Spring storm
The Owyhee. Fifty miles of inhospitable road offers this, and it is worth every inch.
Rain, ice, and wind – July in the Arctic
Part 13, the ice and wind come to call.
The ice push begins.
2 July
Rainy, windy, cold day yesterday. Rain finally cleared and I banded a few hapless birds. The egg season is slacking off. Dave did a radio patch so George and I could talk, he seems pleased that things are going well.
When I sat up in my sleeping bag this morning, I could see that an ice push was happening on the north shore. There was a low wall of ice forming along the horizon. I had to go check it out, of course. I wandered through the empty colony (the birds are feeding on the ocean) and up to the beach. Massive slabs of ice two and three feet thick were pushed 30 feet or more up on to the beach and piled on top of each other. As I stood there, nothing was moving, and the ice was quiet. I went back to camp for my camera and decided I had to eat. While I was eating, I noticed or thought I did, a change in the ice. By the time I got back to the ice 15 minutes later, a new pile of slabs was on top of the spot where I had been. If I hadn’t had anything to eat, I would have been out on the ice taking photos – and potentially caught in the shift.
Since then, that spot seems to be most active. The wall, the whole length of the north shore is still building impressively. It is probably 25 feet high. Jumbled blocks of ice three thick and six or eight feet square, sheets of thinner ice in massive slabs. Blues of a vivid, ethereal quality, greens of the cold ocean, monoliths of ice that stand for 10 minutes before spinning, sliding, crumbling under the unforgiving pressure behind them.
I spent a long time standing on the edge, watching cracks form in an upright slab, slowly they spread and grew, large chunks would slide or tumble into the water, and the splash would move across the pool. Sometimes a big slab would fall on another slab and crumble into a million smaller pieces. The wind takes most of the sound away but standing close by I could hear the pieces falling. The more solid ice doesn’t sound real; the looser, granular ice sounds like melting snow. Now and then a big rumble breaks free where two slabs are colliding, or a piece has fallen hard onto other ice. I wonder how far it will move?
Well, in the last hour – since I wrote the above – there has been some action. The ice continues to pile drive its way into the beach. There are several places where my tracks from earlier this morning are obliterated. In some places, the wall is 45’ or 50’ high. I can’t see the ocean past the wall at all anymore. The giant tanks to the east of camp have been pushed; one dug into the bank 4’ or 5’. The other was pushed across the surface, probably 10’ or more. I can’t tell any longer where it started. The BGs whose homes were underneath are out of luck, I’m afraid.
The wall is impressive with the sun on it. It runs the length of the island, and with the sun striking from the northeast it fairly glows against the sand and the dark, cloudy sky.
What force can move ice like this? Thousands of pounds of ice being driven over and into the sand with no effort. There is no tide to speak of, no surge of power that would push like this. The wind is strong but not enough to move ice onto land, it might pile it up on the windward side of the bay but not pile drive it 50’ or more from the water’s edge into the sandbanks. Truly awesome power. Again, I feel as insignificant as I am.
The BGs are a bit jumpy. They are spending a lot of time at the roost on the North Shore. Maybe it’s the noise that bothers them. I don’t know. Achoó.
I noticed there were no seals around the last few days. Perhaps they perceived the ice shift and bailed out. Maybe that is why, too, the bear didn’t linger on my paradise island.
Today as I was walking around the pond I had this thought. I was thinking about the feeling you have when the wind gets knocked out of you – when you get hit in the solar plexus or are being tickled until you can’t breathe – and how when air first reaches your lungs again how sweet and exhilarating that breath is. This is the feeling that I have now after being alone, here, for so long.
4 July
Today I feel like I am on an island in the Arctic Ocean. It is relatively mild in temp, but the fog is thick, the air heavy and damp and everything is cold and raw. The ice wall is the limit of my world. The fog fills in the rest, the bay is gone and so too are most of the east and west ends of the island.
I keep thinking the weather will get better but it doesn’t seem to. My toes and fingers are cold and hurt. Working through the night, I hardly see the mild afternoons. When the wind stops, and the air is calm, life is good – even if the temp is low and there are clouds, just the movement of the air is debilitating. So, the paper is physically soggy, and the tent is steamy. It is cold and raw outside. It rained heavily earlier in the night – I stayed in bed and curled up in a ball, tight and warm. The wind switched around to the NE, and the air coming off the pack ice is cold and wintery.
The only thing I miss so far is my light little summer dresses. Those clothes that let you feel like you are wearing nothing. How I love them – It is hard to remember that feeling when you are embedded in many layers of wool, polypro, and nylon. Bleaaachk. Ah well.
The ice push the other day left big ridges and piles of rubble and cut blocks. I thought of Hadrian’s Wall marching across the Arctic Ocean to keep out the Roman hordes – in some places the push really does look like a wall. I went down to the tundra yesterday morning and sketched a little – I’m pretty bad but it is a fun exercise. How do people actually copy what they see and make it recognizable?
5 July
Well, as I was settling into my sleeping bag last night, I thought the rain would let up, and I was sure I would awake to a southwest wind howling. Sure enough. At 0530 the antenna went down and set off the perimeter alarm. I hurled myself out of my dreams and into my boots. As I disconnected the fence, George’s tent went sailing by. I was just able to grab it and heave it into the lee of the wind block I had set up on the NE side of my tent (for the wind and rain that was present when I went to sleep). I secured the cook tent as best I could, reset the windbreaks, and went back to bed. I woke at midnight and listened to the wind. Checked to see if the other tents were still there and then lay in bed and read for a long time. I was finally driven out by a need to pee and to eat. The fly of the cook tent is shredded. Everything in there is thrown about and jumbled – I pulled out P.B. and bread. It’s not possible to cook with it like that. I would even be afraid to start the stove. I reweighted the tent, and still, it tries to migrate north. I threw extra weight in George’s tent last night and in its relatively-wind-blocked place seems fine. This tent, my sleep tent, has a new hole in it where the force of the wind pushed it into my tripod and punctured it. The whole side is collapsing in on me. This wind is by far worse than the first two.
I just went for a walk – it was about all I could do to walk into the wind – I went to the sardine box and hid behind it for a while. The ice of Elson Lagoon is all piled up on the south shore. It has stayed flat and in floes, unlike the jumbled blocks of the north shore. On the north, the rest of the ice pushed in and piled up, and there is open ocean a few hundred yards out and for as far as I can see. Just at the edge is the pack ice, a thin white line. The open water is dark and angry and hurling itself against the ice that still stands out in the shallows, in its path. There is a slurry of smaller chunks and slush that slides along behind the immobile blocks of Hadrian’s Wall. It is moving east rapidly.
The few birds that are moving are doing so either in the screaming delight of going with the wind or the tortured slow motion float of those laboring against it. Few guillemots are out. Some are on the water, but mostly the colony is empty and quiet. There is a flock of oldsquaw heaved out on the edge of the water, bills tucked into their wings.
The water on the south side is as high as I have seen it. That means the atmospheric pressure is as low as it has been since I’m here. The south spit is underwater. I am relatively comfortable in my tent. If the wind lets up a little bit, the collapsing effect is not as pronounced, and I can sit comfortably and read. I have attempted no work and will not, outside the mandatory egg check, and even that won’t be so bad since there are relatively few nests left to check. Many that should have had 2nd eggs yesterday did not. I suppose that means that they will all come in today, but I’ll only note their existence and leave measuring and weighing for another day.
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
Black Guillemots lounging poolside.
Liquid mercury
Good morning, as many of you know, I am participating in an art and science residency this fall in Svalbard, Norway, and am raising funding for the residency fee due the first week of June. Through the generosity of many, I reserved flights and raised the majority of funding. If you are enjoying this Arctic series and are interested in the Svalbard continuation, please consider a contribution. Everything helps!
Please, donate here.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. xoxo T
Part 12, in which the Arctic poppies show their mettle, the snow bunting chicks emerge, and a polar bear leaves its mark.
Arctic poppy in frost.
27 June
Although my alarm went off at 2200, I didn’t get out of bed until almost 0100. The wind was so ferocious that I was more than content to stay in my cozy bag and snooze.
The radio antenna came down in the wind, and I spent almost an hour trying to rebuild it before I was able to connect well enough to radio Barrow. Dave and George (a.k.a. Delta Romeo and Golf Delta – I am Tango Echo). I barely ventured out at all. One census trip and the nest/egg check that was it. I sorted bands, created a hit list for birds to catch and band, read Arctic Dreams, and re-read my latest mail.
It is nice that after these four weeks my mind is clear of so much of the garbage I harbored. I don’t think with anger anymore. I can live with that. It is always easier for me to feel this way when I am on a journey or an adventure and more difficult for me to accept what is when I am juggling the things of everyday life. Perhaps that is a lesson for me. Believe the things of everyday life are unnecessary and find a place where there is no need to follow them. Find a way to live and work without that. Perhaps a space and time where I can write, but what would I write and where would that space and time be? Something I need to think on over the next month of solitude.
28 June
When my alarm went off I could tell the wind had slackened since yesterday (25–30 mph w/gusts up to 35) but it was raining. It rained all morning – until about 0630 – 34 º and raining. My favorite weather. I went around the colony a few times, though I couldn’t see anything, the binocs were fogged and wet all the time. Everything was soggy and covered in sand.
I did nest check– got to the west side of 73 and found a giant pile of bear scat. Went back to the tent and got the gun, finished my rounds, and went for a walk on the tundra. No bears. But the birds were jittery. They were in constant motion, and I had only a handful of Birds on the Nest (BON) for the whole colony, everyone else scattered at my approach or shifted out of my way when I reached in for eggs. They knew something was up. I couldn’t find any tracks, the scat had been on loose gravel where no prints would hold, and although I went down to the beach, there was nothing. Bummer.
I’m reading Barry Lopez’s Arctic Dreams and just read the polar bear chapter this morning, so I was ready. Oh well, maybe next week.
The Arctic poppies started blooming. The first was out the other day. Beautiful, delicate, pale yellow. I thought of it struggling to stay upright in that miserable wind yesterday. It’s no wonder they stay so low to the ground and incredible that they ever grow more than a few inches high. The fuzzy, oblong buds are expanding and beginning to crack along their perforated seams, slowly they turn their faces to the sun and bask in the few brief minutes of summer at its height. Lucky me.
Arctic poppies glow.
29 June
It was about 28º and freezing fog this morning (welcome to summer!). Brutally cold for man and beast. The poppies were most amazing, these diminutive creatures trying valiantly to show themselves. Each hung heavily with frost and ice crystals on their west-facing sides; the buds heavy and weary of the cold. One or two flowers were turning to face the fog-enshrouded sun. Brrrrrrr. Brrrrrrr. Egad. How anthropomorphic.
It was much too cold to band birds or do anything else. I kept moving, walking up the beach and around the tundra. I stood up the Bowhead whale jawbone on the beach and tried to take my picture with it. Pretty goofy.
When I was walking this morning, I sat (I know that’s a contradiction) on a piece of driftwood and looked out at the ice, the pools, the fog, the enveloped sun. I turned my face to the light, closed my eyes and just was. There were no sounds but the wind and the very gentle lapping of the water that is just a few feet wide on the north shore. The long-tailed ducks and Baird’s sandpipers ended their dances, and their eternal aaqhaaliks (not in that order) and it was silent. It is the first time I can remember that I was utterly content. I had nowhere I wanted to be but there. I wanted no companionship but my own. I needed nothing of the physical world. I just was. No shoulds, musts, or wills. Pure physical existence. What a joy. How many people in this world experience such a thing? There are no objects of desire for me and no place better than here. Finally. How long can this last?
30 June
A snow bunting chick blending into a 2 x 4.
Two good birds today – Steller’s Eiders and Spectacled Eiders. Gorgeous birds. The night was mild (it’s all relative) and now that I’m almost ready for sleep it is beautiful, clear, and sunny, lots of low puffy clouds and a southerly breeze. I checked on a snow bunting nest today; it was full of chicks with gaping mouths. Very cute buggers – I’ll check again tomorrow. George says they seem to spend no time in the nest at all.
The eggs keep rolling in on the Guillemot front, and I continue to check, measure and weigh. I’ve been hooping birds off the nests and was relatively successful today. I hate taking feathers. It just hurts. Poor guys. I feel like the hated kid at summer camp; everyone suffers when I appear, and they all want me to go away. But that’s not what I wanted to write.
There is almost no tide on the Arctic Ocean. It is more atmospheric than lunar, and it is interesting to see how sometimes the water is very shallow and far off the beach edge. Like today, I crossed probably 20 feet of slimy gravel to the shallow water, and the pond south of camp is a pond. Some days, when the water rises, it becomes part of the bay. The water level is probably only a foot or two different, but it is noticeable. I hoped to wash socks and underwear today, but the water is too low to do it. I guess I could do in Pasta Pond, but it seems like too much work – not to mention frozen, raw hands.
The air is clear and the sky blue, low puffy clouds move north, and high wispy cirrus seem stable. The light sparkling on the water is remarkable. A million points of light all independent and yet so numerous they almost all run together. At the same time, there is a light fog rising off the wet mud flats along the beach edge where the water receded and a light gray fog-smoke slowly rising off the tundra. Altogether a most spectacular day. This morning the north moat was frozen over again –thick enough that a stone I threw didn’t break the surface, but several hours later the water was clear and ruffled in the wind. The meltwater pools on the ice to the north are growing larger, stretching slowly out to sea. The dark, charcoal gray of the distant ice is evening out and is less pronouncedly distinct from the shore-fast ice. It seems that summer is moving on and the water is slowly becoming water once again.
It is funny to look out across the Bay of Jaws, which has been open for a week or more already, across the south sandbar with a barrel as a landmark and once more to ice beyond. The layering of water, land, ice, land (Ketchikan bluffs), and the sky seems almost too well planned, too evenly distributed between solid, liquid, and the ethereal and eternal sky.
This morning when the sun was hiding in the fog, and the air was still, the entire bay lay like a sheet of liquid mercury, reflective, alive. The land and sky and water all merged and became one and distinct at the same time.
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
Liquid mercury meets rippled sand.
Someone missed a small piece of sky
Part 11.
The summer of abnormal distribution, fried radios, and a translucent moon progresses in the Arctic Ocean.
Red phalarope with sea nettle jellyfish that washed ashore en masse.
21 June
Yesterday was a long day, and I never got to write. We continued confirming pairs and figuring out who lives where. We set out noose mats (plywood squares with fishing line nooses that catch birds when they step into the noose and they pull the line tight. Commonly used for birds that walk on the ground, it’s a safe way to catch birds for banding) for 2 hours and caught one already-banded bird. Oh well. It was still relatively mild for a while but the forces of good and evil fought again, and evil won. George was planning to fly back to Barrow for a day in town, but the plane needs a part, so he won’t be leaving this week and possibly not until he is forced to go back to Seward – then only if he can get off the island. We are getting along well, I feel less defensive, and although we hassle each other, it is good-natured. George jokes about Dave’s and my conversations on the radio, but George and I laugh more with each other when Dave is mediating – though he’s not really. I guessed another product of the day, though it took me a while and George excused himself from the competition because he had seen the product when he was there last week. Dave gave him two points for his honesty and integrity. So, although on Products I am ahead 3 to 1, George’s honesty and integrity tie us at three each.
We caught and banded the puffin yesterday; it didn’t return today, which bums me out. I hope that he isn’t injured or that we didn’t unduly stress him. He was beautiful.
After we censused and wandered through the colony and the tundra this morning, we did radio call – which was moved to 1315. It was too cold to band birds, so we skipped that. It was also foggy and gray though the wind wasn’t strong. After radio and a wander and some food, I walked the tundra and took photos of Brant and Baird’s sandpipers and flowers and the snow bunting.
There were three Pacific loons on the moat today. They are beautiful, elegant, all black and white with a silver-gray head and lining on their throats and necks. There were also king eiders on the pond in the tundra. I got to see them a little bit but was trying to get a photo (of course) and scared them off the water. The Brant are on their eggs, as are the long-tailed ducks – aahaaliq – and Baird’s sandpipers. The red phalaropes spin in circles, and the Arctic terns glide through the sky screeching and scolding all the way. It is magnificent.
22 June
It’s late, and I need to sleep soon but wanted to write a few words about the moon. George and I set up the noose mats and were wandering about waiting for things to happen when I looked past George, across the water. It was gray, breezy, and cold. There was a cloud mass over us that stretched as far west and east and north as I could see, but to the south, to the south, the edge of the clouds stood over the Ketchikan Bluffs, and there were a few inches of clear, pale blue sky. I had my binocs on the edge of the world and there in that few inches of pale blue was an even paler and magnificently huge ¾ moon, as if someone missed a small piece of the sky when they were painting it that morning. It had that see-through quality; the darker white parts had the same color as the sky, and you could look right through the translucent wafer to the sky on the other side. It was fabulous. I look forward to seeing the moon again through the summer and maybe even in August when it gets dark.
The puffin was back today, checked things out, circled ‘round – but did not land.
24 June
Long day. I have been getting up at about 2100 and going to sleep b/t 1600 and 1700. I haven’t felt tired though; all the light has set me in motion. I sleep hard and soundly and wake and go back into motion.
Yesterday I hooked up the radio, heard a crack, and smelled smoke. I connected the positive and negative wires to the wrong poles on the battery. Oops. The fuse blew a day or so earlier, and with no fuse between the radio and the battery, I cooked the radio. We are, with the exception of the PLB (Personal Locator Beacon), out of contact with the world.
We have no idea when or if someone will come pick up George. They can’t find out if we need anything before they come out. What a goof. George was good-natured about it and said, “well, it was just the day for the radio to go, no big deal.” He’s been teasing me about it but nothing serious.
George figured out the distribution of the days when the nests become clear and the cavities open. It’s not quite even or normal, and so it looks like I checked boxes every other day, rather than daily. Luckily I have most of that data in my book so that I could go back through, but it still doesn’t look right. George didn’t say that I had fucked up or wasn’t doing my job, but he seemed frustrated? Bugged? I don’t know, not angry necessarily but not happy. So I was feeling a bit defensive and sullen. I don’t think it’s huge, but it doesn’t make me look good.
When I got up last night, it was clear and blue and absolutely still. It was beautiful. I ate and walked around the colony for pairs and birds that were looking ready to lay earlier in the day – the first two eggs were in on the 23rd – and then walked down around the tundra with my camera. The light at midnight is wonderful, vibrant and honey colored. I took a roll of film and got back in time to find George rolling out. Off we went to band, noose, torture, and maim.
When I was out this morning, it was still. The water, all of it, the bay and the ponds and the moat, was absolutely still, a perfect mirror. Just glorious. I watched a long-tailed duck come across the bay and land in the water. As it drew closer to the water’s surface, it forced its tail feathers down to the surface and dragged them through the water, just breaking the surface, making a perfect, straight part before touching down. It was remarkable. I’ve seen it before, but it’s not as impressive when the water is choppy. A flock of murres went over first thing also. Common murres, footballs with wings. Pretty cool.
Must sleep.
26 June
George finally got off the island yesterday. He flew out about 1500 and will be back sometime tonight. Dave sent out my mail and a bunch of toys and a new radio. I connected the radio right away and called Dave to let him know it was working and that George was on his way. Dave sent a cribbage board, a scrabble board, a toy boat, a Frisbee, a ball maze (which I can never do), and my mail – including a box of books, letters, a box of candy, and scotch. Dave said something about things to keep me busy. I said I had a whole pile of books, a box of chocolate, and a bottle of scotch, what else did I need?
I had a splendid quiet afternoon with letters, toys, and scotch.
I’m sitting in the sand watching the birds at the Condos. I noosed one pretty quickly and quietly and without much commotion banded it and took all the info. I left the feather pulling until last (I collected a few small feathers for isotope analysis to help determine migration and wintering locations as the isotopes in the feather reflect the bird’s diet.); it seemed to traumatize the bird less. All of the non-invasive stuff was done and once the feathers were pulled it could go. I’ll suggest it to George. There is some low lying fog that is making the paper damp, but it is not raining the way it was when I first got up. And it seems that there is blue sky to be had to the south, if only it can clear the fog under it. More later.
Well, it never cleared out. The fog lifted eventually, but the sky never cleared. I did nest check for eggs, had something to eat and rechecked BON sites. Radioing George was an adventure. Of course, the airplane won’t be in Barrow for the summer. They said they could bring him back out to the island but that was it, the plane would be gone for the summer. So, he is off to Seward and Seattle and wherever else. He’ll be back when the ice is out, and he can boat in. Someday he and Dave will boat in, George and I will talk for a few hours, and then Dave and I will head back to Barrow so I can have a few days of R&R – more like S&L shower and laundry.
So, I am on my own for a couple more weeks. If a plane is headed this way they may try to drop stuff off, or if the helicopter has to go out they may land. Otherwise, I’m on my own until the boat is in the water.
I saw more loons today. There are three species around – Pacific, Red-throated, and Yellow-billed. All of them are beautiful, but I think I like the Pacific best. They are elegant and stunning in their simple pattern and their colors. The Red-throated by far has the coolest call, and the Yellow-billed is impressive for its size and sharp lines. Beautiful all.
Although it is good having George here, I am happy to have back the solitude and silence. I have lots to eat, lots to drink, lots to read, letters to write, photos to take, sketches to create. I am a content person.
A long-tailed duck on her nest.
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
I almost had a bath
Part 10. The ice is loosening its grip on the island, the bossman comes to call, after fifteen days I almost take off all of my clothes to bathe in the semi-freshwater Pasta Pond.
15 June
Well, I almost had a bath. It is clear and beautiful with only a little wind – but enough for me to say, well, I’m not really that grubby… 15 days? Nah, not such a long time without bathing.
I could hear the ice melting. Amazing. This morning, ever so early (well, I didn’t get up until 0200 having overslept my alarm again by 2 hours…). I was doing the rounds, it was bright, only a few scattered clouds shadowing the land and very still, no wind. I walked around Little Guillemot Pond as I do sometimes and stopped at the ocean’s edge. I could hear nothing except the sound of the ice melting. As the ice warms, the weak spots give and a piece of ice unexpectedly becomes buoyant in the surrounding water. The ice warms and gently falls in on itself. I could hear that. It is a very delicate and lulling sound, not the melodic, tinkling sound of waves washing up on coral beaches that you hear when snorkeling in tropical places, instead, a more subtle tone. Infinitely less tangible.
Later…
So, I’ve solved all the world’s problems. Time for sleep. It has been great sleeping these last few weeks. I almost always sleep through the night (or day as the case may be). I have been dreaming a lot every night. I often remember pieces of my dreams when I wake up. Once I get out of bed, which isn’t easy since it’s so cozy, I am awake and moving. It’s great to be alive.
An attempt at explaining the trajectory of the sun when it never sets.
I want to explain the angle of the sun, but I don’t know how – let’s see in the night and north it looks like this:
In the night and the north, the position of the sun looks like this. The path dips close to Earth and then slopes up again, never dropping below the horizon.
In the day, it looks like this:
In the day, the sun follows the curve of Earth to the South.
It doesn’t actually go overhead, but shadows get relatively short – my shadow right now, at probably 1500, is my height exactly. In the night, there are several hours of Ross’ light and the shadows, my shadow, is about 20’ long. It’s pretty cool.
I am sitting on the block in front of my tent. I have my shoes and socks off (YEAH!), and I took off my wool pants so just have my long underwear bottoms on, no hat or gloves, my long underwear top, and a sweater. Downright civilized I would say. It still gets darn cold at night and my fingers and toes get cold but the days are fabulously nice when the sun is out. The sand is very toasty on my toes. I still might have a bath…
16 June
Well, no baths. I could use one but am hardly anxious to go out in the freezing wind. The air is not warm but tolerable. The wind and the water are chilly brrrrrr. George finally made it to Barrow. Now he can’t get to Cooper Island. The plane that can land here needed a new engine and so is in Deadhorse for work. They don’t expect it back to Barrow until Monday. No big deal for me. It is great being here alone and, although I would like to get mail, I have no great need to see anyone. I have a pile of letters to go out and several rolls of film whenever an exchange does take place. George and I talked by radio. He is all excited about the birds and can’t wait to get out here and start working. He has gotten a third tent – a 4-man tent- so there will be plenty of space when he’s here. Maybe we’ll put the cook stuff in the new tent so we can both easily fit in it without food and science junk.
Today I went to each sub-colony and sat and watched to see who was copulating where. They were much more subdued than on other days and seemed to be more concerned with sex than with me, which was fine as it made my job much easier. My task over the next few days is to determine how many are in each colony, breeders and non-breeders, how many of each cohort, if possible, and how many unbanded birds there are. I guess our immediate job upon George’s arrival will be to band as many unbanded birds as possible. After that, I will be weighing and measuring eggs. It seems like July will be a month of casual observation and, I hope, a lot of time to read and write and draw and be. Not that this past few weeks have been so terribly busy.
After radio call this morning I went for a walk through the tundra. The Brant are all on their nests, and I chased several off before I figured it out and started seeing these utterly prostrate bodies strewn about the place. They simply look like a chunk of old peat or exposed mud. It is quite good how they completely flatten down over the eggs. One nest I looked in had four eggs. The nests are all fluff filled and look cozy. The long-tailed ducks have been squawking like crazy over the last few days. I saw two males having quite a tussle this afternoon. The one sat on the other’s back – like mating guillemots – and held him underwater as long as possible. This particular fight went on for 10 minutes, mostly on the water. If the offender tried to get away and take off across the water, the other would catch it and dunk it again. When he finally did take off the other flew after it and harassed it wherever it landed. Brutal. There are about eight gazillion pintails. Well, OK, maybe not so many. But they do seem to be everywhere. There also seems to be a disproportionate number of males. Perhaps the females are already incubating? There was an influx of long-billed dowitchers and red phalaropes today. The same two turnstones are around. I would like to see a black turnstone; I’m not sure they are here yet. The long-tailed Jaegers are back. There was one or two yesterday, and today there have been a few more. They are more graceful flyers than the Pomarines and the long tail, of course, is appealing, but I think my loyalty stays with the Pomarines.
Brant, as one with the tundra, incubating eggs.
Watching the guillemots copulate is something. They head bob and strut a bit then the female usually lays flat and begs – as a chick for food – head raising and lowering and crying all the while. The male then steps on her back and rhythmically thumps his feet on her back, mostly balancing there, sometimes opening his wings to maintain and only for a few short seconds do they copulate. Sometimes the male will step sideways or turn a circle on the female’s back, and half slide off, before rebalancing and centering. He might copulate with her two or three times in the course of one encounter. Afterward – I find this particularly amusing – the male will spread and flap his wings and stand tall on his spindly legs. Aaaaah that was great. Boys, did you see that? The female usually steps aside and settles into the ground to rest. She seems to be the one to decide when the whole event is over, though the males initiate the coupling more than the females.
18 June
Well, in mid-entry on the 16th a helicopter came up the beach, louder and louder. It went past the camp, coming in from the north to land. George piled out. After having thought that I would be here another couple of days alone, I suddenly have company. So, we fought our way through the day’s census and figured out all the bits that need to be dealt with. I hadn’t entered the daily data in the 2000 breeding bird book because I thought he only wanted the final pairs’ data there so… we slogged through each day’s pairs, color bands, and maraudings. Egad. How painfully brutal. I felt as if I had done no work at all given how many times pairs changed and I misidentified colors. But we managed to get through it and did another day’s census based on what we were missing.
We seem to miscommunicate a lot. I’m fairly relaxed in my specifics, George analyzes and picks apart statements to figure out why and how I’ve decided something. Although he accuses me of having lumped everyone into categories, he seems to have done just that with me – a judgmental misanthrope. I do show my more negative side, or perhaps the defensive side when we are together. Basically, I hear: do it in whatever way works best for you “…but the deal is, and it’s no big deal, what I do is…” So, I am told it’s OK to do whatever suits me, but I am made to understand that the preferred form is the way he does it and maybe I ought to just do it that way. Rather than telling me straight out this is how it should be done, I get, outside the quotations, here are some options, just don’t exercise them.
OK, enough. Generally, he is a good person. Obviously scattered, yes, and the neat little camp I created is now strewn with stuff, open crates and boxes, groceries everywhere. He said he was sure we could come to a mutually suitable agreement about our communal cooking space, i.e., he rebuilt it to his satisfaction. I am now glad for the company; I will be happy when he is gone again and have my solitude back.
Anyway, with George came my mail and packages! The two boxes of books I sent myself, letters, notes and crosswords, and a big box packed with fabulous things: bags of Smartfood (good packing material), curry paste, garlic, butter cookies with chocolate topping, bars of chocolate, snips of scotch and brandy, pretzels, dried fruit, moisturizer, on and on. Yummy. Coconut milk, hot sauce, almonds. Holy cow.
19 June
It’s late, almost 1700. I’m not tired but have to be up at 2200. It is a beautiful, warm day. In the 50s –it was almost 60º in Barrow today, a record.
We did the census, went through all of the notes and pairs and nests and figured out the holes and confirmed pairs. It wasn’t as tragic as yesterday. And it is warm and beautiful.
I washed socks and underwear in the ocean. The Bay of Jaws is opening up rapidly, and the sun is unmerciful. It will no doubt be free of ice in a day or two. I do hope the weather holds. I could live with the shame of spending the only warm summer in the Arctic 🙂
I moved my tent out of the runway and reset the perimeter bear alarm. George and I had discussions on the philosophy of family law.
The first, and perhaps only, horned puffin arrived today. A rather splendid creature. I guess puffins are aggressive toward the BGs, however, and the colony birds spent some time chasing him away. He is mateless and several hundred miles above his breeding grounds. Poor guy, all spring revved and no one to show off to. Alas. I must sleep.
Tundra willow in bloom.
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
The Velvet Void
Part 8. The Guillemots make their entrance.
A Black Guillemot comfortably settled on a whale vertebra.
6 June
A sad day. It seems my little sparrow friend is gone. I don’t know if he went off in search of a mate, tired of singing into the void, or if he was eaten by the owl. Either way, it’s been awfully quiet in camp. He was singing from the top of the antenna when I got up and while I was drinking tea and eating but when I came back at 8-ish to make radio call he was nowhere to be seen and I haven’t seen or heard him since. The snow buntings are still coming to eat rice and to chase each other but it’s very quiet and lonely without the little sparrow. I even said good morning to him today. Sad.
I went and sat on the table, the highest point on the island, early this morning (0300-ish) to write a letter and to watch the world in the beautiful gold and pink light of the midnight sun. There was a new moon crescent on the horizon following the sun, though it must have set around 0330 or 0400 since I couldn’t find it again after that.
All sorts of birds were around, a few of each in groups or alone, sneaking up on me and disappearing again quickly. The owl, of course, a turnstone, some black-bellied plovers. And then, a whole bunch of black and white birds with bright red feet. Oooo boy. Big day, the crew’s back. They flew around in a circle, looked everything over and then disappeared again the way they had come. They were around all morning after that in ones and twos and threes. One pair landed on a nest box for ½ a second. It was pretty exciting.
The sun has been out almost all day, too, so it’s mild (in relative terms) and I am sitting outside now without gloves (though in my wool pants and parka). The wind is pretty strong and I’m trying to hide from it.
7 June
Just a few words. I’m tired and wind burned and ready to sleep. There were a bunch of guillemots today. Circling and squeaking and roosting. The scope is difficult for me to use. It’s mounted on a shotgun stock but that means you have to hold it all the time and it gets wiggly with the wind and the cold and the length of time it takes to ID a bird (by the combination of color leg bands on each bird). I had better luck walking up as close as I could and using my binocs. They fly sometimes but it was still better and they flew sometimes anyway with the scope.
There were two good sized flocks of king eiders today. They were beautiful. The red phalaropes seem to be here with some strength too. And the Pomarine Jaegers. Cool birds. They slide in and are suddenly upon you with their long gliding wings and elegant trailing tail feathers. Too bad they are parasites…
Funny. I don’t much miss humans. I talk with Dave for 10 minutes a morning. Even with the radio lag it’s fun, and I laugh a lot. I’ve guessed 3 of the 4 products he’s given me. I should quit now.
I was busy today. Watching birds, still trying to find some of the nests and checking them all for snow clearance. In between, I go back and forth to the tent for food and lots of liquids. If I could work without food and drink to keep me going in the cold and wind I would probably be done in a few hours. Instead, it seems to take the whole day.
I was sitting down past the tanks listening to the silence when this whirring, rushing noise came up behind me. It was a flock of king eiders. The sound is indescribable. I feel like someone should yell, “Incoming!”
I made a most excellent lentil soup for dinner and threw a handful of those sesame stick crunch snack things on top of my bowl. It was yummy. Sleep.
8 June
Another clear, beautiful day. The moon is up to ½ full. It was in the southern sky when I got up at 1230. It set sometime around 0300. I missed where it went.
I found and IDed a pectoral sandpiper today and saw 3 long-billed dowitchers go whizzing by and was able to ID them, too. I wandered down the beach this morning and came upon the Arctic tern and a Dunlin. Fabulous birds early in the morning.
The guillemots of course returned. I’m still checking and finding nest boxes. Still trying to sort them all out and now there are birds floating in and out. I will probably have better luck IDing the boxes by watching which birds land on them. Some of them are real buggers.
The birds are beautiful, intensely velvety black. The Velvet Void of birds. They were squawking and make cool noises in the air and on the ground. You hear their wings very clearly in the air and they mew on the ground.
I suspected for several days that there were at least two short-eared owls and first thing this morning, sitting on the table, drinking tea, I see two raptors gliding in. They both landed about 50’ from me. Turning, checking, watching, nervous that I was there. Then, one at a time, they took to the air, straight toward me, checked me out and wheeled away to land 100’ farther down the island. They sat and watched me again for a while before they made their way east along the N shore. It is so wonderful to see them up close. They know I’m not right. I don’t fit in the world as they remember it and try to figure me out. They don’t appear afraid, just cautious. I wonder if they are nesting on the island. I don’t hear their mating cries and they seem to go across the ice regularly – I often see them going or coming that way – I would love to be able to get close enough for some photos. I suppose I will have to lay in wait, sneak up on, and generally be PATIENT. Egad, surely not that!
Past noon as I was finishing up the nest checks I happened to look up and noticed the fog moving in. It was gray and dark in the west and the pack ice was obscured to the north but the bluffs were visible to the south and there was blue sky on the eastern horizon. As I assessed this, I stood and watched everything shut right down. In a matter of about 5 minutes, the bluffs were gone, the blue in the east was gone, the farther boxes were obscured and the tents were fogged in. Amazing. It’s been pretty well closed-in since. Though it does seem to be trying to clear. I’m ready for sleep.
Red Phalaropes on the lagoon
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.