Day 15: Team Blunt Machete and Team Dandelion

Day Fifteen: Team Blunt Machete and Team Dandelion

6/22/11:

On June twenty-second, I realized my exact worth as an entertainer (not so great) and was forced to own up to my own abundant nerdiness. Yelena and I were again “assisting” the bio interns, Quentin and Joe. Today, that meant trailing each of them respectively as we surveyed for noxious weeds on the burn area of Kendrick Mountain. The targets of our noxious weed survey were three invasive species: cheatgrass, butter n’ eggs, and bull thistle. These three weeds repopulate burn areas rapidly, choking out the potential growth of “better” plants and trees. Our objective was to walk this area (again at systematic distances) and to make GPS points whenever we found these species. With this data, noxious weed exterminators could neutralize these vicious and tenacious little plants and allow the area to flourish once more.

After a minor kerfuffle (“Ooooh, look, a hummingbird!”), Team Blunt Machete (Yelena and Quentin) and Team Dandelion (Joe and I) set off to combat some noxious weeds. The going was a bit rough with Team Dandelion initially heading off in the completely wrong direction. Things didn’t get easier when we realized that “pervasive” was somehow inadequate to describe an area coated with these three species. With Joe manning the GPS and absolutely no need for an extra set of eyes (the weeds were everywhere), I was relegated to the role of entertainer.

Welcome to Clare's stream of consciousness: following an extensive discussion of “Firefly,” I naturally progressed to Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion, at which point Joe gave me a brief tutorial on the steam punk genre. Shortly after, we wandered into a dialogue on Hellboy and Pan’s Labyrinth, before rounding out the nerd-fest with praise for “Sherlock,” a new BBC miniseries (that you must watch!).

Somewhere in between the direct quoting and character analysis, I found a pair of shed antlers. Yup, my sole contribution to our first day of noxious weed survey (other than unbridled nerdiness) was a pair of antlers. Strapping the shed to Joe’s pack, we labored on in our weed-thwarting quest.

Those six hours of tromping and vanquishing, however, did not mark the end of our day. Nope, we still had some Mexican Spotted Owls (MSO) to entice with our hooting.

Veering up the Bill Williams Mountain road in our rig did not require any pathetic attempts from me at entertainment: the sheer falls of certain death pretty much took care of that. After toddling to the top, Roger (who had joined us for the survey) and Joe walked the mountain trail down to the Williams Ranger District, hooting merrily in the twilight.

This left Quentin, Yelena, and I with the pleasure of descending the mountain again via rig. We had four stops along the way and procedure was the same as when we’d surveyed on Kendrick Mountain: reach point, hoot (and feel absolutely ridiculous) for ten minutes, listen and watch for ten minutes, repeat at next point. We didn’t have high hopes for finding any owls, as no MSOs had been spotted on Bill Williams Mountain since the early 1990s (and yes, all the wildlife bios are a bit exasperated that we had to continue looking, but someone somewhere mandated that we did).

Despite the death road, everything progressed incredibly smoothly; the first three points being, dare I say it, quite easy to complete. Our fourth and final point, however, wasn’t about to treat us kindly.

Premonitions of general badness set in when Quentin declared the path to point four was too much trouble to find and quite cheerily took off into the undergrowth. Not wanting to lose our sprightly and intrepid leader, Yelena and I scrambled down the hill after Quentin’s bobbing headlight. To the tune of snapping twigs, we fought, half-blind, against trees, hidden stumps, and prolific shrubbery. About halfway to our point, I found myself climbing through a rather sizeable bush: that is, not under, not over, but through. At this moment, Yelena let out a disbelieving howl from somewhere in the dark behind me: “Are you serious?!”

Yes, Quentin was quite serious. Undeterred, he pushed us on to the designated point where, following some rather irritated hoots, we were greeted by a Northern Pygmy-Owl, several Flammulated Owls, and (surprise, surprise) no MSOs.

Sprawled out on a log in the unrelenting dark, I looked up at the stars through the trees and realized that I’d climb through more than a few bushes for a view like this.

Photos: 1. Burn area on Kendrick Mountain 2. Half of Team Dandelion 3. Road back to Williams Ranger District

Day 14: Learnin' the Lingo

Day Fourteen: Learnin’ the Lingo

6/21/11:

In the event that it appears as if all the good learin’ I done this summer were of a strictly archaeological nature, let me just say it ain’t so. Case in point: learnin’ the Williams lingo.

June twenty-first marked our second day of survey on the Cureton Ranch. Working on the Cureton Ranch was exactly the kind of collaborative effort Neil hoped to encourage: landowners allowing archies to explore their private property for artifacts and archaeological sites. This ranch has been in Travis’s family (he is of Cureton and Wamble stock) for almost a century, and walking the streets of Williams (of which there are not many), chances are someone around is a Cureton or Wamble relation.

The Wambles have been working with Neil and the KNF long before Travis joined the crew; Travis’s granddad John Wamble, an archaeology enthusiast, showed Neil many sites and petroglyphs in the area that he had come across while ranching. Grandpa Wamble even took things one step further by trying to use modern methods to achieve historic results: attempting to tan a hide via washing machine and using a modified drill bit to make holes like those found in prehistoric sherds being but two (ultimately disastrous) examples.

Not that archaeology was this Wambles only hobby. According to Travis, his granddad managed not only to catch a mountain lion, but intended to keep it in the family garage until his grandma put her foot down. During another point in the mountain lion trapping saga, Travis’ granddad found himself trapped in a cave with no weapon and a big, very angry, cornered mountain cat. Also of note: Travis’s uncle Allyn Cureton held, until very recently, the record for fastest rim to rim run; that is to say, his uncle ran from one side of the Grand Canyon to the other rather quickly. (Check out the Grand Canyon News article about it.)

With a history such as this, there was probably no one better or more qualified to initiate me into the Williams lingo than my fellow archy. A few gems of knowledge:

The Cureton/Wamble Lexicon

Boys ‘n berries (noun): boys= boys, berries =girls

Example: You boys ‘n berries ready for another four hours of survey?

El burrito (noun): name of endearment for the Cureton burros

Example: Damn burritos keep trying to eat my tent!

Buzz worms (noun): rattlesnakes

Example: Try not to kill yourself climbing and watch out for the buzz worms in the rocks up there.

Hogswaddle (verb): persuade with force if necessary

Example: Don’t tell me I’m going to have to hogswaddle you into helping me finish this survey.

Huckleberry (interjection): neat, cool, excitement worthy

Example: That rock shelter was huckleberry!

Lurpee (noun): awkwardly tall and skinny person with an unusual manner of walking

Example: Noah

Shin spears (noun): yucca

Example: That shin spear cut right through my shoe and almost got my toe!

Photos: 1. Travis in his native Arizona 2. Cureton horse emulating el burrito (photo credit: Noah)

The Third Week - Day 13: Seven Firsts and the Masochist's Delight

The Third Week - Day Thirteen: Seven Firsts and the Masochist’s Delight

6/20/11:

June twentieth marked a lot of firsts for me, chief among them, the rather startling discovery that detasseling corn was actually good for something other than an increased tolerance for corn rash and overall suffering.

The First First: Detasseling, more than just paid torture

For ye non-Iowans, detasseling is the process of pulling the tassel (i.e., the male sex organ) off of hybrid corn; in this way, the detasseled corn will be pollinated by the specifically un-maimed “male” rows and not by each other. Every summer, scores of Midwest kids are bused out to cornfields to work for ten hour days, come rain or shine.

Truth: the aforementioned tassel is not the soft fluffy white thing you’re imagining; nope, it’s green and looks pretty much like every other corn leaf with the singular distinction of being slightly pointier.

But back to relevant issues: detasseling taught me how to handle the tedium of perpetual observation and not freak out if the tassels weren’t immediately apparent to me. If at first you don’t succeed, continue doing the same job for a month and around day three you’ll have the keenest eye for tassels of anyone around.

It was this previous knowledge that kept me from entering full-fledged panic mode when the arch crew began our first day of survey on the Cureton Ranch.

The Second First: Surveys, not for the directionally- or spatially-challenged

To survey land systematically for sites, archies walk what are called transects. Paced at a distance of twenty meters (in my case, twenty-four strides) away from other crew members and aligned with a cardinal direction, the crew walks a straight line while studying the ground for sherds or flakes of certain lithics (generally chert and obsidian, those most beloved of rocks). The crew calls out to each other if something is discovered, stopping to explore areas that seem promising and marking new sites with the Junos. The archy in the middle of the group is also saddled with a compass and the responsibility of keeping the transect on target with the chosen direction. The rest of the crew have to watch this individual and reorient themselves and their spacing accordingly. Sound pretty easy?

After a few days of intense surveying, it is. But on day one of running a transect? Not so much. I was frantically checking and re-checking my distances, scrambling to stay on pace with Joel and Neil (who are both transect gods), and scanning the ground for artifacts, most of which I wasn’t sure I could even identify. And that was before we left the flat, fairly open area for the rocky, pinyon and juniper infested hills. Walking a straight line (already difficult enough) got about ten times harder with the added stress of deciding which way to go around a mass of trees.

With all of this, it took every ounce of my detasseling-honed skills to stay calm; now, instead of staring at stalk after stalk of corn (some with tassels, some without), I had my eyes glued to the ground, teased by the hope of spotting that silky fleck of obsidian or square corner of Deadmans Gray (the most common kind of sherd).

And then BAM, it happened: I found my first bonafide free-range sherd.

The Third First: A bonafide free-range sherd, now even the clueless can find them

However, rather than letting me glory in my most magnificent of triumphs, Neil upped the ante by bumping me into the middle position of the transect, replete with compass and directional duties. I was, to say the least, thrilled.

The Fourth First: Manning (womaning?) the compass, “what’s that arrow mean again?”

Now my boss would not only see that it’d taken me half a day to find one lowly sherd, but that one of his prized interns was barely compass-literate.

After losing sight of Joel for a prolonged period of time (a dire sin in the transect world) and after some occasional veering, I managed to more or less get the hang of the compass and subsequent steering. We finished out our current quarter/quarter (a sixteenth of a mile) transect and retired to the government rig, where Joel greatly boosted moral (and the caliber of my rather pathetic lunch) with some piki bread.

The Fifth First: Piki bread, expanding food horizons by way of Hopi deliciousness

Made by Hopi girls, piki bread is a combination of corn mash and ashes. Equivalent to paper in thickness, piki bread can be rolled as well as crumbled and spiced. With a distinctly smoky flavor, this Hopi specialty is incredibly addictive (to which Neil will heartily attest).

Following some happy munching (only briefly disturbed by the opportunistic and hungry Cureton horses), Neil prodded us into a jaunt through the KNF for a look at Pittsberg Village, a Cohonina settlement (click for a panoramic view; this is really too cool). This large site is marked by structures dug out of the ground and lined with stones; with a view of both the Grand Canyon and the San Francisco Peaks (the twin mountains overshadowing Flagstaff), this is exactly the kind of settlement Travis wanted to investigate for his thesis. As Travis reasoned, it cannot possibly be coincidence that Pittsberg Village was built on a hilltop with such extraordinary views of the area’s defining features.

The first day of survey ended, and I tried for one more first: a leisurely run to the two-mile marker on the Bill Williams Mountain Trail.

The Sixth First: Bill Williams Mountain Trail, the masochist’s delight

I’d been doing a lot of running because really, what could be better after a ten-hour day of outdoor (often labor-intensive) work? Today, I was in to maximize my pain by hauling myself as far up Bill Williams as my poor little legs would take me. Spurred onward by the rather perverse desire to see just how much my body was up for, I let out an unashamed whoop of joy at the two-mile mark, danced in a controlled-spasms kind of way, and turned myself around. Then the real fun started: Marina and the Diamonds wailing in my ears, I ran down the mountain fast.

What made that run down such a rush was the Bill Williams Mountain Trail itself, which isn’t a gentle rising path, or, for those two miles, even rounded into altitude-diffusing switchbacks. Nope, that sucker was all about boulder steps and hairpin turns. Everything I had wanted out of running the steeple chase I had found right there: wide strides, twisting leaps, heavy rock dodging and a certain trust that during this uncontrolled charge I wasn't about to face plant and bust out my two front teeth.

Which is why I considered my singular fall a total success. In short: the trail veered, I did not.

The Seventh First: Commingling, got to get that blend just right

And there it was: for the first time that summer (though certainly not the last), I saw good old Iowa blood in some Arizona dirt.

Photos: 1. Noah at 20 meters 2. Bonafide free-range sherds 3. The crew (chewing on some piki bread) 4. Bill Williams Mountain Trail

Day 12: This Diminutive Plant, A Unique Botanical Wonder

Day Twelve: This Diminutive Plant, A Unique Botanical Wonder

6/18/11:

While suffering under the burden of essay writing for the Rotary Ambassadorial Scholarship (an incredible program for study abroad), one Quentin Read provided a brief and blissful moment of escapism. Our meeting at The American Flyer Café in Williams, where we endeavored to steal the WiFi, was quite serendipitous, but resulted in my acquisition of the knowledge that the carnivorous Venus' Flytrap is only indigenous to the Carolinas. Quentin, proud of this diminutive plant, sought to elevate its status in his home state of North Carolina:

Petition to have the Venus' Flytrap declared the State Carnivorous Plant of North Carolina

June 18, 2011

Beverly Perdue

Governor's Mansion

Raleigh, NC

Dear Governor Perdue:

We, the undersigned, would hereby like to petition that a motion be put before the state

Congress to the effect that the Venus' Flytrap (Dionaea muscipula) be declared the State Carnivorous Plant of North Carolina. While this may seem like a strange choice to represent our great State, we believe that it is an appropriate one; it both honors a unique botanical wonder that we Tar Heels should be proud of and helps spotlight efforts to conserve this natural treasure.

The Venus' Flytrap is perhaps one of the most iconic of all plants: its image appears in

numerous places in popular culture, and many plant enthusiasts cultivate them at home. When early European botanists stumbled upon this marvel, they were stunned, dubbing it “miraculum Naturae” (miracle of Nature). Indeed, this diminutive plant holds a larger-than-life position in the annals of science: Charles Darwin was fascinated by it, and frequently cited it in his groundbreaking works.

Despite its illustrious history and worldwide renown, even most North Carolinians are not aware that the Venus' Flytrap is a native of our State. In fact, the only places it is found in the wild are located within a 70-mile radius of the city of Wilmington!

Unfortunately, the future of the Venus' Flytrap remains somewhat precarious. Throughout its

range, only six designated natural areas protect quality flytrap habitat. Land managers working for groups like the Forest Service (in the Croatan National Forest) and the Nature Conservancy (at places like the Green Swamp Preserve) are working hard to maintain the habitat of the flytrap and other plants of our bogs and savannas. Despite their efforts, it is a herculean task to conduct the prescribed burns and other management actions at a sufficiently large scale to sustain large, healthy flytrap populations across the range. Furthermore, even in so-called protected areas, the Venus' Flytrap is not completely safe. Poachers regularly make forays into these wildlands to dig up flytraps wholesale and sell them for use in the horticultural trade. In these difficult economic times, people no doubt welcome any opportunity to supplement their income, putting even more pressure on flytrap populations.

We feel that officially honoring the Venus' Flytrap with the designation as a State symbol will

help call attention to its situation and boost conservation efforts. This will also benefit another of our State's symbols: the long-leaf pine, which has also declined greatly from its historical extent. 

The Venus' Flytrap is often found in or near long-leaf pine savanna habitat, a forest type that harbors incredible biodiversity. Conserving and managing these natural areas will ensure that this biodiversity remains as a resource and as part of the natural heritage of future generations. Finally, to our knowledge, no other State has declared an official carnivorous plant: let North Carolina be the first!

Thank you very much for your attention; we look forward to your response.

Signed,

Quentin Read

Clare Boerigter

Photos: 1. Succulent on Bill Williams Mountain 2. Also not a Venus Flytrap

Day 11: Reggae on the Rez or BBC Masterpiece for the Win

Day Eleven: Reggae on the Rez or BBC Masterpiece for the Win

6/17/11:

Yeah, we were only eating soup and (in my case) squished peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; yeah, we were only able to take pirate showers from the sinks in the elementary school’s bathroom; yeah, we were sleeping on a cafeteria floor and I had woken up with a fat spider inches away from my face, quite dead.

And yet, I really wasn’t ready to leave Havasu.

Of course, I had all of zero say in that decision, and so it was that we awoke June seventeenth and set our feet to walking. Not, however, until I was informed of that fact that Bob Marley had once been flown into Havasu, that he and the Wailers had performed reggae on the rez. Well, if Hopis liked Nicki Minaj, I guess it wasn’t too hard to understand why the Havasu had an affinity for one of the world’s favorite Rastas.

Spurred forth by this enlightening knowledge, Yelena and I hiked with relentless determination. It had taken us a bit under three hours to get to Havasu, and that was when we had walked down the switchbacks.

Among other things, we discussed Harry Potter, China, the French woman all resuscitation dolls were modeled after (but why? if I’m going to be immortalized, it isn’t in a form in which high school kids all over the world will end up drooling on my chin), and the two José Cuervo sipping hicks who were most definitely not going to make it.

Amidst this enthralling discourse (perhaps because of it), we missed the desert landmark we’d been looking for, and in a state of mild confusion, came upon the switchbacks far sooner than anticipated.

In a strong show of force, Yelena and I took the switchbacks at a steady gallop, overcoming men, both young and old, while loudly conferring on the intricacies of Elizabethan films and BBC masterpiece.  

They were not amused.

And then, like babes from the earth’s womb, out we popped.* The time it had taken us: just over three hours.

Cheering on the rest of our group (in retrospect, probably pretty obnoxious), we sipped on cold sodas and basked in the profound feeling of triumph.

In the end, it was Smokey and a box of rocks that held us down. Not mule-friendly in terms of transport, both had to be airlifted out of Havasu, which took an agonizingly long time.

Apparently, Smokey don’t fly. Or not well, anyway.

*Property of Yelena
Photos: 1. Trail down into the Grand Canyon 2. Trail switchbacks (and Sami's hat)

Day 10: Passing Through

Day Ten: Passing Through

6/16/11:

If this were a confessional, I’d tell you that I’m a bit of a misanthrope.

So it was, languishing in my loner ways, that I came to be sitting outside the Havasupai Elementary with Perdido Street Station, watching this little world from behind the school’s wrought iron fence. Moments earlier, six mules had thundered along down the main road, nipped at the hooves by a low-bellied dog; a couple minutes after, a straggler had clipped by, snuffling apologetically. Two girls (I almost specified them as ‘American,’ was this really still the States?) in spandex and bikini tops had huffed along on their way to the falls, brown hair straightened, makeup unmoved by sweat. Later, I watched a little boy carry an equally little puppy down the road. Not really thinking much of it, I had called him over through the fence and scratched the pup’s ears.

Very suddenly, this scene became strange. Here I was, the outsider in this boy’s village, meeting him from behind bars. I had taken a strange sort of pride, coming to Havasu not, like the hundreds of tourists who pass by weekly, to simply swim in the falls; I was here to get involved with the Havasupai, to meet these people.

But honestly, was this boy going to look at the blonde-haired and blue-eyed girl hemmed in behind a fence, as anything besides the other?

The Havasu live both an isolated and integrated life, which is a contradiction and an assertion I’m definitely not qualified to make. It’s just that, in order to leave Havasu, they’ve got to pursue one of two options: hike the ten miles out or hitch a ride in the helicopter (for a reduced fee). And yet, just because they aren’t doing a lot of moving, doesn’t mean the Havasupai aren’t getting swept up in the 21^st century. These Native Americans make their living off tourism to the falls; they use their mules as pack animals, run a restaurant, lodge, and convenience store, charge hikers to pass through the village.

And hikers do pass through the village. They pass through in droves, obnoxious-looking bro types with their board shorts and fake-baked blondes in their tube tops. Of course, that’s an exaggeration, and not all the people hiking to the falls are like that. There are plenty of granola types and every other type beside.

Still though, we were all just passing through. Sure, we might feel a little sting of something at the visible poverty, maybe we’d even forget this was America, looking as it did to my eyes, a lot like Mexico.

But could you imagine living in a community where the one thing that kept you viable—tourists— were the very same people that tramped by everyday with, if not disrespect, at least indifference to you and your culture?

Yelena and I had taken a walk in the morning, and after helping Sami collect some branches for her fire safety program, we had encountered an elderly Havasupai man. He asked us why we were in his village, and after he learned that we were interning with an archaeologist, he told us in a rather matter of fact way that we were desecrating the land. He claimed that because of this desecration, because we were digging up things that should be left in the ground, disease would settle in our lungs, stirred up by the dust and the spirits.

Later, it was Yelena who pointed out that Neil had had lung troubles which developed from breathing in a certain dust, that many archaeologists tend to have lung diseases.

Somewhere during this day of thought, Erin presented her archaeology program and Sami wooed the kids with fire safety comic books and Smokey.

Yes, that is correct, Smokey the Bear did indeed make an appearance.

I had aggressively passed on Smokey duty to Yelena the instant it was discovered that one of us was expected to inhabit the bear costume. Taking it in stride, Yelena was suited up, Smokey’s head was slapped on (albeit crookedly), and out she went to the jubilation of the crowd.

The scene that unfolded mirrored that of a strung-out audience welcoming a favorite musician into its enamored arms. Tiny little kid bodies adhered themselves to Smokey with almost disturbingly earnest proclamations of love. Yelena claimed to have never felt so special in all of her life, and I had to begin to reconsider my hasty decision of earlier.

Following the Smokey love fest, we returned once again to the water of the falls. I spent hours sitting in the pools, letting the gentle current brush against my legs. I explored nearby, clambered up some trees, took a nap on a hot rock like a sunning lizard.

On our way back to the elementary school (we were camping on the cafeteria floor), we were overtaken by Roland, the former Head Chairman of the Havasu Council. The current Animal Control officer, Roland’s project of late was to curb the dog population. Roland seemed like a person who didn’t mind talking, so I asked him about Havasu and the young people. He told me that after elementary, the youth have to leave Havasu to attend school, and that a lot of them either joined gangs or didn’t come back. When he talked about the loss of the young community, about the loss of tradition and old Havasupai costumes, he saddened but never lost his hope that he could change things.

And then, before I was able to ask him anything else, a boy called him over with a shout: “Roland, there’s something dead in the water!” And he was off. 


Photos: 1. Main road through Havasu 2. Inside the Havasupai Elementary School 3. 100-Foot Falls 4. Smokey the Bear 5. Yelena and I in the water at 100-Foot Falls

Day 9: The Havasupai - People of the Blue-Green Water

Day Nine: The Havasupai - People of the Blue-Green Water

6/15/11:

Being more or less an Iowa girl (by way of Saudi Arabia, Indiana and, albeit indirectly, Michigan), I tend to know my farms. No, I don't live in a barn, wear overalls, or eat corn year round. Yes, I have spent two long, suffering summers detasseling corn in the vast Iowa fields. Maybe some of my high school classmates did drive tractors to the senior prom.

Anyway, farms, I know them. Or so I thought.

Because the farms at the end of our ten-mile hike into the Grand Canyon looked nothing at all like what I was used to.

A two-hour drive to the rim, two miles of switchbacks, seven miles of desert, one mile beside a stream, and our party of intrepid women had reached the promised land (and its farms): Havasu Village.

The hike, which I would have been anxious about had I had more than half a days warning that it was coming, was both my first jaunt into the desert and into the Grand Canyon. Being acutely aware of my amazing capacity to become instantly dehydrated, I drank easily six glasses of orange juice in preparation and packed two milk jugs and five bottles of water. I couldn’t complain though, because it was the pack mules who took the brunt of our weight on their saddle-sore backs. Watching them blindly weave up and down the switchbacks with suitcases strapped to their sides was shudder-inducing, especially when those very same switchbacks gave me an exorbitant amount of trouble. Without a proper backpack and poles, I spent the entire two miles waiting to eat dirt and praying that I would have the luck to fall when no one was looking. By some grace (most definitely not my own), I made it down.

  

The desert bit was flat and as we’d started at an early hour, not insanely hot yet. I was hiking with a highly interesting group of women: the KNF geologist, Jessica, the KNF Archaeologist, Erin, the KNF silviculturist, Rachel, and a KNF firefighter, Sami. During our trek, I was able to speak with each of these women and learn a hell of a lot. Jessica’s knowledge of rocks was flooring, Rachel kept identifying different plants and scrub trees along the route, while Sami patiently endured my flood of questions.

Sami’s been fighting fire for something like fourteen years, and she loves it. She told me what it felt like to be one of a very small (although growing!) number of female firefighters, and why it was she was still doing what she was doing. I went into the conversation merely curious about what it was like to work in such a male-dominated field, and came out of it seriously considering becoming a firefighter myself. The grinding work, the long days and even longer hikes, the camaraderie, all forcefully appealed to me. Here was something that was hard; here was something I could be good at.

I hadn’t even finished one milk jug of water, and we were on our last mile of the hike. After hours of harsh rock and sand, the thick green vegetation along the sudden stream was visually startling.

And then the worn dirt path had spilled us into Havasu, and here I was, redefining my mental image of ‘farm.’

Completely unfazed by my perplexing conundrum, Erin led us onward to the Havasupai Elementary School where we were scheduled to present a Kaibab Heritage Outreach Program. Jessica enthralled the kids with a rock game and various geology chants, while Rachel conducted a catchy tree song (bark! phloem! xylem! cambium! heartwood!) and brought out a crowd pleaser: a full-body tree costume.

The program ended, the kids dispersed, and we did some more walking.

In Havasu, ‘Havasupai’ means “people of the blue-green water,” which might come off as a little bit odd given that these Native Americans live in the Grand Canyon.

Not so.

A mile away from this village of three hundred is Havasu Falls, and two miles from that is One-Hundred Foot Falls. In trying to think of words to describe the falls, I thought of only one thing: that I couldn’t. Travertine minerals make the water especially clear and blue; sitting in the frothy spray, I found myself looking up at the wind-woven Grand Canyon walls, watching a bird of prey dip on the swells, and wondering if it was possible to stay here forever. 

Photos: 1. Mules on the switchbacks 2. Erin, Rachel, Sami, Jessica, Yelena and me 3. Entering Havasu Village 4. Julian in Rachel's tree costume 5. Havasu Falls 

Day 8: The Polite Way to Talk About Bird Virginity

Day Eight: The Polite Way to Talk About Bird Virginity

6/14/11:

Have you ever gone on a hike?

Have you ever gone on a hike off-trail?

Have you ever gone on a hike off-trail carrying a medium-sized squawk box?

Have you ever gone on a hike off-trail carrying a medium-sized squawk box with someone you don’t really know?

 

Imagine doing just that.

Imagine doing just that for six hours under the Arizona sun.

Sounds great, yeah?

Actually, it kind of was. Because surveying was more than the pain and the heat and the tedium; surveying was a new form of intimacy. This I discovered on day two of Goshawk surveying. Switching it up a bit (Yelena and I both convinced that the other’s bio intern walked slower), Quentin and I had set out for the foothills of Bill Williams Mountain.

And there we were: Quentin, myself, and all of Bill Williams before us. Although we were technically not to speak for fear of upsetting the Goshawks (which ones? where?), we degenerated into conversation pretty damn quick.

Hour one, we talked about birds.

Hour two, we talked about birding.

Hour three, we talked about “life birds.” (The term for when a birder identifies a bird they have never seen before. On this day, my life bird was a stellar jay. According to Yelena, who had a very similar conversation with Quentin during their survey time together, the ‘life bird’ term is nothing more than a polite way to talk about bird virginity.)

Hour four, we talked about birds that sound like and could be mistaken for a Goshawk, but are not (i.e., Northern Flicker, Cooper's Hawk, Sharp-Shinned Hawk).

Hour five, Quentin confided in me that he’d been a birder since he was ten-years old.

Hour six, we told our life stories, talked about our hopes, voiced our fears and shared our dreams. (Fun fact: Quentin aspires to one day menace people from the back of a megatherium.)

Ok, so maybe it didn’t go like that exactly, but somewhere in those hours, superficial talk stopped cutting it. It was just the two of us and relatively quickly any awkwardness or self-consciousness dissipated. Yup, Quentin totally fell, and yup, I may have almost gotten lost, and yup, that’s just how it was.

Photos: 1. Quentin's baby prairie dog impression 2. Quentin, Bill Williams statue, me

The Second Week - Day 7: That Mystical and Illusive Creature

The Second Week - Day Seven: That Mystical and Illusive Creature

6/13/12:

June thirteenth was the day that I discovered exactly how much I liked birds. Which is to say, not nearly as much as Quentin, but well enough at that.

Today, Yelena and I stretched our awkward little wings and departed from the safe haven of the arch crew to venture forth into the frightening world of wildlife biology. After a week of good times, Neil had loaned us out to Roger and John, the KNF Wildlife Biologists. Following much deliberation (not really), we were shuffled further down the totem pole to the dregs of the bio department: the other interns.

I can’t speak for Yelena, but I was horribly uncomfortable. Sure, we were all KNF interns (the interns), but Quentin and Joe were both college grads and actually seemed to know things about things. Sure we got paid more (thank you Grinnell funding gods), but they actually knew what they were doing.

Not that a whole lot of knowledge was essential for Goshawk surveying. We tromped off in twos into the KNF, Yelena with Quentin, Joe with me. I had the “Caller of the Wild” or squawk box, and Joe was in charge of the GPS and map. At designated points, we would stop and standing back to back, I would dial the “Caller of the Wild” to the Goshawk distress call and let ring. It was a pretty easy recipe: play distress call five times, listen and watch for Goshawk response, see nada, speed-walk to the next point, repeat.

Repeat, repeat, repeat, add internal diatribe on people with freakishly long legs (Joe is 6’5”), repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

Repeat something like twenty times while very rapidly becoming disenchanted with the whole process. In theory, the high-pitched shriek should elicit either an audible or visible response from any nearby Goshawks; in reality (determined after six hours of survey) the only thing it elicited was a rather fierce headache.

Contact between Joe and I was limited: he walked fast, I was awkward, he had his earplugs in (wisely) for most of the morning, I was too out of breath to say anything anyway. When we did speak, the memorable bits were about food; specifically, my love of orange juice and Joe’s love of everything edible. Yup, he’s a foodie. My opportunistic self (tired of surviving on hot dogs, cherry tomatoes, and cereal) could not have been more thrilled. Was this the light at the end of the tunnel? Could I convince him to cook for me? Amidst the artificial screams of a very angry bird, a dream was born.

The wildlife bios, being an unusual breed, also kept unusual hours. So it was at dusk that Yelena, Joe, Quentin and I accompanied Roger to Kendrick Mountain to finish out our day with a Mexican Spotted Owl (MSO) survey. We hiked two miles up the trail, staked out a spot in the trees, watched an Arizonian run bellowing a war cry down the trail, and waited for dark to settle.

And then we hooted.

Roger got us started, his call indistinguishable from that of a MSO. Quentin followed with a decent imitation, Joe’s was above average, and I sounded like a dying cow. After twenty minutes of hooting and listening, Roger took us back down the trail to the second and last point. A few hoots later, we were rewarded with both a call and the fluttering wings of a MSO. Quentin and Joe, who had been surveying Bill Williams Mountain for MSOs for weeks without so much as a squawk, got overly excited as only bios would.

Walking down the trail in the dark (myself sans a headlight, essential camping gear as Quentin was to later inform me), Roger talked about strange creature sightings in the KNF and a colleague who swore he’d seen something other.

Frankly, I’d have been happy to see that mystical and illusive creature, the Goshawk. 


Photos: 1. Night view of Bill Williams Mountain 2. AZ bumper sticker 3. Heading back to Williams at dusk