Part 2

Even in the dark we know where we're going. I see as clear as day the perfect interwoven network of roads that sprawl across this desert landscape. I pour over these maps so often that they are etched in my mind, always available to reference. Past the gate, second left, follow the fence around the hill, bare a sharp right out of the wash, take the right fork towards the center of plot 2. We park, each take the leak we've been holding in throughout the bumpy hour ride, and assemble our gear. I purposely carry as much as I know I can manage and still maintain a quick pace, which given the size of me is far more than you would ever imagine.

My backpack has 3 liters of water, a digital camera in a pelican case, 8ft of measuring tape, spare handheld devices in case anyone's equipment goes awry, a roll of duct tape, a tube or two of putty epoxy, metal tags with numbers etched into them, ziploc bag of latex gloves, small flashlights, a spotting mirror, and a binder full of datasheets. I sling over my shoulder a second bag which would be used by any other person as a tackle box as it was intended but today it is full of 4-5 100mL containers of sterile saline, various syringes, needles of several lengths and gauges, bleach pads, alcohol and iodine wipes, ziploc bags containing everything one might need to collect tissue samples from a tort, flagging, instant freeze packs, hospital grade sanitizer, needle nosed pliers, even more latex gloves, and a tray for holding vials. In one hand I grab a small cooler full of ice, more sterile saline, heparinized needles (needles coated with heparin to prevent blood clotting), and a rainbow assortment of vials filled with various bacterial growth media. I must look ridiculous. Thus adorned, I feel like someone cranked up the gravity. This is not only my job, it is my daily workout session. Whenever I hike in my spare time I feel like I should throw rocks in my bag. Everything is too light, it just feels wrong.

My comrades unfurl an antenna, three prongs on each side, about three feet across. They punch in the numbers that will lead us to our first tortoise. Every single time you punch in a frequency you feel a sense of dread, you hold your breath as you lift the antenna high in the air. Will there be a beep? Or will you have to haul your lab-on-the-go up some ridiculous hill in hopes that your signal carries far enough to locate this mobile bastard of a tortoise. Eureka! A nice strong beep. Not far to go. A kit fox nearby stares with shining blue eyes at our awkward troop and follows us for a ways to see what hi jinx we are up to. A deep red sliver is starting to appear on the horizon. Suddenly the silhouettes of hills, boulders, and joshua trees surround us. A few coyote yip, yap, and howl in the distance. We soak it in, knowing that these are our last moments of cool, comfortable temperatures. The moment the sunlight breaches the horizon, the effects are instantaneous. The temperatures climb and climb, relentlessly.

Part 1

I don't write anymore, no time. Building a career in this field has caused me to offer up my free time to the blustery Barstow winds. Like a greedy CEO obsessed with expansion and profits, who spends long nights at the office neglecting family and friends, who dreams in charts and pie graphs...I live and breath my work, except financial recompense is far from the force that drives me. In fact if I told anyone in the business world, even those just getting started, the meager wage I earn for my troubles, they would call me a fool. I'm not sure if it's the inherited and impenetrable Polish work ethic, an explosive and often self-destructive Italian pride, or simply a small person complex that causes me to go above and beyond to prove my worth, but I find that it leaves little room for reflection.

I find myself overwhelmed often. Imagine living out of a perpetually packed bag, spending maybe 5, 6 days a month in the home you pay to live in. The week begins and ends with a grueling 2.5 hour drive on a stretch of highway traveled by the most ignorant drivers the West coast can provide. I've found the best survival method for this road is to imagine the worst possible move the driver near you can pull, and as you find yourself thinking "there's no way he's going to do that" sure enough, before the thought is finished he is doing it. As the ramshackle but still operational highway gas stations come into view and the Ron Paul signs increase in frequency, you know you're getting close to Barstow. The first half mile of town is a good indication of what's in store for you. Every other building is either a suspected crack house or vacant to the point of rotting (that is, it would be rotting if things could actually rot in the desert). Those that are actually inhabited are often equipped with their own garbage heap and several pit bulls.

And then there it is, our home away from home: a shamble of a house that welcomes you with the putrid smell of poorly maintained septic system. Even empty (though this house never is because you live with 7-8 coworkers) you are never really alone; any number of pests lurk in the cracks and crevices- flies, cockroaches, mice, ants, bed bugs. They seem to come and go seasonally in waves. If it's high tide for ants, best move your food from the lower cabinets, perhaps to the drawers, but be sure to move to the upper cabinets before mice season begins. Speaking of food, have you ever tried to fit 9 people's perishable foods inside of one refrigerator? The result is a tetris-like jumble that transforms the simple act of retrieving milk, into a multi-step endeavor. And don't even think about a second cup of coffee. There's half a dozen caffeine fiends waiting to lap up even the gritty dregs left at the bottom of the pot. In the dead of a Mojave summer a hot cup of joe sounds like that last thing you would want except a 12:45AM alarm says otherwise.

So why do I do it? So far it sounds horrible, like the last thing a person would want to spend the last year and half doing. When I first open my eyes each morning I might say yes, that's true. But everyone hates doing anything when they first wake up. By the end of this multi-part sojourn, the tone will shift I promise you. In the darkness of pre-dawn we are suddenly bustling with activity. Bodies darting left and right in a frenzied ballet, bins of equipment hauled out the door, clanging antennas, smashing ice, "Did you grab magnets?", "Do we have enough needles?"...and in 15 minutes the house is empty and silent as we drive off into the still starry morning.

Sometimes the desert is so silent the silence itself is sound. We are the only ones out here. Correction, we are the only humans out here. The jack rabbits and kangaroo rats make their presence known by darting out in front of our vehicles at the worst possible moment. Avoiding them is a skill. I imagine their quality of life must be poor to have so many suicidal individuals in a population, it's like Seattle in the rainy season.