July 31, 2013
By Cynthiann Heckelsmiller (Weber State University)
Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon? Neither have I, depite our best efforts. In a mountain valley south of Atlin, we practiced our wolf cries, hoping for a distant reply. We had just finished our high alpine summit data collection, and were camping overnight in preparation for the next day’s fieldwork. There was sign up and down the rough two-track road that wolves were near by. Big, doglike prints, giving our imaginations fodder for the size of the elusive creatures, and scat laced with bits of bone, hair and hooves, peppered the muddy ruts. There were also the paired crescent tracks of caribou (Rangifer tarandus caribou), and the splayed hoof marks of moose (Alces alces). Will gave Ellen and I a lesson in wolf calls. The trick, he said, is to hold out one single long note, and then drop off with a single lower tone. Not at all, he cautioned, like the cartoon version. Though mine may have sounded more like a cat underfoot, Will was encouraging. There was still no answer echoing across the valley. No Canis lupus encounters for us.
Will scans for wildlife at the top of a ridge in the evening.
We had planned on camping out there the day before. We had loaded up into the car and driven the hour and a half out to the field. As Big Mama (the suburban) bumped and jostled over the rocky road, rain began to fall in sheets. We stopped the car and waited, pensively, for the downpour to cease. We could see that our summit was enrobed in clouds, and not happy clouds, but dark dreary things. Will turned back to us from the front seat. “Well,” he said, “we took a gamble coming out here. The thing about gambling is, you have to keep playing until you win all the money.” A wise and winsome colloqWillism. There was nothing to do but turn around and roll the dice again the next day. It taught us an important lesson about fieldwork. Sometimes you have to play with the cards your dealt, even if the cards are soggy and wet.
Back in our cozy workspace, we students set to work. This last week and a half of the program has been like any other finals time in college. Though field work gives us practical experience, we are also required to complete papers, readings, and other assignments, as well as final essays and exams, to earn our credit hours. Susie and Will have set a high bar on quality of work too. The rain-out, though initially disappointing, granted us precious work time.
Rain over Atlin Lake.
The next day, the sun came out, and we gleefully jumped back into trusty Big Mama. After we parked her beneath a stand of subalpine fir, we set off down the road to hike to our High Alpine research area one last time. As we walked along the roadside to the base of the mountain, galleons of cumulous clouds sailed overhead, and scattered shadows across the valley and mountainsides. My eyes drank in the green valley, bursting juicy with color. There was the flashing magenta of river beauty blossoms suspended upon silvery leaves, the lemon-custard yellow of paintbrush, and the burning blue of tall larkspur and mountain monks hood. The ground smelled of yesterday’s rain and today’s sunshine.
At the base of our mountain, Ari suddenly exclaimed, “Porcupine!” Nestled in the roadside shrubbery was a tiny juvenile porcupine! It could not have been longer than two decimeters, and was sitting still breathing softly. Its back was to us, and we gave it a meter and a half berth, but it was amazing how close we were without it showing signs of distress. Its dark fur looked surprisingly soft, though it was interspersed with long straw-colored quills. These pointy projections reminded me that it wasn’t acting afraid because it was well armored. Nothing messes with a porcupine. Then, a few minutes into our quiet observation, along waddled another porcupine down the hillside to the stream beside the road. This was a full-grown adult, and, though who really could tell, we dubbed Mama. Mama lumbered down the hillside, her gray eyes taking us in, but not seeming to care. She nonchalantly munched on river beauty and mountain sorrel. We watched the pair for a good ten minutes, which is forever in terms of wild animal observation at this close proximity. Eventually, the adult “ran” down the stream bank and away. I can’t say that a porcupine is graceful or graceless, but somewhere in between, and certainly not fast. We all met eyes and raised eyebrows, sighing out loud (we were of course quiet when watching) over how cool that little behavioral study time was. We were grinning as we headed up the mountain slope to the summit.
Porcupine eating plants above a stream.
The view towards Atlin Lake, Teresa Island, and the Llewellyn Glacier from the top of our High Alpine summit.
We finished collecting data from the High Alpine, and bedded down for the night. We were car camping, which is a treat after backpacking. I could bring my pillow! We had a Coleman Stove! It was the lap of luxury in the middle of the wilderness, and we felt downright indulgent.
Friday morning, as we stirred our oatmeal and filled water bottles, everyone had the look of excited determination. We had a goal, a mission: ONE SUMMIT IN ONE DAY. The protocol for GLORIA vegetation studies is strict, Austrian strict, and had so far taken two to three days of field work to complete for each of the previous three summits. But we were pros by now. Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no Carex spp. indistinct enough, to keep us from making plant identification and coverage estimations. We drove to the base of the Low Alpine summit, and nearly ran to the top. Boom, step one accomplished. Then we laid out our counting grids on each of the cardinal faces. A rocky outcrop? Nothing a little deviation can’t handle. A little gusty? Wind is for wimps. In just a couple hours, we roasted those pointing counts.
The next step, summit area sections, was a little trickier. The protocol is to run string around the mountain at 5 and 10 meters below the high summit point (HSP), and from the HSP along the four intermediate cardinal directions, effectively dividing the peak into eight sections by direction and elevation. Somewhere in the past year, the markers last summer’s group left for the North slope were lost. Luckily, we are, as I may have subtly implied, darn professionals by now. Will and Susie remarked the points, and we completed the species lists and coverage estimates that afternoon. ONE SUMMIT IN ONE DAY!!!!!
We returned to camp in the evening, roasting celebratory marshmallows after mac and cheese (both field staples). After dinner, we drove out past our low summit to watch for wildlife. The group watched a caribou through binoculars, and I will admit, I was distracted, as I was busy collecting herbarium samples of mountain avens, my favorite flower of the trip. This was the last patch we were likely to see on the trip, and I wanted to revel in the milky white blossoms and blushed paint-brush like seed heads one last time.
Mountain avens.
That is where we are in the trip, that last burst of bloom, some parts already turning toward fruition. We have a lot of academics to wrap up, and a few more outings to enjoy, but it’s the last week of our trip already! There have been so many valuable and mind-blowing experience over the past five and a half weeks, my cup runneth over, truly. I can’t wait to see where the seeds of this adventure land and grow in each of our futures.
Photos by Susie Dain-Owens.