn’t break my leg (a fact which is probably explained by my flexibility, not my downhill skill), but I did end up with multiple sclerosis.<br /><br />The odds of being diagnosed are relatively modest, 1 in 1000 by most estimates. I was much more likely to be in a car wreck or contract any number of common cancers. I guess that makes me pretty lucky. In this particular case, my luck was bad, but lucky nonetheless.<br /><br />I’ve spent the last month carrying my medical records around St. John's in my pack and communicating with people on both sides of the border (neurochem corporations, schools, insurance companies, nurses, doctors, and bureaucrats of all stripe), endlessly explaining my unique case. I’m a non-Canadian temporarily residing in Canada for school. No job, no family, not planning to stay. <br /><br />I further explain to these folks that I, like everyone here in the Dominion of Canada, have free access to a doctor, hospitalization and surgery. Then comes the tedious discussion of (my) MS: a medical condition which costs thousands of dollars a year but requires no hospitalization or surgery. Being a non-citizen makes me ineligible for the federal and provincial programs which cover medication. <br /><br />I don't need a doc but I have one; I need medication but I can't get it. By the time I get done explaining this circuitous situation, the other end of the line was often silent for a moment. More than once I’ve had people sputter on for a bit before finally offering to call me back after they’ve consulted with a supervisor. <br /><br />“This is, well . . . somewhat . . . unusual . . .”<br /><br />I guess it’s the price I pay to be so lucky. The poor souls in customer assistance who deal with the masses day in and day out were just unprepared for lucky bastards like me. <br /><br />While I do consider my luck contracting MS to be bad, I have to admit that my luck in terms of condition and progression is pretty good. It’s my theorem that this is what’s confusing people in the medical establishment so much: if I were lying in a hospital, or in a wheelchair, requiring thousands of dollars in care, everyone would understand. If I were a healthy, active person who runs and pumps weights and hikes and bikes, who needs to go to a GP once in a while and get a ‘script for a headache or sinus infection, that would make sense. <br /><br />The source of confusion for everyone is that I’m a healthy person doing all those healthy things, yet I’m also sick and cost lots of money. So, like I said, I’m pretty lucky: some of it is good, some bad.<br /><br />Today, I got the word that Teva Neuroscience Inc. approved my request for financial assistance. They will subsidize some of the $10,000+ cost of my medication, putting it within reach of my student insurance. So I can now complete the great circle of modern western medicine: go see a doctor AND afford the meds. <br /><br />For the last month, I have lost a good bit of sleep and operated every day under the looming possibility that, after all I’ve done to get here, I would have to leave Canada; my post-bacc adventure was over before it even started. Now, even a cynical statistician would say that the probability of that outcome is pretty low. <br /><br />And the sun in shining in March in St. John's! It seems like my luck is holding.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-49715562041792726622010-02-22T06:33:00.000-08:002010-02-22T06:47:06.762-08:00 I hate Facebook I cannot abide FB. In response to inquires from my friends, Facebook refused to let me write more than three FRIKKING COMPLETE SENTENCES (I was 'using too many words', it complained). So unless folks want updates like 'I'm fine', you'll have to come here. Sorry, but don't blame me - my ever-so-slightly verbose nature is not the problem. <br /><br />After taking the time to point that out, I'll go on to say that the only news from the Canadian side is that I'm leaving town tomorrow for a week in the sopping wet dog-hair timber referred to as 'the woods' by townies. Tony told me not to bring trekking poles because I'd lose them in the post-logging regrowth and I'll need both hands to push through it. It reminds me of some of those burned areas on the west side/Madison, sections of which hold the distinction as the only terrain ever to bring me to tears. We'll be venturing out from a Parks Canada government cabin to count snowshoe hare tracks, in exchange for laughable compensation (why does this scenario seem oddly familiar . . ?). <br /><br />Anyhew, don't look for any verbage from me for a spell. I secretly hope I’ll be able to report a soggy lynx sighting upon my return.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-72244946553167479002010-02-13T15:19:00.000-08:002010-03-08T17:55:28.957-08:00 I made it <i>Grant me, O Sacred Heart, a steady hand and watchful eye, that none shall be hurt as I pass by . . . <o:p></o:p></i><br /><br />I officially, profusely and wholeheartedly thank Saint Christopher (the patron saint of travelers) and the dude in Bozeman who steered me to the best set of windshield wipers I’ve ever used. Without those two personages, along with the influence of some of the oddest weather since white people started keeping records, I doubt I could have succeeded in my cross-continent journey. Indeed, if I had known beforehand what kind of country my route was to take me through, particularly the jig through the mountains of New Brunswick which was necessary to skirt the practically roadless region of northern Maine, I would have probably not attempted it.<br /><br />Despite that promise of snowy and ice, I was instead greeted exclusively with two other elements during the trip: water and mud. I was going to take a picture of my truck at one point because so spattered in mud and slush was it that the vehicle no longer appeared white; I carried a roll of paper towels and a bottle of window cleaner.<br /><br />Alas, the last two days have been characterized by 100kph drives through spitting cold rain, and so the truck appears clean again.<br /><br />While my friends in Atlanta and my sister in Dallas had to deal with more snow than has ever been recorded thereabouts, and I arrived in the snowiest, cloudiest, windiest city in the Dominion of Canada without having shifted in 4WD once. Now that I’m here, though, I’m sure I’ll be slipping around town tomorrow.<br /><br />It has been almost a decade since I packed up my life and drove from Florida to Wyoming. Before that, it was Texas, Oregon and California. I have to admit that the whole frikkin’ process seemed a lot easier back then. But there is no denying that this day marks the widest distribution of my life to date. And that ain’t too bad for a guy who didn’t have a passport until 2007.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-30474396345735687552010-02-08T15:25:00.000-08:002010-02-15T17:40:09.356-08:00On The Road“Where ya goin’ na, eh?”<br /><br />“Whoa! You’re a long way, na?”<br /><br />Loose translation: ‘What the hell are you doing here?’<br /><br />Polite to a fault but less conscious of personal boundaries, more than a few Canadians have done a double-take at my Montana plates and followed up with questions. When I tell ‘em Newfoundland, I might as well say I’m driving to Mongolia.<br /><br />Leaving the ol’ GMGM, I plowed through eastern Montana, North Dakota and a confusing amalgam of Minnesota, Michigan and Wisconsin, slowing only as I approached the world’s friendliest border at Sault Ste. Marie. Trying to get information about the Sault was an experience that I’ll have to parody more in the future. More than half a dozen people in the UP, some within 150 miles of the place, proclaimed that they’d ‘never been that way’ or proclaimed no knowledge of the town. I was waiting for a grizzled old man with an eye patch to step out of the shadows and growl, ‘Aye, fair traveler, there be dragons to the east.’ <br /><br />Given the whispers and wide-eyed gasps, I was prepared to drop off the edge of the earth. Instead, I arrived at a border station staffed by bored CBSA agents (the place was almost completely empty). I successfully convinced a uniformed CBSA kid that, yes, I am actually a 39 year-old American going to school in a region of Canada about which he’s probably heard only vague rumors. I then spent a few shamelessly relaxed days in the care of a friend from days past. Tina and her husband Paul fed me, showed me the local sights in the Sault and generally helped me ignore the huge, overwhelming risk that I’m engaged in. <br /><br />I headed out from the Sault through Ottawa, Montreal and Quebec City. Ottawa and Montreal were, to this small-town rube, intimidatingly large cities while Quebec City was about the same size as Austin (500,000) when I lived there back in the day. It also probably didn’t help that my only familiarity with Ottawa was seeing Mac Hudson fly over its skyline in the Guardian suit (if you’ve never heard of John Byrne or Alpha Flight, just skip that reference). By Monday the 7th, I was out of Quebec and I could once again read highway signage. <br /><br />I’ll pass through New Brunswick and Nova Scotia on Tuesday. Once I get to Sydney, NS, I’ll leave terra firma for the rock (via a 6-hour ride aboard a superferry). After a few additional days of driving, totaling 8 or 9 days, I should arrive in St. John’s. Not bad time for covering a distance measuring 45% of the planet’s diameter.<br /><br />In conclusion, then, I have traveled through some of the least populated areas in the United Sates and some of the most populated areas in the Dominion of Canada. And it wasn’t all that easy to tell the difference.TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-82094374236533151312010-01-29T12:57:00.000-08:002010-02-12T18:35:18.339-08:00 Farewell 2010 And so we arrive once again at the point where I bid farewell to the NPS and Yellowstone. Travis has referred to this as my second annual going away. While there were some great experiences this summer, many things in the GYE have not changed for me (see my Farewell 2008 entry if you’re so inclined).<br /><br />The summer of 2009 was . . . complicated. Given the impossibility of coherent explanation, I’ll simply say that I learned a lot about unexpected topics and surprisingly little about the subjects in which I‘d planned to immerse myself.<br /><br />I was able to do things which, had I done them regularly in these past nine years, might have given me a different perspective on Yellowstone. Working for the affable Gunther, I squeezed out a few adventures and visited a few places in this park that not many people see. That ain’t bad for the last summer of my 30s.<br /><br />The summer of 2009 was hard on my friends; much harder on some than I realized at the time. The winter has been hard on my family: deaths, Alzheimer’s, cancer. My friends and family have one big, fat, ugly thing in common this year: I wasn’t there for them.<br /><br />I was considering my upcoming move, thinking that I would be so far away from everyone as to become irrelevant. As I passed for the last time (for a while at least) under the watchful, objective gaze of the Beartooths, I wonder if that’s already happened.<br /><br />To say that I regret that possibility would be a colossal understatement. I’ve though a lot about the reasons, and come to the conclusion that the ‘why’ doesn’t really matter. I will either be forgiven or I won’t. I find that I have nothing in my heart but fervent hope that all those people who I care about will flourish in the days to come. I’d even go so far as to direct them <span style="font-style: italic;">to live long and prosper</span> – but Jenny Jones would never let me live that one down.<br /><br />Now then. Rumors are rampant, as if I would expect anything else from the YCR. Allow me to lay it down for those interested in the facts.<br /><br />Yes, I did get into graduate school. No, I did not get into UM (Missoula) because I’m not smart enough. Well, really, I’m not the right kind of smart. I blow the top off the standardized testing charts in terms of verbal skills, something I was honestly surprised to learn is freakishly rare. It’s also spectacularly useless, especially in science. A mild, frustrating learning disability in the quantitative realm led many to doubt my fitness for higher education.<br /><br />Despite all that, I’m headed off to school in Canada. And not just any whitebread school in British Columbia or Alberta, either – I’ll be attending Memorial University. MUN is located on the island of Newfoundland and is billed as the largest university in Atlantic Canada. Because of the absurd cost of a) Uhauling to Canada, b) shipping to Canada, and c) generally reaching Newfoundland, I’ve given away or sold everything that won’t fit in my truck and/or in the spiffy new huge-ass Rocketbox™ which I’ve bolted to the roof rack.<br /><br />I’m praying for moderate weather through the Dakotas. It’s a straight shot to Minneapolis/St. Paul, where I will proceed to plunge through the dark forests of the UP (eh!) in Michigan to cross the world’s friendliest border at Sault Ste. Marie. An NPS friend from way back married a Canuck and lives there now. Once I’m done declaring all of my personal property, getting a permit for my bear spray and .22 rifle, and successfully convincing a border guard that I’ll leave when they tell me to, I can then proceed to apply for my student visa. After that wringer, I will head to Tina’s house where I plan to recover for a day or two before the ~1200 miles on the Trans-Canadian Highway to Nova Scotia.<br /><br />Upon arriving in North Sydney, NS, I have to catch an apparently heroic ‘superferry’ for the six-hour ride which forms the penultimate leg of the trip, from NS to the western coast of Newfoundland. Then it’s 500 miles on winding roads to the island’s eastern coast and my final frikkin’ destination.<br /><br />Memorial University is located in St. John's, the provincial capital of the single province with two names, Newfoundland and Labrador. St. John’s is the easternmost community in North America. It looks out over the North Atlantic to Greenland.<br /><br />How did this come about? Well, I looked around and said, 'Where can I go to school that would make Gardiner look cosmopolitan?' Newfoundland came to mind. Seriously, I applied to a Masters’s project in NL, along with many others, some months ago. Every US project found a reason to decline my application, and just as I was poised to begin a career at WalMart, I got the call from Canada.<br /><br />Gettin’ all <span style="font-style: italic;">lerned</span> in Canada has advantages: I will have healthcare for a few years, something which my own country seems determined to deny to the outliers like me. As for Newfoundland, the entire island has about as many people as Wyoming (a hair over 500,000). St John's is a huge place that accounts for almost half of the economic activity of the entire province, and that single municipal area holds 25% of the province’s population.<br /><br />Newfoundland has been historically isolated by distance, weather, and choice. Newfoundlanders consider themselves more European than Canadian - there are daily 2500-mile flights from NL to the UK; so NL is closer to London than to Wyoming. It's basically like Texas – a big nation-state where people who often talk funny have reluctantly joined a greater union but essentially want to be left the hell alone.<br /><br />I'm supposed to trap and collar coyotes for this project, which others have failed to do, despite heroic efforts. If I also fail, then I have to start over with a Plan B for graduation. That nightmare is another posting entirely.<br /><br />So there ya go. After 10 years in the intermountain west at 6300+ feet, I'm moving as far east as I go in North America, to live on a flat Canadian island which is only marginally Canadian in order to take on a graduate project with a major professor who is younger than I am and who has described the study as having 'a high probability of failure'.<br /><br />Any questions?TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-69777187147385141232009-02-15T14:59:00.000-08:002010-01-29T13:03:16.480-08:00 Six: a legendary elk on an iconic landscape <o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceName"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceType"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:applybreakingrules/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:usefelayout/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <div style="text-align: center;">Dateline: Gardiner, Montana<br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><br />I don’t have many claims to fame, and some of those are sufficiently dubious that I don’t care to recall them. I can, however, make this assertion with confidence: <span style=""> </span>I spent more time, eyeball to eyeball, with Elk Number Six than did any other human being.<br /><br />I don’t make this declaration lightly; hundreds of tourists watched this elk’s aggressive antics in the Mammoth Hot Springs area of <st1:place><st1:placename>Yellowstone</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Additionally, his tendency to utilize certain yards in nearby Gardiner, Montana, as winter daybeds (notably PJ’s and Travis’) – and the hand-feeding of elk and deer in G-town – ensure that a select number of residents have indeed been in very close proximity to this particular elk at times.<br /><br />Having said that, though, I still make the claim that I spent more time with Six than anyone else. You see, for most of the eight years I rangered at <st1:place><st1:placename>Yellowstone</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>, the arrival of crisp September nights and shortening days meant one thing with certainty: bull elk, following the lure of fertile cows, would appear in Mammoth Hot Springs for the rut. This group of bulls included such notable royalty as Six and Ten. My life would not be the same until November.<br /><br />During those long weeks, I got to know all of the players – Ten and Brutus and Bumpy and Muddy and Stumpy and so on – very well. More often than not, though, it fell to me to share much of the daytime, and more evenings than I can count, with Six. This is not bragging, mind you, because much of that time was borderline miserable, at least for me. There were years when we weren’t more than a few blocks apart for the entire rut. I lost sleep on those all-too common nights when he circled my house, bugling <i>all</i> night. My relationships with friends and one lover were temporarily damaged by Six. I lost weight. Sometimes I damn near lost all perspective.<br /><br />I got the calls when he was standing in front of the Mammoth Hotel irrationally slashing at anything and anyone that came close; people hated him. I got the calls when he was limping around Mammoth or when he was in Gardiner, in some alley or yard which was judged to be uncomfortably close to the hunt zone boundary; people were worried about him.<br /><br />I was with him the first time he was dehorned and I personally put the dart in his butt the second time. I followed him late into the evening after both dehornings – bellowing, waving my arms, honking the horn, and once banging on a dumpster with a wrench to break up fights between Six and other bulls. Until he understood his antlers were gone, he would continue to challenge other bulls and he could easily have ended up mortally wounded in such a contest. Everyone knew that, but I was the only one so desperate to give him time to adjust to being weaponless that I stupidly followed him around in the darkness with a flashlight; as to what I would have done if I’d found myself between two furious 700-pound bull elk at night, I still have no clear idea.<br /><br />In sum, then, I was with Six when he was frenetic from hormonal rage and when he was sedated. I was with him when he was healthy and when he was injured. I was there he was king of the proverbial Mammoth hill and I was there when he was beaten. I saw him during the zenith of his aggressive behavior towards the throngs of unwary humans, and perhaps most importantly, I witnessed him display remarkable acts of regal indifference and tolerance towards those same crowds.<br /><br />For all the Number Six stories which people will tell - and people do love to spin yarns about Six - few if any of those tales will be poetic reminiscences of the time he did <i>not</i> charge into a group of clueless elderly people who inexplicably found themselves standing next to him. Or the time he charged, but did <i>not</i> contact, a man talking on his cell phone who never noticed the massive bull elk who could have easily driven an antler through man’s body, had he so chosen.<br /><br />No, Six is famous for his tendency to damage cars and chase people. Much like Bear 264 or any number of identifiable wolves, Six had passed from reality into the realm of folklore years before his death. As such, the myth of Elk Number Six had already grown out of all proportion to the animal. Every day during the rut, someone would come up to me and tell me something new about Six – he’d killed a man a few years ago, he’d been shipped off to Canada but made his way back, that he was the 'son' of an elk that used to run around Mammoth in the 90s.<br /><br />Stories like this will endure and Six will likely always be famous for his aggression. But the ironic truth is that his fame was a result of his tolerance. Six was figuratively born in the wildland-urban interface, of which Mammoth Hot Springs is a tenuous, but instructive, example. His notoriety wasn’t solely due to his belligerence; any number of elk are as willing and capable of inflicting damage on people and property. His fame came from the stage where he played out that violence. He charged, punctured, dented and threatened amid the paved streets and buildings of a pedestrian mall packed with loud, unpredictable, aromatic crowds of humans. Had Six been unleashed in a <st1:city><st1:place>Billings</st1:place></st1:city> shopping center, I doubt the risk of injury would have been significantly higher.<br /><br />If not exactly enamored of mankind, Six was undeniably comfortable around humanity. During the rut, the most difficult time of an adult elk’s life, Six spent most of his time next to a busy gift shop, a post office and a fast-food joint. He stood in the road as cars and RVs rumbled by less than an arm’s length away. He chased people up steps onto the porch of the old <st1:place><st1:placename>Mammoth</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Engineers</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Building</st1:placetype></st1:place> (the pagoda). He drowsed next to sidewalks teeming with boy scouts and tour groups. How many other wild animals, much less hormonally-enraged bull elk, would tolerate such close proximity to so much human activity for so long? As 'wild' as people considered him, Six was, in the parlance of wildlife management, habituated.<br /><br />In conclusion, my familiarity with Six and his history lead me to make one more audacious assertion: his death was not, as Al understandably called it, a freak accident. It was a predictable outcome of his close association with humanity and our constructed environment. Over the years, I have seen many cases of habituated wildlife, from sea turtles and dolphins to coyotes and bears. In almost all of these situations, the animal eventually meets a premature demise, be it from carelessness around armed humans, coronary heart disease from eating our food, or being hit by a car. Six should have died on a snowy ridgeline in the company of winter cold and a mountain lion, or simply infirmity, but he died tangled in a fence behind a motel because that is representative of how he lived.<br /><br />If I’m right and I spent more time with Six than anyone else, then it stands to reason that I learned more from Six than anyone else. I suspect that all the experiences which he bestowed on me in his distinctly inelegant way will take a lifetime to truly understand and appreciate. For that, I publicly thank the glorious, majestic, infuriating pain in the ass who was Elk Number Six.<br /><br /><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center">Rest well, Six. If nothing else, you deserve that.<br /><br />In a very real way, my life will never be the same</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3639121290076098930.post-10492290772484864222008-10-01T06:22:00.000-07:002010-01-29T13:01:10.875-08:00 Farewell 2008 <div align="left">These are personal musings, ill-fit for a place of business email, or for that matter, polite society. These are things for a more personal nature and therefore uncomfortably nebulous to all involved. I’ve chosen to put them here, thereby giving people the opportunity to read them instead of shoving them down anyone’s throat and scaring the hell/bejeezus out of someone who doesn’t know me well enough to predict such ramblings. So take as much or as little as you want, and enjoy the ride.<br /><br /><center> My friends </center><br /><br />For reasons that mystify even me, I’ve lived much of my life here as if I were poised to leave at any moment: don’t get too comfortable, don’t put down roots, always stand ready to run. This was partly a side-effect of my years in the itinerant seasonal lifestyle, but also in some measure due to my own personal demons. During my tenure here, I’ve sometimes kept distance between myself and the people who would care about me.<br /><br />Maybe I did it to make this day less painful, or maybe I did it because, sadly, that is an inescapable part of who I am. When I get fed up, and I grumble about disappearing into the austere, scrubby West Texas desertscape (a territory the size of New England with only 30,000 people), or spending my days in a corrugated metal shack in an Inuit fishing village (ala Dr Joel Fleischman), wise friends like Carrie Guiles warn me that, if I’m not careful, I might actually do it.<br /><br />Despite all that, I’ll be damned if I don’t leave some stalwart and unforgettable friends behind. To name any of them would only serve to draw emphasis away from those whom I would undoubtedly forget to mention, but it’s no secret how heavily I have personally leaned on the knowledge, compassion and generousness of MacNeil and Lucy, and Bob and Terri. I fear that I was an often a noticeable burden over these past few years, but I know they would never admit it.<br /><br /><center> My %$&ing health </center><br /><br />The world seems to be moving very fast, and I seem to be falling further and further behind. Humanity went from horse-drawn buggies to landing on the surface of the moon in less than a century and the Caspian tiger was described to western science and became extinct over a span of 60 years. And in the month of August, 2004, I went from being able to live out of the back of my truck to joining the ranks of the millions of Americans who will never be able to afford their own healthcare. <br /><br />That, of course, is because have MS. I don’t necessarily look or sound sick, but I am. I’m lucky right now – damn lucky – and that luck could hold. But it may have to hold for the rest of my life; barring an affordable medical breakthrough I will be sick forever. There is no cancer to fight, no infection to battle, no bones to mend or transplants to await. I just have to learn to live with a vague prognosis which my doctors toss around: a progressively degenerative condition. You will never be better than you are right now, they imply with a practiced clinical lack of emotion, and you will get worse. Those are my bad days.<br /><br />On my good days, my fumbling GIS experience gives me some hope that I could still contribute to wildlife conservation from the confines of a wheelchair. Then, I reason, all the chicks will want me for my mind. Having said that, though, I have a copy of National Geographic to which I frequently refer in my mind. It was an article about stem cell research, and one of the photos was a guy standing next to his wheelchair. He had been rendered unable to walk by MS, but a treatment utilizing his own (adult, marrow-derived) stem cells changed that. Now if it were that easy, we’d all be healthy already, but I can’t call it anything other than progress. Every day, there are discoveries being made that could change my life a few years down the line. A new US administration can’t hurt either.<br /><br />So while I will likely never fly through the air as I did during my black belt years (one of the best jumpkickers in the state of Texas, dammit), I’m cautiously optimistic about the future in my better moments. I try to think about how well I’m doing right now, and not worry about later. Right now, I climb mountains, I hike trails, I eat crappy American food, I run off to the Canadian arctic and the tropics. I can walk, I can talk, I’m strong (for a skinny guy). There are people who right now can’t get out of bed or see or play golf or ride a horse or play with their children. In sum, then, right now I have nothing to complain about.<br /><br /><center> How a little epiphany can go a long way </center><br /><br />I leave the GMGM (some of you recognize my little acronym for the Greater Mammoth-Gardiner Metroplex) with a clear memory of the day I received a ‘welcome packet’ from the NPS; it was about 4 years ago when I started a term position following years of seasonal and temp appointments. It was full of notepads with the arrowhead, and pencils, and a letter which welcomed me ‘to the NPS family’. That’s funny, I thought. If I so recently became a member of the family, what the fuck have I been for the past decade? Maybe that’s one of those things people learn at Fundamentals. Yeah, the observant readers will detect a <i>little bitchin’ </i>in there, but in seriousness I bear the NPS no ill will, as I’ve come to believe it’s not personal. I don’t even rule out working for the park or NPS again someday.<br /><br />But honestly, even given the bureaucratic angst which is news to no one ‘round these parts, it was a hard decision to leave because aside from the NPS there was the park. It felt downright ungrateful: how dare I choose to leave Wonderland, a place which draws admiring people from all over the globe? After all, was it not trapper Del Gue who said, in the iconic tale of Jeremiah Johnson:<br /><br /><center> “I told my ma and pa that the Rocky Mountains is the marrow of the world.” </center><br /><br />Indeed. I long ago learned never to underestimate the profound effect this area can have on people: I’ve met the terminally bored, the terminally ill, the sad, the neglected, the abused, and even a few addicts who came to this 2.2 million-acre corner of the world to start their lives over. Some of those people succeeded and some didn’t, but each of them saw the quiet, lofty peaks of the GYE as beacons of hope, escape, or salvation. More than once, my family proudly proclaimed that in Yellowstone I’d ‘found my place in the world’. And so I found myself often asking how I could walk away from such a beautiful place. Answers came from many sources, including the pragmatic advice of a more contemporary mountain man, Jeremiah Smith, who said (and I paraphrase), “Dude, there are other beautiful places.”<br /><br />More perspective came during one fateful Death March. Surveying for dead stuff along a transect, we found a spot where a griz had recently been busy scavenging a spring meal from a nearby carcass. I sat down in that bear’s daybed as it overlooked the Yellowstone River and Hellroaring Creek far below and the Blacktail Plateau in the distance. It may not sound incredible, but that was a remarkably intimate and powerful experience for me. My eyes roamed the same slice of the expansive landscape that a robust and formidable predator had seen earlier that morning. The same patch of blue sky soared over both of our heads. The little bubbling rivulet nearby continued to make the same sounds that he had heard. The soil underneath me was the same ground on which the great bear had rested only hours before. For a few moments, with the clarity of uncharacteristically uncluttered emotion, everything – the land, the sky, my life – looked different.<br /><br />The profound realization that came to me was not about bears, however; it was about people. I wondered how many of those living here had taken the opportunity to sit in a grizzly’s daybed and think about life. Not many, I suspected. People instead had fallen into the routine of work and day-to-day living. The landscape around them had ceased to become the context of their lives – it existed only on the edge of their consciousness, a background to the trials and tribulations of life. They had come to take the park for granted. And, I realized with painful immediacy, I was one of those people. At some point, I ceased to live here and began simply working here. I’ve lost my way and I need time to find the trail again. There are things that I need to accomplish that simply aren’t possible in the GMGM. So while it’s difficult to leave, it’s not as hard as it would have been a few scant years ago.<br /><br />Folks have urged me to reconsider, to change my plans to leave. As much as I fear life in the stark, brightly-lit world that exists outside the boundaries of the parks, forests, and wildlife refuges in which I’ve spent much of my life (and where people pay attention to fashion and carry iPhones), I can’t. I hope that folks can understand why now.<br /><br /><br /></div>TD and his dog Spothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01757621891733002077noreply@blogger.com0