Anyone who does fieldwork knows how important the weather is. Regardless of what you study, the weather plays a huge role in shaping the kind of day you have. It determines if you go home at night thinking you have the best job in the world, or wondering why any sane person would do what you do.
When I started my first field job, my boss told me firmly, “Birds don’t do anything in the rain.” This is a maxim most of us ornithologists cling to – because it means that there’s no point in us going out in the rain. And as a field assistant, I deeply resented it when the desperate graduate students I worked for sent me out in the rain anyway.
I always thought I’d be the first to call a rain day and take a well-deserved break from fieldwork – until I became one of those desperate graduate students. Then I realized what my former bosses had known all along: while you may not be able to catch birds during a rainstorm, losing an entire day of data collection isn’t an option either.
There are a number of strategies to try and wring some data out of a rain day, most of which involve sitting in the car at your field site, hoping for a break in the weather. The strategy I employed during my PhD fieldwork in British Columbia was based on this approach, but with an added twist. Because my sites were spread over 100 km of the southern Okanagan Valley, even when it was raining at one site, it might be clear at another – at least in theory.
In practice, this amounted to something very similar to chasing the end of a rainbow. We spent many days in the field driving back and forth between sites, in the (largely futile) hope of being in the right place at the right time to catch five minutes of blue sky. It almost never worked…and I’m sure my field assistants felt the same way about me as I had about my former bosses.
Sometimes, of course, there’s just no way to avoid bad weather. This is particularly true if you happen to be doing fieldwork on a small island – like the summer I worked for a friend catching terns on Lake Winnipeg, Manitoba.
On this particular day, I had been glancing nervously at the sky for over an hour, getting increasingly anxious as towering clouds approached from across the lake. Rather unfortunately for a field biologist, I hate sudden loud noises (like thunder), so I was quite vocal about my desire to get the hell off the island before the storm hit. But my friend – who was also my boss for those two weeks – was determined to squeeze every possible moment of data collection out of the day. She repeatedly insisted the storm would probably miss the island entirely.
Needless to say, it did not. When the downpour started, she was sitting in a nylon blind in the middle of the tern colony. I, on the other hand, was out on the beach – I’d finished the task she’d sent me to do, but couldn’t return to the blind without disturbing the birds she was trying to catch. As the rain poured down in buckets and the thunder shook the island, I looked desperately for someplace – any place – to shelter. But there was nothing except the slate gray water of the lake and the dirty sand of the island. There was nowhere to go.
Finally, I resigned myself to my fate. I sat down cross-legged on the beach, stuffed in ear plugs, and covered my ears with my hands for good measure. For the next hour, I stayed in exactly the same spot on that beach, getting wetter and wetter and more and more miserable.
By the time the storm finally moved off, every item of clothing I had on was completely soaked. As I stood up, water cascading off my jacket, my radio went off. It was my (completely dry) friend, asking me to move on to the next task on our to-do list. (This is a great example of why it’s often a bad idea to work for friends/family/significant others in the field: homicidal rage tends to be bad for any relationship.)
But of all the places I’ve done field work, the site that wins the title for the worst weather is Sable Island. As anyone who’s lived in eastern Canada knows, the Maritimes are a place you love in spite of – not because of – the weather. Sable, a thin crescent of sand approximately 150 km off the coast of Nova Scotia, is no exception. It is frequently shrouded by fog, which has undoubtedly contributed to its reputation as the “graveyard of the Atlantic”: the site of more than 350 shipwrecks over the past 450 years. In fact, the summer record for fog on Sable is 30 days in June and 31 days in July.
When I arrived on Sable, I figured the island’s Environment Canada meteorological station – located approximately 50 steps from my front door – would be a major advantage of working there. Instead of checking the forecast online, I could get my information straight from the source. So the very first day I woke to the patter of rain on the roof, I headed over to the station.
I ducked inside, shaking water droplets off my coat, to see two people staring intently at computers, the very picture of hard work. “So,” I asked, trying to sound casual and not thoroughly panicked by the very long to-do list the weather was interfering with, “How long is this rain going to last?”
Both meteorologists looked up from their computers, blinking fuzzily at me. Clearly I had caught them off guard. (You don’t tend to see many people working on Sable Island.) But they weren’t nearly as surprised by my presence as I was by their reply.
“How the hell should we know?”