Now that I've moved to a new place, I am walking-distance to several things which makes me happy. What makes me unhappy is the sights I see on my way to the nearby rec center: manicured lawns and landscaping full of water-hungry plant species, gigantic trucks/SUVs in every driveway, huge air conditioning units on every over-sized home. This brought a surge of angry, frustrated thoughts that I often have when faced with the realities of living in Las Vegas. It is beyond comprehension why people move to this uniquely harsh environment and believe that it is their right to re-create some kind of lush, familiar, tree-lined urban landscape, somehow convincing themselves that their comfort & happiness trumps all other considerations when using up our very limited desert resources. If xeriscaping isn't cutting it, if the wide selection of desert-adapted plants, the assortment of geologically significant rock formations, the expansive views, the brilliant blue skies, etc, etc isn't enough to satiate your aesthetic appetite, THEN MOVE!! If you want trees, and roses, and grassy fields, MOVE!!! If you want 60 degrees indoors (despite the 100 degrees outside) then MOVE!!! Water does not magically multiply as the population does. I love how people have this delusional, American "patriotic" attitude that freedom means free-reign to rape and abuse and destroy the very America they claim to hold so dear. Why isn't preserving this country as it was, responsibly enjoying our land while leaving it unscarred so the next American can enjoy it the priority of every "patriot"?? I've seen multiple bumper stickers in this area reading "Wilderness: Land of no use" and it just saddens me that the only joy these people seem to find is brought by destruction. The American dream needs to progress beyond the white picket fence, making babies, and consuming, consuming, consuming. I implore you to seek out happiness that does not involve a purchase and to find a place that feels like home without transforming it into something completely unnatural.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Part 3
In the low light of dawn it can be tricky to spot a very rock-like tortoises tucked under a creosote bush so we often spend a few minutes circling around a few shrubs, sometimes walking right by the critter several times until it's form becomes noticeable and we smack our heads at our obliviousness. I unload and go into health assessment trance-mode, automatically pulling out this and that out of my arsenal of medical equipment. A garbage bag laid out, saline drawn, alcohol pads at the ready, needles within reach, scale and calipers sterilized- we are ready to go. I check over the tortoise's eyes, nose, skin, shell, respiration, and overall fitness. We take photos and weigh it before we start collecting samples. Now, I'm not sure I can convince you with words as to how strong an adult tortoise can be but believe me, it takes a practiced grip and some well-toned muscles to pull a tortoise from its shell when every instinct it has screams, "suck in for your life!!!". I have become somewhat of a legend. My primary job is clean-up, meaning I go back to the tortoises that all others have failed to extract for sampling. A combination of small hands and serious arm muscles makes me perfectly suited for this task. When we're lucky though, a tortoise will cooperate and move its head about in curiosity or in an attempt to make a run for it, but when we're not lucky patience becomes our most valuable asset. I maintain a firm enough grip to hold on, but light enough to relax the tortoise and coax its head forward. Some tortoises are lured effortlessly, others have me breathing in and out as if I was in labor, pausing now and then when I can no longer ignore the fiery burn in my forearms. Tortoises don't bite but they do have an interesting technique of sharply pulling in their forearm, pinching my fingers between the bony edge of the shell and its rigid leg resulting in many curses and screams on my part. Little jerks. Still, I win in the end, and with the head secure we can get this over with. With some persuasion, we get the tortoise to open and say "ah" so I can check it's mouth for signs of herpes (seriously) and swab its pink surfaces with a long q-tip to be cultured in a lab. Then we flush out the nasal cavity using the tortoise equivalent of a neti pot, collecting the resulting fluids for culture as well. I draw some blood, get it on ice and we wrap up, clean up, and bid adieu to our tortoise who appears unfazed despite our rude poking and prodding. With a couple good interns at my side and an unfussy tortoise, I've done a full assessment in about 15 minutes, but usually takes twice as long. The mobile lab is packed up and we're on the move again, but now the sun is up and it's a race against the rays. The temperature has literally jumped a good 15 degrees and we're limited to handling tortoises under 95 to prevent over-heating. We manage to perform this routine 6-8 times a day like well-oiled machines, feeling completely drained by 10AM as lack of sleep, physical exhaustion, and the blazing sun try and convince me that sleep should be my next priority.
Back at the house, the swamp cooler has done nothing to prevent our living space from baking in the summer heat, giving us no relief. The work day is far from over. I shove some food in my mouth, guzzle a glass of water, and get right to it. Blood samples need to be centrifuged and frozen within a limited time frame so I'm in a big rush to spin, aliquot, and store our samples. Bodies and bins of equipment flood the house, everyone dashing about prepping for the next day, organizing their samples for processing, and proofing and downloading data and photos. For most work is over by noon, I'll manage to take a break at some point so we congregate on the porch, cool down with a beer while someone picks away at an instrument of some sort. There's camaraderie in this madness. Who else understands what this is like but us?
I reluctantly peel away from the group to go over the day's work and plan the next. People retreat for the night around 6PM, I'm lucky if I fall asleep by 8 because 12:45AM my alarm wakes me to start again.
Back at the house, the swamp cooler has done nothing to prevent our living space from baking in the summer heat, giving us no relief. The work day is far from over. I shove some food in my mouth, guzzle a glass of water, and get right to it. Blood samples need to be centrifuged and frozen within a limited time frame so I'm in a big rush to spin, aliquot, and store our samples. Bodies and bins of equipment flood the house, everyone dashing about prepping for the next day, organizing their samples for processing, and proofing and downloading data and photos. For most work is over by noon, I'll manage to take a break at some point so we congregate on the porch, cool down with a beer while someone picks away at an instrument of some sort. There's camaraderie in this madness. Who else understands what this is like but us?
I reluctantly peel away from the group to go over the day's work and plan the next. People retreat for the night around 6PM, I'm lucky if I fall asleep by 8 because 12:45AM my alarm wakes me to start again.
Monday, December 5, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, October 24, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
My Happy Places
Patrick posed a question to me once, "What are your top 5 happy places?" These are the places that overwhelm you; that stretch the corners of your lips from ear to ear in a grin so unstoppable you couldn't force a grimace if you tried. I thought for a moment about this, the top two places coming to me easily, but the other three were impossible to narrow down. I simply couldn't be restricted to 5 places alone. I began rattling off a series of places, some specific, some broad, some relating to actions or events more than the places themselves. Since that day, I have modified the list slightly. Only in that my top places have become very specific spots that were recently discovered within my broader happy places. The goal of this post is to share some of my happy places with you, and vainly attempt to describe their affect on me in words, though I don't expect my verbiage to adequately capture the essence of these spots.
My number 1, 2, and 3 are all so close it's pretty much a three-way tie. Not surprisingly, all three are in Utah and all three are canyons (one spans both Utah and Arizona to be fair).
1) Having been a frequent visitor to Zion National Park,
I foolishly assumed I was familiar will all her treasures. I was proved wrong when taken to Kolob into the Southern fork of Taylor creek. This is one of those scenes that is so indescribable, so painfully beautiful that it makes your heart ache: immense, vertical sandstone cliffs surround this desert paradise- we're talking a lush green forest, thick mats of wildflowers contrasted with the rich, sugary, rust-red sand and crisp blue Utah sky. The intensity of these colors nearly blinded me, filled me with uncontrolled glee. I could not stop myself from giggling, the sensation was too much. I could live there, I want to live there. Revert back to a primal world and let the canyon sustain me. If I ever go missing, this is the first place you should look...but please, take your time finding me.
2) I will bestow my number two spot to Escalante National Monument. This encompasses quite a bit of land so let me sum up what this place has to offer: isolated, rugged, red canyon country whose inner depths must be penetrated and pondered before grasping the true beauty of the place. Escalante must be experienced up-close for most of its secrets lie within the canyons- some so narrow even I have a hard time shuffling my way through. This is where I go to experience real solitude, and view the most awe-inspiring starry night sky these brown eyes have seen.
3) I think I may have mentioned before how I loathe turning around. No place tests my logical mind more than Paria canyon in Vermillion Cliffs National Monument. By this I mean, even though I know there is a great distance behind me that must be traveled, I find myself pressing on despite the reasonable voice in my head saying it is time to go back. The next bend lures me in with its siren song, and I submit only to discover another with equally irresistible offerings. A place like that can be wonderfully dangerous.
4) The High Sierra Music Festival is not about location but atmosphere. Although, I find myself imagining that this small "town" never really disappears after those four glorious days, but remains unchanged until you return the next year. As much as I dislike crowded places, the large numbers of festivaling faces- the costumed, the dread-locked, the tattooed- gathered in the often blazing hot sun of the sierra foothills for the common purpose of letting music fill and move us, are a comfort and a joy to me. It is a place where you can encounter self expression in more forms that you initially thought possible, and dance until the world melts away.
5)Aside from Chicago, there is only one other place I have lived for a significant amount of time- Mendocino county. Despite having little wildlife work available to me,
I found this place so unlike any other place I have ever been, that I could not tear myself away easily. The Anderson Valley and Mendocino coast are very difficult to adequately describe. I found myself immersed in rolling green hills dotted with gnarly oak trees, bountiful orchards, bleating baby sheep, and the tell-tale rows of vineyards; mist-shrouded coastal redwoods whose canopy encloses a wonderland of delicious-smelling, rotting earth, secretive salamanders, and the most varied mushrooms of all forms and colors; stark, jagged cliffs overlooking the chilling Pacific, showcasing heart wrenching sunsets almost daily; epicurean delights: wines, cheeses, foods masterfully prepared by good friends, fresh produce from my yard, meats from animals raised and slaughtered down the road, a back-to-the-land mentality. This is where I honed my domestic side, and I will always to some degree ache for this place.
My number 1, 2, and 3 are all so close it's pretty much a three-way tie. Not surprisingly, all three are in Utah and all three are canyons (one spans both Utah and Arizona to be fair).
1) Having been a frequent visitor to Zion National Park,
I foolishly assumed I was familiar will all her treasures. I was proved wrong when taken to Kolob into the Southern fork of Taylor creek. This is one of those scenes that is so indescribable, so painfully beautiful that it makes your heart ache: immense, vertical sandstone cliffs surround this desert paradise- we're talking a lush green forest, thick mats of wildflowers contrasted with the rich, sugary, rust-red sand and crisp blue Utah sky. The intensity of these colors nearly blinded me, filled me with uncontrolled glee. I could not stop myself from giggling, the sensation was too much. I could live there, I want to live there. Revert back to a primal world and let the canyon sustain me. If I ever go missing, this is the first place you should look...but please, take your time finding me.
2) I will bestow my number two spot to Escalante National Monument. This encompasses quite a bit of land so let me sum up what this place has to offer: isolated, rugged, red canyon country whose inner depths must be penetrated and pondered before grasping the true beauty of the place. Escalante must be experienced up-close for most of its secrets lie within the canyons- some so narrow even I have a hard time shuffling my way through. This is where I go to experience real solitude, and view the most awe-inspiring starry night sky these brown eyes have seen.
3) I think I may have mentioned before how I loathe turning around. No place tests my logical mind more than Paria canyon in Vermillion Cliffs National Monument. By this I mean, even though I know there is a great distance behind me that must be traveled, I find myself pressing on despite the reasonable voice in my head saying it is time to go back. The next bend lures me in with its siren song, and I submit only to discover another with equally irresistible offerings. A place like that can be wonderfully dangerous.
4) The High Sierra Music Festival is not about location but atmosphere. Although, I find myself imagining that this small "town" never really disappears after those four glorious days, but remains unchanged until you return the next year. As much as I dislike crowded places, the large numbers of festivaling faces- the costumed, the dread-locked, the tattooed- gathered in the often blazing hot sun of the sierra foothills for the common purpose of letting music fill and move us, are a comfort and a joy to me. It is a place where you can encounter self expression in more forms that you initially thought possible, and dance until the world melts away.5)Aside from Chicago, there is only one other place I have lived for a significant amount of time- Mendocino county. Despite having little wildlife work available to me,
I found this place so unlike any other place I have ever been, that I could not tear myself away easily. The Anderson Valley and Mendocino coast are very difficult to adequately describe. I found myself immersed in rolling green hills dotted with gnarly oak trees, bountiful orchards, bleating baby sheep, and the tell-tale rows of vineyards; mist-shrouded coastal redwoods whose canopy encloses a wonderland of delicious-smelling, rotting earth, secretive salamanders, and the most varied mushrooms of all forms and colors; stark, jagged cliffs overlooking the chilling Pacific, showcasing heart wrenching sunsets almost daily; epicurean delights: wines, cheeses, foods masterfully prepared by good friends, fresh produce from my yard, meats from animals raised and slaughtered down the road, a back-to-the-land mentality. This is where I honed my domestic side, and I will always to some degree ache for this place.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Catch up
I have a lot of catching up to do. Luckily, I have been writing in my personal journal so I think I'll share a few of those entries to get you up to speed on the latest. Just when I was all set to spend a summer in the Midwest (Iowa to be precise), I received an interview call for a job that could not be turned down- tortoise research in the Mojave. So here I am in Henderson, NV. My schedule is insane, I never know where I'll be or for how long. I've worked 10, 12, 14 hour days with next to no compensation. I complain quite a bit, but the truth is I'll put up with a lot of BS to be in the desert. It's charms have not lessened since my last visit. Here's a few snippets of my adventures thus far:
3/23/10
I cannot resist a trail that doesn't end. I was going to take it easy today after yesterday's 1800ft ascent to turtlehead peak. The pine creek canyon trail: 3 miles round-trip sounded like a minuscule thing, perfect for a mild jaunt. I should have anticipated that beyond the managed trail lay a path deep into the canyon, and I just could not turn away. How could I stop? Who knows what lies around the next corner? Those seductive little cairnes beckoning me further- it is them I blame, and their creator who also could not turn back but left behind a sign that there is further to go. And how can I let this phantom one-up me? I must continue. Oh how I hate to turn around!
3/26/10 (camping in red rocks NCA)
The wind is violent, persistent. I watch my tent shake and rattle with unnerving force. I half-expect to wake up in Oz.
4/4/10
Boyscout canyon hike in black rock canyon NRA. Several zebra-tailed and side-blotched lizards on the sand/gravel wash bottom. Chuckwalla spotted on large rock but entered crevice and would not be persuaded to emerge.
4/5/10
Tortoise tracking outside of Barstow-
The Calico hills: a multi-colored talus playground. Walked a wash through a canyon of every rock hue imaginable to tricky ascent up steep canyon side to lone tortoise burrow. Incredibly rewarding day.
4/18/10
Spring in the desert. This is the most dazzling spring I've witnessed in the arid Southwest. There is so much blooming that a constant fragrance lingers in the air- fills all the empty desert space with a sweet scent. Color blankets the ground- yellows and whites dominate with splashes of purples, pinks, and reds. The indigo bush has begun to show its deeply hued flowers. Desert lilies stand solitary and regal- an elegant flower. So much life on display in this harsh environment. Lizards and snakes are now being spotted, active in the mild spring sun. Blister beetles hustle and bustle among the annuals, a comical chiggedy-chiggedy sound accompanies their frenzied movements. The small things make a day of plant picking bearable. The sight of a patch-nosed snake is enough to brighten my mood and make my hunched "gardening" more worthwhile.
3/23/10
I cannot resist a trail that doesn't end. I was going to take it easy today after yesterday's 1800ft ascent to turtlehead peak. The pine creek canyon trail: 3 miles round-trip sounded like a minuscule thing, perfect for a mild jaunt. I should have anticipated that beyond the managed trail lay a path deep into the canyon, and I just could not turn away. How could I stop? Who knows what lies around the next corner? Those seductive little cairnes beckoning me further- it is them I blame, and their creator who also could not turn back but left behind a sign that there is further to go. And how can I let this phantom one-up me? I must continue. Oh how I hate to turn around!
3/26/10 (camping in red rocks NCA)
The wind is violent, persistent. I watch my tent shake and rattle with unnerving force. I half-expect to wake up in Oz.
4/4/10
Boyscout canyon hike in black rock canyon NRA. Several zebra-tailed and side-blotched lizards on the sand/gravel wash bottom. Chuckwalla spotted on large rock but entered crevice and would not be persuaded to emerge.
4/5/10
Tortoise tracking outside of Barstow-
The Calico hills: a multi-colored talus playground. Walked a wash through a canyon of every rock hue imaginable to tricky ascent up steep canyon side to lone tortoise burrow. Incredibly rewarding day.
4/18/10
Spring in the desert. This is the most dazzling spring I've witnessed in the arid Southwest. There is so much blooming that a constant fragrance lingers in the air- fills all the empty desert space with a sweet scent. Color blankets the ground- yellows and whites dominate with splashes of purples, pinks, and reds. The indigo bush has begun to show its deeply hued flowers. Desert lilies stand solitary and regal- an elegant flower. So much life on display in this harsh environment. Lizards and snakes are now being spotted, active in the mild spring sun. Blister beetles hustle and bustle among the annuals, a comical chiggedy-chiggedy sound accompanies their frenzied movements. The small things make a day of plant picking bearable. The sight of a patch-nosed snake is enough to brighten my mood and make my hunched "gardening" more worthwhile.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Life is good
I have been a happy person as of late. I feel more focused, more healthy, more energetic. Without the daily emotional ups and downs brought on by unwanted factors being introduced into my life, I find that life is much less stressful. Being back in the field, having time to exercise daily, spending time cooking great food for myself, and even getting out and socializing on my own have all contributed to my cheerful demeanor. I've developed an overwhelming optimism about this year: experiencing new places, my brother's upcoming marriage, the possibility of interesting jobs, and the prospect of graduate school, all have me giddy for the upcoming months.
Work on Fort Gordon has been going well. Some days we come up empty, but others are fraught with the thrill of finding tortoises. It can be challenging, depending on the burrow's structure. A few tortoises seem to feel the need to fortify themselves in their underground domains, creating little dunes and blockades along their sandy paths. Whether they do this on purpose, who's to say. But for the camera-wielder, it presents an obstacle to be overcome. Imagine, if you will, shoving a 3/4 inch tube with a baseball-sized camera at the end along the length of a sometimes, 10-12 foot tunnel. Fixed to your head is a set of what looks like virtual reality goggles, giving you that coveted view of the secret underground world. Suddenly, you feel like James Bond, possibly even humming the familiar theme song as you snake the camera further down, anticipating what your high-tech spy equipment might reveal. Though, this process isn't always so smooth. There is often a push and tug battle, a flipping, shoving, twisting of the camera as you come to a pile of sand, or a shrinking of the cave's opening. Your hands feel raw as you fight for just an inch or two more. You refuse to stop until you've reach the burrow's definitive end! And then you see in the shadows, what looks like a large, smooth bolder...except, this bolder seems to have thick, elephantine legs sprouting from it. You slowly creep the camera closer, and there is an ancient-looking face, whose cracked surface is caked with damp sand. The eyelids are often shut tight, peaceful in the knowledge that this subterranean chamber is safe from the cruel dangers of the outside world. Safe from everything except humans that is. Much to our dismay, we've encountered burrows smashed beyond recognition by the tank-like machines used to thin the pine stands on Fort Gordon. Ironically, this thinning is performed for the benefit of the tortoise, maintaining suitable habitat for the future. Unfortunately, suitable habitat isn't going to be of much use if they crush or trap all of the tortoises in the process! So goes the plight of the tortoise.
Work on Fort Gordon has been going well. Some days we come up empty, but others are fraught with the thrill of finding tortoises. It can be challenging, depending on the burrow's structure. A few tortoises seem to feel the need to fortify themselves in their underground domains, creating little dunes and blockades along their sandy paths. Whether they do this on purpose, who's to say. But for the camera-wielder, it presents an obstacle to be overcome. Imagine, if you will, shoving a 3/4 inch tube with a baseball-sized camera at the end along the length of a sometimes, 10-12 foot tunnel. Fixed to your head is a set of what looks like virtual reality goggles, giving you that coveted view of the secret underground world. Suddenly, you feel like James Bond, possibly even humming the familiar theme song as you snake the camera further down, anticipating what your high-tech spy equipment might reveal. Though, this process isn't always so smooth. There is often a push and tug battle, a flipping, shoving, twisting of the camera as you come to a pile of sand, or a shrinking of the cave's opening. Your hands feel raw as you fight for just an inch or two more. You refuse to stop until you've reach the burrow's definitive end! And then you see in the shadows, what looks like a large, smooth bolder...except, this bolder seems to have thick, elephantine legs sprouting from it. You slowly creep the camera closer, and there is an ancient-looking face, whose cracked surface is caked with damp sand. The eyelids are often shut tight, peaceful in the knowledge that this subterranean chamber is safe from the cruel dangers of the outside world. Safe from everything except humans that is. Much to our dismay, we've encountered burrows smashed beyond recognition by the tank-like machines used to thin the pine stands on Fort Gordon. Ironically, this thinning is performed for the benefit of the tortoise, maintaining suitable habitat for the future. Unfortunately, suitable habitat isn't going to be of much use if they crush or trap all of the tortoises in the process! So goes the plight of the tortoise.
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