Day 27: Backyard Views

Day Twenty-Seven: Backyard Views

7/6/11:

Even on my first full day indoors since starting my internship at the KNF, I still managed to get plenty dirty. Yelena and I were helping Margaret preserve Clover Ruin artifacts at the Supervisors Office in Williams. Somewhat less impressive than it sounds, this “preservation” took the form of transferring artifacts from deteriorating paper bags to nigh indestructible plastic ones.

The Clover Ruin site was what I woke up to every morning. Directly outside my window, the site is a rebuilt Cohonina structure about one-thousand years old. A number of years ago, Neil helped with the reconstruction of Clover Ruin and Travis, at age seven, got his first taste of arch work by volunteering to assist (check out the interpretative sign explaining the project).

The arch crew doesn’t collect artifacts anymore, and sifting through sherds, lithics, refuse, feathers, and soil samples, I’m quite glad of that fact. Instead of removing artifacts from sites, we now practice a strict policy of taking absolutely nothing. Nary a sherd or lithic or anything else wanders off its site with us. As Neil and a lot of archies see it, there’s no real point in removing artifacts from their historic settings in order to store them in back rooms. Traipsing through the KNF, anybody who knows what to look for has the possibility of running across sherds or lithics. Removing artifacts from these sites is prohibited (which is why site locations are not made public), but curious folk stumbling across a site can be fairly certain no archies in recent years have altered it.

Cradling handfuls of dirt, picking over tiny rocks, and resettling wood slivers, it was strangely comforting to feel the KNF was still very much with me even in the ill-light rooms of the Supervisors Office.

After a few hours of re-bagging artifacts, we approached Margaret who, understandingly, let me pull out my laptop and some of the films I'd brought from home. Following algunas películas de Pedro Almodóvar (Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios y Hable con ella), Yelena and I zipped closed our last baggies, wiped the dirt from our palms, and trucked on back to the ranger district, North House, and the view of Clover Ruin right outside our window.

Photos: 1. Yelena after a few hours at the Supervisors Office 2. Clover Ruin (with North House)

The Fifth Week - Day 26: My Good People

The Fifth Week – Day Twenty-Six: My Good People

7/5/11:
Today was my first day working on the Reed Project, an un-surveyed area a little over an hour north in the Tusayan District. Monsoon season, now off to a cracking start, saturated July fifth with humidity, an uncommon event in normally bone dry Arizona. Erin, Joel, Noah and I, trying to make the best of a suddenly sticky day, started surveying despite the rain-heavy sky.


Not long afted we'd started, Erin briefed me on brush shelters, which are pinyon nut collecting camps historically used by the Navajos. According to Neil (who’s done more than a little foraging himself), pinyon nuts are easiest to find “after the first hard frost when the cold air forces the pine cones to drop their delicious little treasures all over the forest floor.” Every four to seven years a plentiful crop develops and pinyon nut scavengers (Navajos and archies alike) do battle against a host of woodland creatures in a race to collect these treasures.

Brush shelters are prevalent in the Tusayan District and Neil has uncovered many a one. As an archy, Neil looks to protect sites fifty years or older (unless the site has been ruled ineligible for the National Register of Historic Places). Here once again, trash plays a central role in arch work: Neil determines the age of brush shelters by looking at the cans left behind. Brush shelters sporting cans that had to be opened with a churchkey or can-piercer are a-okay in terms of preservation-worthiness; shelters with pull tab cans (invented in 1962), however, have no such luck. (If you find that cans have piqued your interest...)

 It is particularly important to spot and record these sites as unlike rock structures and lithic and sherd scatters, brush shelters all too readily disappear in wildfires. However, if brush shelters are marked, then fire archs can dig scratch lines (preliminary fire lines that break up fuels) to protect them. In the event of an actual fire, firefighters will burn fuels around the brush shelter so that the fire won't carry to the shelter, and the the site can survive intact.

Sadly, brush shelters were not to be found today although, as anticipated, we did get monsoon’d on during our afternoon survey. Huddling under some inadequate branches, I admit to a slightly less than positive attitude. As it would turn out, the Reed Project was not a favorite of mine (especially when following a fairly spectacular Fourth). 

Luckily, we had a cookout at North House after work with the arch crew, Quentin, Joe, and Margaret, the chief Kaibab Archaeologist. Filling my belly with delicious food that (and this is the crucial part) I had done nothing to prepare went a pretty long way in repairing my mood. Getting to eat said meal with the whole crew (plus some) knocked the Reed Project right out of my mind.

No doubt about it, I worked with some really good people.

Photos: 1. Maps of various survey projects (Reed Project is lower left) 2. Joe investigating a brush shelter during the Parallel Fire (photo credit: Neil) 3. Part of the crew (Neil, Travis, Erin, Yelena, Noah)

Day 25: The Monsoon Cometh

Day Twenty-Five: The Monsoon Cometh

7/4/11:

Intending to relish our government holiday, Quentin, Joe, Noah and I took off for Parson’s Creek in Joe’s trusty green truck. A few hours south of Williams, we detoured through Cottonwood for Concho’s delicious horchata. It was the Fourth of July, and nothing made more sense to my mind than to eat la comida mexicana.

We made friends with our waiter, I drank my weight in horchata, and an hour later, Noah and I wedged ourselves into the truck’s tiny folding backseats. We continued southward, losing altitude and gaining heat. By the time we’d wound our way down Sycamore Canyon Road, a nasty, rough old thing, I was hot, sweaty, and more than ready for a swim.

Piling out of the truck, I surveyed Parson’s Trail, the mile or so path to the creek, while my very white compatriots slathered each other with sunscreen. I tried not to look directly at their sunscreen mambo line for fear of being blinded, although I must admit that their teamwork was fairly impressive.

With our essentials packed and our skin thusly preserved, we headed off down the trail. Other than the oppressive heat, the only truly memorable part of the hike in was Quentin, who routinely stopped to “call” for birds. Of course, this “calling” took the form of pshawing and loud kissing noises. The pshawing I understood, but the kissy sounds had taken a good day of getting used to. Quentin had pulled this call out during our first survey together, and I remembered being distinctly concerned, both for his sanity and for my safety. Undoubtedly in response to my alarmed expression, Quentin had quickly explained that these two calls were almost irresistible to birds. A few minutes later and I had been partaking in my own “kissy” calls to moderate success.

Fairly well dripping from the southern Arizona heat (I was used to the KNF which, at 7,000 feet, was a nice, mild, non-humid temperature), we poured onto the Parson’s Creek beach. Before I had time to pull out my towel, Noah, Quentin and Joe had fled into the water. I followed, skirting the camp of country folk (who protested our “city-slicker” selves), and waded into Parson’s Creek.

I poked around, exploring upstream and the nearby beach while los hombres hauled themselves up onto the rocks to sun their wee white bodies. There were stories, lots of rock jumping and a bit of banter with the yonder country folk. Following a good few hours of sun and water, we sleepily departed for Joe’s truck, encountering only minor bloodshed (mine, of course) on the way out.

The sky darkened promisingly as Joe took the wheel, and peering out the windows, we hoped for rain. It was just the beginning of monsoon season, and we’d been without rain since we’d all arrived (coming in staggered order: Joe followed by Quentin followed by Noah and me).

The clouds rolled, the rain came, and Joe pulled over. Spilling out of the truck, we all did our own rain dance and my already dry clothes were soaked again. Still enthralled by the monsoon, Joe was the only one to recall the flash flood warnings that had been posted along the road.

I wasn’t particularly bothered because I’d never experienced this weather before and didn’t know much about its capabilities, but los hombres wrangled me back into the truck and Joe took off, gaining speed as the downpour continued, small streams sloshing on either side of the road.

A flash flood sign popped up on my right suddenly, and Joe, unable to see out the windshield, pulled on his sunglasses, rolled down his window, and drove with his head sticking out of the truck. It was probably at this point that I started to get a mite bit worried. The truck kicked up mud, the road, which had taken us an hour to traverse on the way down, was no easier on the way up, and the rain was hitting the windshield in drowning sheets.

We were driving along part of the canyon wall, a sheer drop to my right, when the truck hydroplaned and Joe furiously worked to correct our slide towards the drop-off. Everyone tensed in those silent few seconds before the truck suddenly regained traction and Joe steered us away from the edge. Following the curve of the road, we slowed to pass the “End of Flash Flood Zone” sign.

Sighs of relief were issued from all around as Joe pulled his head back into the truck and dropped his sunglasses, revealing a comically stunned looking face. Crisis averted, we made another stop to take in the rain.

Of course, adrenalin running high, we weren’t ready for Williams just yet and instead wound our way up into Jerome. The “Largest Ghost Town in America” and “America’s Most Vertical City,” Jerome was once a mining town with a pretty wicked reputation. I had earlier been told that Jerome once boasted more prostitutes than residents (probably not a true fact); when Yelena pondered the economic viability of such a circumstance, I had only one word to offer: tourists.

Now tourists ourselves, we capped off a pretty perfect Fourth of July from 5,200 feet. Atop Jerome, we watched the thunderheads churn across the Arizona sky.

Photos: 1. Parson's Trail 2. Sunscreen mambo line (Noah, Quentin, Joe) 3. Parson's Creek (with Joe) 4., 5. & 6. First Arizona monsoon

Day 24: Flag Treasures

Day Twenty-Four: Flag Treasures

7/3/11:

On July third, Yelena, Noah, Joe, Quentin and I squeezed into Yelena’s little red car for a trip into Flagstaff. Somehow in the scramble, Quentin (5’8”) finagled his way into riding shotgun while Joe (6’5”) ended up in the back between Noah and me, his knees somewhere around his ears. It's pretty safe to say (ahem) that some of us enjoyed that ride more than others. (Side note: the Wild West origins of riding shotgun.)

Flag was a quick jaunt down the highway and we were all hungry for civilization. Not that historic Williams, “A Treasure in Our Own Cool Pines,” was mistreating us exactly, but with a population of 3,500 and a market catering primarily to Route 66-enthusiasts, it wasn’t really the place to sate our sartorial and culinary pangs.

And then there was Flag. Its downtown, bisected by an active Amtrak line, offered bookstores, thrift shops, restaurants, and more outdoorsy stores than I could shake a stick at.

Yelena, anxious to pick up some thrift finds, steered us into a Flag Goodwill. I picked up some shoes for two dollars. Quentin promptly told me they were ugly. Joe played with hats. And then Noah made a discovery: Dino-Riders.

A kids’ cartoon meant to promote the Dino-Rider toy line, we probably enjoyed it more than four twenty-somethings rightly should have. One way or another though, it was undoubtedly the best purchase Noah made all summer.

Our Goodwill hunting over, we hit up downtown Flag, sipping in bits of civilization, hitting on the staff at various outfitter's (Noah, Q, Joe), and trying on floral pink jumpsuits in Arizona’s biggest thrift store (Yelena, me).

The best was saved for last though, and the best was Fratelli Pizza. Hot slices of the “Route 66” and “Flagstaff” pizzas reached a higher plane of deliciousness, and I learned the delicate art of combativeness while eating with los hombres.

Sadly, pizza’s never been the same for me since. Not that I’m totally without hope: Neil has recently informed me that Fratelli’s now delivers.

What's 1,358.62 miles anyway?

Photos: 1. Quentin and Noah enjoying some Fratelli's 2. "Route 66" and "Flagstaff"

Day 23: Mutiny!

Day Twenty-Three: Mutiny!

7/2/11:

Yelena, Noah, and I looked at Travis and saw a friend.

Travis looked at Yelena, Noah, and I and saw cheap labor.

Not that I can blame him. An over-worked grad student on a budget just couldn't resist the allure of three easily bought workers.

And oh, were we cheap.

For free D.Q., the three of us helped Travis finish surveying the Cureton Ranch (on a Saturday, may it be noted). Despite our early seven o’clock start, everything initially seemed to be going well. We were walking the scrubby flats after all, and I’d mastered the skill of both watching the ground and daydreaming. A couple hours passed. We ate lunch under the shade of two intertwined junipers. A few more hours passed. Chatting loudly across our transect, spirits were reasonable.

And then the last acres were upon us.

Travis, in his infinite wisdom, had left the worst for last. An incredible incline spotted with yucca and prickly bushes, the last hill taunted our weary souls. We ran transects up the “hill” until walking straight up it became nearly impossible. Switching over to a more angled-across approach, we quickly lost sight of each other, Yelena and I staggering high up onto the death hill while Noah and Travis veered downward.

A moment of minor redemption came in the form of an antler shed which I nearly fell over. In a state of semi-delirium, I used the shed to whack my way through shin spears and the like as below me, Yelena’s patience thinned and her volume increased.

Sensing imminent mutiny, Travis deemed our efforts satisfactory and signaled us on back to his truck. Skirting wild shrubs and stunted trees on the way down, I weighed the pros and cons of rolling the rest of the way to the bottom.

Hot, sweaty, a bit irritable, and oh so cheap, we waited in silence for our hard won D.Q. Once at our destination, I made the best of my situation, ordering, of course, the largest and most chocolate-y thing on the menu. Sitting out front and watching the tiny town of Williams pass by, I savored my ice cream down to the last fudge chunk.

So, a day of hard work to help out a friend AND the bonus of free D.Q. at the end? 

I’m not going to lie: totally worth it.

Photos: 1. Travis and me in the KNF 2. Travis surveying

Day 22: “All True Paths Lead Through Mountains” - Smokey the Bear Sutra

Day Twenty-Two: “All True Paths Lead Through Mountains” - Smokey the Bear Sutra

7/1/11:

We were rough, tough, and ready to rumble.

At 7:20a.m., Yelena, Travis, Noah, and I started up Mount Humphreys. Six miles up and six miles down, the larger of the two San Francisco Peaks rose 4,000 feet and, topping out at 12,637 feet, was the highest point in all of Arizona.

Travis was an old hand at this climb and, as I’d feared—I surveyed with him on a regular basis, I knew—, he set up a very decent clip. Laden with much water and many a clothing layer, I labored on, quite happy to take a breather at the edge of an intense scree slope. The slope ran most of the length of the mountain; big enticing rock chunks leading up and up and up. Dumping my pack on the trail, I indulged in a bit of rock hopping, bouncing from one tilty boulder to the next.

Reined in by Travis, I returned and we continued our ascent, stopping next at the border of the tree line. Munching on crumbly granola bars, we splayed over some rocks and took in the view, sniggering (well, me anyway) at a troop of ill-prepared boy scouts.

This last two miles was comparable to Sam and Frodo’s trek up Mount Mordor: nothing but sharp nasty rocks and wind. Forsaking dignity, I huffed up the last peak…to discover it wasn’t actually. This happened about a total of three times before I, fairly annoyed, got the hang of Mount Humphreys' seemingly ceaseless false peaks.

At 10:25a.m., victory was ours. Unfortunately, that victory was to be shared with a small army of tiny black bugs, all of which were particularly enamored of my white shirt and blonde hair.

Following lunch, more sniggering at the just-arriving boy scouts, and more than a few dead bugs, we began our descent. Altitude sickness hit and feeling a bit punch drunk, I wobbled my way down, shaking it off as we passed back into the trees.

Being a competitive lot, Noah, Travis and I picked up the pace, myself indulging in the balance-stabilizing but ultimately ridiculous toe-in hip swinging walk. With about a mile and three-fourths left, Travis upped the ante by streaking past Noah and me in a full-out run.

Oh, it was on.

Pack strapped to my body, I haphazardly flew on after him, doggedly determined to keep his white bandana’d head in my sights. Gone was any sense of self-preservation; gone was any sort of caution. We hurtled rocks and stumps, veered around corners, soared past fellow hikers.

Ahead of me, Travis began to slow. Spurred forth by weeks of training, I slide past him and bounded off down the trail.

My down fall (i.e., me falling down) came in the one moment when I lifted my eyes from the trail before me. Who was it that called my gaze and broke my concentration?

A sixty-something man, that’s who. The ripped and sweaty hikers were passed unnoticed but the cheery “hello” of a fatherly type sent me down in a plume of dust. Popping back up, I took off wildly, the sound of Travis’ footfalls heavy behind me.

I’ve been called competitive.

At 12:27p.m., I gasped to a stop at the trailhead, the first down. My knees, a bit torn, were starting to sting from the grit, and plopping down in a small stand of watchful aspen, I gulped water and washed out the dirt and small stones.

Tired, content, and warm, I used my pack as a pillow and closed my eyes under the white-bark and soft green leaves, the aspens murmuring to me as I waited for the others.

I’d made those twelve miles and 4,000 feet in about five hours.  I felt strong: bone-weary, a little bit bloody, but strong.

Which is really not a bad way to feel after hiking a mountain.

Photos: 1. Scree slope (with just visible Travis) 2. Saddle between the San Francisco Peaks 3. Aforementioned Mount Mordor part of the hike 3. View from Mount Humphreys' summit

Day 21: (Wo)Man vs. Man and Man vs. Beast

Day Twenty-One: (Wo)Man vs. Man and Man vs. Beast

6/30/11:

Noah Fribley (i.e., Furby, Furbilicious, Furbs, Fribs) is a cheery, sing-y, self-described optimist.

At seven in the morning, when we at the KNF start our ten-hour work day, I am none of these things. Actually, I am generally not cheery, sing-y or optimistic, preferring my own form of pessimism, or as I like to think of it, brutal reality.

And at seven in the morning, my reality is incredibly unpleasant: largely stunned to be among the waking, I am what may be called “cranky.”

This morning, breaking up the crew into smaller segments, Noah and I ended up on the flats of the Cureton Ranch, recording sites as usual. The sudden reduction of our group meant that I wasn’t allowed my normal grumbly hour of silence, but had to actually make contact before eight in the morning. In his normal chipper way, Noah tried to draw me out with conversation, succeeding only in eliciting monosyllabic grunts and some poorly masked glaring. Spirits undaunted, Noah opted to fill the growing silence with singing.

Already prone to violence at this hour in the morning, Noah’s non-stop falsetto was nearly too much. As he moved about, mostly unaware of my homicidal thoughts (all hyperbole, I swear), I reviewed the facts of our circumstances: alone on the scrubby flats and miles away from everyone. There was the size issue, but I had been called “scrappy” by more than one individual, and Noah bought women’s extra-small hip belts for his hiking pack.

Yeah, I could take him.

Luckily, my attention was diverted by Noah’s discovery of a pottery sherd drilled in the center with a hole. As the resident artist (well, sort of), it was my job to recreate the pendant on our graph paper. Absorbed in the texturing and shadows, I measured and shaded obsessively, Noah’s singing fading into the background.

Time passed, I finally woke from my grumpy stupor, and Noah made it to lunch unscathed.

Driving out of the ranch at the end of the day, I was able to channel any residual rage into keeping the Cureton horses from fleeing. As passenger, it was my duty to open any gates we came upon; at the final one, three horses and two burros harbored dreams of escape. When shushing and cajoling failed to yield results, I moved to pushing and body checking. Of course, this only got me some rather pitying horsey looks. The horses, round and soft and solid beneath my palms, were not going to be forcibly moved.

Noah, sacrificing his apple, provided the solution. Food held aloft, I lured the beasts away, hurriedly doubling back through and locking the gate.

On the road to the Williams Ranger District, I must confess, I may have joined in as Noah sang along to the radio.

So, not cheery, not an optimist…maybe a little bit sing-y.

Photos: 1. Noah recording site info 2. Noah and I not surveying (rather, Bill Williams Mountain Trail)

Day 20: Stump Fields, Driving Tests, and Hopi Ceremonies

Day Twenty: Stump Fields, Driving Tests, and Hopi Ceremonies

6/29/11:

At nineteen years of age, I thought the days of driving tests were over. Not so. 

After a three hour long “Defensive Driving” course (attended a few days earlier), Yelena and I found ourselves taking turns behind the (government) wheel as we headed out into the KNF with Neil. This was the moment when I had to prove I wasn't a horrendously incapable driver. This was the moment when I had to show I was not overly prone to backing into ponderosas. This was the moment when Neil would decide if I was qualified to drive a government rig with a government license.

And man, did I want that license. Some of the KNF roads were plain awful, and driving them looked like plain old fun.

Neil, showing mercy, directed me along well-maintained roads to the Barney Flat Stump Field. A registered national historic landmark, the stump field attests to the original tree density of the KNF. I pulled over at the interpretive sign, and Neil pointed out the picture of a Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) group doing work around the stump field. Many years ago, Neil had serendipitously discovered that a friend and fellow Grinnellian had had a relative in the CCC and that this relative had worked at the stump field. From this Grinnellian, Neil had obtained the photo now commemorated on the Barney Flat Stump Field sign.

Apparently, we Grinnellians (and our ancestors) have a thing for Arizona. Or maybe stumps.

We drove on. A few more roads, a couple of turns, me not hitting anything, and I had myself a government license. The feeling of power was intoxicating, especially seeing as Yelena and I were the first of Neil's interns to get licensed to drive government vehicles. 

My egoism, somewhat curbed by the discovery that my shiny new government license was a square of paper, was fairly deflated by the realization that I was expected to laminate said square-of-paper-license myself.

A wee bit anticlimactic after the stump field, los hombres (Joel, Noah, Travis) and I continued the day by recording sites on the Cureton Ranch. We found three POIs (Points of Interest): two rock art sites and a Cohonina arrow head.

I was, as always, incredibly helpful. While Joel and Travis sketched petroglyphs and Noah recorded site data at a rock art site, I marked the area on our Juno and quickly retired to the upper limbs of an old juniper tree, offering support and encouragement to those below.

As we made our way from site to site, Joel pointed out the edible sumac berries and, after a moment’s hesitation, I popped one in my mouth, surprised by the tart bitterness of the dark red berry. I inquired after the stalk grass that curled delicately at the end, figuring Joel would know about this too, and learned that it was gramma grass.

The door to asking questions thrown open thusly, I peppered Joel with questions about Hopi traditions. He told me about the Hopi puberty ceremonies that all young men and women were supposed to go through.

For girls, part of this ceremony meant grinding corn in special houses where men were not prohibited. Small “whistle” windows were included in the houses so that a boy could whistle at a girl inside, signifying his interest in her. If both mother and daughter approved of the match, the young woman would whistle back, and a courtship would begin; however, if either mother or daughter was against the match, then it was too bad buddy.

Joel was vague about the young men’s ceremony and told me that the Hopi were not allowed to reveal many of their customs as dictated by tradition. What he did tell, however, was pretty unfortunate: in the eighties, the items necessary to complete the men’s coming-of-age ceremony were stolen. When the thief feared he would be caught, instead of returning the items, he destroyed them. Since then, no Hopi boys have completed the puberty ceremony.

Joel, despite having children of his own now, has not been able to experience this ceremony.

Photos: 1. Government license (!) 2. A juniper tree 3. Gramma grass

Day 19: Birds, BAAAAAAAAAAAs, and Burros

Day Nineteen: Birds, BAAAAAAAAAAAs, and Burros

6/28/11:

Five o’clock in the morning, and I found myself walking through an Arizona lake. Of course, at this time of year in this part of the country, that lake was more a soggy marsh, but let’s not quibble over details.

Quentin, Joe, and I were working with the non-game KNF Wildlife Biologist (birds and amphibians, especially the leopard frog, are more her thing). As part of the Marshland Bird Monitoring Project, this bio was conducting a survey at/in Coleman Lake. With a specialized squawk box, she would play a series of different marsh bird calls, scouting the area with her binoculars and using a special instrument to gauge the distance of the birds.

It was a beautiful morning, all of us standing among marsh grasses on ground of varying solidity. An intricate ecosystem had developed in this sometimes-lake, and I watched curiously as Red-winged Blackbirds darted among the reeds and dropped low over the remaining standing water. We surveyed at three points, each one successively wetter and more difficult to reach. We were rewarded for our efforts by the returning calls of Griegs, Piebills, Coots and Sora (disclaimer: I’ve probably spelled all of these names wrong).

On the drive out, we had our second critter encounter of the day: a big white sheepdog. His charges soon followed, streaming through the thick green trees in a fluffy white mass, the morning light catching on the backs of many a sheep.

Hours later on the Cureton Ranch and after learning about the mano (a prehistoric grinding stone) and the metate (a sandstone piece that corn was ground on), I had my final animal experience of the day: feeding my apple to the delicate- and big-eared Cureton burros.

Photos: 1. & 2. KNF sheeps

The Fourth Week - Day 18: ¿Como se dice moooooooooo en español?

The Fourth Week - Day Eighteen: ¿Como se dice moooooooooo en español?

6/27/11:

This morning started off with a bang: a meeting!

Neil, wanting to give Yelena and me a sense of the other part of his job, brought us along to a Travel Management Rule (TMR) meeting on the Tusayan Ranger District. TMR was the latest controversy; in an attempt to encourage regrowth and preservation, certain cross country roads through the KNF were to be closed. Criticized by both environmentalists advocating even greater measures and by citizens worried they wouldn’t be able to collect firewood as they had for years, TMR represented the latest tensions between the government and the public. It was Neil and his fellow KNF experts that were saddled with the responsibility of mediating.

The purpose of the meeting was to hear expert opinions about which areas of the KNF should be opened to cross country travel and which areas (being archaeologically-, biologically- or otherwise sensitive) should be closed. The main concern was the damage that would be done by vehicles as the public went about collecting dead and downed wood. The actual collection of this wood was largely positive; it removed an excess of fuels that made wildfires so uncontrollable. However, the public often made redundant roads or damaged the KNF in this process. Justifying their opinions by SHPO (the State Historic Preservation Office), Neil and the other experts helped protect the KNF by allowing travel in some places and prohibiting it in others.

As a reward for being meeting-bound (a strange shift after days and days outside!), Neil took Yelena and I on a mini-field trip in the Tusayan District. We stopped at the Moqui Stage Station, now nothing more than an old cistern, where a historic stage coach line from Flagstaff brought tourists to the Grand Canyon from 1892 to 1901. As we drove, Neil pointed out the Arizona Trail, which leads from Utah to Mexico and winds its way through parts of the KNF. The crème de la crème, however, came in the form of a two-thousand year old rock art site. Under the low hanging lip of a jutting rock roof, the stone was lined with pictographs.

For the first time, I was struck by the immensity and diversity of this forest. Made up of 1.6 million acres, the KNF surrounds the Grand Canyon; north of the Canyon is the North Kaibab (where I’ve never been!), and south of it is the South Kaibab, divided into the Tusayan and Williams Districts. Even Neil, who’s been here for twenty-one years, finds places in the KNF that he has never seen before.

During this jaunt, we also (sigh) did some work: surveying various tanks in the area. Tanks are sources of water that ranchers use for their cattle. The KNF, being public land, allows ranchers to raise their animals here for a very low cost. While out and about in the KNF, it is not uncommon to see wandering herds of cows tromping through fields and groves of ponderosa pines, driven forth by their own whims.

We surveyed three tanks (Bloody Tank, Sagebrush Tank, Peterson Tank) and cattle made their presence known at each. The lumbering beasts were oppressively apparent at Petersen Tank, our final survey. Milling about in the dry burnt dirt and kicking up orange dust, they rolled wide eyes at us, shying away from our approaching transect. The herd eventually broke out into a shuffling run, a large chunk veering towards me. I, of course, started mooing like a mad fool at them. Throwing myself fully into the lowing, it took me a good couple of minutes to realize that I wasn’t actually as far away from Yelena or Neil as I’d first judged, and that yes, they could probably both hear me.

Before embarrassment had the chance to cripple me, a pickup rolled onto the scene and Neil strolled over to greet two Latino ranch hands. By the time I circled around to the truck (I was furthest away on the transect), the two men were pulling away. Neil said they’d spoken only broken English, and I lamented the fact that I hadn’t gotten to speak any Spanish with them.

Instead, I had to settle for the inarticulate language of the lovely, lumbering, lowing cows.

Photos: 1. Yelena and me at the Moqui Stage Station cistern 2. Two-thousand year old pictographs 3. Cows and the KNF

Day 17: Because It Was There

Day Seventeen: Because It Was There

6/25/11:

There’s something about arduous physical work under the great outdoor sky that makes a person suddenly want to exclaim that they had once been a nameless clown in a traveling circus; or, that as a child, they’d almost been stampeded to death by a raging bull; or, that they’d really like to spend three months in a silent monastery making cheese and thinking.

At least, that’s what Noah, Yelena, and I talked about during our trek up Kendrick Mountain. There was only minor griping: this dusty switchback trail was nothing at all like the giant rock steps and jumping of the Bill Williams Mountain Trail, and we bopped up and down the eight miles with comparative ease. At the summit, we invaded the watchtower and munched on granola bars, enjoying the respite from the wild, higher altitude winds. From this vantage point, we could make out the San Francisco Peaks over Flagstaff and the bright orange roof of a long barn that we often passed on our way to survey. On Kendrick Mountain itself, the long swathes of trees in the burn area appeared white and naked, silvery shadows beside their hearty green brothers.

On the hike down, my monastery proclamation provoked a debate: I argued responsibility to one’s self while Yelena argued responsibility to other people. Was withdrawing from the world, even to better understand oneself, a selfish act?

Four miles and some strongly rethought and reinforced arguments later, the Kendrick Mountain Trail spilled us out at the trailhead.

I’d learned an incredibly valuable lesson on this hike: arguing, besides being good plain fun, ate up the miles like they were really nothing at all.

Photos: 1. Yelena and Noah near the summit 2. View from Kendrick Mountain

Day 16: The Wild Things

Day Sixteen: The Wild Things

6/23/11:

I suppose it was only fitting that after a day dedicated to flora, I found myself experiencing the fauna of the KNF. Team Blunt Machete and Team Dandelion were once again deployed in Goshawk surveying, and once again we were bitterly frustrated in our efforts. However, softening to Quentin’s growing pleas, the KNF produced a conciliatory creature from its depths: a big-eared little black bear. 

Staring in mute fatigue out of the rig window, I spotted the wee fellow as he galloped close to the road, and after a yelp, Joe pulled the truck over and we all got out.

We looked at him and he looked at us, his broad tufted ears cautiously alert.

Quentin tried to soothe him with endearments and Joe tried his hardest to get a decent picture, all of us edging a tiny bit closer. Decidedly bored with us, the bear jauntily receded into the ponderosas, and after a moment of reverent silence, we too returned to the rig.

A few hours, two hot dogs and some tomatoes later (yum, dinner), Team Blunt Machete, Team Dandelion, and John, one of the KNF Wilderness Biologists, drove off into the falling darkness of dusk. We were headed north to the Tusayan District to net bats with the Northern Arizona Research team and a woman from  USDA Wildlife Services. I wasn’t sure what exactly to expect, but the stagnant pond in the midst of the KNF where we eventually stopped definitely wasn’t it. 

Strapped into waders, the researchers (all women!) and Roger, our other wilderness bio, were hurriedly erecting nets. Made of a very fine mesh, these nets would be opened and bats, skimming low over the insect-riddled pond, would tangle themselves into furry little knots. We ringed the water with four nets, and after pounding in a few of my own stakes and straightening some supporting poles, I stood back on the shore and almost laughed.

For the life of me, it looked like some bizarre and misplaced game of volleyball.

The researchers had set up a table and folding chairs some feet back from the pond, and we were quickly briefed on our duties. As all of us interns were, quite sadly, lacking rabies shots, and were barred from actually touching the bats; instead, two of us would man spotlights and two of us would record data. The researchers from Northern Arizona University were looking to collect basic information on the bats (species, sex, weight, wing length and condition), while the woman from USDA Wildlife Services was drawing blood from the bats to see if rabies antibodies were present (allowing her to determine roughly how many bats were actually rabid).

Of course, the first creatures to entangle themselves in our nets were distinctly not bats. After freeing some of the smaller birds, John carefully showed us a common nighthawk, his fingers gingerly splayed over the feathers of its neck. In a silent howl, the bird opened its mouth a startling amount, the slit of its “lips” cutting deep into its cheeks. Without further ado, John, an avid birder, released the hawk into the air where it quickly turned tail feather and fled.

Munching on Oreos and slouched on coolers filled with scientific equipment, we waited for true night to fall and the bats to come.

And come they did, swooping in small herds and dotting the four nets with their dark bodies. With two of the researchers manning the data station and the four of us interns at our assigned tasks, the remaining four waded out to the nets, untangling distressed bats as quickly as heavy gloves permitted. After freeing their squeaking charges, the researchers dropped the bats into individual pouches and tied them closed before unceremoniously stuffing the bat-laden bags down the front of their waders (yup, that happened). Once all of the researcher’s pouches were full, he or she brought their cargo to the data table to be examined.

I worked as a recorder first, watching as the head researcher pulled out these furry little creatures, opening up their filmy wings, taking measurements, weighing them in thin plastic baggies. I gave them identification tags while she called out various numbers and letter codes, the bats releasing high pitched wails and sinking their pointy teeth into the thick leather gloves. Following this, the bats were passed on to the woman from the USDA Wildlife Services, and once she had drawn their blood, the little guys got to go free.

It wasn’t all fun and games. The researchers kept trudging up the bank with pouch after pouch and no matter how quickly we measured and recorded, there were always more squirming bags to attend to. It was part of my job to keep them in order as we needed to record what nets they had been caught in, which got stressful when the line of bags reached about seventy: writhing along the table, the coolers, the folding chairs, were bats in distress and not afraid to show it.

After finally getting the hang of recording, we of course switched jobs. Quentin and I ended up on the shoreline with blindingly (but really) powerful spotlights, sweeping the nets so the researchers could find the bats and watching to make sure none of the tangled bats fell into the water and drowned. The researchers were overwhelmed, and when we left at eleven, things showed no sign of slowing; they would undoubtedly be working for another three or so hours, prodding round bellies, tracing delicate wings, cooing softly to the frightened little creatures.

We captured Big Brown Bats, Pallid Bats, Hoary Bats, Long-Legged Bats; bats with gaping mouths and slick white teeth, bats with fleshly ears and grasping feet. 

By the end of the night, these tiny complex organisms were undeniably beautiful to me.

Photos: 1. & 4. Pallid Bats 3. & 4. Hoary Bats (photo credit: Q)