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.
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.
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.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 23 Jul 2018 | Roads Taken
Part 22, A storm is coming in
9 Aug
The wind finally dropped off this evening. It was strong earlier in the day – 30-35mph. WooHoo! I spent a lot of the day hunkered down in the tent. It was nice this morning, almost clear, mild, and not too windy. By 1200, the wind was screaming, and it was dark and grim. It didn’t actually rain though. I read, finishing the Northern Woodlands and also read my current book – Memoirs of a Geisha.
After the wind died, I went for a long walk along the beach to the west. Watched some birds, thought, picked up stones and bones, looked at the ocean, listened to its rhythm, laughed to myself, and just was. I watched a sailboat go by out on the edge of the horizon. I think it was a sailboat – what else could it have been? I thought, “who would be crazy enough to go sailing in the Arctic Ocean?” And I laughed – who would be crazy enough to spend a summer alone on an island in the Arctic Ocean? Indeed.
The peregrine was in the colony again today, both this morning and this evening. This morning, the Jaeger chased it out – the Jaeger doesn’t want its food source damaged. I see the results of the Jaeger and peregrine pressure as some chicks have lost weight and many more are only barely maintaining. It could get grim in the next few weeks.
A satellite image of the 2000 Arctic hurricane over Alaska and Cooper Island.
13 Aug
Yup, another pile of days gone by, last I wrote it was a calm, mild evening. The following morning (10 Aug) started reasonably enough. Cool, 15–20 mph wind, out of the southwest. I radioed Dave and was ready to start the usual routine for the day. Dave told me the day before that there was supposed to be a big storm but nothing materialized so when he told me another big storm was coming through I didn’t think much of it. Then, almost as soon as we were off the radio, the wind picked up and didn’t let up. I decided to wait it out and, if it didn’t die down, give the birds the day off – and me too.
The door to the cook tent blew out around 1030. I checked on the Tango Echo site to make sure it hadn’t collapsed in the wind. I had trouble walking, and I could barely breathe – the pressure of the wind against my chest constricted my lungs limiting inhalation. As I walked, head down, gasping, I looked up to see a juvenile Arctic tern at eye level next to me trying to work into the wind. It was going backward and settled to the ground as soon as I passed.
Assured that the nest site was as secure as it could be given the conditions, I turned my back to the wind and flew to the tent. The antenna went down as I approached camp. The only big pot I have, the one I use to carry water, also took flight across the island. I gave chase for a minute and then just watched it roll and bounce, up, over the bank, and into the Arctic Ocean. Gone.
I gathered up field books, some food and drink, and the radio and went to my sleeping tent. The wind was ferocious. The cook tent was being battered, and the door was blown. George’s tent was holding its own but also taking some abuse. My tent was bowing and pulling but still relatively well set. I piled in. I read all morning, but I had to lie down because there was no room for me to sit up – the walls of the tent were trying to meet, and I was getting squeezed out of the middle.
It rained and snowed off and on, the tent walls were wet, as was the floor. I moved things around and piled them up to keep them out of the water. I jammed my sleeping bag into the only dry bag I had. I was getting dripped on. My parka was wet. I had to lie on my back because the fiberglass tent poles would smash into my hip or kneecap if I tried to lie on my side. Now and then a wave of sand or grit would hit the tent. I stuck my head out occasionally and could see the sand blowing across North Beach. There was a lot of flying debris – plywood, and boards. I was not exactly comfortable in my soggy tent eating my fourth peanut butter and jelly sandwich of the post-stove day, but I was happily reading and mostly content. I didn’t feel in danger. It was just a wicked storm.
About 1900, after 10 hours of this, I heard a helicopter. At first, I thought it was a trick of the wind, but no, there was the even steady beat of the rotors. I stuck my head out the tent door to see them coming in, low from the northeast, into the wind, ready to land. They set down right in front of the tent. I frantically tried to zip the tent door closed again as I saw the wave of gravel from the rotor wash coming at me. FIghting the wind-disfigured zipper, I barely pulled it closed as the tent lurched from the impact. I pulled on my boots and went out to meet the search and rescue technician jumping from the chopper. We met in the middle, he yelled into my ear, “There’s a storm coming in.” “Coming in?” I thought to myself. You mean it’s not already here? I was to go back to Barrow with them. Okay.
I grabbed my pack, threw in camera and binocs, bird book, this book (i.e., my journal), and the book I was reading, added my toothbrush and laundry – the important things – and was gone. Within about a minute of their landing, I was on board, buckling in, and we were taking off. Cool ride.
The island was getting pounded. They didn’t offer me a headset, but I grabbed the nearest one in time to hear the pilot say, “Flying plywood, great.” It was chaos. Waves were crashing against the north shore, eating into the bank. The pond in front of the tent was no longer a pond but had become part of the lagoon.
We went southwest into the wind and then swung east along the coast to a fishing camp. The camp boat was up against the beach, grounded on its side, not in a good way. We landed in front of the cabin and picked up just the kids.
We were across the lagoon, following the shoreline when terror struck me. I remembered that I left a half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on top of the radio case. I imagined it stuck to the wall of the tent, sticky and slimy forevermore. But far worse, I committed the worst possible sin for a field biologist. I remembered my laundry, and left the field books, full of the summer’s data, in a neat stack next to the radio case and the half-eaten sandwich. My stomach turned. This crew already risked their lives to get my sorry ass off a desolate, forsaken island. No way I would ask them to go back. I watched the tundra roll away beneath me.
The ride was beyond description. Over the water the waves were tight and all white capped. The cat’s claws on the water’s surface were delicate given the force of the wind, and the foam was in perfectly parallel lines into the wind. The wind in the grasses and on the ponds of the tundra was gorgeous; wave after wave ran through the grass.
There were birds everywhere in the air – jaegers, terns, gulls, phalaropes, Brant – even a flock of snow geese on the ground. I’m not sure if they were just scared up by the chopper or if they were out cruising. Half a dozen caribou ran beneath us. The tundra was broken into polygons and ponds – beautiful, soggy, mosquito-ridden land. Snow was scudding along the ground, blowing, and driven across the tundra beneath me in white sheets.
The helicopter was also wild. The wind pushed it – the way a car skids sideways in the snow, the chopper skidded in the air. Driven by the wind the tail slid sideways, and several times I noticed that although we were moving forward, there was also lateral movement.
Landing in Barrow, Craig met me; he made the call to have me come in, concerned that the island, which is only 9′ above sea level at the highest point, would be washed over by waves and I would have nowhere to retreat. He thought I would be angry at being called in and asked how it was out there.”Fuckin’ awful,” I said but laughed and recanted. I didn’t feel in danger or need of rescue but made it clear I was happy to be in Barrow – where I could stand upright and eat something other than peanut butter and jelly.
We drove around town to check out the storm. The road to NARL and ARF was closed – washed out by the surf. They were working frantically to keep the road between Browerville and Barrow open, piling sand up with dozers, hoping it wouldn’t wash out. The wind and waves were phenomenal. It was quite the scene.
I had a shower and spent the night on a comfy air mattress… Aaaaah. Three showers in three weeks. That’s crazy.
By morning, the storm subsided, and the road crew had the road open again. Craig took me over to the ARF. I got a lot of hugs; they told me that they were laying bets on whether I would pop my PLB (personal locator beacon – an emergency distress call that alerts search and rescue that you are in need of help) but decided that was no good because they knew I wouldn’t. The final story: sustained winds of 56 mph and gusts in the 70s. Highest Gust: 79 mph.
So, I went beachcombing with the folks from ARF, cut off a seal’s head (for the skull to go to the research collection), saw lots of birds, and found a baby seal working its way across Point Barrow. We grabbed it by the flippers and carried it to the water. The day was incredibly cold and raw; we went as far as the boat launch before turning back. Back at ARF, everyone pitched in with ingredients and help, and we made two giant dishes of enchiladas.
Yesterday was just as cold and raw and nasty, and snowing steadily. Craig was ready for a boat trip, so after a huge preparation scene with a ton of people, we got it all together, loaded the gear, including a new tent, got to the boat launch and decided it was still too rough and windy and yukky. Retreat. Plan B.
Somewhere late last night, after crashing at the ARF, Craig called to see if I was ready to go – it sounded like he was 50/50 for going then or in the morning. I was 100% for the morning. The thought of facing the camp in the middle of the night was too much – I would have been compelled to clean it up with zero sleep. We didn’t go, but orders were, be ready by 0700.
Checking out the Lagoon in the morning, we decided it was a go. The boat trip was wet and rough; the seas were high, it was grey, and sleeting/snowing. We saw murres and a puffin and lots of Sabines. We followed the archipelago east and then cut across to the south to avoid the currents in the cut between Tapkaluq and Cooper but went too far east on the coast bypassing the island. It was cloudy with little horizon so easy to misjudge, we figured out our location, and working back to Cooper, landed on the west end of the island.
The camp was trashed. The cook tent blew 10’ or 15’ and was lying on its side open, full of sand and water. The tarp stayed with its stakes; the tent blew out from underneath; the fly was shredded. My tent blew about 20’ and was stopped, it seems, by the 5-gallon water container and the munitions box full of banding gear that I tied to the fly. It was thrown around a bit, and the poles were bent but mostly functional. George’s tent is badly worn but stayed more or less where it was, and the fly is shredded.
We set up the new tent, and the antenna. Craig radioed Dave. I emptied my sleep tent into the new tent, resetting the old tent as the new cook tent. Everything in my tent was thrown around, but it wasn’t too wet or ruined. The abandoned sandwich flipped and stuck to the radio case. The forgotten data books were all there and intact. Phew.
Craig had to leave before the wind picked up and I was, again, on Cooper alone with a lot of cleaning up and general mayhem to contain. I worked on the tents for a while. There was a chick hiding in camp, I figured out where it belonged, and returned it forgetting that George said not to return chicks to their nests – oh well, I only did that one. I ate and then walked the colony.
There is a lot of damage and dead or missing chicks. Serious carnage. All I did was take inventory. Tomorrow I will collect dead chicks and fix what sites I can. Another chick walked through the camp, and I saw a third paddle across the little cove on the Bay in front of camp. George also told me if the chicks aren’t getting enough food they will walk away from their nest site. Wow. There were about 40 chicks that were just gone from their nests. The predators, the storm, and the snow have taken their tolls. I finished rebuilding camp – well for the day. I walked to the other end of the tundra patch this afternoon. There was evidence of the waves washing over the island at the narrowest point, a whole new wrack line, and all sorts of new stuff on the shore. One of the giant tanks moved by the ice push is about 100 yds from where it was – the surf is roaring, and it is cold again. Summer is long gone, and winter is well on its way. Enough, I must sleep.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 16 Jul 2018 | Roads Taken
Part 21, Cooper time – night divides the day
Black Guillemots rest on ice floes in the fog off Cooper Island, Alaska.
5 Aug
I half dragged myself out of bed this morning at 0630. Had just gotten my pants and socks on and was opening the door when the first wave of rain hit the tent. It hasn’t let up since; that was 12 hours ago. I did a quick colony stroll. The Parasitic Jaegers seem to be working the colony hard. There were also two puffins again. I spent most of the morning in the tent eating and catching up on the data and notes George left. As hard to believe as it may be, his notes are more disjointed than mine.
It rained the whole day, all of it. No break. I did all of the nest checks in the rain. My clothes are no longer waterproof. I washed my chick-shit-covered jacket and rain pants in Barrow, and I think that was the end of any waterproofness. I wore my insulated bibs though today, and they got wet right through the knees and seat. It just pelted me the whole time, and I doubt anything would have kept me dry. My jacket did better than I expected. There were a couple of tears at the back of the neck that I stitched up this morning. I thought it would leak there, but it was more of a slow seep across my shoulders and at my elbows. Somehow I displeased the rain gods and expect the rain to continue indefinitely. For a short time, I had this ridiculous hope that since July had been so wet, August would come around clear and fine. Right.
6 Aug
Lots of bird activity today. There were hundreds of Xena, Glaucous Gulls, terns, and phalaropes (well, not so many terns). It was a busy, raucous day for the birds. It stopped raining sometime in the night and was nice in the morning – it never cleared but there were a few blue patches. I did a few rotations around the colony and nest checks; I weighed and measured all of the little buggers. George banded a lot of chicks already, which is great.
My hand seems to be seriously lacking in motor control tonight. It is cold and stiff and not responding well to my directions. I walked for two hours after dinner. Up through the tundra and back along the north beach; I crossed at Far West, back again along the lagoon side. The annual barge to Prudhoe Bay went by this evening.
7 Aug
Oddly enough, the barge to Prudhoe Bay returned this morning – it hadn’t been unloaded, and another ship followed it. A Greenpeace boat intercepted it, boarded it, and told it to return to Barrow – I don’t know what the issue was or why the captain listened. Dave told me he heard of the boarding on the radio.
It was gray and foggy when I awoke. Surprise! Eventually, it turned to showers and rained off and on through the day. Again there are lots of Xena though not so many as yesterday, and Red Phalaropes also abound. Did the usual weighing and measuring round.
I was thinking today about how fluid time is here, even though I sleep regularly and for the usual (more or less) amount of time, one day runs into the next undivided. It seems to be a perfect continuum of time. It is always light, day and night it doesn’t matter when you go to sleep or when you wake, it is light. The only apparent divide between day and night is the temperature. (You know the day destroys the night/night divides the day/tried to run/tried to hide/break on through to the other side – thanks, Jim!) Sometimes I think of an event that occurred, and it will seem only this morning even though it may have been days ago. I’m often sure I did one nest the previous day but may well have missed it altogether for a couple of days. Even the weather has been so much the same – endless periods of gray, fog, and rain it doesn’t help to divide the time at all. Even though I measure out large chunks of the day with my watch, the passage of time seems unremarkable. There is hardly any difference between the heat of the noonday sun and the late evening light. It is often so diffracted by clouds or fog that it never seems brighter or higher or stronger. I’ve not even seen the passage of the sun through the sky in a single day. I haven’t the slightest idea what the arc may be. In the middle of the night I have seen it low on the northern horizon, and early in the morning, I have seen its place to the north and east and a little above the horizon. I don’t know, however, where its course lies in the southern sky. It has been all the same diffused and flat light that tells me nothing about its path.
I must say, I am sure that if I had been faced with this much gray and fog back east, I would have been a very depressed camper long ago. Even the eternal rain I endured my first summer in Maine and that I slogged through the second year wasn’t as ominous and all present as this unyielding gray. Each time the wind shifts I think, surely now the clouds will clear and some nice weather will move in from whichever direction. Alas, it changes not. It only makes me scurry around to rearrange the position of wind blocks and reset things so they are in the lee of the wind. It doesn’t actually change the weather. I fear that the passage of time in August will only bring colder weather not drier. I do not look forward to that.
Yesterday, and again today, I laughed to myself about when I met QQQ I had $6 to my name and no bank account and when I left him I closed the account I had and spent the withdrawn $300 to throw him a party. Full circle. Poverty and adventure. A much nicer mantra and way of life than slow decay in the known.
Give as much as you can. Receive what is given freely. Balance the two.
Never overflow; never be empty
8 Aug
It was mostly dry today, a few passing sprinkles and showers. It was gray and cloudy most of the day, but for a short while this afternoon it was sunny and fair. The bright, low light was intense and glorious. When the sun actually shines there is a quality to the air that is amazing. It is crisp and clear, and with the binocs, everything is sharp and in focus. It is astonishing.
Summer on Cooper Island’s tundra patch.
There was a peregrine falcon in camp today. I was weighing a chick when I saw it coming straight toward me. It went right over my head and hung for a long minute on the air currents just behind me before swooping low and away across the wastelands and over the pond. It landed in sub-colony 52 and then disappeared. Later, I walked down to the Sardine Box looking for it, but I got distracted by the phalaropes and flushed it before I saw it. When it went over me the first time, I could see the barring on the breast and the dark helmet.
The Jaegers were back working the north side of the colony. They are remarkable; they patrol the north beach, watching as guillemots come into the colony with fish in their bills and then they chase them until the guillemot lets the fish go. The Jaegers are fast and maneuverable and can drop on a dime. The BGs can keep speed but not for long and give up the fish pretty quickly. There doesn’t seem to be more than one or two Jaegers at a time but between them, the puffins, and now the peregrine they are very jittery and in constant flight –as in fear – fight or flight.
