Where the Science Goes

I am very happy to report that I shall be a regular writer for the excellent and nerdy mini-lecture video series The SciShow. If you like learning about bizarre phenomena, famous brainiacs, current science news, and super awesome stuff, check out the YouTube channel. Recent topics have included: What happens when a body is subjected to the vacuum of space, how birds get drunk in spring, the history of blood transfusions, meteorite hits and near misses, giant squids, spider rain, genetically modified foods, and what happens if identical twins procreate with identical twins.

Oh, and my very first scripted episode on Extreme! Animal! Cannibalism! (Don't worry, there is a little bit of brother-eating, but no bath salts are involved.) I'm super excited about this gig and to be part of such a curious and creative team. Upcoming assignments range from Explaining Gluten, to updates on Human Enhancement Technology, to Why Do Cats Purr? Hope you'll check in on occasion and get your learn on...

Winter Is Coming

The Starks were right.

And I heard from the trees a great parade

All things go, all things go

Be still and know your sign

I'll put you right in it, I'll show you the sky

Dreamlike, on account of that frosting

The sweet delights of a wild funnel cake

If you've got the patience, celebrate the ancients

And we laughed at the beatitudes of a thousand lines

Figure an hour in for thawing out frozen shoes

In Pictures

Salt addict. (Body, not bath.)

Dutch Lake: For bears only.

Evidence of a rub down.

The Huxtables.

Considerably more chill than their parents.

Shale-om.

Third Hitch Redux

Trail Creek. Sun. Hot, hot, heat. How level does the round really have to be to safely change a flat tire? Late start. Solo hike. Ridges and ridges, climbs and descents. Grouse chicks. Haiku. Hello little hares. Trio of salt-crazed fuzzy fiends in white high-tops. Kindly release my sweaty shirt. And that sock. And the water bottle, too. But there is room in my sleeping bag if you're interested in a cuddle. Up, up, up. Down, down, down. More water, more sunscreen, more pee breaks. Hello fat toad. So nice to see you again. Such a fine white etching down your bumpy back. Then thunder! Lightning! Rain and rain. Dinner cooked under cover of an outhouse foyer. I mean, that isn't so unsanitary, right? Just, hey! Don't let that touch the ground. At all.
 

Oh, Dutch. They laughed at me in the permit office. Why would you want to go up there? Your trail has officially been wiped off the map, but how the bears adore you. Fresh clumps of fur, swaying in the breeze, decorating every barb. Miniature incarnations. Great flood zones of flattened grasses, huge logs tossed up in loose-root tangles. Silver snags make the best bridges over waters troubled and calm. Bushwhacking through false azalea is like combing through skunk hair. Slip and fall, slip and fall. Five by ten feet is just enough of a patch for one small tent. Hammocks need no even ground. Large beasts wade through lake waters at night, waves lapping against ankles and shoreline. The flash bulbs of lightning, if we're being honest, do add a creepy onus as you peak out and look toward watery footfalls.
 

Park Creek. Long days. Many miles. And hair and hair and hair. And oh hey, bear. Good bear. Yes, we hear your huffing, no need to charge. Mountain called Rampage. Mountain called Church. A small cabin in an open meadow. Dinner in the dark. Old striped mattresses sag gently on loose springs. Every roll marked with a metallic whine. Is this a new backpack or a torture device? How much can a hipbone swell before their is true cause for alarm? A forgotten trail. So many downed trees, so many ankle-grabbers, so many stumbles and shin-smacks and flying forward falls, and where's the trail again? Are bruises contagious? Hello, big grizzly, don't mind us. Just passing through on the way to.... helloooooo huckleberries! Patches and patches and patches. Fat, shiny purple-black. Small, dusky blue. Two-handed gathering. Hunched backs, fingers and lips stained with juice, one for now, one for later. Nom nom nom. Can't. Stop. Gathering.

Home again. Dirty and smelly, salt rings expanding. Bruises darkening. Shower and eat. Eat again. Locate bell bottoms. Locate sequins. Its disco time. Night Fever. That DJ, the one with the fake Afro, he will tell you that there are no disco-era Michael Jackson songs. But if you are persistent, and if you are a lady, he will play one for you anyway. You may ask him up to six times. He will do it every time. You are all powerful. Tonight, you are fate itself.

Fun With Feathers On Screens

Hey! Do you like birds?

Do you possess and enjoy touchscreen digital technologies which sometimes flash the icon of a half-eaten apple? Do you like to learn new things and listen to nature sound effects while riding the train, waiting for the elevator, or zoning out during a meeting?

Maybe you have some kids? Maybe they like birds. Maybe they like screens. Maybe they are always pestering you about your precious iDevice? Maybe they often point to the sky, or to the woods, or to the sea, demanding to know who guy?!, what bird is that?

Wouldn't it be nice if there was some sort of inventive and interactive game that helped kids get tech-savvy at the same time they were getting nature-savvy? If there were a way to help them recognize birds on telephone poles during road trips? Or help them to identify the call of that owl that is always hooting outside their bedroom window? Or teach them why they will never meet a condor nosing around their birdfeeder, cracking seeds?

But wait! Such a magical game does exist!

Check out award-winning Birdcage Press's new virtual game My Birds of Prey from their up and coming digital division, 5 Ravens. I have collaborated with Birdcage for several years, researching and writing educational text for their wildlife books and card games, helping to get kids excited about animals. Following seemingly universal trends, the publisher is now branching out into new digital worlds. Having always favored the feel of paper in my own two hands, at first I was skeptical. Then I saw My Bird World, created in conjunction with The Cornell Lab of Ornithology, and was thoroughly impressed. As an adult I had fun playing the games, had fun learning about the birds and their vocalizations. I was thrilled when the publisher asked me to write some of the text for their new raptor game, which just came out last month, and is gorgeous.

Whether you have kids or not, if you have a touchscreen device, a few extra bucks, and an interest in birds, please think about heading over to the Apple store, making a few clicks, and purchasing one of these games. I promise you will learn something new. And enjoy it. And, ahem, help keep this freelance writer in job security...

End of pitch. Thank you. And good night.

A Neighbor is Who You Meet Each Day

This month I am back at the microscope, finishing up some aquatic invertebrate sampling work, or as we in the USGS call it, pickin' bugs. This means I am still guzzling tea, listening to hours of books on tape, whimpering while rubbing my sore back, and seeing larva floating around whenever I close my eyes. It also means I can provide you with a critical piece of advice when it comes to hanging out around a microscope: do not be tempted to look at your hand under such high magnification. You will not like what you see. Unless you aspire to be the Crypt Keeper. Skin is not meant to be seen so close up. We'll leave it at that.

Anyway, really I am here today to introduce you to some of my new friends, and remind you why its not a good idea to drink unfiltered water. Portraits have been provided by the resident entomological wizard, graphic artist, and heavy metal enthusiast, Joe Giersch.

The Neighbors:

First up, meet the ever-present Allomyia, case-maker, weaver of silty sleeping bags of stone.

Kind of cute, right? Sort of reminiscent of dog. With six legs. And a body like a tube sock.

                                            

Next, we have Simuliidae, the baby black fly, always with frivolous headgear. What a dandy.

  

And, as it turns out,  not unlike a certain dapper blue-haired British worm 
who clearly goes to the same hairdresser.... 

Incidentally, while I was looking for an image of this unsung hero of Labyrinth, I came across more than one photo of his visage immortalized on flesh. Yikes. While I will happily channel David Bowie, stuff my tights, and strut around like The Goblin King for a night, putting ink to skin to permanently honor a sassy Muppet worm on your lower back requires taking it up several more notches than I am near comfortable with. But I digress.

And here is the superstar of the lot. Lednia tumana, that rare little glacier-loving stonefly we're petitioning for endangered species status.

Admittedly, this isn't his best angle. I'm not the only one getting a distinct Nosferatu vibe here, right? The milk-pale flesh-equivalent, the shrinking posture, the contracted limbs raised up defensively against the light...

And last but certainly not least, we have my favorite little duffer, Hydracarina, the water mite. Again, this two-dimensional photo does not do the happy mini-Buddha-of-mountain-streams justice. I love finding these small friends amid the gravel and muck. Their pinprick eyes somehow seem smiley, friendly even. Yeah, they are dead, pickled in ethanol, but they seem at peace. No big deal. They have perfectly plump and rounded bodies, eight spindly legs (they're in the Arachnid family) usually curled up underneath. 

Whether pink-tinged, yellow-tinted, dappled or translucent, the sweet mites always remind me of magical Miyazaki-like forest spirits. And ultimately, all of these creatures are exactly that.  

Gluttonous Glutton

Hey there, Nasty Cat

Doug Chadwick, local author of The Wolverine Way, calls Gulo gulo--the biggest land-dwelling member of the weasel family--an "unmitigated badass". True that. As evidence of said badassery, I give you some facts: (1) They have one of the strongest bite-forces in the world. They don't just eat bone marrow, they eat whole bones, son. (2) They are voracious eaters. There isn't much of anything, alive or dead, that they won't eat. (3) Among their charming nicknames? Skunk bear. Nasty Cat. Quickhatch. Carcajou. Huge Jackman. (4) They roam insanely large tracts of land. A male's home range can be over 240 square miles. (5) Those home ranges are comprised of primarily high, steep terrain, which wolverines prance and skip around, no problem. M3, a famous Glacier gulo, ran up the steepest face of Mount Cleveland (the highest peak in the park at 10,479 feet) in about 90 minutes. In the middle of winter. Because he could. (6) Females den around the edges of treeline, tunneling burrows in the snow of up to 75 feet long to give birth to their adorable kits.

Because they inhabit high elevation snowy terrain, and because they need so much space to roam, there just isn't that much room for wolverines these days. Glacier is actually the best place in the lower 48 to spot the sassy, solitary beast, although it can only support about 40-45 individuals. Wolverines have been proposed for Endangered Species status several times in recent years. Apparently it has been tossed out of court a couple of times due to "lack of information." Huh. It is up for status again, this time linked to climate change. Here's hoping.

Badasses brush their hair with gun brushes, yo.

Last month I did a little volunteer work for the Park's wolverine DNA project. For the past two winters a dedicated group of volunteers has braved gnarly mountain weather and extra butter portions (for increased caloric intake to deal with said cold weather) to set up hair snagging stations throughout Glacier. We know wolverines are here--and previous projects involved capturing and collaring the animals--but any process that involves building little remote log cabins for traps that an industrious and pissed off animal can actually chew their way out of in a matter of hours is bound to be challenging. Non-invasive sampling through remote camera placement, track surveys, and hair collection (just like the bear and fisher projects) is a much easier way (for animals and people) to keep tabs on a population.

I just called. To say. I love you.

But of course every animal has its own habits, so biologists need to tailor their traps accordingly. Sultry bears enjoy scratching their booties on tree trunks. All we have to do is locate the trees where they've already rubbed, and throw up some barb wire to snag a little fur. Fishers want forest cover. They don't typically run around in the open, so it makes sense to put those enticing tubular stations, equipped with a chicken wing, down on the forest floor. Wolverines go everywhere. And they can climb where local coyotes and wolves can't. So we entice them with a meat flag nailed to a tall pole, covered in wire gun brushes. Because frozen meat doesn't smell much, we augment the whole operation with a little scent lure called "Gusto". Believe me when I tell you I have smelled a lot of bad things through my wildlife work, and this stuff is particularly naaasty.  It is the kind of intense odor that feels almost palpable in your mouth--a solid lump of rotten skunk meat lolling around. If that skunk had been eating garlic and shit sandwiches. And the smell lingers, too. So that is awesome. 

Stinky stick

Still, any chance to get into the woods for a good cause, right? Today I heard that one of the remote cameras crews put out in the Belly River area picked up a wolverine going up a bate pole. The really cool thing is that when folks zoomed in on the photographs, they could see a set of earrings. It was old M3, the badass who ran up Cleveland and was tagged nearly ten years ago, still alive and kickin' it in the park! I hope I'll be lucky enough to run into him by the water cooler sometime. Maybe I need to enlist a little Gusto....

Meat flag

Roses Come in a Variety of Colors

Last week, straight out of the snowy wilderness, I headed for a different type of crazy. If you have never experienced the madness of a flower shop in early February, you might not fully understand the modern redefinition of the Valentine's Day Massacre. Over the years, I think I've spent ten out of the last fifteen Valentine's Days working at various flower shops, trying to keep the blood from my thorn-raked hands from touching the roses. I worked as a designer at a shop in Madison as an undergrad, then revisited the skill as a grad student in Missoula (with a little pitch-hitter holiday moonlighting along the way).

Because I was already in the area and feeling masochisitic, I thought it would be fun to spend a few days at Bitterroot Flower Shop, punishing my body. And you know what? Sore back, pulled tendons, and scabby hands aside, it was fun. Just how I remembered it. Kinetic, exhausting, hilarious, chaotic. And girly. Look, Mantana if chocked full of dudes. I work and hang out with them constantly, sometimes exclusively, for long periods of time. That is great and all, but sometimes a lady needs to be around her own kind. In my experience, a flower shop is a good place to find them. We discussed the sad death of Whitney Houston and her legacy of sassyness. We talked about Beyonce while listening to the anti-love song station on Pandora. We planned Valentine outfits (which, incidentally, ranged from tranny red fishnets, to black skulls, to elbow-length formal gloves, to pink unitards). It was glorious.

By any other name would smell as sweet

For all my days as florist, I have often pondered where the majority of our flowers come from... what hot and humid lands... and about who sprayed them and with what toxin, and who picked and packaged them, under what conditions. In the summer there are lots of local alternatives, but roses don't grow in Montana winters. I have struggled with the moral and ecological conflicts the flower industry presents for years. (Read Amy Stewart's book Flower Confidential if you are interested in more information.) I've never quite made peace with it. But rather than dig into any of those details here and risk delivering a big ol' buzz kill to any of you dear readers lucky enough to still be looking at a bouquet from your sweetheart, I'll leave it at this: specifics aside, it is both a joy and a gift to be able to creatively contribute so directly to the happiness of others. No one is ever unhappy to see a delivery van pull up. Whether they represent comfort or celebration, flowers are a beautiful reminder that someone is thinking about you, that spring is coming.

Yeah, the Hallmarkian commercialization of Valentine's Day has gotten out of control, and yes, the origins of the day are dark and sordid, but screw it, I'll be a romantic until the day I die choking on cherub-shaped chocolates while taking a champagne bubble bath. Clocking out from a fifteen-hour day of standing on cement, elbow-deep in greenery, I was stupid-tired and communicating from the whimpering end of my whiny spectrum, but I fell asleep in the bathtub knowing I'd help set some hearts a-flutter. Not bad for a day's work.

This showing is just the tip of the pink, heart-shaped iceberg.

Mothra vs. Sea Monster

I've spent many years researching various charismatic megafuana... the kind of characters the Sierra Club slaps on thousands of those return-address labels no one specifically asks for... big cats, wolves, grizzlies... I've also spent several seasons slogging around ponds catching frogs and toads in the daylight and in the dark, and counting tadpoles. 

This winter I am mixing it up. Keepin' it real. I'm doing some invertebrate taxonomy contract work for the USGS aquatics project here in Glacier. This basically amounts to sorting through a small mountain of summer stream samples under a fancy-schmancy Leica microscope, and picking out all the tiny, tiny bugs. And oh, what bugs! We're doing this to get baseline data on the community of alpine insects in high-elevation, glacier-fed streams, and to learn more about the life histories of some of the more rare species, including a type of sexy stonefly (Lednia tumana) that has been petitioned for endangered species status. Though it is decidedly less glamorous than a wet-nosed polar bear cub tickling itself, this stonefly is imperiled by the acceleration of melting glaciers, and is thus another would-be casualty of climate change.

It has been a very long time since I've spent any time around a microscope, and I am learning that there are certain given truths a lab jockey must accept: (1) your back will hurt constantly, (2) your eyes get totally wonky, (3) you get to listen to an endless stream of books-on-tape (Pollan, Gaiman, Franzen, and Eugenides last week), and (4) you will need a constant supply of warm beverages within reach at all times.

Oh, and (5) you will absolutely and literally see bugs when you close your eyes. This is about as creepy and annoying as it sounds. And they aren't butterflies and ladybugs you know... no, they are mushy, gray flatworms and thin, tangled nematodes. They are the ghostly white larvae of various caddisflies and the other flies: stone, damsel, alder, may, crane, and dragon. The perfectly-round-bodied water mites, their speckled yellow backs covering the curl of eight spindly legs. And so many midges. Mostly midges, each curved like a pudgy clipped fingernail. My favorite find so far has been these little bowling pin-shaped deals, punctuated by a head crowned with two frilled antennae that look like ridiculous party earmuffs. Whenever I found one of those I'd imagine it speaking in a British accent. Maybe like that bizarre scarf-wearing worm in the movie Labyrinth. G' day, govna! I was a little bummed to learn that my dandy friends were actually black fly larvae. They aren't exactly the easiest creature to love, but I am trying. But then most baby animals are more charming than their parents... and really, you should see these frilly deely boppers. It did remind me of learning years ago that who we were endearingly calling Fuzzy Willis for weeks was in fact mosquito larva, writhing in mass. It was kind of impossible to feel affection for those little guys after that realization. You've got to draw the line somewhere.

So I spend several hours a day going through just a few ounces of water and vegetation and muck, picking out the bugs with a pair of sharp silver tweezers, which by now feel like cold and nimble extensions of my own hands, to the point where I can actually feel the pressure of grasping a nearly microscopic creature between my "fingers". It is a truly crazy feeling. At the end of the day, all those bugs, hundreds even, fit into a small vial of alcohol, like some etymologist's crack stash. 


But the best thing about this work is that it allows you to peak into a totally different world. There is a magical little alternate reality in these tiny universes. Dragons and basilisks lurk behind branch and bush, reed and rush. Sea monsters lurk. Aliens burst forth from chest cavities. Crazy shit goes down. It never ceases to amaze me how much of the world we cannot see with unaided eyes. It's incredible. In a lot of ways, we have no clue what the hell is going on. I love that. I love wearing the emerald glasses for a while. I'm ready to be surprised. I'm ready to be dazzled. See you in Oz.

All in a day's work

Bird's the Word

Birds. They're everywhere. Peaking in your window. Hammering on your rain gutters. Pooping on your windshield. Stealing your hotdog at the beach. Making jumpshots for the Celtics. What a pain. Just who are these avian terrors anyway?

But wait! Help is on the way! Next time your kid, or your neighbor's kid, or your neighbor's neighbor's kid is pointing their pudgy little fist at the sky, or toddling toward a flock of ducks, swinging a bag of stale bread, asking you who is that bird?! while trying to grab it by the neck, you can whip out these new sweet, sweet book-game combos, fresh off the presses and authored by yours truly, and learn all sorts of bizarre and average facts.

The pitch:

Birdcage Press is an award-winning children's book and game publisher. I have been researching and writing text for their wildlife series for a few years now, and highly recommend their educational products which stimulate memory, concentration, and strategic thinking, while teaching kids all about animal behavior and habitat.

Backyard Birds and North American Birds were created in association with the Cornell Lab of Ornithology (which, incidentally, has a badass website worth checking out), and are filled with wonderful images from leading wildlife photographers. Bird lovers will enjoy getting to know their local birds. Playa haters will enjoy gathering new information with which to taunt their feathered foes, such as "hey heron, what's up with the projectile vomiting?"

28 Days Later

Oi. As you may or may not have noticed, my interwebbing communications have fallen into the abysmal as of late. Although I would not categorize that as a bad thing, as it are the bears and the subsequent burgling of their fur that have kept me largely away from all screens.

Two hitches down, six to go: a brief summary in words and pictures.

Snow. High water. Run, River, Run. Can't cross that creek here. Nope, not there either. Turn around. Go home. Oh, hello black bear, hello grizzly. And bounding mink, all sleek and wet-furred with a limp mouse danging from that sharp little bite. Down your hole. Feed your kits. Happy Birthday, America! We salute you with sweat and beer, with volleyball and flying bean bags, with stars and stripes, with fires and guitars, and tents pitched in dewy fields. Camping with a ten-month-old baby can be quite fun. Fly little dandelion seed! But, Oh, Canada. Hey, look! Lake Janet still has icebergs floating in it! Let's jump in. So, um, refreshing. Hey Mr. Toad. Fat stuff. Howdy tailed-frogs creeping by backpacks. Nettles, why must you be so cruel? Thunderstorm. Shake, you silver snags, shake! Rustle you aspen leaves, bob and weave, jazz hands to the sun. Didn't you know that all the best rockstars wear long underwear? And safety goggles. And sometimes helmets, too. Sorry the camp stove doesn't work. Luckily I forgot dinner, anyway.

Mosquitoes, oh you foul beasts. You testers of sanity. You nighttime tormentors. Hey there bruise! Jump up on my shin. Join the party! Smile down on these sunny glacier lilies. Bursting blue lupines. Paintbrush. Bunchberry. Self-heal and shooting star. Aster and Ox-eye. Drink little hummingbird, drink. Laugh it up, loons. Nannies and billies and kids, fancy meeting you here, down by the river, off your craggy ledge. New larch needles, soft as feathers, feel good against cheeks. Water, water, everywhere. Snowy passes. Do the mountains know how beautiful they are? Cold marmots. Fuzzy-antlered elk. Seriously mosquitoes, we get it. You want to kill us. You too, nightjars, exploding up from the gravel, your wing lines flashing and glowing in the headlights.

Who says 1am isn't anything but a reasonable time to get home?

A sleepy field

See ya, playa!

Sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures

We did it all for the data

Do fish recognize international borders?

Rock it, yea-eh. (Photo courtesy of M. Beall)

Preparing a whiskey-cider reward

The North Fork: Just another uncrossable river

Seriously

Grandpa Tumnus

One hidden lake on the way to another

I love my backyard

Slim silver sentinels

Avalanche