By Caleb May from University of Vermont
I wake up with a start. Panting, I feel a drop of cold sweat slide down from its perch upon my forehead. Confusion surrounds me but as I linger in the world of the conscious I begin to collect myself and appreciate the dream I have just left. Some details evade me but I remember shaking hands with current President Whoopi Goldberg as she congratulates me on my recent rediscovery of the Ivory-billed Woodpecker. I grimace and shake my head. “One can only dream” I mutter to myself as I begin to unzip my sleeping bag before venturing into the cold morning air. I pause before opening the tent and look back at the sleeping form opposite me on the tent floor. I can’t help but smile as I see River still clutching the golden Tentmates of the Year plaque that has been awarded to us 5 years running.
I slip out and don my soggy but reliable hiking shoes. I look to my left and to my right and on one side see the brightly colored tents of my fellow Round River peers and on the other the remnants of an old shack most likely belonging to some older miner camp. Just another scar upon the land. Yet still, despite years of extensive mining in the area, life has won out. Beautiful towering Subalpine fir have returned and shelter the communities of moss and lichen that blanket the ground. Sticking out like Christmas ornaments are the wildflowers. I pause to glance at the white bulbs of Sitka Burnet. I chuckle to myself knowing the heartache of pouring over plants books for hours looking for this plant that had captured my heart a mere 3 weeks ago. The beautiful silhouette of Tall larkspur lies beside it and its brilliant purple flower looks as though it was hand drawn by Harold with a purple crayon from the hit children’s book Harold and the Purple Crayon. “That crazy kid could draw anything” I chuckle to myself but soon my smile fades. I grow jealous of the creative power that bald baby holds, something I no longer have. I shudder and move on.
I notice a thick blanket of fog has rolled in and shrouds the firs and lodgepole pines in a ghastly, viscous solution. Only their outlines remain but I mentally divide them between the skinny and uniform firs and the unorganized and stout lodgepole pines. I almost pity the pines. This fog and heavy rain has trodden any chance of a wildfire in the near future and yet the serotinous cones of the lodgepoles yearn for the heat licking from underneath them, waiting to be set free to grow more of these magnificent trees.
I walk across the perilous stream to get to the breakfast spot and begin to pour oatmeal and hot water into my Tupperware container while simultaneously cursing the porcupine that had decided to eat my camping bowl a few weeks prior. Their modified hairs and tree climbing prowess had saved them from my rebuttal and now I must rely on the bulky Tupperware.
A few other students join me in the kitchen and I nod curtly to them while shoveling spoonfuls of oatmeal into my gaping maw. “The quakers sure know their oats” I chuckle. My thoughts are interrupted as a flitting sound draws my attention to a branch of scrub birch where a White-crowned Sparrow has settled on a bouncing branch. “White-crowned Sparrows like many other sparrows like to forage close to the ground or around trees and certain species will gladly accept food at feeders. I would hazard a guess that this little guy is taking bits of oats that have been dropped around the campsite” a voice says in a matter-of-fact tone. I recognize it as Gabe’s which is only further confirmed when a screeching falsetto song sounds out. Despite the obvious tone deafness and off beat snapping, the melody takes me back to high school where, to the shock of many, I performed Johnny B. Goode in front of a group of befuddled high schools. Good times.
The last few stragglers filter into the kitchen including River who is met by my smile and a firm hug. 30 minutes later we gather our day packs and head into the field to download data from the temperature loggers that are meant to aid in our understanding of a changing climate. Within 5 minutes and the group has already stopped to examine and pick a group of particularly plump group of crowberry. With a slight cough Meghan states that crowberry aren’t at their best until right after the first frost before turning away and placing a jumbo jalapeño goldfish into her mouth. I quickly eat the rest of berries in my hand and hurry off after the group.
The recent rain has left huge patches of mud along the old road. A younger version of myself would jump in and roll around the mud squealing like a happy little piggy. I scoff at my ignorance. Its been years since I dealt in something so trivial. My focus is now only on animals and the occasional medicinal plant. I don’t have to dwell on my brief lasp in focus as I bump into the back of Grace. She, along with the rest of the group has stopped and looked down at a peculiar track in the mud. I take a few seconds to look at it noting the small overall size, long claws, and the foot slightly angled to the inside. Immediately, my eyes enlarge and I start off in the direction of the tracks. A hand catches me “It’s not worth it… your bowl is gone Caleb”. It is the hand of local mammal expert Dr. Lauren Watine who, I realize at once, came to the same conclusion as me… a porcupine left this track.
It takes two more people to fully calm me down but soon I am back on the trail and examining the asters and monkshood that have popped up along the trail. The combination of yellow and purple not only reminds me of my favorite Mario Kart character, Wario, but also does a wonderful job of calming me down.
It isn’t long before there is more reason to stop. In front of me is the segmented and furry poop of what could only belong to a member of the family Felidae. Upon closer inspection the size leads me to the conclusion that only a Canadian Lynx could have left this track. I ponder what the fur could be from before smacking myself across the face. “Of course! How could I be so stupid! It has to be Snowshoe hare! They are famously known as a key prey for lynx and make up a huge part of their diet!” This train of though is only interrupted by the repeating realization that the person who gave lynx their scientific name could only come up with Lynx Canadensis. I shake my fists at the drizzling sky and wonder why it had been them, instead of the wonderfully creative Harold from Harold and the Purple Crayon who gave lynx their scientific name.
The gentle incline of the hill eventually gives out we plateau onto a nice table feature. The trees are now few and far between and scrub birch stretched as far as the eye could see. Up ahead, Dr. Watine puts up a hand to signal a stop. She points a trembling finger at the scat that lies in front of her. A quick glance and the slight tapered end of the scat is enough to send shivers down my spine. I look away but quickly resume eye contact and notice the unbroken chain of coiled scat. A glance at my peers and I know they are thinking the same thing. This was the work of a wolf.
Of course, wolves are not actually a threat to humans and have massively villainized and largely extirpated out of much of their home range leaving a tremendous gap in the food web and stability of the community. I am not fearful of them. I am fearful of being them.
The group fans out and I find myself drawn to murmurs and shouts of more scat peppered throughout this flat and open terrain. Dr. Watine visits each person and I notice a smile curling on her lips. She marches proudly to the front of the group and clears her throat “This might very well be a wolf rendezvous site…” An explosion of whispers erupts between us but is quickly silenced by Dr. Watine “…and therefore I will be performing a wolf call in an attempt to bring some in.”
We quickly fall in a small circle behind her as she pauses for a moment before cupping her hands around her mouth and howling to the skies. I feel an animalistic urge power through me and I buckle slightly before regaining my composure. Once more the howl comes and again I fight to resist. A third time and a sound escapes my lips before I quickly shut it. I look around. No one seems to notice. They can’t know I’m a werewolf.
I take one final glance up at Dr. Watine and to my relief she has turned away from the hillside and begun to explain how it was most likely a previously used rendezvous. “If it had been active and there were any wolves or wolve beings in the area,” she shot a glance at me “They would have reacted.” I gasp and take a step back. Does she know? How could she know? However, before I can think any more on this topic the group has once again moved on.
Finally, after another brief incline, the hill rounds out and we reach another plateau. Looking towards the ground I realize the familiar plants I had grown accustomed on the hike have disappeared and are instead replaced with hearty species such as reindeer lichen, yellow mountain-aven, and blistered rock tripe. I chuckle to myself and think of the feast the caribou will have later on the vast sea of reindeer lichen on this hilltop.
We quickly veer off to the left and begin climbing up a hill. We pass more crowberry as well as some delicious blueberries which even Meghan cannot resist. After 10 more uneventful minutes I see the top of the hill we are climbing through the dense fog. Immediately we set to work. We know our duties.
Like ravenous animals we began looking through the rocks that are positioned 5 meters away from the tallest point in each cardinal direction. Buried beneath are the tiny white capsules we came here for… temperature loggers.
A cry rings out! Zinnia has found the first logger! I continue searching with even more intensity but am once again interrupted by a cry of joy. I only have time to work for 2 more minutes before a third yell echoes around the foggy valley.
Now, my temperature logger is the only one that remains. I begin to search even harder flipping over every rock. I feel a presence by my side. It is Sara Grillo but everyone knows she went by Temp Logger Finder in high school. Rumor has it she found 15 temperature loggers in 1 minute while sporting a broken leg. Temp loggers fear her, those who temp log respect her.
I expect mere seconds before her exclamation of discovery comes but it never does. Seconds tick to minutes. Minutes to hours. Finally, with her arm completely shoved into a crevasse she turns and screams “MAY! Get my computer. STAT!” I jump up and parkour over several rocks and dangerous situations. I return with her computer.
We set to work changing out the battery and uploading the year worth of temperature data onto her computer. “AHA! Just as I suspected… a warm Janu-“ Her thoughts are interrupted by the whirring of helicopter blades. Her face turns stoney. “They’ve found us… the Anti Temp Logger League.” I see who is at the helm. The hooded figure of Harold from Harold and the Purple Crayon. Never meet your heroes
Sara waits not a second more and repositions the fully charged and reset logger back into the moist earth! Bullets ricochet around us from the helicopter as our group begins to sprint back down the mountain! I trip and fall before I feel a strong arm pick me up and set me back on my path “Thank you Zinnia!” I only manage to say before we are once again running down the mountain.
Once back on flat ground I see Andrew pick up a rather large rock from the hillside. Without pausing his forward momentum he hurls the stone towards the chopper. For a split second the rock seems to have done nothing before the blade sputters and the helicopter explodes. We are safe at last from Harold and the Anti Temp Logger League.
Tired and confused we trudge down to camp. I notice a juvenile American Robin with spotting on the classic orange breast and an all black juvenile Canada Jay. Additionally, a break from the fir and pines appears as I see a singular White spruce standing on the hillside.
The rest of the night passes in a blur. No one really speaks during dinner and it is only before going to bed that Sara speaks up. “Good job today everyone. We deserve a rest day.” Everyone offers a halfhearted chuckle.
15 minutes later I am snuggling into my sleeping bag. I look over and smile at River who seems to be reading a thesaurus. What a studious guy. I open my current read: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I am barely 5 words in when I feel my veins strain against my skin. How could I forget! It’s a full moon…