Friday: Corner Brook, or as close to the west coast (of Newfoundland) as I can get
Saturday: mainland North America and all points east
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Permanent Vacation
To anyone who might be interested, May marked the publication of Permanent Vacation. 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.
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 . .
their cool book-promotion site . .
and even . . (gasp!)
Facebook
This fantastic little book is available from Bona Fide and Amazon.com (but NOT amazon.ca . . sigh . . don't get me started.)
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 . .
http://www.bonafidebooks.com
http://www.pvstories.net
and even . . (gasp!)
This fantastic little book is available from Bona Fide and Amazon.com (but NOT amazon.ca . . sigh . . don't get me started.)
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Happy Anniversary to me
Today 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.
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.
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.'
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.
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.
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.
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.'
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.
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.
Monday, September 6, 2010
It Begins
or
Let the Games Begin
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.
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.
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.
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’.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Hurricanes? 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.
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.
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.
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.
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, annoying aspects of a hurricane season: incessant media coverage.
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’.
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.
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.
“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.”
“Folks, you can see the storm right here on the map, and the projected landfall in five days is looking like here, although that will probably change.”
The size and force of the hurricane is always another source of nebulous information:
“Earl’s winds have increased 7 KPH and he is now a Category 4 storm!”
“Windspeeds have fallen by 4 KPH so Earl is now a Category 3.”
“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!”
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.
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).
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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, annoying aspects of a hurricane season: incessant media coverage.
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’.
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.
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.
“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.”
“Folks, you can see the storm right here on the map, and the projected landfall in five days is looking like here
The size and force of the hurricane is always another source of nebulous information:
“Earl’s winds have increased 7 KPH and he is now a Category 4 storm!”
“Windspeeds have fallen by 4 KPH so Earl is now a Category 3.”
“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!”
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.
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).
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).
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.
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.
Friday, July 2, 2010
“Well, that’s a &^%*ing game changer,” I said, looking down at the broken trap in my hand.
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.
“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’.
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 should 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 clever girl.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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’.
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 should 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 clever girl.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Aboot Town
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.
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 completely 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.
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.
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.
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