A Resupply Gone Wrong…Horribly Wrong.

We are excited to welcome Lisa Buckley to the blog today. Lisa is a palaeontologist based in British Columbia, Canada, and today she tells us an unfortunate but equally amazing fieldwork story! Welcome, Lisa!

 

“I wonder how that would taste?”

I can’t think of one field expedition lacking a humorous story about food-borne desperation. You have to laugh, or it just seems horrid. A quote often attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte is “an army marches on its stomach.” The same can be said for your field crew. Field crews march, and they march hard. Double digit kilometer treks. Huge elevation changes, often accompanied by surprise weather changes. Removing meters of rock with a pickaxe.

I’ll take you back to 2006, when our three-person crew conducted dinosaur track research in Kakwa Provincial Park, British Columbia. The Kakwa Dinosaur Track Site is a remote subalpine-alpine site. It is a 45-minute helicopter flight to the site from the nearest inhabited area. Helicopter time is quite expensive, especially for a small research centre such as ours, so we were relying on helicopter time donated by the natural resource industry. This meant that we couldn’t simply call for helicopter support on a whim. Barring emergencies, we worked around the helicopter’s schedule.  We had arranged for three trips: the initial drop-off of crew and gear, the final pick up of crew, gear, and specimens, and an intermediate pick up of our field technician (who needed to leave early) and food resupply at the three-week mark of our four-and-a-half week trip.

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The scenery is breathtakingly beautiful, but once we were there, we were there for the duration.

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Studying dinosaur tracks in British Columbia is difficult because many of the track-bearing rock layers, once horizontal, have been pushed into a vertical position thanks to the building of the Rocky Mountains. This means that we have to use rock climbing gear to access the track surface to collect measurements and make latex replicas to bring back to the lab.

This site was hard, calorie-burning work. Every morning we had to hike from our water-accessible camp site to the top of the mountain, an increase in elevation of almost 1000 meters. We would put in at least six hours on the track surface, and then hike back down to camp. Although we had ensured that our initial food supply was generous (including not only staples, but lots of variety and the occasional morale-boosting snack), we knew a resupply would be necessary at the three-week mark.

A few days before the resupply, I called an in-town contact to ask her to pick up items. But here’s where I initiated the most spectacular #fieldworkfail of my career: I did not specify the amount of food. At the time, I assumed that either the person on the other end could read my mind, or that the person, being the outdoorsy type, would know exactly how much food two hard-working palaeontologists would need for a week and a half.

 

Resupply Day dawned gloriously sunny. The helicopter came in, our field tech loaded her gear, and our food resupply was unloaded. Sitting on the ground were three small shopping bags.

I asked the pilot “Where’s the rest?”

“That’s it!” he replied.

The lead palaeontologist, Dr. Richard McCrea, and I stood staring at the paltry pile of plastic sacks.  We looked at one another, and looked back at the groceries. One of us said some version of “We’re going to die.”

Maybe we were being a little melodramatic…but at this point of the trip, we were pretty eager for a change in diet. What we saw in those bags supplemented our meager remaining rations for three days. After the food from the resupply was gone, we were left with lentils, rice, mustard, raisins, some tins of Louisiana hot sauce, herring, and marshmallows. Every. Dang. Night. For seven nights.

This is where I tell the tale of the Wiliest Ptarmigan. Right up until the day of our resupply, we could not go anywhere in camp or on the mountain summit without seeing White-tailed Ptarmigan. Ptarmigan, like many grouse, use the “if I don’t move, you can’t see me” strategy for avoiding predation…meaning that you can get very close to them. This picture was taken without a zoom.

After the Resupply Gone Wrong, we started making jokes about Ptarmigan Pot Pie and Kentucky-Fried Ptarmigan. And both Rich and I would swear, as soon as the resupply happened, we didn’t see one ptarmigan for the ten days remaining days of the expedition. It’s almost as though they knew we were assessing their culinary virtues. All we found was a solitary feather in the area where they would usually roost. I think the ptarmigan left that feather there on purpose to mock our hunger.

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The Wiliest of Ptarmigan. These White-tailed Ptarmigan have a cunning sense of when humans are hungry.

Joking aside, we knew we were not going to starve or go hungry, but we also knew mealtimes were going to be…strange. Let me answer the “I wonder how that tastes?” question with respect to the different food combinations we tried:

Rice and lentils: Edible but very, very bland.

Rice and lentils and heated tinned fish: It should work, but it didn’t. It was kind of nasty.

Rice and lentils and mustard: It’s edible. That’s as far as I’ll go.

Rice and lentils and fish and mustard: Two wrongs don’t make a right.

Raisins stuffed inside marshmallows: Really, really strange. The two don’t go together.

Marshmallows and mustard: No, YOU ate marshmallows and mustard. Shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.

Needless to say, we survived, but we really couldn’t call it living. When we were flown back into town, the first thing we did was eat a big plate of nachos with lots of salsa.

Ultimately, the Resupply Gone Wrong turned out to be a great learning experience. I now have a field meals list where I not only plan out the number of meals for an expedition, but the quantities of required ingredients.

Dedicated to the Wiliest Ptarmigan: well played, you floofy-footed fowl. Well played.

Dr. Lisa Buckley is a palaeontologist with the Peace Region Palaeontology Research Centre based in Tumbler Ridge, British Columbia. Lisa’s work with the PRPRC is field- and lab-based research on the tracks and traces of dinosaurs, birds, and other vertebrates from the Cretaceous Period, with a focus on researching Cretaceous-aged bird tracks and trackways. Lisa also manages a comprehensive archive in British Columbia of vertebrate fossils from British Columbia, and is an advocate for responsible fossil stewardship in the province. Lisa can be found on Twitter @Lisavipes, where she manages the track-based game #NameThatTrack, and the sciart project #BirdGlamour, where eye makeup is used to highlight bird diversity.10498226_10202228340212179_8097162662899592582_o

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How many words is a fieldwork picture worth?

One of the current hot topics regarding human social trends is the use of social media platforms to document our lives, especially in terms of photos. Why not just live in the moment? You can take experiences with you, but you can’t take photos! These are just a couple of the common mindsets out there. I’m not particularly sure where I fall on this spectrum. I love taking photos, and I do upload quite a few to social media. For me, it is a way to keep in touch with my family and friends and let them know what I am up to, and occasionally, it’s to brag about the 10 pounds of tomatoes I just picked from my garden. Either way, it is certainly a highly-debated topic.

I’ve been doing fieldwork for almost 10 years now, and I quickly learned after my first field season that having a camera, or at least your smartphone with you at all times is a must, and for many reasons. Of course, taking photos, specifically selfies in the field is key. Sarah told us this not so long ago, and about her many regrets regarding her lack of fieldwork photos, especially those with her in them! I, on the other hand, have the opposite problem. I have SO many fieldwork photos, I don’t even know what to do with them. But, even though there may be 10,000 photos, all of my photos have a purpose.

First of all, I take fieldwork photos so I can use them to explain what I actually did in the field. Photos are excellent tools for Powerpoint presentations, or to use in the methods sections of manuscripts. My Supervisor has always told me, “there is no better explanation than a photo” and he always encourages all new students to document their entire fieldwork experience with photos. Photos have helped me explain many things over the years. For example, I designed “micro-germination chambers for the field” and explained in nearly 1000 words of text just how these chambers were built, stored and used. But it was always met with confusion. In a recent talk, I simply showed a photo, and provided a very brief synopsis of that same device’s uses and it was much clearer.

chambers

“Micro-germination chambers for the field”

Second, you get to document some of the interesting things that happen in the field. One of the best parts of doing fieldwork, is the other stuff that happens while you’re doing it. And often, that stuff is not related at all to your work. You might remember me talking about that in one of my favourite posts to date “The White house: from damp and dark to cold and warm” where I was be-friended by an exceptional group of gray rat snakes inhabiting our field storage building. Or the time the biggest, most beautiful praying mantis decided that my forearm was the ideal place to hang out for the afternoon. Or the time we found a random group of white turkey-like birds and a black duck wandering the roadsides…the list goes on.

Finally, and probably, most importantly, fieldwork photos are useful as an outreach tool. One of our goals at Dispatches from the field is to tell fieldwork stories that aren’t captured in manuscripts and to showcase the work we do, and why we do that work. The best way to tell our stories has been through photos. Our blog is littered with beautiful photos from posters all around the world and while our stories are certainly amazing, photos have been a big draw for new readers and followers. At outreach events we have posters and slideshows that are almost exclusively photos, and we have always been met with wonderful feedback. It helps me answer the common questions I get asked like: what is an old-field anyways? Or, when you say you measured maximum potential body size, just how big are we talking??

Our experiences, and the stories that have culminated in Dispatches from the field highlight the places, the species, and the problems that we as field scientists, care so deeply about. Showing pictures to accompany those stories, we hope at least, has helped others realize why they should care about them too.

Yes, those boring safety training sessions are important

Dispatches from the field is happy to welcome Katie Grogan, a postdoctoral fellow to share a post this week about a scary field safety lesson! Check out the end of the post for more about Katie.

The second scariest moment of field work I ever experienced happened basically on campus, exactly one mile from our lab and office.

Caught in the mist net. Photo by JRM.

Some people may argue that catching sparrows in downtown Atlanta in the morning, spending a few hours working in the lab in the afternoon, and sleeping in your own bed every night doesn’t qualify as “true” field work – no airplanes, hours in a truck, or having to sleep in tents. But I completely disagree. Any activity that forces you to get out of bed at 3 am in December, and sit staring at a mist-net in a cold field for at least 6 hours, freezing and exhausted, is absolutely field work*.

White-throated sparrow. Photo by JRM.

The reason for this field work is one of the major projects in my postdoctoral lab at Emory University, studying how genetic variation underlies variation in behaviors like aggression or parenting. To do this, we catch wild white-throated sparrows during their fall migration south and bring them into the lab for behavioral testing. The white-throated sparrow, common throughout North America, is an incredibly interesting bird (See this Nature News Feature!) and uniquely suited for this kind of study because of its two behavioral phenotypes: the more aggressive white morph and the less aggressive tan morph.

We catch the birds using mist-nets set up in a field near campus in November and December, an activity that seems fairly low risk apart from some occasional frostbite. However, in order to set up the mist-nets, ‘lanes’ must be cleared through the field so that tree branches and brush don’t snag the nets. We clear these lanes using a machete, and therein lies my story.

The field site.

There are typically no ‘rules’ for doing field work, except to collect your samples without doing anything too dangerous or illegal. But doing local field work a mile from our lab, rather than traveling to Costa Rica or Madagascar, obviously lulled me into complacency, because a safety briefing was the last thing on my mind that sunny afternoon in early November.

For starters, although I have accumulated months of field work in multiple countries, I was relatively new in the lab and I had never caught birds before. Marmots, howler monkeys, and lemurs, yes, but not birds. So who was I to speak up? Like in so many of my previous field experiences, I was the one in training, not the one training other people. Also, this was Atlanta! In the Rocky Mountains, we worried about bears and lightning strikes; in Costa Rica it was heat stroke (or having a monkey fall on you); and in Madagascar it was rocks in the food and stomach problems from ingesting any unfiltered water. But in Atlanta, what was there really to worry about? Basically, I was worried about bugs, twisting an ankle, and being hungry, but not about potential trips to the emergency room. Big mistake.

Grad student with a machete. Photo by KEG.

I realized the severity of this mistake when I looked up from moving freshly cut branches out of the lane to see our machete swinging with wild abandon less than a foot from the head and torso of our newest graduate student, whose back was turned.

I froze in horror, visions of dismemberment flashing before my eyes. Then I sprang into action. Yelling at the machete swinger, I leaped forward to pull the student away from their peril. No one was hurt, nothing happened…but the potential danger of that situation made my heart virtually stop in terror.

I made everyone drop what they were doing for a quick crash course in field safety and awareness. In this instance, the most important lesson was to always be aware of your surroundings, and know where your team members are located and what they are doing. This included keeping at least a 10 foot clearance around anyone doing anything dangerous such as swinging a machete or an ax. I also instituted a personal policy that dangerous tasks should be saved for the postdocs and older grad students – we try not to maim the undergrads or new grad students during their first field experience because it sets a bad precedent for recruiting more help the following year. (I’m absolutely kidding! We don’t maim anyone at all).

This incident was less than 30 seconds long, but was a defining moment in my realization that all field work, whether far away or on campus, should be accompanied by a thorough safety plan, and everyone should be briefed on this plan before work begins. (See here for a good example of how to do this!)

*Just to clarify: I never actually had to endure this hardship for this particular project. By the time I started in this lab, I was a postdoctoral fellow and had already paid my dues years earlier, following marmots in the Rocky Mountains. The graduate students needed the samples and so they got to suffer through this one!

Katie Grogan is interested in the intersection of genetic diversity, fitness, and environmental change, especially for endangered species. She is currently studying the epigenetics of growth and stature in human hunter-gatherers as a postdoctoral fellow at Penn State University. Prior to moving to State College, she worked on gene expression in white-throated sparrows as an IRACDA postdoctoral fellow (a GREAT fellowship for postdocs also interested in teaching). She did her PhD at Duke University, studying the relationship between genetic diversity of the immune system and survival and reproduction in ring-tailed lemurs. When not in the lab or the field, she can be found playing with her dog and reading novels. Photos by KEG (Kathleen Grogan) and JRM (Jennifer R. Merritt, a graduate student in her former lab).

What science literacy means to us

Science rules! And reading rocks! September 18 – 24th 2017 marks the second annual Science Literacy Week in Canada. But what is science literacy?Science literacy week logo

The Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA) defines scientific literacy as “the ability to engage with science-related issues, and with the ideas of science, as a reflective citizen.”

To us here at Dispatches from the Field, promoting scientific literacy means being able to effectively communicate and share the excitement of science with the public. As scientists, we are taught how to write academic papers for publication in specialized journals – journals that not everyone has access to. But what good is it to find a really cool result when you can’t share it with anyone outside your own narrow field?

Sharing the thrill of doing science is one reason we started Dispatches from the Field. Amanda, Sarah and Catherine at the QUBS open house with their poster boardTo those of you who regularly read our posts, we’d like to say THANK YOU! And to any new readers, welcome! To give you a bit of background about this blog, we (the creators and managing editors) are three woman in science who study quite different topics but have at one big thing in common: we love fieldwork. The three of us first started this blog as a way to share those stories from the field that never make it into scientific papers. For example, Catherine recently shared the story of her mayonnaise brownies, Amanda described how she made artificial natural plant communities, and Sarah talked about how hard it is to remember to take selfies in the field.

But since we launched the blog more than three years ago, it has grown into a place for field biologists from all over the world to share their own fieldwork experiences with the public and describe the reasons they love what they do. It has been awesome reading other stories and getting a feel for fieldwork in all types of environments and situations.

And although Dispatches from the Field has published blog posts about working in field sites around the world, many of our stories are about Canadian fieldwork which fit right in with Canada’s Scientific Literacy Week. Our blog features stories from the sand dunes of Sable Island on the east coast, from the remote islands of Haida Gwaii on the west coast, from tundra field stations in the extreme Arctic, and from almost everywhere in between – including close to our home base of Kingston, in the fields and rock ledges of the Frontenac Arch.

Science borealisThere is so much great science being done in Canada – and so many scientists and science communicators eager to share their work with the public. Dispatches from the Field is just one of many great Canadian blogs that showcase the work of Canadian scientists. And if you’re looking for a place to find those blogs, we recommend Science Borealis, a not-for-profit organization that brings together science blogs from across the country, acting as a “one-stop shop” for digital Canadian science information.

Dispatches from the Field is lucky to be one of those Canadian science blogs featured by Science Borealis. And this year, we are super excited to announce we have been nominated by Science Borealis for their People’s Choice Award: Canada’s Favourite Science Online! So whether you’re a Dispatches regular or you’re just finding our blog for the first time, if you enjoy reading our posts, please vote for us in the People’s Choice Award poll!

Nominated for People's choice award

In the top 12!

And for more information on Science Literacy Week and to find events near you, check out:

http://scienceliteracy.ca

Twitter: @scilitweek

#scilit17

 

Squirrel Chatter

This week on Dispatches from the Field, we welcome Sarah Westrick, a Ph. D. student at University of Michigan who shares her experiences at Squirrel Camp! For more about Sarah, check out her bio at the end of the post. 

As a biologist, I’m enamored with nature. Learning more about the natural world around us is what drew me to the field, and biological fieldwork provides some amazing opportunities for me to connect with the natural world. I am lucky to be participating in an incredible long-term field biology program as a third-year PhD student in Dr. Ben Dantzer’s lab at the University of Michigan.

tree line with mountains in the background

The view of our study grid from the Alaska Highway, St. Elias Mountain Range in the background. The boreal forest in this area is predominated by white spruce. (photo by: Sarah Westrick)

The Kluane Red Squirrel Project (KRSP) is an active research program focused on understanding the ecology, evolution, behavior, and energetics of the North American red squirrel. Since 1987, when Dr. Stan Boutin at University of Alberta established the project, KRSP has grown into a large collaborative effort between the University of Alberta, McGill University, the University of Saskatchewan, the University of Guelph, and the University of Michigan.

“Squirrel Camp” is our field research site, located in the boreal forest along the Alaska Highway in the Shakwak Trench near Kluane National Park in the Yukon Territory, Canada. The boreal forest in this region has been studied since the 1970s by researchers on the Kluane Ecological Monitoring Project, including Dr. Boutin, and continues to be well studied by ecologists from all across Canada and the US.

Working at Squirrel Camp is an incredible experience for many different reasons. One of my favorite parts of doing fieldwork in this region is the chance to really get to know the land we live on and the ecosystem we work in. When you’re out in the forest every day, you learn about the plants and animals intimately. I believe one reason the boreal forest of the Yukon has been studied for so long is its ability to excite ecologists’ natural curiosity. Questions about the ecosystem can come quickly to an inquisitive mind wandering the area.

At Squirrel Camp, we have multiple active study grids in the forest. Each morning “squirrelers” head out to their respective grids to monitor the red squirrels living in that patch of forest. Although the grids become familiar old friends, each day when you go into the forest you never know exactly what you’re going to see. You may see arctic ground squirrels alarm calling, encounter goshawks hunting, or accidentally flush out a mother spruce grouse and her chicks.

An ear-tagged North American red squirrel rattling, a territorial vocalization. Both male and female red squirrels defend their cache of spruce cones by rattling. (photo by: Juliana Balluffi-Fry)

This past summer was my third field season at Squirrel Camp. One day in July, I went out in the forest expecting to have an easy morning live-trapping my target squirrels. Each squirrel defends its own territory and can typically be trapped there, allowing us to monitor its reproductive status throughout the breeding season. Preoccupied by my thoughts, I moved between two of my trapping locations on autopilot, taking a trail well worn by many squirrelers past. As I neared my destination, I began to hear the familiar barking call of the red squirrel, a common sound in a forest with ~2 squirrels per ha.

lynx in a tree

Canadian lynx in a tree chasing a juvenile red squirrel. Lynx are very cryptic in the boreal forest and can be hard to spot – this lynx is midway up the tree under the witch’s broom. (Photo by: Sarah Westrick)

Not giving it much thought, I continued down the trail. The barks got louder and more frequent. Multiple squirrels joined in the chorus. At this point, I was curious to see who could be causing such a racket and if it meant there was a shift in the red squirrel social neighborhood. My eyes searched the trees for the telltale wiggling branch of a spruce tree or a small furry red tail darting between branches, but I couldn’t find that search image. Instead, I found a much larger furry form in a tree about 10 m away: the long legs, tufted ears, and bob tail of a Canadian lynx. I stopped dead in my tracks, staring, and the lynx looked back at me, panting. We took each other’s measure. After a few seconds, with me fumbling for my camera, the lynx decided to move on and jumped out of the tree, trotting into the forest.

While seeing lynx from a distance is not uncommon in our forest in the winter, we hardly ever get near this cryptic predator in the summer, as they move with stealth and blend into the trees before we can see them. But while the stealthy lynx is difficult for us to see amidst the leaves and spruce needles, to a squirrel it’s critical to spot a lynx before it ambushes them.

baby squirrel in hand with green ear tag

A 25 day old juvenile red squirrel with ear tags. Each squirrel in our study has two unique ear tags to identify individuals throughout their lifetime, as well as colors in each tag to identify individuals from a distance. Colored disks differentiate juveniles from adults. (photo by: Juliana Balluffi-Fry)

After giving the lynx a few seconds to walk away, I approached the tree he was in and found one of our juvenile squirrels frozen atop a witch’s broom in the tree, having narrowly escaped becoming lunch for the lynx. In a nearby tree, his mom was responsible for part of the racket that had attracted my attention in the first place. She was still barking like mad and the neighbors were still in an uproar. It’s not often we squirrel researchers observe a predation event – or a near-miss – and I appreciated being privy to this part of the ecosystem that we rarely get to witness.

To top it off, this wasn’t just any random lynx in the boreal forest; this lynx had a blue tag in his right ear. A group of my colleagues at Squirrel Camp had trapped him the previous winter to tag and take a DNA sample. (Squirrel Camp is in fact a multi-purpose field camp: ss our “squirrel season” comes to a close each year in late fall, the Lynx Crew, as we affectionately refer to them – to differentiate them from the Hare Crew (studying snowshoe hares) – moves into camp to track the abundance and behavior of this elusive predator in the ecosystem.) This particular lynx had been followed through the winter farther west down the Alaska Highway, but had since made his way east to our squirrel study grid.

A vigilant red squirrel ready to run up the tree in case of danger (photo by: Juliana Balluffi-Fry)

To me, this encounter was a reminder to savor the special moments in the forest while doing fieldwork. Even through the stressful, frustrating moments in the field, I can always find some part of the ecosystem to ground me. Not many people are fortunate enough to be in the forest often enough to develop such a connection to the land and the ecosystem. Now I walk the forest with open ears, listening closely to my squirrels, and open eyes, scanning the trees for surprises.

 

Sarah Westrick

Sarah Westrick is a PhD student at University of Michigan in the biopsychology program. Her research focuses on maternal behavior and physiology in red squirrels. She received a BS in Zoology and Biology from Colorado State University, where she worked on the behavior and neural mechanisms of Trinidadian guppies. You can learn more about her work at her website: sewestrick.strikingly.com or follow her on Twitter @sewestrick. If you’re interested in working with KRSP, the Dantzer Lab is currently seeking graduate students to start in Fall 2018 – check out Dr. Ben Dantzer on Twitter @ben_dantzer. For more information on the Kluane Red Squirrel Project, check out our website: redsquirrel.biology.ualberta.ca and on Twitter: @KluaneSquirrels

 

Barren, desolate, magical, rugged, and peaceful: 9 days of labour and laughs in the tundra

This week Dispatches from the field are very excited to welcome a guest post co-written by a professor’s wife and 14 year old son when they went to the tundra to help with fieldwork. It is very rare that we have someone under the age of 20 contributing to our blog! For more about Paul, Anne, and their son Louis, check out the end of this post!

Finally, this is it!  After all the preparations, Louis and I are now on our first ever float plane flight heading 300 kilometers north of Yellowknife to the remote low Arctic tundra station at Daring Lake.

We are being flown in by a pair of bush pilots on a plane loaded with lots of wood, screws, nails, and rolls of plastic for one of Paul’s long-term experiments.

Louis: The plane’s engines rise to a dizzying roar so I put my headphones on, which only partly subdue the noise. We start off with a lurch and then float out to the “runway” – a long section of slightly wavy lake. The pilot then heads us into the wind, facing towards the shore no more than 200 meters away. After some last checks, he pushes the throttle to max and we’re off bouncing over the waves until we lift up completely, with plenty of space between us and the shore.

The Tundra Ecosystem Research Station at Daring Lake has been in operation since 1996, when it was opened by the Northwest Territories government for research and environmental monitoring. Government scientists, university professors and their students come up here to do field work.

Views of the tundra.

We fly for 75 minutes across the treeline and over a seemingly uninhabited land of lakes, rivers and rocky barren land, towards Daring Lake in the land of the indigenous Dene people.

The camp consists of 10 all-season large tents. Each has a lovely white and orange cover, and sits up on wooden supports. A boardwalk connects one tent to the next. The flags flying represent the Tli-Cho Dene territory, NWT, and Canada.  It is very obvious that a lot of care has gone into developing this camp.

many people on the dock to unload items.

Unloading the float plane.

After unloading our stuff and then reloading the plane with all the waste from camp (empty fuel tanks, trash, etc.) the plane is ready for take-off. Once it is up and away, leaving behind a spray of water that washes our faces, we are all alone – just 8 of us on this desolate landscape, kept secure from the local wildlife by an electrified bear fence.

Louis: We trudge across the tundra to a natural cut in the esker through which a river flows. I cast off from the edge, when soon one line gets tugged, and then another, and then one of the fishermen asks me if I want to reel the fish in… and for the next minute it’s fish versus my forearm. At last, the fish flops out from the water; the fisherman gives me a smile while removing the hook, and proceeds to whack the base of the fish’s skull until it is looking at me with dead eyes.  

The soft “beds” of the tundra.

Our day’s work starts….. Paul takes us on a walk to see his greenhouse experiment in a nearby valley. Walking across the tundra is not like any walking I have ever done before. It is very strenuous, with lots of ups and downs, full of water holes and low shrubs so you become unsure of where your foot is going to land next. You can get a wet foot very easily if you do not judge a tussock carefully. But lying down on the mat of plants feels like sinking into a nice soft mattress. The bog cotton blows in the wind, the ground is full of low vegetation, rich in colour, and laden with blueberries and cranberries.

Louis holds the wood while Anne uses the power drill.

Louis and Anne work hard to put together sturdy greenhouses.

Louis: The high-pitched whine beside my ear tells me that the powerdrill is working and the screw is piercing the wood, making the greenhouse frame stronger. The end goal is to make the greenhouses last another 13 years… but they look like they will last until the next ice age. These greenhouses are supposed to show the likely effects of climate change on plant growth by accelerating the process and then recording the results. For me, it was all about the challenge of fortifying the greenhouses.

It’s grizzly bear country and we have to carry shortwave radios, pepper spray and bear bangers at all times. There are resident ground squirrels, lemmings and voles. They run around the camp keeping us company.

At 2.30 am we get up to see the northern lights – lovely green hues swirling 100-300 kilometers above us.

Louis and Anne putting in some hard work!

After a long day in the field, we head home to camp, tummies empty. The kitchen is the hub; we cook and eat together. It provides a unique setting to develop a real sense of community and to share ideas and experiences. We will have lasting memories of this safe haven, a home away from home.  As the Sami people of the Swedish tundra used to say: “My home is where my heart is, and it travels with me wherever I go”.

Louis, Anne, and Paul

Louis Grogan: 14 year old teenager. He loves the outdoors and having fun on his bike. He was very disappointed he could not bring up his bike to the field station and ride around in the tundra.  This is Louis’ first time to visit any of Paul’s field sites. Louis loves to use a power drill and is always very excited to build with wood. At this time in his life he has shown no interest in science.

Anne Keegan: Registered Nurse, wife of Paul and mom of Louis. She has travelled with Paul to several of his field sites in the Arctic, and this was her first visit to Daring Lake.

Paul Grogan: Professor of Plant and Ecosystem Ecology, Queen’s University, Kingston. Paul has been doing research at Daring lake, NWT for the past 13 years. His students typically spend 10 to 12 weeks at the site in the summer working on their experiments.

But first, let me (remember to) take a selfie

When exploring the recent trends of #ScientistsWhoSelfie and #ScientistInHabitat in the science communication Twitterverse, I realize I might belong to the #ScientistsWhoDontSelfie group.  In fact, maybe even the #ScientistsWhoDon’tTakePicturesAtAll group.

As a biologist who gets to go to some really cool places, I always love to share how beautiful those places really are. There’s only one slight problem: I have trouble remembering to take pictures. You can describe a place using words but when a picture is worth a thousand words, there’s no contest which one makes a more lasting impression.

holding on a turtle shell to guide to other side

Helping a turtle cross the road in my handy hiking shoes

I remember asking a former grad student, a seasoned field biologist, what advice she had for me, a new field biologist. She said, “Wear good shoes, bring lots of clothing layers, and remember to take pictures because you always wish you had more”. I had good hiking shoes that survived many steps. I wore every piece of clothing I brought – sometimes all at the same time. But did I take pictures? Not enough!

The thing is, it’s often difficult to take pictures in the field. For one, there were times I was holding a bird in one hand, scrambling through my bag for my measuring device with my other hand, and holding tweezers (clean, of course – at least I hope) in my mouth. Not surprisingly, grabbing my camera was not my top priority. Also, when I finally found a nest after searching all day in the hot sun, I was so tired that all I wanted to do was process the bird and not waste extra time taking a picture.  And it didn’t help that on the first day, the field team leader was frustrated that the team was taking too long with their cameras. Perhaps it was easy for him to say forget about the photos, as he had been coming to that site for years, but for everyone else, it was the first time!

Sarah sitting in the forest

My (third?) attempt at a selfie. It may be dark but at least you can see my whole face!

But despite my completely logical reasons for minimal camera use, when I prepare research seminars or share stories with friends, I am constantly kicking myself that I did not take more pictures.  And the one thing I never seem to have is pictures with me in them!  I have tried to take selfies but that seems to be a skill that I just don’t have. Sometimes you’ll be able to just see the top of my head, while other times you are able to see five of my chins. Luckily for me, the birds don’t seem to mind being models when the camera is pointed towards them.

 

Sarah holding a bird in hand

“Make sure you get my good side”. – warbler

My saving grace, though, is friends who like to take pictures. One of my friends mentioned once that she likes taking pictures when we are out in the field together as I am constantly standing on a rock somewhere or checking something out in the grass. I guess you could say that is my ideal habitat!

Catherine and Sarah kneeling to investigate

Checking out the cool alvar habitat.