Bringing in the Babies

Clarissa told me recently that I would be a good midwife. More specifically, she explained that if she ever found herself going into labor on a remote, deserted island for some unfathomable reason, I would be the person she'd like to have on hand. "You'd be totally competent with the blood and the umbilical cutting and all that, but you'd also say all the right things so I'd believe that everything was going to be okay."

I take that as a pretty serious compliment. Maybe the nicest thing she's ever said to me. Or a close second to the time she told me, completely in shock, that I had done a good job of choosing a new pair of jeans. But the point is that I was totally flattered by her trust in my as-yet untested baby-delivering abilities.

Then today Netflix had the impeccable timing to deliver me a documentary about delivering babies- The Business of Being Born. I think that this might be a sign. Career-change? Impending pregnant friend stranded and in need of my help? Netflix listening in on my phone calls? Definitely some kind of sign.

More importantly, it was a really fascinating documentary. It was made by Ricki Lake after her first birth, at a hospital, raised a lot of questions for her. Here in the United States, we have the most expensive births of any developed country and the highest rate of mortality in delivery for mothers and babies of the major developed nations. One in three babies is delivered via Cesarean section. Hospitals, trying to be efficient and not get sued, use all kinds of chemicals to encourage contractions, discourage pain, and hurry women into surgery.

The main premise of the film is that the medical profession, by blacklisting midwives and creating a culture of fear around birth as a health emergency, is taking away from women the ability to be truly present and in control of giving birth. That in our society- delivering a baby is not something mothers do anymore, it is something done to them. Further, the film argues, that this loss of agency in birth is an injustice; depriving mothers of an incredible emotional and physical experience and creating an unnecessarily expensive and dangerous hospital based procedure from a natural event.

It makes a pretty clear feminist statement, really, that we should trust women's bodies to give birth to babies. They have obviously evolved to do so. For money and power, we have taken something simple and natural, and made it complicated and often, more dangerous. Having a baby doesn't need to be treated like having an illness. The midwives and natural birth advocates featured in the film made the alternative, a return to more natural births, sound safe, smart, and even possible.

To it's credit, this documentary does not pretend that all births are easy and complication free. One woman had to abandon plans for a home birth for an emergency Cesarean during premature labor, but her midwife was prepared to use that option and knew when to make the call. Overall, however, statistics show that natural births with trained midwives have a higher success rate for healthy mothers and babies than hospital deliveries. Most OB/GYNs interviewed in the film admitted that they had never or hardly ever seen or assisted with a natural birth- it's that foreign of a concept in the medical world.

Unfortunately, in our increasingly complicated world of health and malpractice insurance, it's hard for many midwives and natural birthing centers to stay profitable. Even though a midwife-assisted natural birth is much more economical, the powers that be are actively resisting a shift in their status quo. One midwife pointed out that natural birth needs more press, more media attention, Angelina Jolie giving birth in her bathtub stories in the news, instead of the recent celebrity stories of elective, scheduled Cesarean. I am already convinced to try and plan for a natural birth, even without Angelina Jolie on board. Not that there are any babies on the near horizon in my life, but I certainly am better prepared to think about the situation someday.

Anti-Grass Campaign

When my mom called yesterday, she told me she had recently seen a photo of Lake Mead in National Geographic- although it was less lake and more mudflats in the photo. A lake, captured on film, draining away. Obviously, she was worried. And then confused, when i complained to her that I hated wednesday mornings because all of the sprinklers are on in my complex, and I often get a little shower as I bike to work.

That's right- in southern Nevada we still water our grass. Our primary water source, the dammed up Colorado river, only has a 10 year supply left, at current use levels. 10 years. That's not even screwing over our children or grandchildren- that's screwing the very near future. Yet drive around Boulder City and you see gleaming green lawns. Drive downtown, where they take excess quite seriously, and you'll find fountains. Huge, dancing, illuminated fountains. Take that desert habitat- we showed you!

Except that mother nature really doesn't appreciate being given the finger. The few people who bothered to consider the rapidly approaching consequences of draining the lake have realized that we need to act. So- the Southern Nevada Water Authority is planning to steal the groundwater of sparsely populated counties to the north. Although actively being protested by the 10 or so people who live in Lincoln and White Pine Counties, Vegas isn't likely to give up easily. For this city's survival- that water is worth a lot of money.

In the Vegas area, you can get up to a $4,000 tax credit if you replace your grass with natural, desert landscaping. But people aren't doing it. These desert lawns could be the death of this mirage of a city. Think about it- what are our two most precious resources as our planet hurtles into ever-increasing industrialization? Fossil fuels and water. And we're running out of both in many parts of the world. We waste our water to make grass grow in the desert. Then, we fill lawn mowers with gasoline and cut down the grass! And then we repeat the process. Weekly. History is going to judge us pretty harshly for that one. I even like grass- a good field at the park- for a good game of ultimate- is a pretty fantastic luxury. But no one even thinks about the grass around my apartments- no one plays on it, sits around and admires it, nothing.

Our suburban love affair with the manicured lawn isn't the only way that water and fossil fuels are linked. In fact, a recent article in Scientific American called upon researchers who study environmental issues to start thinking of both shortages as one major problem. Let's start with water- fresh water. We need it to survive. But to make more of it with desalination plants or to ship it to where we need it requires tons of energy- currently from fossil fuels. On the other hand- to get energy without fossil fuels- nuclear reactors, hydroelectric dams, hydrogen fuel cells, ethanol- all required tons of fresh water. Until we start converting solar energy into electricity with an atmospheric network of solar panels- we're stuck with water and energy shortages tangled up together.

So let's pull this one easy strand free from the mess. End the grass cycle. We can have cactus and creosote, rock gardens and spiny shrubs of all shapes and sizes. And maybe some grass at the park.

Sisters and Soup

It might not feel like fall around here yet (or ever) but with Thanksgiving rapidly approaching, I have begun eating like it's fall. And fall food is great- in season squashes and pumpkins turn into gnocchi and risotto and obviously pie, just to get me started. The big cans of pumpkin are on sale at my grocery store, and I had used half for my favorite, beautifully orange cornbread. I had big plans for lunch on sunday with the other half- super fast pumpkin soup.

Then, just before I started cooking, my sister, Emily, called. We talked about our usual favorites, frisbee and family and friends, but our conversation, as it frequently does, finished up on food. We love food. It's like a religion in our family, that's why Thanksgiving is such a great holiday. Emily and I love to get together to window-shop at grocery stores and farmer's markets and talk about food. So Sunday, I wasn't surprised that she was excited to tell me about the great recipe she had just put together a few days earlier. I was slightly surprised, however, when her brilliant discovery turned out to be quick pumpkin soup!

Great minds do think alike. Pumpkins (and other fall squash relatives like Butternut and Acorn) are perfect fall foods. They are in season, often locally grown, fresh, and they keep well without refrigeration. The Produce Bible, a cookbook gift from my mother (I told you food was as close as my family gets to religion, right?) refers to winter squash and the most versatile of all vegetable. Which is saying a lot for a book dedicated to the versatility of vegetables. Sweet, savory, soup, sauce, or stand-alone, squash can do it all. The beautiful orange color of the flesh is from the cartenoids, which are a powerful antioxidant. Winter squashes are also high in lutein and zeaxanthin, which are all also antioxidants, as well as more easily pronounced vitamins like C, iron, zinc. High in fiber, pumpkin is filling as well as nutritious and delicious. (It rhymes, i couldn't resist, sorry). If you're starting with an entire squash, you can clean and roast the seeds, which are packed with protein. If you are too lazy to cut and peel and roast (or boil in soup) fresh pumpkin, there is a sale or large display of canned, pre-pureed pumpkin at a grocery near you this week, guaranteed.

So how did my soup turn out? Fantastic. Emily's was spicier (she likes it hot) and served once as soup, and once, spiced with curry, over rice. I stole the curry flavor, but served mine with sweet corn stirred in and a side of homemade bread. My recipe is ready to eat in only about 15 minutes. Saute onions and garlic. Pour on half a quart of vegetable stock (leftover, in my case, from last week's spinach and lentil soup) and stir in the canned pumpkin. Add some frozen sweet corn. Consistency should be thickish. Season with salt, pepper, ginger, curry, and garam masala if you've got it. Once it's all hot, it's ready. Simple, seasonal, and sister-endorsed.

Concertina Climbing

I scrambled to the top of the park's Black Mesa at work this morning. With super-steep slopes and a broad, flat top, this black formation juts out of the lake shore landscape, imposing enough to entice the soil surveyors to describe the unique soil type on top. And, wherever the soil scientists went, Teague and I must follow and count the plants in their wake.

But the soil is not the point. The point is that on the broad, kansas-style flat summit that rewarded our strenuous, rocky climb, we met a snake. We chased him around for a bit, trying to make introductions and take pictures, but he wasn't having it. It is my botanist's opinion (armed with field guide) that it was a Racer, Coluber constrictor. He was fast, anyway. But, more importantly, he was on top of this mesa. We barely made the climb, how the hell did he?

My first theory was that he had wiggled free from the talons of a raptor flying above the mesa, but he seemed too....intact....to have survived such an adventure. So he must have climbed. Or his mother did, at least. Now, I know that snakes live in the mountains, I've seen my share of rock-dwelling rattlers this summer. I also know that snakes can climb trees, I've seen the hognose snakes in Virginia (Heterodon platirhinos), short, fat, pugnacious fellows that sun in the tree branches alongside the creeks. They are hard to miss, because if you startle them, paddling past in your canoe, minding your business, they may jump in to join you, and not sociably.

But how do snakes climb up mountains? The answer is known the herpetologists and perhaps their friends, is called Concertina movement. As opposed to the traditional snake motion, the aptly named serpentine glide, and it's sandy variation, sidewinding, concertina allows the snake move vertically. She stretches her head up as high as she can, and slides it into a position where her ventral scales can grip on the surface. To enhance her grip, she pulls her midsection up tightly, to wind a lot of scale-surface area onto the rocks. Then, she uses this firm grip to pull up her lower body, and lastly springs her head upward again, looking for her next, higher hold.

Sounds like a tedious process, but it also sounds a lot like how I climbed the Black Mesa. One good move at a time, at least in the steepest parts. Snakes, despite their lack of limbs, are actually showoffs in the range of motion category. They can slide, swim, climb, and in fact, fly. Well, to be totally honest, they only glide. But several species in southeast asia are known for jumping out of trees and flattening out their ribcages to hold onto a draft as they serpentine-squiggle through the air. Apparently they have adapted to get pretty far with this technique. Maybe my racer didn't even need to climb?

Nesting

I have unpacked my car. Completely. People could sit in the backseat. Comfortably. After 8 months of being half-packed/half living out of the car, it is incredible to be moved out of the Honda. However, I am struggling to deal with the new sensation of driving somewhere and not having something I need in the car, forgetting that I left it at home.

That's right- I have a home. I have a roommate, Amorita, who is awesome, but works an 8-6 schedule for the Parks Service, so I will often have the place to myself. She has been living in her Subaru recently, so we understand each other well. Also, now I have a friend with 4-wheel drive! We have two bedrooms, with excellently comfy carpet, which is fantastic since I am sleeping on the floor, two bathrooms, a nice kitchen, and a living room. It's a lot of space for two girls with no furniture. I'm already feeling settled in my bedroom, the maps are up, the music is on...

I spent a few hours on saturday morning garage sale hopping, where I managed to equip my kitchen for less than $10. I am in love with my 25 cent toaster and my 50 cent coffee pot. Mmmm breakfast. Several of my coworkers have generously loaned me their unneeded furniture, so I've recently inherited a dining table and a futon mattress that i need to go pick up. We've got camp chairs, homemade art, and the spider plant, besides, so frankly, I think we're pretty pleased with ourselves.

I'm living right in
View Larger Map'>Boulder City, NV which is right next to the the park where I am working (Lake Mead National Rec Area) so that I am just a quick bike ride to work. Except that my bike is in the shop this week, with a stretched chain and a bent rear axle, but next week it will be a short ride to work. It's a nice town, calm and quaint, the only town in Nevada without gambling and a moratorium on growth. A 10 minute drive through the pass and you reach Vegas' suburban sprawl. It's nice to be separated from the city by the mountains, but it's easy to get there for frisbee games, rei, barnes and noble, trader joes, and obviously, high-class prostitutes.

Although Lake Mead (the reservoir above the Hoover Dam) is kind of gross, surrounded by invasive salt ceder and filling up with silt, the upland around it is beautiful, and increasing in area daily as Vegas sucks down it's only water supply. My job is mainly to drive and hike around the park, establishing long term vegetation monitoring plots, sometimes low on the rolling gypsum hills, sometimes high in the pinyon pine and juniper mountains, and everywhere in between. There's tons of great backcountry to play in, without the rules, permits, or crowds of people that most of the National Parks have. Beyond the park, there's great mountains calling from just a short (by western standards) drive in any direction. So, I'm pretty excited to be settling in for the winter. So many great places to play, and a shower to come home to. I am spoiled rotten. You should come visit- there's plenty of space on my new floor!!

(Friends from ENLC, Brett, Keith, and Joanna enjoying an afternoon hike at Lake Mead)

Election Day

As known as, Come On Ohio, Don't Fuck this Up Again Day

I'm nervous. I'm not special. Everyone is holding their breath, crossing their fingers, drinking beer and watching the news waiting for the right results to come in. Every state I've lived in recently seems to have a knack for election drama- the famous swing states and democratic disaster, Ohio and Florida, are maybe trying to make amends this year. Virginia, solid, almost southern Virginia, might even be a swing state this year. And here in NV, well, it's interesting. I met two men on Mt. Wheeler who told me that even their black neighboor told them that electing Obama would be the worst thing this country could do because they'd never be able to trust another black man again. The neighboorhood here, sign-wise, is pretty even. I've met a surprising number of liberals too. In fact, parked next to me at the library, at this very minute, is a truck with not one but two "Republicans for Obama" sticker. Hope.

New States

I have conquered the south!! Okay, probably not, but I did at least drive through a bunch of states that I had never previously been to- Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico. Take that Rand McNally!! Not only did I drive through these states, I even got out of the car occasionally to fuel up on gasoline (look at my carbon footprint grow!!!) and coffee. And take pictures as proof:

I'm seriously proud of myself- it at least gave some sort of meaning to the endless interstate driving. Arkansas was surprising pretty- the fall colors just starting to come into the Ozarks. I was less than enthralled by Oklahoma and Texas, but there were lots of wind farms to add some positive cheer to the flat, bare landscape. The rest area in texas actually had an informational display dedicated to windfarms- past and present- so I learned some things while I stretched my legs.

It feels great to check so many states off my list. I might even visit some of them again- on purpose. It would have been nice to have more time to hike around the Ozarks, now that I know how inviting they are. New Mexico was cool, it felt strangely like a homecoming to reach the desert again. And Albuquerque was a pretty fun city too, once I got through the suburban sprawl and tricky traffic- I wish I could have explored around there a bit longer as well. Finally, As I drove into Flagstaff, the San Francisco peaks looked down on me with a mountainous pull to my hiking heart after the miles of flat. But I was closing in on arrival, sucking down my last tank of gas, and put the pedal to the metal for the Hoover Dam. Which was a monstrosity again this time. But- the good news is that after this ridiculous road trip- I only need 5 more states to complete the country- Louisiana, Idaho, Montana, and the Dakotas. So let me know if you want to plan a trip in any of those directions. In the future, that is, when I have the time and energy and money to afford to travel again.

And now, after 6,600 miles on the road this month (Damn) to move the 315 miles from Ely to Boulder City, i have finally arrived. I immediately pulled into to the Boulder Dam Brewing Company a for a much needed beer- their BlackCanyon Stout hit the spot. Then it turned into two or three as I realised that it was a Halloween party and I was the only lame one without a costume. I tried to tell people that normally I'm cool but I was just dressed up as a lame person for Halloween, but I don't think they believed me. I met up with Teague and met his girlfriend Jen, and they are kindly letting me stay on their floor while I search for a home. I am dying to unpack- I've hit a crisis point and I just can't live in my car any longer. So, wish me luck in the home-hunting and my first day on the new job!

Letters to Old Friends

Dear Friends-
Thanks for letting me visit. All of you, it's been great. As Cox said, old friends are way more fun than new friends. Not to belittle new friends, since I'm driving westward again and hoping to make some rather quickly, or it's going to be a lonely winter. No, new friends are fun, but there is something about the ease of old friendships that is just good for the soul. You don't even need to make new jokes, you can laugh at the old ones. So easy. And so good. Especially if your old friends are as funny as mine. Really, I laugh hardest with you guys, and I love that.

It's been fun to peak in on everybody's new lives, snooping around your apartments, sleeping on your couches, meeting your new friends. Lawyer clothes, brooklyn apartments, doctorate degrees, salaried jobs, and expecting engagements? Oh my. Our lives have diverged in so many ways since our friendships were rooted in their native physical spaces- it's fascinating. Who would have ever thought that'd we'd be the people we are today, where we are today? And that I'd still show up to visit, all these years later? Are we still growing up? growing away? growing apart in space and time perhaps, but still, with a friendship that transcends all that? Plenty of friends have fallen by the wayside, obviously, casualties of forward progress, but I love that ours have somehow hung on. Tended to by phone calls and emails, or just hibernating somewhere deep underground like those old photo albums in a box in the basement, ready to resurrect when the lazarus moment arrives, hardly any rust to speak of.

I'm sorry to be so sentimental. It's just me, in my head, these last 3,000 miles back to the desert, and I miss you all already. I love that I just really like who you've all grown up into since we parted ways, it's inspiring. If you would all just decide to move together somewhere, then I could finally stop wandering and settle down there forever. It'd be great, it wouldn't even matter where, I mean, I might even move to Kansas for you guys. I know there would be a good ultimate team, once we got there.

Except then I'd have no one to visit. And that would be sad too. Visits are fun. Especially to Las Vegas this winter. You know you want to come. You can visit my real life, meet my plants and the mountains, and there's room for two in my tent!

So thanks again, everyone, for opening your lives and your cities and your new friends and your couches to me this month. It was so good for my soul. Here's a sad story- I was really lonely this summer, working in near silence on the tussock tundra, and it was unsettling to feel that way- new, unfamiliar feelings I struggled to name. I just wanted to give up and go home, I guess. And then I realised that I was longing for "home," a place I don't really have anymore, since my friends seem to have wind dispersed these recent years. But I'm not brave enough to build a new home just yet, not ready to be rooted. But this month, I burned through too many fossil fuels to call myself an environmentalist anymore, and did a lot of visiting. A record amount of visiting. And I realised that home isn't a place, it's people, and I still have all of those people, all over the place. And that's pretty good. A sad story with a happy ending. (See jill, I can name lots of feelings)

Saudades,

Kate

City Survival Skills

So this is my 5th day in NYC. I haven't even been that lost yet (knock, knock). I have concluded several important things:

1. I am a terrible tourist- I only lasted about 5 minutes in time square before I had to escape, and I didn't go to any museums.
2. Thank Goodness for city parks. I've been hiding away my time in some of the city's best parks, including the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. Especially their taxonomically inclined vegetable garden. Love.
3. It's far better to follow my friends around their real lives here than to do the tourist thing. It makes me feel like I probably could live here for a few years to get this journalism career kickstarted.
4. Visiting everyone's cool houses/apartments makes me want to unpack and live somewhere again. Bring it on- Boulder City!
5. This Columbia program is looking better and better. I'm going to class this afternoon. Wish me luck!

2,455 miles down

My journey so far

Perhaps I shouldn't have reread A Fool's Progress last week. Heading eastward, homeward, from the desert to the hills of Appalachia, visiting long lost friends and reflecting on my life along the way, as Abbey does the same, has probably made me way too introspective and added illusions of granduer to my "journey." I like to think that my trip is, unlike Abbey's, is much more of a beginning than an ending. But, it's nice to think of this road trip as a journey, instead of just a really long drive, and Abbey's certainly inspiring in that sense.

So I picked up Henry Lightcap's last hurrah from Kathy and Elliot's shelves in Denver, since I had some time to kill. Hazel the Honda decided to break her two front axels and blow an oil leak in a gasket, resulting in a few days at the mechanic and a serious blow to my budget. It's hard to live in your car when your car is in the shop. I think she overheard my musings about maybe wanting to buy a truck...and got a little upset. And now that I've blown my savings on repairs, she's got her way, and is probably here to stay for awhile.

When I finally hit the road again, I made a quick trip up to Boulder to visit Hillary in her new incarnation as a college kid. Damn, that makes me feel old. But, we had a fun time walking around town and catching up, before I hit the road late, bound for a place to sleep in western kansas. Damn, I've said it before and I'll have to say it again, Kansas is huge. Huge, and not very exciting.

But I did find a hill!! That's right, a hill in Kansas. It's in Wilson Lake State Park, about 5 miles off the interstate, a few hours east of the restarea where I woke up. I went to the park for a much needed run, hoping to steal a campground shower afterwords. But alas, when I got there, the rangers were closing down the bathrooms for the season. Terrible timing. But, the lake was lovely and deserted. So after my run, I took a swim and washed my hair at the boat dock. Lovely.

The scenery got more and more familiar as I drove. The endlessly flat farmland gave way to forests, and then rolling rural farms. It's pretty, in it's own way, to be heading home again. I had an excellent time with Ande in St. Louis and Cox in Indianapolis. They'll both be lawyers within the year. What a crazy idea. But, it was fun to catch up with my long-lost-lawyer friends, we laughed about old stories, new gossip, big plans, and Sarah Palin.

I hit the road again to meet Nat in Louisville. I napped and ran around a lovely city park until he got off work, and we left for a weekend in the Red River Gorge. I'm just learning to climb and he's just learning to lead, so I think we made a good pair. We camped in the woods (trees!!!) and the fall colors are just starting to show. Beautiful. I've missed oaks and maples. Two days on the rocks killed my arms (man- I haven't been this sore in awhile) but it was great fun. I scared myself and impressed myself and realised that this is something I really want to get better at.

Sore as hell, I left Nat to head home. As the scenery became more and more familiar, I thought of Abbey's line about home. "Home is where you go when you probably shouldn't" he said, as Henry Lightcap retreats, battered and nearly defeated, through his past, back to his family. It's always wierd to be home, but I like it. For a visit. The days have gone quickly, bike rides with mom and dad, dinner with a high school friend, packing and unpacking, rearranging my life in the honda, sitting here at the old coffee shop, watching as kids I used to babysit, now college students, come in and out. Okay- just two- but it makes me feel old nonetheless.

I hit the road again tomorrow, off to Nancy and Phil's, then to watch Emily's team play some ultimate, and hang out in pittsburgh. Then grandma, and New York, and then down to Virginia. Okay, I'm getting ahead of myself again. It's the journey, not the destination, right?

The Epic October Road Trip:

I hit the ROAD tomorrow. And so it begins a month long adventure to visit as many long lost friends and pick up as much of my stuff as possible before moving back to Nevada for the winter and spring. It's going to be a lot of driving. It's going to be a lot of fossil fuels. It's going to be a lot of coffee. But- I'm pretty excited about it anyways- people to see, things to do, etc...

So here's the plan:

Sept 28- arrive in Boulder for the evening 29- Visit j-school, hang out with Hillary, 30/Oct 1- Drive to St. Louis Oct. 2- Hang out with Ande, drive late to Inde 3-Visit Cox, drive late to Louisville 4/5 Nat- want to go hiking?? Oct 6- drive to Delaware 7-10 central ohio Oct 11- drive to Kent for dinner 12-14 Pittsburgh (visit ultimate tournament in Edinboro?) 15- Drive to NYC/16-19 NYC (visit columbia j-school, maggie, amal, kara?) 20 NYC to Virginia 21-23 Richmond/Norfolk/Williamsburg 24-26 Homecoming at W&M (you should be there too!!) 27-28 South Carolina- Lauren where exactly do you live??? Oct 29 + drive across I-40 to Vegas- maybe couch crashing in Memphis and New Mexico???

I should arrive in Boulder City by Nov. 1st with my bike, my dishes and sheets, my books, and hopefully I'll have found an apartment by then, if not, there's always my trusted tent for a little while longer... I'll try to keep this blog posted on my cross country progress. Just put a new battery in the honda, so we should be ready to roll!!

Desert Nights

Notes from my nights in Cottonwood Canyon, September 19th-21st

The best part of life in the desert is the evenings. No one will disagree with this. In the setting sun, the canyons glow, the harsh heat fades, the cylidropuntia's spines shine and sparkle, and the growing shadows give everything an air of mystery.

You put your pack down. You take your boots off. Rinse your face and hands. Cook some dinner. Eat and chat with your coworkers. The best of life's simple pleasures. Easier to appreciate in a place where simple is all you've got.

The stars and the bats come out one by one, slowly at first, but increasing along an seemingly exponential curve so that soon, you have no chance of keeping count. Grasshoppers, cicadas, screech owls, and coyotes (1) all contribute to the night's songs. On this lucky evening, the rare burbling of a little brook (2). It's a rhythm you almost feel more than you hear, lulling you toward well earned sleep.

Some people put up tents. I prefer to sleep out, watch the stars until my determined brain finally gives up. I sleep well out here, a cool, clean night breeze (3) over a tired body, the soul distracted by world class star gazing. I haven't yet woken up with a tarantula on my face or a scorpion in my hair, although I've heard such stories, so I guess I'll keep sleeping out until I do.

As much as I love these nights, just perfectly cold to curl up in my bag but not yet enough to wake up and find myself frosted over, I can never enjoy the for long. After a twelve our day over rock scree and under scorched junipers, I hardly make it past 8:30. Too many lonely moths flock toward my headlamp, for their sake, and mine, I always give up on my book quickly. Or this essay. Goodnight. Those little scorpians can wait until first light (4)...

PS- Excuse my rampant poetic licence. 1. Also this evening we were serenaded by the lovely roar of fighter-jet flyover. 2. This little desert stream is surrounded by cow shit, as are most of them. 3. Thank goodness it's just a light breeze, or I'd be coated and choking on dust and dried cow-shit. 4. Cooking breakfast by headlamp before our 6 am return to work, I did find two little guys climbing around my stove as I made our grits.

PPS- My nights in the desert, at least for this season, are finished. That's my emotional excuse for the poetic licence, forgive me. Another job over, another round of sentimental goodbyes at hand, to friends, to mountains, and to perfect desert nights.

Just a little masochistic

From the tent-log, July 5th, 2008, Middle Moose Creek, Denali NP.

Sometimes, it's obviously worth it. When the freezing rain lifts and you see those first glowing rays of sunlight over the mountain you've been trudging up. When you stand triumphant at the peak, catch a glimpse of a mama grizzly and cubs in a berry patch, or realize that you can see for miles and there's not another soul to be found, it's worth it.

But let's be honest- sometimes it is not all fun and games on our outdoor adventures. Rain, mosquitoes, blistered feet, heavy packs, and endless uphill bushwhacking- frankly, it can get pretty misreable. Usually, it's worth it in the end.

Sometimes, however, it's not. Sometimes, it's just a test of endurance for the sake of testing your endurance. Here, in the shadow of Denali (A pretty good looking shadow, I have to admit) I think of the mountaineers testing there endurance up there- freezing temperatures, heavy loads, and days of waiting for the perfect, storm free conditions to attempt the final ascent, to achieve for a few moments the triumph of standing on North America's highest peak. But then, it gets cold really fast up there at 20,320 ft, so you can't stay long. They hurry on down. The accomplishment, the impressive part, is more from the process than the peak, more endurance than excitement.

Down here, I'm testing my endurance in other ways- like mosquito misery. Why do I keep hiking every day- hating the bugs, the bushwacking, the boredom? Well yes- they pay me. But they pay the guys who wash the tour buses a lot better, and yet, here I am. Why? It's not the scenery keeping me here- views of the stunted black spruce tundra through a dark mosquito haze can be a little lacking on poetic inspriation. It's not the salary.

It's sheer stubborness. I'm not going to quit, mostly because I want to. I need to prove that I can handle ten days in a headnet, purposefully dehydrated because everytime I take my pants off to pee I get enough bites that my eyes tear up, trudging through wet, unfriendly terrian, where the best thing to look forward to every day is smashing that last mosquito into a bloody smear on the side of my tent so I can hope for some sleep in peace.

My coworkers have commented that it's a lot like hell around here. Yet, we are still here. There's a fine line between outdoor adventure and masochism sometimes, and I think we've crossed it. And it's not just us exhusted, itchy botanists. Adventurers in every category are pushing their limits- how high, how cold, how many days on only couscous, how many bites to the ass can we handle? Before what? Before we give up and cry, and press that magic escape button? Not likely, we push ourselves until proving it is the only option. Stopping to cry only leads to a larger swarm of bugs- it's keep moving or die like a sick caribou, unconcious from blood loss to the bugs out here in a day or two.

I'm not trying to say that surviving 10 mosquitoey, misreable days in Denali's less famous lowlands ranks with climbing it's peaks, or any of the other incredible feats that endurance junkies push towards. But it is pushing through the misery without the summit or the scenery, no 'it's all worthwile' moment. It's not logical really, to make yourself misreable, unless misery in some messed up way, gets you off too. Diagnosis- masochism.

I am not diagnosing myself alone. I'm diagnosing this club of "higher, faster, tougher" adreneline-addicted folks that I'm slowing joining. Is this masochism a problem? It's not that there is anything wrong with being tougher than a little pain, than the misreable moments. It's when the motivation turns away from all that makes it worth it to simply just making it- that we might need to confront our own masochistic tendancies.

I killed 33 mosquitoes with 1 strike of my hand today- and I have small hands. I'll climb out of my tent tomorrow and do it again. And again. So I guess I'm getting a little sadistic out here too.

GUILTY AS CHARGED

Wow- so I haven't touched this blog in quite awhile, have I? I have all kinds of excellent excuses, a lack of electricity and internet access in my lifestyle, mountains to climb, plants to count, mosquitos to smash or occassionally rescue from the suicide missions into my oatmeal before smashing, and just general laziness. It has a lot to do with laziness. I tell people I want to be a writer, and yet, sometimes it is so hard for me to put such pretty plans into action. Aside from my personal journals and the trip reports for work, i haven't written much at all in 2008.

I'm freshly feeling guilty because I met another aspiring writer this weekend at an excellent Oktoberfest party in Lamiolle, NV. We talked writing and adventures around a His blog puts mine to shame. And shame is not an emotion that I am very familiar with, so I am taking it pretty hard. But it is also an excellent motivating factor.

I have so many things I want to write about, 2008 had thus far been a pretty great year for adventures and inspiration, so I guess I need to suck up my excuses and my doubts, and get back to work. I feel a little deja vu about this- prehaps I have restarted my devotion to this blog before a few times...but maybe this is for real....wish me luck....and occasional readership....in the efforts to follow.

Saving a Spiky Endanged Shrub

So what does it really take to save an endangered species? Culturally, we have come to the general conclusion that we should save the baby seals and rare owls- as long as it doesn’t inconvenience our finances or personal property too much. Our leaders designate parks, preserve areas from logging, and draw no-fishing zones to protect the habits that we’ve been told our favorite charismatic animals need to survive the odds we’ve stacked against them. However, most of our planet’s endangered species are not as bumper-sticker worthy as the whales. Save the Wedgeleaf Button Snakeroot! just doesn’t have the same successful sound; it is difficult to pull on people’s heartstrings for a small herbaceous plant. Endangered plants, in general, receive far less attention than their more animated animal list-mates.

So allow me to introduce you to one very uncharismatic endangered species, Ziziphus celata, commonly known, to the handful of people who know it, as Florida Ziziphus. It’s a spiky shrub from the buckthorn family, growing in sandy upland sites along the Lake Wales Ridge in south central Florida. It can reach 6 ft tall- sometimes on a single upright stem, but more frequently, in a twisted, zigzagging mass of stems, branches and spines, making it difficult to tell where one plant ends and another begins. It has small, alternate leaves that are typically dark green with a shiny upper surface, and sometimes slightly heart shaped. On many older individuals, the older, woody branches are leaf-less, just gray bark and thorns.

The flowers begin as clusters of small green buds along the leafless older branches. On some of the plants, these buds are the only green present. The flowers bloom for about two weeks, at some point between late December and early February, depending on environmental factors and the plants’ personal sense of humor. Thousands and thousands of the tiny flowers can bloom on the larger plants.

However, despite the sometimes prolific flowering, Ziziphus is not thriving. Stubbornly, it refuses to reproduce sexually in the wild. It is hard to save a plant that doesn't seem to be trying to save itself. Many of the known populations are made up of plants from a single genotype- they are all clones, separate stems growing up from a shared colony of roots. These clones are self-incompatible: they can not fertilize flowers and produce viable seeds together, since they share the same genes. Even when several genotypes are present in a population, some of the crosses are incompatible as well, and no fertile seeds are produced. Most of the viable seeds have been produced from painstaking, painful hand-pollinations by biologists working with the captive population at the Bok Botanical Garden in Lake Wales Florida.

Ziziphus is currently considered the one of the most endangered plants in Florida. It was first described from an old herbarium specimen- no one living had seen it in the wild- so it was presumed extinct. In 1987, the first of 7 known wild populations of Ziziphus was discovered. In clumps in cow-pastures, eroding hillsides hidden between housing developments, behind skeet-shooting ranges and oranges groves, Ziziphus is hanging on. With very low genetic diversity, small, scattered populations, and the inability to produce seedlings in the wild, Ziziphus needs all the help it can get.

However, saving Ziziphus is hard work. Evolutionary adaptations to prevent being chewed upon(aka spikiness) do not make for happy scientists. My current employers, the plant ecology researchers at the Archbold Biological Station, have tagged and followed every known individual in the wild populations and the captive populations we’ve planted in gardens and preserves. Each january, in less than two weeks, we measure and record size and flowering status of every existing plant. That includes the time wasted pulling thorns free from fingers and whining about the spiny scratching. It’s important to take the data because the plants, perhaps oblivious to their status as genetically doomed, do grow, some years profusely. Research assistants and interns crawl into the spiky mess of twigs to hunt for tags and labels that have been totally overgrown since the previous year’s census. And you can’t consider breaking off a little branch to clear a spike-free zone for your arm to work in because this is a highly endangered plant we’re dealing with here- the Ziziphus comes first.

To catch plants for the captive collections, clones are grown from root-pieces cut from healthy wild plants. Now, if Ziziphus had a long term perspective towards the survival of their own species, they might try to cooperate with biologists in this process. But instead, with each individual selfishly focused on short-term survival, Zizphus comes prepared to battle with biologists for its roots. They send a single long, thick tap root straight down, or sometimes horizontal, or sometimes down, then horizontal, then down again and to the left, often for more than a meter before branching. You can’t just cut the tap root itself- knowingly murdering this spikey endangered shrub, so you have to keep digging, with your hands like a dog, belly in the sand, head in a crown of thorns, until you find a branchpoint. A branch of about an inch thick and several inches long, that is- then you’ve hit the buried treasure. However, just to ensure that the Ziziphus get the last laugh, some of the roots, even after being chased for two or three meters, never branch.

Like most of the plants endemic to the Lake Wales Ridge, Ziziphus is adapted to wildfires. In this dry, sandy landscape, frequent lightning strikes used to set the scrub ablaze. Now, it’s frequently prescribed burns that land managers use to maintain the natural ecosystem processes. A preserve containing a population of introduced Ziziphus was recently burned so that researchers can study if the fire spurs the previously lazy plants into new growth.

Fire is also used as a tool in the quest to save the Ziziphus to eliminate competing plants like pasture grasses and invasive weeds. However, to burn all of the competitors in close proximity to the Ziziphus without harming the spiky endangered shrub itself is a thorny issue, literally. My boss advocates the cardboard box method. The grass is lit from a drip torch on one side of the shrub, while a lucky intern, in this case me, holds a large, folded cardboard box between the Ziziphus and the oncoming flames. The theory is that the cardboard will protect the shrub, and as a added benefit, me, by diverting the flames into the surrounding grasses, an easily burnt fuel.

I know what you are thinking- cardboard boxes are flammable! This is the stupidest idea ever to light a fire all around the plant you are trying to save with merely a flammable, floppy box to protect it. But, to my surprise, the technique actually works. At least of the first hour, we carefully light the grasses around the shrubs from each side, moving the box-shield ahead of the path of the leading flames. To hold the box, and not get burnt, required me to stand in a rather uncomfortable proximity to the Ziziphus, but being stabbed seems to beat being burnt.

However, after about an hour, my cardboard defenses were breached, and suddenly my fire-protecting shield was in flames in my hands- singeing the very plant it was supposed to protect. Trying to snuff out the first burning leaves by hand just led to more spines in my hands and had very little effect on the flames. Add to this moment a sudden increase in wind that kicked the fire up a notch and sent smoke everywhere, thicker, taller grasses available for fuel, and a boss who suddenly decided to go trigger-happy, lighting several patches simultaneously. The endangered shrubs were suddenly in need of very immediate saving. You think fast in a fire: to save myself or the spiky shrub? I ended up running around, smoke-blind, stomping out the flaming grass in front of each plant I could find, only to turn and realize that imminent disaster was approaching this one, and then that one, and oh shit- that one over there in the corner, until my boss called to stop and the land manger turned on the hose to put out some of the remaining flames.

The smoke cleared and we could clearly see, even through smoke blurry eyes and running noses, the absurdity of our afternoon. What did we do at work today? We lit a very spiky endangered shrub on fire, in the name of saving it, obviously. That was several months ago. We’re going back tomorrow to measure the survivors for growth and flowering, to see if my smoky sacrifices have helped the Ziziphus grow a little taller or bloom a little brighter.

For all that Ziziphus celata is lacking in charisma, cooperation, and reproductive ambition- in a twisted way, here in the lab, we’ve all come to love it anyway. Every new plant is a new chance to learn more about how to save them, even if it requires the miserable bloodletting process of wiring a tag to a less than friendly branch. One day, with almost 150 new plants tagged in a pasture, it was hard to believe the plant is really in danger of extinction. But in reality- my coworkers and I have been stabbed by every single Ziziphus plant known to exist on the planet, and although some days that feels like a lot of spines, it is still a plant in real trouble. Saving an endangered species isn’t always pretty, feel good-work. But, in a masochistic way, we’re rooting for these clonal masses of roots to put up more shoots, spread its spiny branches and grow.

Photos by Lauren Sullivan. Thanks to Carl Weekly and the rest of the Archbold Plant Lab for introducing me to Ziziphus and for finding the humor in these long, spiky days in the field.

Profile: Moses Michelsohn

Like a superhero; he carries the daily weight of two identities. By day, Moses Michelsohn is the mild mannered education intern at Archbold Biological Station who patiently introduces school children to the natural wonders of the florida scrub. But, as the buses drive off, he trades his professional polo for yet another faded tie-dyed tee and wanders off into the night, snake-hunting. Armed with a hooked stick, a headlamp, and several large ziplock bags, he catches snakes for his own curiosity, adding to his amazing mental library of herp facts, myths, and adventures.

Herps, in case you’re not yet hip to the lingo, is the way herpetologists refer to their study species- snakes, lizards, and amphibians, collectively. They are a quirky bunch, herpetologists, combining a nerdy passion for scientific discovery with a thrill-seekers addiction to catching the uncatchable: the slimy, poisonous, and dangerous creatures most of us try to avoid.
Herpetologists tell much better stories than birders or plant ecologists, possibly because they’ve flirted with fangs, not just feathers and flowers. Moses, true to his academic peers, is quite the story teller. While his real love is frogs, he has found more adventure in catching snakes. In his few months at Archbold, he has reported Eastern Diamondback, Cottonmouth, and Pygmy Rattler sightings, and brought back plenty of pretty but safer specimens. Curious after seeing his captures on many previous nights, I got myself invited on a trip out to snake road-cruise.

Road-cruising? According to Moses, and obviously the herpetology lore that inspired him, one of the best ways to find snakes is to drive up a small country road at dusk and just after, catching the herps when the are visible and vulnerable- the open border crossing. Moses’s snake road is a rough dirt road between ranchland, located in the middle of nowhere south central florida. Any road might do, but what makes this road special is the frequent wetland ditches on either side, prime herp habitat, that motivates their border crossing.

“Here’s the thing,” he started explaining, as we arrived on the infamous snake road, “It’s not all Animal Planet- everywhere we go we can’t just catch a rare snake like Jeff Corwin does on TV.” Instead, it’s about patience, practice, and a willingness to put up with terrible pop radio, the only accessible signal in the vicinity of the middle of nowhere, Florida. In fact, snake-hunting is incredibly lazy work.

He explains the search image, what to train your eyes to watch for, and I begin scanning the rough dirt road for dark, slender, tubular shapes. We brake several times for suspicious sticks, shadows, and once, very excited, for suggestively coiled bungee cord. In between false alarms, we saw a small wild hog, several birds, and a disputable bobcat (He was there, I saw him, Moses was too focused on the road to see the glowing eyes, I stand my ground). To pass the time as we cruised at 4 mph, he told me how he got hooked on herps, when a biology lab put him waist deep in a swamp, trying to catch the frogs who were calling from every direction, surrounding him, hiding and taunting. We talked about graduate schools, invasive frogs, and the Hannah Montana phenomena on the radio. Before we knew it, we were back to the highway.

“Are you going to write about how I couldn’t get it up?” he asked me as we returned to the research station, snakeless. Moses claims to have only returned without snake sightings or captures twice, and both of those times he was traveling with company. So perhaps it’s my fault, not his, I broke the magic. The mythical snake road might just be a plain old dirt road after all. But I’m not sure I’m ready to give up the dream just yet.

He’s left Archbold now, gone to an actually research job, chasing answers to questions of evolution and speciation in the form of small amphibians across the pacific northwest. But his legacy lives on- I even caught my first wild snake- a docile green vine snake, but still- inspired by his example. In his honor, we’re planning our own adventure out to snake-road this week; headlamps, a field guide, and, obviously, Moses on speed-dial.