by aramatzne@gmail.com | 18 Oct 2018 | Roads Taken
Landfall
Back on Terra Firma. This was an amazing trip: Snow, cold, ice, glaciers, mountains, rough seas, sailing, tight quarters, Arctic sun, reindeer, walruses, epic hiking, creativity, adventure, an amazing crew, and diverse shipmate-residents.
There is a lot for me to process, I’m in Oslo for a day and then the still-long trip back to Oregon begins. I expect to be reunited with the truck and Big Cat in Montana on Tuesday or Wednesday and hope to be home by Friday, 26 October. I will begin sorting and processing thoughts and images along the way. Stay tuned. xoxo
Grazing reindeer on Isfjord, Spitsbergen
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 30 Sep 2018 | Roads Taken
Town
I understand now that the sun is too low on the horizon to clear the mountains around Longyearbyen; I look forward to sailing into the sunshine on Monday. Below are a few more shots around town.
Sunshine so far away.
A stylish/stylized/styling polar bear all dressed up for a day on the town.
The unknown miner drills into mid-town coal reserves.
Sun catches both ends of the mountains across the fjord but stays out of town this time of year.
The mountains across Isfjorden catch a few late afternoon rays.
The old coal cableway looks down upon the current power plant. No indication of what keeps the new plant firing.
All roads lead to Isfjorden and views of Nordre Isfjorden National Park beyond.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 29 Sep 2018 | Roads Taken
At long last
Finally, I landed on Svalbard yesterday morning. It seems a long time coming and now, here I am. The air is cold and dry, the sun lingers at the top of the all-encompassing mountains but doesn’t seem to find its way into the valley where Longyearbyen is nestled. Snow fell quietly through the evening and into the morning. Tomorrow the rest of The Arctic Circle residents arrive; we sail on Monday.
Here are my first views and impressions. I do not expect to have cell service or internet over the coming weeks. I promise to check in as soon as I can. Stay warm and see you here again soon. xoxo T
The first view of Svalbard
An open glacial valley with a braided stream in the bottom wends its way through inland Svalbard.
Flying into Longyearbyen, Svalbard, Norway.
Snow squalls move across Isfjorden toward Longyearbyen, later engulfing the mountains, port, and town.
Repeating patterns of rock and power towers in early autumn snow.
The multicolored housing of Longyearbyen contrasts with the monochromatic scheme of Svalbard.
Metal roofs in Longyearbyen imitate mountain ridge lines.
Modern Quonset huts mimic the position and image of mountains across Isfjorden.
The old coal cableway oversees new apartment buildings. The cableway was used to transfer coal from the mines to ships in Isfjorden.
The church and the coal cableway share the hillside above Longyearbyen.
Longyearbyen School stands at the edge of town, the mountains of Nordre Isfjorden National Park stand behind the school across Isfjorden.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 20 Sep 2018 | Musing
Reality
There is no going back.
We all know the results of our collective actions, we see it daily in raging hurricanes, in photos of starving polar bears, and microplastics in alpine lakes and city water supplies alike. The hundreds, perhaps thousands, of conservation organizations, environmental advocates, and ecological prophets bend ears at every opportunity; if we can reach the children, the lawmakers, the governments, surely things will change, surely we will make a difference. We lament the loss of things many will never see outside of TV or a zoo – elephants and tigers, glaciers and polar ice caps.
A dream
I point no fingers, as I am guilty, too: I drive, I fly, I use more water than necessary, I appreciate many comforts of modern living.
I go to Svalbard next week with the dream of connecting people to a world they may never experience, to a place that bears the brunt of our time, and does so stoically, as those with the gravest injuries tend toward silence while the superficially wounded produce the loudest caterwauling. How long before we recognize the consequences of our actions? How long before we bring the Arctic and its denizens to their knees?
I don’t pretend to have the answer. I am not so arrogant to think that my trip will change the face of our culture nor our fate. I believe we each have a role and every person who connects with the natural world becomes sympathetic to its plight. To our plight. We are not separate.
I am in pursuit of this connection. For myself, yes, but also for the wild upon which we depend, for it depends equally upon us.
I will have limited to no internet over the coming weeks. Bear with me; I will post what I can. I look forward to catching up here when I return to stable wifi. In the meantime, wish me many polar bears and stunning northern lights.
Stay on the sunny side. xoxo T
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 10 Sep 2018 | Roads Taken
Retreat
Lake Albigna, near Vicosoprano, Switzerland, 2,163m (7,096 ft) above sea level, was dammed for hydropower in the 1950s, a gondola was built to transport equipment and workers to the base of the glacier fields. Today, the gondola carries hikers and rock climbers to see the spectacular indescribable color of the glacial lake, to climb the granite walls, and to hike through alpine meadows. The glaciers are disappearing rapidly; the lake is not far behind.
The engineered lines of Albigna Dam stand high above the Bergell Valley in southern Switzerland.
Built in the 1950s, the Albigna Dam created a glacial lake of stunning of color and power-producing utility.
Albigna Glacier retreats into its valley.
The indescribable color of glacial water contrasts with the texture of mountain rock.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 3 Sep 2018 | Musing
Then
Cooper Island seems a lifetime ago, the light, the endless bird calls, the sand, the cold and eternal, infernal wind. They are far away now. I returned to Cooper the following summer for a shorter stay, and after demanding a wall tent in which I could stand up and be out of the wind simultaneously. By then George met Darcy Frey and the momentum of Cooper drastically increased as Darcy visited the island, interviewing George and me; later Joe McNally came to photograph Cooper and its residents, avian and otherwise. The story was published in the New York Times Sunday Magazine, George Divoky’s Planet, in 2002. Climate change was under debate (yes, even then and even still) and George’s 30-year data set was a prime source of intrigue. The birds George studied definitively returned to their mutual island almost two weeks earlier than when he began summering, and I use the term loosely, on Cooper Island.
Black Guillemots are cavity nesters; when the winter’s snow and ice retreat sufficiently to allow birds to enter their cavities, make it cozy, and spend time, well, nesting, they return. First, there are some flybys, birds stay in the air, doing visual reconnaissance; how much snow is there on their chosen sand spit? Are the nest sites visible? Flybys become fleeting landings, a strut or two along the ground or a momentary claiming of the nest box, snow preventing entering but exposure allowing dibs, if you will. Finally, birds arrive in droves, the mating rituals begin, and the birds settle into family life, breeding, eggs, chicks, frenetic but fleeting teenage days, and fledging. All racing against the spin of the Arctic seasons that until recently favored the dark, cold months.
As the climate continues to change and shift in ways we mere mortals can only guess, the birds long ago began to play the odds, returning earlier with the expectation that their summer homes will be open and inviting earlier this year than last. And, of course, we, mere mortals, are responsible for the Guillemots’ extended summering. Argue what you like, the world is changing and the creatures we so readily dismiss as animals are way ahead of us in understanding and appreciating the implications. They may not discuss it in political terms or devise computer models to help predict their future, but they recognize the current, if limited, advantage or disadvantage that it presents.
As Guillemots nest earlier each decade, polar bears are forced off the ice as it disintegrates beneath them. Traditionally following the ice north through summer, bears are left swimming farther than possible or are forced to be land-bound through summer. Their lives are made by the heavy winter cold and the extensive pack ice on which they travel and hunt. The small gain for guillemots is an enormous loss for polar bears. And, yes, polar bears are a more charismatic species receiving more attention, but, of course, the world is a poorer place for the loss of any species.
While being able to nest a few weeks early appears beneficial on the surface, the reality is Guillemots feed along the ice pack edge. As eggs are laid, and chicks develop, overworked Guillemot parents repeatedly fly to the pack ice to feed themselves and return to Cooper with one fish at a time for their growing young. When the pack ice is near, this equals fat and happy chicks with plenty of Arctic cod to help them grow toward fledging. As the pack recedes from shore and the distance increases, chicks feed less often; parents burn more of their strength commuting and are sometimes required to shift to less desirable forage fish. The location of the ice can change many times through a season; but as the overall size of the pack decreases, the time it is within range of the breeding colony can also decrease.
Now
At times in the past, pack ice was sometimes far offshore and the colony had a dismal showing for the summer’s work. But Guillemots are long-lived birds and the following year provided new opportunities. Now, pack ice consistently does not form as early, nor stay as late. It is not as thick; it retreats farther from shore. It breaks up earlier and provides a less cohesive mass. Being far offshore is the norm, rather than the exception. All of this potentially leads to reduced fitness and productivity.
Where am I going with this? These small threads simply laid out here are the tiniest fraction of all the pieces that fit together to make our world what it is. The intricacy of connections, circumstances, and continuity is, with all of our advanced science and knowledge, still mostly guessed. Each discovery is accompanied by dozens of questions. For all of our bluster and arrogance, we are repeatedly humbled by findings that take us to new places and show us the error of our previous certainties (think blood-letting, asbestos, and nuclear weapons).
To tie some of these threads together for myself, I am embarking on a residency to Svalbard, a Norwegian territory east of Greenland and above the Arctic Circle. Relative to Cooper, many things are different: it is an archipelago, it will be autumn, it will be dark most of the day, and colder than Cooper in summer, the chaotic summer life will have moved south by the time I arrive. The world and I are 18 years older. I see this as the next phase in the Cooper process, a progression of seasons being redefined as we live them.
As I was writing this, I briefly lost the post in the ether; saving the draft returned a blank page. After much swearing, and an impossible attempt to string the ones and zeros of my words together again, I found the draft invisibly saved in the blog menu. Now, this occurrence neatly ties my thoughts together.
What do we know of the fabric of the Arctic? What do we know of things lost and what can we surmise from the departed? What happens when the richly wrought landscape becomes a blank page? There is no backup menu or replacement post. It is there, or it is not. Much like the lost post, how the threads unravel and disintegrate into the void, is unknown. What we do know is that stringing new ones and zeros together in a way that resembles the original is impossible.
I would be delighted to have you join me virtually for the trip to Svalbard. There is much to be learned and explored. There is much more to the natural world than ones and zeros.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 27 Aug 2018 | Roads Taken
Part 26, last days of Cooper
Cooper Island lies 24 miles east of the town of Utqiagvik, formerly called Barrow.
28 Aug
I buried myself in books the last few days. The wind has been fierce, increasing through the day yesterday and last night. It was difficult to measure and weigh chicks today for the strength of the wind. A number tried to escape, half taking flight in the wind and hiding in other sites until I retrieved them. I expect a few will go tonight despite the wind – it didn’t seem that a single adult was in the colony today. I didn’t see any during my checks and not any through the day. The wind hasn’t let up at all.
George is in Barrow. The batteries are all dead, and I’ve had trouble with the radio because of it. There was enough power this morning for about two minutes of radio time. For whatever reason, all four batteries seem to have met their demise. One is continuously hooked to the charger; the others are drained, but that seems odd. In any case, I’ve reconnected them to charge, and if they hold enough from today’s minuscule amount of sun, I may be able to talk with them tomorrow.
George will be, water-dependent, taking a bunch of kids to Crescent Island and Plover Point tomorrow and, in theory, coming out here on Wednesday. Dave can’t boat in this weather; if it holds, I may be here a while. I was a fool to think otherwise.
I’ve been holding myself to five days. In my mind, I still have five days, will continue to have five more days on the island until I actually set foot in Barrow again. It might save me. I’ve done almost nothing but the brief nest checks and read for four or five days. I finished Stones from the River today and dove straight into Love in the Time of Cholera. It is too cold and the wind too fierce for anything else; I am tired and happy to sit. I long for a hot a shower and a sauna. Relief from being cold all the time would be welcome.
I bathed my feet this afternoon and discovered two substantial bruises on my toe – the big broken one. I have no clue how I got bruises on my toe. It bothered me for several days, but it never occurred to me that I bruised it. My feet are tender and were so cold this afternoon that they were painful. My toes are also rotting in the way of feet without warm, dry socks and regular washing. As my feet perspire in my boots, my socks and then the liners get damp, so my feet are perpetually wet and cold. I take the liners out every chance and all night but they never really dry. Alas. Five more days.
I find it hard to believe that there are places in the world, this very minute, that are enjoying warm, lush, green August, its humidity, and sun. I long to be barefoot in the sand or on grass or anywhere my feet can be free and warm…
29 Aug
The infernal, intolerable, eternal wind. As I suspected, the few days of calm last week have been utterly routed and supplanted by wind and the uncertainty of departure. I fantasized about the search and rescue helicopter coming to save me again. Dave said the winds were 30 mph and would increase to 40. The batteries are still not charging, so there was little conversation today. The afternoon was sunny and with no clouds, so perhaps the battery will charge enough for a real bit of talk tomorrow. My return ticket to Fairbanks is for tomorrow morning.
There were hundreds of glaucous gulls today, a few terns and red phalaropes all fighting and feeding in the wind. The wind was nasty, and I hope it dies down tomorrow. In one way, there’s no obligation to do anything but nest checks and then eat and read. On the other hand, being out is so unbearable it’s not worth the reading and eating. I suspect it will be days before a boat can get out here and I’m not likely to be going back on it given George’s desire to debrief.
I’ve almost finished Love in the Time of Cholera, though I only started it yesterday. There’s not much else to do really. The wind seems to have picked up again, and I’ve given in to the fact of its existence. I hold on to my five days.
1 Sept
By radio call on 30 August, the wind had sufficiently died, though it kept me awake most of the night by smacking me in the head with the tent pole. The fog was thick but the air was clearing and George and Dave were talking about a trip out. At 1315 Dave told me the boat was gassed and ready to go. Within 15 minutes, the fog cleared, the sky was blue, the sun strong, and the wind at my back. Wow.
I hauled all the stuff to the sardine box and sat to wait. I was not expecting the water to be so calm and so boatable that quickly after so much wind. It didn’t seem possible that I would be Barrow-bound like that, but there I was all packed up and waiting for the final trip. It was good to see those two – goofy as they are.
I helped George move his stuff to camp and we grabbed and took whatever else he wouldn’t need. I figured the birds were going fast and he wouldn’t need to stay for very long – (as it turned out 15 fledged the next day and another five after that so by today there were only a couple left). Dave and I made a slow trip in, leading another boat that was low on fuel. The wind was behind us, the sun warm and I was happy.
Yesterday was spent in a frenetic race to pack and go. I sent three boxes of books and two boxes with vertebrae. I went off to the recreation center and took a SAUNA. It was great. I scrubbed and scraped and scratched all sorts of layers of grub off me and tried to soak out all the sand and grit and dirt and cold.
This morning, I wandered down to see Dave and say goodbye – it was his birthday. We radioed George, who was in his usual radio form.
Then, into the air. I could see Cooper Island after takeoff – it was clear, the whole outline, south spit and all of the lakes/ponds along the south shore. My last look.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 20 Aug 2018 | Musing
Part 25, summer winding down
Calm on Cooper.
22 Aug
George didn’t make radio call this morning but called Dave yesterday and said he didn’t think it was going to work to get me off the island by the first. I was pretty distraught. I am thoroughly tired and cold. I was mean to a bird who was being uncooperative and then was ashamed of myself. I pulled it together for another call at 1315 – George was more positive and thought I could be back in Barrow in time to make my original flight on the 30th.
I am now wearing both sets of long underwear, two bottoms, and two tops as well as two pairs of socks. There was snow on the ground this morning and squalls moved through all day. The thermometer stopped working and I’m a little bit glad that I don’t know the temperature. I am looking forward to being warm and dry on a regular basis.
The colony is quiet – the terns and Sabine’s are gone. Even the phalaropes disappeared today. The Black Guillemots are subdued – no one fledged yet but my down and feather collection duties are rapidly dwindling. Soon it will just be measure and weigh, weigh and measure. I think tomorrow is the last day for down. George said rarely do chicks stay past a wing length of 140 mm and there are several in the high 130s already. I wonder if it is just the residual storm effect that keeps them here?
I walked some tonight, but other than nest check mostly stayed in the tents. I read a bunch of essays in the Birder’s Handbook (why haven’t I been reading them more through the summer?!), read WildEarth, and On the Road by Jack Kerouac – not quite done with it yet but getting there. Now there is lots of good reading time. It’s too cold and quiet to walk so much. And my knees are beaten.
23 Aug
Silent, windless, calm day. How wonderful! There was a long, light snow this morning – very fine but enough to dust everything white. And no wind, not a breath. The lagoon was a flat mirror. The ocean was barely flowing, that gentle, smooth undulation of incipient waves rolling through water too dense to respond to weak pushes. The superior images made everything dreamy, and that incredibly precise, sharp quality to the air returned so that I could see ducks on the water all the way across the lagoon to the bluffs and their images on the ocean horizon.
There were long lines of eiders hurrying in single file – double rows of them – the actual flock and the image above. Weaving, opening, and closing the gaps between sky and water, the wave of motion moving through the lines in mirror images from front to back. Always just at the edge of the horizon, often defining the line between sky and water. As Craig said the other day, “That’s the Arctic.” The eiders define it all so well. What better symbol of the fecundity, the mobility, the vitality of the Arctic than that ever-flowing single file of eiders in August?
The snow buntings are fun. They have been flitting around the camp in great hordes the last week or so, 15 to 25 of them, fluffy, puffy, downy, white flashes of vibrant spirit. They wake me in the morning, calling, singing, standing on the tent over my head and chirping, fighting, and chasing each other around and about. They make me smile every time I see them. I enjoy their company and their perkiness.
It was silent today. Two or three planes. That’s it. Several boats went by on the flat waters, but I couldn’t hear them. My crunching steps and breathing were the only breaks in the stillness. The passing snow flurries that went through this afternoon dampened everything that much more.
I found a dead guillemot today, all that was left was the head, wings, and feet. The rest was stripped to the bone. The keel, spine, and rib cage were laid out, bare and red from the rented flesh. The white patches on the wings were tinged with pink. Even the tongue had been pulled inside through the head and left hanging out the back of the skull. Amazing the efficiency with which the eater stripped it. I am assuming it was a peregrine but don’t know for sure. I didn’t see marks on the keel that indicate a raptor kill, but I don’t know what to look for either so…
25 Aug
The past few days have been utterly still and calm, gray and cloudy with passing flurries and showers but little wind. I’m suspicious of this newfound and continuing calm. I think it is holding out for next week to let us have it. I’ve been too tired to enjoy it, too, unfortunately. Yesterday I walked for a short while down on the tundra, but mostly I’ve read in the cook tent or the sleep tent. I sat outside for several hours this afternoon and read there, too, until I was too cold. I finished Jack Kerouac’s On the Road last night. Good read. Read the Pilot’s Wife today. Not a classic but spellbinding, in its way. I read about four pages last night and then the rest of the book this afternoon.
The island is quiet. Few birds are left, dunlin and turnstones. No terns, no Xena, almost no glaucous gulls. The Jaegers persist. The puffins circle.
I broke a chick’s wing the other day. I was so tired and angry and frustrated – the end of the field season exhaustion rising to set me off with one chick too many squirming, fighting, shitting, and evading me. I vividly remember what happened although I didn’t realize at the time what I did. It was the chick I said I had been mean to, was ashamed about. It kept squirming and squawking and fighting and I held it hard against my body to get it to settle down, hoping it would realize struggling was useless. Its wing must have already been at a bad angle and pushing it up against my body made it snap. I felt awful when I saw it the next day, but it wasn’t until a couple of days later that I connected all of the pieces and realized it had been my actions which caused this. Its wings are still strong, and it seems to be growing pretty well; I’ll wait until George gets here and decide what to do about it. If it is young enough and early enough in the growth stage perhaps it will mend and be able to fly. If not, perhaps George can take it back to the Seward SeaLife Center. I can’t believe how foolish I am. That day I kept trying to tell myself that it wasn’t their fault. They were just afraid and wary of me, and I should be more sympathetic, but the other side kept saying we go through this every day, don’t they get it? If they cooperate, I’m done in 20 seconds if I have to chase them and they resist it’s much harder on both of us. Alas, it wasn’t until I held that little bird against me so hard that I knew I had lost it and had to get control of myself. I can’t remember if I took a break right away or not – I certainly should have – I was ashamed. I didn’t realize, however, how much damage I did. I think I would not have felt so terrible if I had dropped one of these heavy nest sites on a little chick – at least it would have been quick and done, not lingering around with an uncertain fate.
Two more chicks fledged last night. That’s five gone. They are all going to stay 40 days. I’m sure of it. Some of them are large – long wing chords if not high weight. I keep thinking that if the food stocks are going to crash, then the chicks that are large enough should go and seek their fortunes rather than depend on parents that are not providing enough. But how do you tell this to a guillemot chick? As each of the data columns for the older ones reaches the bottom of the page in the databook, I tell them it’s time to leave because I’m out of room for them in my book. They’re not listening.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 13 Aug 2018 | Roads Taken
Part 24, plum tuckered out
Whale vertebrae come in variable sizes, including Black Guillemot lounging size, Cooper Island, Alaska
17 Aug
Back to Cooper – gray day with passing showers, and mist, but pretty mild temp and little wind until this evening. Now it seems to be settling in again to the old pattern. I started collecting down today. As if NWFing yesterday wasn’t enough of an exercise in futility, try collecting down from starving, stressed, uncooperative chicks on a typical Cooper damp, windy day. Yeah, right. Egad! Even still I collected quite a bit and will continue to do so over the next few days as the chicks reach 25 days old. I need to start cohort banding also; a chick reached 125 mm wing chord today– still a few days short of fledging but it better be banded before it goes.
It seemed a slow day. I slept late, waited out the rain this morning before starting nest checks and then spent all afternoon weighing and measuring. It’s dusk-like now at 2230 – the sun is setting earlier and the evenings show that deepening glow. I got up at 0312 this morning; even in what is considered the middle of the night, there was plenty of light. It’s gray, like the early morning or late evening light on an overcast day – and it is cloudy again, so… I wonder if the light is like that when the sky is clear or if it is brighter – although that seems an obvious question I don’t think it is.
I finished reading Zen in the Art of Archery today – I haven’t read it since college – and it made me remember that idea of selfless consciousness, being one with your art and not being aware of your self at all. Something I must practice in everything I do – start small, begin by breathing.
18 Aug
I am field weary; plum tuckered out. It is that time in the field season where you say, “ok, I’ve had enough. It’s time to be done now.” Of course, that always happens a few weeks in advance of the actual end of the season. I was dragging today. Collected more down and cohort banded several birds. One little bugger walked right out the back of the nest site and into Little Guillemot Pond. Not a chance I was going to catch him. Hopefully, he’ll turn up in another nest tomorrow so I can weigh and measure, measure and weigh. Yup. Plum tuckered out.
I had a nap this afternoon. It was wonderful. It was misting all morning and has been mostly raining since. Back to the old Cooper Island days. The helicopter just went right over my head – checking up on me since last week perhaps. I was almost hoping they would land and tell me they were taking me in again…
I was very weary tonight and needed a little stroll, so I walked along the Lagoon-side water’s edge. There were hundreds of gulls and phalaropes and terns. The terns kept lifting and flying to me and then hovering above my head and calling – 35, 40, or more at a time. It was as if they were trying to give me some of their long-distance energy and stamina to tell me to hold on just a few more weeks. I carry on as best I can.
19 Aug – Auntie Carolyn’s birthday!
Typical Cooper day, gray and sprinkling all day. After nest check this afternoon I washed all the body parts I could without stripping entirely in the cold air, then put on clean underwear and clean socks. I’m a new woman. Amazing how these simple things make such a difference.
I slept in, ate a lot, and stared out the door of the tent quite a bit today. Went for a long walk on the tundra and along the beach, found several more vertebrae – giant whale vertebrae and smaller ones of all different sizes. I don’t know who they belong to, but they are cool. Hundreds of glaucous gulls, Sabine’s gulls, and terns this morning (and phalaropes). Also saw three sanderlings and a lot more dunlin. Quiet, low key day for me.
20 Aug
During radio call today I asked George about getting off Cooper soon. It does seem likely that most of the chicks will leave by early Sept. He plans to be here next weekend and stay until the bitter end – but probably only the first week of September. I can catch him in Fairbanks to disgorge info and debrief.
That changes everything of course. There is an end in sight, and although I’ve enjoyed my time here, it is time to move along.
Craig and Lincoln stopped this afternoon on their way back to Barrow from caribou hunting. They got 5 – wow! They approached camp calling, and when I appeared from the tent, Craig said, “meat delivery.” He had a big hunk of caribou for me.
We walked back to the boat, along the way I showed them a couple of chicks – beauties all salt and pepper. I browned some of the meat, made gravy, and ate it with rice. Yum. There is enough left for breakfast and another hunk I haven’t cooked yet. I don’t know what I’ll do with that. I was just going to have lentils…
Sleep. I must sleep.
21 Aug – Sister Carolyn’s birthday!
There was snow on my tent this morning when I awoke… It steadily snowed most of the morning – sometimes hard. There is a good NE wind to go with it. I went through all the nests, chick by chick. Today is day 30 for the oldest. I really can’t wait for them to start fledging – it will be so cool to see them disappear one at a time knowing that they are on their way. That one crazy chick that dodged out of the nest site and into the pond the other day did the same thing again today. Bugger.
The snow is beautiful; it’s not sticking to the ground yet. It is lovely in the air and on my clothes. I’m sure I won’t be so thrilled when it piles up, and I’m just cold…
My knees are bothering me again, and still. I pulled up my longies to have a look; they are swollen and bruised. They are always cold, kneeling and trudging in the sand. They will be happy at the end of this season. I promise myself a sauna if I have time when I get back to Barrow.
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by aramatzne@gmail.com | 6 Aug 2018 | Roads Taken
Part 23, the dog days of summer
A Black Guillemot chick ready to fledge. When the chicks are ready to leave the nest, they simply walk away; they go to the water to hone their diving and flying skills.
14 August 2000
What a grim day. I went through the whole colony, nest site by nest site. There are many dead and dying chicks; many are moving around – finding, or trying to find, new homes where they will be better fed. The disappearance of so many chicks also reduces the number of adults in the colony since they won’t return to empty nests.
Somewhere around 1300, the day became spectacular. I’m so used to putting my head down and going along with whatever the weather is that I didn’t see the clouds lift or the glorious blue sky appear. It’s been here the whole afternoon and evening. It’s about 2330 now; the sun is setting immediately in front of the tent. It is getting cold, the mild afternoon and evening have passed. Oh, that the rest of August was like this… I tried to radio Dave at 1630 or so thinking I would invite him out for dinner while the boating was good, but I couldn’t raise him on the radio. What would I have made that would be worthy of a dinner party, anyway?
After dinner, I cleaned out and reset George’s tent. What a disgusting mess – though I’m not sure how much the storm contributed to that versus George’s indifference to sand. I also threw out some of the ten-year-old canned food and rice and pasta from last century. Hmmmm. Funny. That saying doesn’t hold as much weight as it did last year. I may end up being stuck here and regretting that move, but I doubt it. It was gross.
I finished Memoirs of a Geisha. I think I will move on to Sophocles now.
Yesterday, I found a stunning juvenile tern that didn’t survive the storm. It was lying on the ground in a frost heave. Exquisite, except for some sand in its feathers, it was perfect. The wings are magnificent, long and sleek. If I could choose my totem animal, it would be the Arctic tern. They are pure effortless energy, and I envy their grace and fluidity. I strive for such beauty of motion and life. I wonder if this is the same tern I flushed the day of the storm? Not strong enough to fly into the wind and not old enough to survive without its parents feeding it for several days. It’s a tenuous life, and the parents’ reproductive energy goes wasted this summer. How often are the adults left with nothing to show for their epic migrations and summer’s labor?
15 Aug
What an absolutely glorious day. The wind was rocking out of the ENE all day, but the sky was blue, clear, and gorgeous. The edge of a front is hanging directly over the island and has been there most of the day; I stayed on the sunny side. How wonderful it would be if this weather continued for a few days (I’ve probably just cursed myself). It’s 2200 hrs, and the sun is sliding toward the ocean, its glow fills my tent with light. I almost don’t want to sleep for fear of missing any of this blueness.
When I got to the east end of the colony this afternoon, I kept walking east, all the way to the barge. It didn’t seem nearly so far today as it did the first time I went there. The skinny little strip of land holding it all together is getting lower and was heavily washed over in the last storm. I found an incredible whale vertebra a long way down and carried it back by balancing it on my head – practicing better posture and weight-bearing skills. I left it at the 97 barrels, too tuckered to lug it the rest of the way back. I’ll move it when checking nests.
Today was not quite so grim as yesterday. There were plenty of dead chicks, but some began to gain weight again and looked more alert. They still grabbed at my fingers and begged for food. A number also walked away from their nests, as they do. There were several that jumped out of reach and walked away from me before I was able to catch them for weighing. If I didn’t have them in hand quickly, they were gone, and I had no compunction about letting the poor buggers go to find whatever better chances as they could. The Jaegers were in the colony again and were relentless. It will be interesting to see who actually survives this ordeal.
George commented on the radio the other day that there was no need for him to come back to Cooper this summer if everybody is dead or dying.
I watched the sunset last night at 2356-ish – I can’t remember the last time I saw the sunset over the ocean. There were no clouds, just a giant ball of light sinking into sand and water. I won’t make it tonight; it was a long, tiring walk in the sand with a whale vertebra on my head.
It is dusk now. The cloudy western edge is stealing away some of the last light, and the land is lying in shadow. The cloud front falters and breaks over Cooper; it is still and blue above.
16 Aug
Another gorgeous day, even better than yesterday because there was almost NO WIND! During radio call this morning I was told to batten down in anticipation of a gale from the south. I dutifully dead-manned the rest of the fly lines and packed up as much of the camp as I could.
I set off early to do chick weights expecting the wind to come up at any moment. I walked across the tundra, moved the whale vertebra back to camp. Lazed, ate, cleaned up, walked, took off my boots and socks, my pants, my sweater, my hat, my gloves. It was lusciously warm (55º-ish), sunny. Incredible. I had the overwhelming feeling that I would pay for so much pleasure, and dearly.
I tried NWFing (noofing) – noosing while feeding – this afternoon. What a truly useless pursuit. The Guillemots are in and out of the nests so fast they hardly touch the ground. Three hours I spent with four mats and not one catch. Blah. I’m glad I banded and hooped as many birds as I did earlier in the season.
I ate leftovers today to spend more time enjoying the day. Took a walk this evening – sat down on a big drift log on the ocean and watched the world. The water is calm and flat; tiny little waves keep the gravel rolling, a pleasing, lulling sound. The sky is half cloudy again like yesterday – darker and grayer tonight. The sun shone through the clouds and cast an indescribable light. It was utterly peaceful and quiet. I drank my peppermint tea and was.
I’m down to 68 chicks in 50-some-odd sites – the rest walked away or died. I have to start collecting down tomorrow. I hope beyond my wildest dreams that it is dry and not too windy as collecting down in the rain and a gale will not be entirely successful.
I’m curious how much weight a chick can lose and still recover. The maximum loss to date is 100g – that seems an enormous amount to recover, and so far the little beast is alive. Although only two chicks died today, many lost weight again after yesterday’s recovery. The Jaegers are still working the colony and stealing a lot of fish. Bullies.
Calm, gray day on Cooper, late summer.
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