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BWCA, 2012. TRIP 60. SOLO TRIP 20.

April 29, 2012

I needed to get my head on straight.  Really.  I am one of those who needs to get into the woods, the wilderness, or take a long hike periodically.  How long I can go in between varies.  But I know all the signs.  I get angry easily, I am short-tempered, I get upset at minor issues, and there is a part of me that says “get away from all of this.”

In 2006, we established a scholarship in our name at Vermilion Community College, a 2 year school in Ely, MN, on the Iron Range, at the end of the road to the Boundary Waters.  VCC students live on the edge of the wilderness….and poverty.  I was at the age where leaving a legacy–the woodpile a little fuller than I found it–mattered, and the scholarship was awarded at the annual VCC scholarship banquet, held in Ely.  I have attended 5 of the last 7 banquets.

In 2009, I partnered with the Friends of the Boundary Waters , one of those small organizations that has a few dedicated staff and leverages a lot of volunteers, to create a second scholarship.  I offered to pay for the scholarship myself; the Friends matched it, and this year, with a new employee in the Northland, he would present it, and I no longer would, which suited me fine.  The Friends kept a tall cellphone tower away from Ely, so it would not be visible from the wilderness.  Unless you have spent time in wilderness, it is difficult to explain how sounds and sights from civilization can degrade the experience.  A cell tower would degrade the wilderness, where cell phones read “No Service,” and one is on his own.

Worse, PolyMet is trying to build a Molybdenum mine in the area, which is of great concern to the water supply, due to the toxicity of the element.  It is jobs vs. wilderness, except the wilderness gives jobs.  The outfitter got money from me, and so did restaurants and motels I used, before I went into the woods.  We are going to risk the cleanest water in the US for mining something that is safe until it suddenly isn’t?  (Prince William Sound, 1989, Chernobyl, 1986, Fukishima, 2011, Challenger, 1986).

The third scholarship was the Brekke/Langhorst scholarship, named for two brave young men, cousins from Moose Lake, Minnesota, who died in Iraq…or as a result of Iraq.  One died 7 April 2004, which was almost certainly in Fallujah.  The other died from complications of PTSD, which should have been anticipated before we went to war, which was unnecessary and probably illegal.  But that is another story.  Young men are often the pawns of old white men, most of whom have never spent a day in uniform or served in harm’s way.  As a veteran, I wanted to contribute to a scholarship for veterans, and the family honored me by allowing me to do so.  No family member has presented the scholarship; I and a few others have.  This is a very deep honor for me.

So, I had plenty of reason to go to Minnesota in late April.  In 2010, I took a short trip, stayed about 3 hours from Ely, and in the space of one day drove to Ely, rented a canoe, did an eleven mile day trip in to Pipestone Bay, came out, presented the scholarships (there are about 50, now), and drove 3 hours back to my hotel.  That was a bit much.

In 2011, I wanted to go into Basswood Lake, and the ice went out the day before I arrived.  However, the weather was not at all cooperative, with high winds, big waves, and frigid water.  Not being in paddling shape, I thought in unwise to go into the woods, and camped at Fall Lake Campground, where I was alone, did some day hikes in snow, saw a Pileated Woodpecker, among other birds, and enjoyed myself.

This year, I decided to go in overnight and look at the results of part of the Pagami Creek Fire.  My wife persuaded me to spend two nights, in case of inclement weather, which turned out to be a wise idea.

I flew to Minneapolis, did the usual 4 1/2 hour drive up north, and got settled in Ely for the night.  The next day, I got the rest of the equipment I needed, put it on the car, and drove out to the Lake One landing.

I got on the water on a bright 60 ish day (16 C), and in an hour found a decent campsite about 3 miles  (5 km) in  .  I was going to rest that day, but the forecast was good for that day and not so good for the next day, so I had lunch, hopped in the canoe, and portaged twice into Lake Two.  I expected a wasteland, but it was a mile before I saw any sign of fire.  But there were signs.  The campsites at the west end had some burned areas, and the beautiful white pines on the west end of the channel into Lake Three were no more, as that area had been subject to a back burn.

Channel between Lakes Two and Three, with tall burned white pine.

I paddled into Lake Three and was pleasantly surprised again not to see a wasteland but a significant part of the forest was burned.  There were mosaics of green amid blackened trunks.  The water was more turbid than usual, especially by the campsites, but also along the shore in general.  It will take some time for this to clear.  Some of the islands were scorched, others were completely untouched.  The south end was heavily burned, although campsites survived fairly well, in large part because most of the fuel in this area has been picked over by campers for their evening fires.

The wind was a little worse than I liked, and although a 2 foot chop is not difficult to handle, I needed to realize I had about 5 hours to explore, including time to get back to my campsite.  Wind, muck , and rapids are three things that can stop a solo canoeist, so I turned back to the north end and started to head back, stopping at one campsite that bordered the fire area.  The wind abated, so I took an open channel at the north end of the lake, which I had never before seen open, and went into the northeast bay.  The one campsite the late Mike Manlove and I had stayed at in 1993 was in the middle of a heavily burned area, and the north shore was fairly heavily involved.

Northeast Bay of Lake Three, heavily burned.

I had told everybody I would not go into Lake Four, and I believe firmly in never deviating from one’s itinerary, when one is solo. A lot of bad things can happen in the woods, and solo, what may be minor can become life threatening.  I looked around, took some pictures, and then headed back to the campsite on Lake One, the whole 13 miles (22 km)  or so taking me a little over 4 hours.

I had nothing to do when I returned so lay in the tent, not sleeping, but actually encountering a few mosquitoes, at least five weeks earlier than I am used to.  After dinner, the lowering clouds suggested that the next day might not be so nice, and I was really glad I got into the burn area when I did.

Indeed, I was awakened to the sound of rain, and I awoke under darker skies although no rain.  It was noticeably cooler, too.  I hung around the campsite for a while and then paddled about 1 1/2 miles down to Pagami Creek, far back in the depths was where the fire started.  I took a look at the western sky, and while the barometer had not changed, I did not think going further was a wise idea.  I turned around and paddled back to camp, arriving about 10 minutes before the first onset of rain.  It rained off and on through dinner.

I was really, really glad I hadn’t gone into Lake Three that day–wind, rain and cold weather would have made the trip a bad idea.  I have long learned never to squander good weather in the woods, be it 5 minutes or 5 hours.

I spent the evening looking along the shoreline for anything I could find.  Such scanning has found moose, beaver, otter and other animals.  This time, it was a raven and two crows who provided the entertainment.  The raven flew across the lake and landed in a jack pine across the small channel.  Two crows were beside themselves and called at him, each other, and probably to the general universe.  Periodically, the raven called, too.  I videoed the event, catching the raven flying off, still harassed.  Random scanning is often interesting.

The next morning, the tent was hard, as like a rock, and I went outside to see ice on the tent and snow on the ground!

Spider Web with frost

The stove was out of fuel, and while I had another cannister, it was cold, I was coming out of the woods anyway, and I had enough to eat.  I broke camp, got in the canoe, and paddled back to the landing.  The hardest thing I had to do was horse the canoe up on the car and tie it down.

I got my head back on straight.  I was out 2 days, and it felt like a week.  I saw the burned area, and next year, I have to go back one more time to Lake Insula, as sad as seeing the south shore will be for me.  I haven’t given the lake a proper good by, and who knows?  Maybe we can do our September trips there again, if I find the area isn’t too depressing.  One thing is clear–I need to tie the scholarship banquet in with a camping trip.

The banquet went well.  I met Ian Kimmer, the Friends’ person in the North Country, who presented the Friends scholarship.  I presented my two, stayed for the whole banquet, then headed south.  We’ll be back in September, headed out Fall Lake into Jackfish Bay on Basswood.  It will be a good trip.  All BW trips are.

Burned area.

Canoe with snow on it.

Posted in BOUNDARY WATERS/QUETICO, BWCAW 2012, UNPUBLISHED OUTDOOR WRITING, VERMILION COMMUNITY COLLEGE SCHOLARSHIPS | Leave a Comment »

ROWE SANCTUARY, 2012

April 12, 2012

This was my fourth year volunteering at Rowe, and the crane viewing was the best I’ve seen.  I flew into Kearney and was picked up by Margery Nicolson herself, the widow of the man for whom the center is named for, Iain Nicolson.

I hit the ground running.  Three hours after arrival, I was guiding a group to Stevie’s Blind, the first of the 19 consecutive tours I would guide.  We were busy; for the first time, I experienced all 5 blinds being open simultaneously.  I was in Jamalee 7 times, Stevie 5, East 3, Tower 2, and North 2.  All the trips were good for crane viewing.  I got to see cranes in the fog one morning, which was very special, as the birds appeared like ghosts in fog as the light slowly increased.  A few took off, but it was special, and there were remarkably few birds we saw, although we heard thousands more!!

Crane taking off in fog.

As a guide, I speak with my co-guide before we go to the blinds.  In the evening, we have a lot of time, because we usually arrive at the viewing blinds 30-45 minutes before the cranes land.  I try to show my enthusiasm at the beginning, then mention why the cranes come to the Platte every year.  Then, I go through crane viewing etiquette.  We have to be silent, nothing can protrude through the plane of the outside wall, and if anybody needs to use the Portapotty, they have to ask permission, so we can open the blind door quietly.

We return in the evening as a group.  Once people are in the blind, they must stay there unless there is a medical emergency.  Those take priority.  Personal inconvenience does not take priority over crane inconvenience.  Those who are hungry, cold, bored, or otherwise not interested, thankfully a very small number, have to live with being on a tour for two hours.

Photography is a big issue and at times a problem.  All flashes must be turned off and even taped, if there is any question.  The automatic focuser must be taped, so no light can show.  This does not affect the photography.  I ask for automatic rapid fire photography to be shut off, and only manual shutters to be used.  I have had photographers brag about 8 GB of photos taken, and one person told me that he had taken 3000 pictures during one blind session, averaging 40 a minute.  I have to wonder how many of these pictures are ever looked at over and over again, and how many pictures one needs of a Sandhill Crane, if that individual is an amateur.  I find the sunsets striking, and the great flocks of birds flying at sunset are wonderful to see.

On the river and a large group overhead.

The problem with photographers can be severe at times.  In 2011, one man had his camera lens protrude about 15 cm (6 inches) outside the blind window.  I told him 3 times to bring it inside, and he got upset each time.  The third time, he was visibly shaking with anger, and his wife had to calm him down.  I have the right to make him sit down and take no more pictures.  That is a personal inconvenience, not a medical emergency.  If we spook the cranes at night, they may hit nearby power lines and die.  That must never happen on my watch.

I have had people get angry with me for taping their camera, when they think all is fine.  I ask them to point the camera at me and shoot a picture of my ugly face.  If I see any light, I make them tape the camera shut.  I have that duty.  We put post-it notes over the LED screens, to decrease reflection off the face.  The problem we are dealing with more and more is the sound from cameras, which clearly detracts from the experience of hearing the sound, at least until it gets too dark.  There are three, two-person individual photography blinds at Rowe, but they are booked in advance, and the waiting list for cancellations is equally heavily booked.  We don’t have a solution to this problem yet.  Cell phones must be turned off as well.

If we have time in the evening, once we arrive in the blinds, I can talk about crane facts.  In general, however, more and more I allow people just to look and experience the phenomenon for themselves.  The good guides I trained with did that, and I try to emulate them.

Mornings are more difficult, because we need to get to the blinds early, before it gets light.  Therefore, about the only things we can say are welcome, this is a wonderful experience, few know about it, and these are the rules.

Large flock of cranes. The true words for plural are sedge, siege, or herd. But we use flock.

In the blinds, if people have questions, they ask me, and I will spend as much time as I can with them, so long as they are interested.

In the evening, we must leave as a group, because the cranes are on the river.  In the mornings, we leave at 0830, but often, I or my co-guide will stay until 0900, for those who wish to view longer.  After that time, there may only be two or three people, and so long as they are quiet, most of the birds are off the river, and it is not a problem for them to leave alone.

I have other pictures, the best I shot, at the following link.

Cranes over setting Sun.

I love the guiding, for I get to teach and watch cranes, and there isn’t much better in my life in Nebraska than those two things!!

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LOONS, WOLVES AND OTHER NATIONS

March 13, 2012

Years ago, loons were killed in Minnesota, because they had the gall to eat fish that fishermen wanted to catch.

Anybody who has traveled the boreal wilderness knows that without the sound of the loon, the scenery would still be there, but the experience would be lost.  I have awakened on hundreds of nights to hear the sound of loons calling.  They have four different calls, and I love each of them.  Those who have not heard a loon in the wild, and that would be most, have missed one of nature’s great sounds.  Gavia immer is a heavy bird, because its bones are solid, not porous, so it can dive and stay underwater for a significant time.  The bird needs a few hundred meters to get airborne, but flies at 60 knots.

The wonderful ability of the loon to do so much is not unique.  To me, animals are other nations, not something we should destroy.  Loons are superbly adapted to the boreal lakes.  What will happen to them as we continue to overpopulate the Earth and damage their habitat, may spell their doom.  It’s just a bird, some say.  Well, there are many Americans who dehumanize humans by calling them Kaffirs, ragheads, and words I will never dare say to myself, they are so ugly.  Femi-Nazis has been used by Rush Limbaugh, along with his other vile comments.  Dehumanizing your enemy is perhaps a great way to win arguments and wars; however, the cost is horrific, not just in war, but how it has polarized American society.  Another way, common in my experience, is to take their words out of context, and deliberately replace them with charged words.  A lawyer did that to me one time in court, and I called him out on it each time. He finally threw a book at me.  In court.  Literally.  But I have others who do the same, former colleagues, some of whom owe me a lot, for what I have done for them, and I call them out on their language, too.  Words are important.

Fortunately, in the case of the loon, a few wildlife biologists did some good science to show that fish eaten by loons really did not adversely affect overall fish population.  Nature regulates populations well, and nature will regulate us, too, should we fail to do so ourselves.  What did affect the fish population were those who caught and didn’t release large fish, the breeders, who kept the population alive.  I know some guides, if they have a client do this, quietly go to another area on a lake to ensure their client catches nothing more the rest of the day.

During the Great Leap Forward, the Chinese killed the sparrows, only to realize later that sparrows kept insects in check.  Before one disparages the Chinese, we kill coyotes, which keep rodents in check.  Most everything belongs, including wolves, since they are, after all part of the ecosystem.  What is remarkable is the number of people, who profess being religious and patriotic Americans, who believe removal of predators a good idea.  In Alaska, people killed the national bird, the Bald Eagle, which is remarkable for a group that prides itself on being “real Americans.”  How many of you have seen a Bald Eagle or a wolf in the wild?  Perhaps it doesn’t matter, any more than reading a great book or listening to great music.  But I am better for having seen eagles, reading books, and hearing music.  Seeing a wolf in the wild, both of us alone, 4 meters away, was one of the best experiences in my life.

We face tough choices.  We have too many invasive species, and we must decide how to handle them.  None of the answers is easy.  We can bring in species to kill species, but new species can become a problem.  We can poison lakes, kill the fish, and then restock, hoping to remove invasive species.  Tucson Arundo removal is trying to remove one invasive plant.  Alone, over 10 months I removed 20,000 buffelgrass plants, another invasive species, in 8 acres, battling snakes, and heaving heavy bags up a berm.  Buffelgrass was imported from the African savannah into Mexico for forage about 80 years ago.  It was a bad idea.

Three months after I finished my work, it was like I had never been there.  Nobody cared.

There are no easy answers.  Sadly, there are plenty of talk show radio hosts and others who act as if there were.  Most of their answers are less government, which frightens me, less taxes, and more freedom.  Having seen how people trash the wilderness, even when they know the rules, I am frightened when I think what would happen without regulation.  Without regulation, we would have lodges all over the Boundary Waters and have dammed Curtain Falls, ruining Crooked Lake.  How many of you have seen Curtain Falls?

We would have logged every bit of forest, and we would have cell towers everywhere in the wilderness.  As I write, PolyMet wants to put a molybdenum mine in the headwaters of much of the country I love.  The company lawyers and managers say it will be safe.  Everything is safe, until suddenly it isn’t.  There won’t be an accident with the pipeline from the Canada tar sands to Texas, either, until there is one, and the Ogallala Aquifer is destroyed.  The Alaska pipeline was safe, until 1989.  Three Mile Island was safe, until 1979.  Unregulated, we would trash the forests, pollute the wilderness lakes, cut down all the trees, mine, and get rid of every government regulation, because people will do the right thing.

Yeah.  Right.  Have somebody tell you what it is like on opening fishing day for salmon in Alaska.

Eventually, of course, like the forests world-wide, the salmon, and the cod, the biomass will disappear.  A few will become very rich, support those who lie their way into public office and keep the cycle going.

Glad I won’t be around when the bill comes due.  Also glad we don’t have children who would ask why I didn’t stop it.  ”Because I couldn’t” seems pretty weak.

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Posted in FUTURE COLUMNS STILL BEING WORKED, MY WRITING, UNPUBLISHED OUTDOOR WRITING | 2 Comments »

NO MORE

May 26, 2011

We don’t learn enough from our mistakes.

Back in 1949, eight months to the day after I was born, 14 smokejumpers died in the Mann Gulch fire in Montana, when the fire suddenly exploded and beat them up a hill.  Fire always wins races uphill. It was a small fire when the jumpers dropped, but it got out of control.

Act of God? I don’t buy it. Study accidents, as I have, and you soon learn that it is seldom one failure but a concatenation of them, as happened here. We fix flawed systems by redesign, not by telling people to be careful.

The famous 1910 fire that killed 86 people brought a change fire management systems. But not enough. Or the lessons learnt were soon forgotten. Proof? About 700 wildland firefighters have died since. Consider this:

* 1994, Colorado: Storm King Fire, Prineville. Ring any bells? Same thing as in 1948. Fourteen dead, caught on a hillside, when a predicted dry cold front caused the wind to shift. A few outran the fire, 14 Prineville hotshots did not. For what? To keep land from being “scorched”, “destroyed” or other jargon which denies that fire changes, not destroys. It is necessary for nature to clear out old growth to allow new. Many trees need fire, either to open seeds or to allow competing species to die.

Both fires were extensively investigated and books were written, one the father of the other. One hoped the mistakes wouldn’t be repeated.  But they were:

* July 2001, Washington State: The smoldering Thirty Mile Fire on a lazy summer day killed four young people, who even a couple of hours before, had no inkling of death. This fire was unimportant, burning where nothing mattered, with plenty of chances to be extinguished. But a pump failed, there were communication breakdowns, the weather changed, safety shelters were deployed wrong….

We talk about firefighting costs in the millions. As a statistician, I count stuff. I learned years ago what is important and countable must be counted. What is important and not countable must be honored. And we need to know the difference.

Deaths in fires can be counted. Not the potential and pain of the lives lost. But we end up counting the money spent and give it the most attention.

“Acts of God” are due to insufficient knowledge or poorly designed systems. We no longer have “Acts of God” deaths from smallpox, measles, polio, rheumatic heart disease, puerperal fever, or infected hangnails. We no longer have commercial aircraft crashes every month.

Deaths from fire are preventable. The firefighters know the rules. We have excellent weather forecasting, every firefighter knows that property destruction is not worth one human life.

The National Interagency Firefighting Center was founded to coordinate firefighting efforts among states, so high priority fires got the most resources. Many gave up turf and power for the greater good. This is almost unheard of in my experience, and those who created the NIFC were remarkable people.

But their job isn’t complete so long as there are purple ribbons.

(Read, edited and improved by Anindita Sanyal of the Hindustan Times, New Delhi, India)

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IF YOU WANT TO LEARN, TALK TO THOSE WHO SAY LITTLE

November 26, 2010

In November, I went to the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge for the Festival of the Cranes.  I got to see fellow volunteer crane guides and took a course in Sandhill Crane behavior, with on site examples.  I also visited the VLA, the Very Large Array of 27 large parabolic radio telescope dishes on movable tracks.

Lesser Sandhill Cranes are remarkable birds, some migrating as far as Siberia.  I now can identify juveniles, males and females by voice.  I can identify their unison calls, see the aggressive behavior they may display afterwards, and describe their dancing.  I was a decent guide last spring; I will be a far better one next year.

I stayed at a house in Socorro while the owners were temporarily living at the Refuge, volunteering.  Erv and Sandra are a remarkable couple; both well into their 60s, they are “professional volunteers,” known in the Fish and Wildlife Service as a couple who will go to a place for a few months, make a big impact, then move to another area.  In 2008, when I first met them, they “followed” the Sandhill Cranes north from their wintering spot in New Mexico, to the magnificent staging of 600,000 on the Platte, to Homer, Alaska, finally ending in Fairbanks.  While I was in New Mexico, they received an offer to go to Coldfoot, Alaska next summer.  They are either going there or to the Columbia River.  They are in demand.  Sandra can do it because she has two artificial joints.  Bravo for science, bravo for Medicare, bravo for Social Security.

My first evening, I went with both to watch the evening fly in of the cranes to a wetland.  Unfortunately, there weren’t many when I was there.  The cranes migrate south later every year, because the Arctic has warmed so much.  Indeed, the dates of the Festival will likely have to change.  One can argue about climate change, but cranes don’t argue; they sense warmth, not politics; 65% of bird species in the Christmas bird count, which I help out in, have moved significantly further north.  Erv and Sandra introduced me to several of their friends in a nearby RV park, and I was invited for dinner.  I was going to drive back to Socorro, grab a sandwich and sleep.  Fortunately, I didn’t.

That evening, I spent time with 6 other couples, all of whom older than I.  The food was good, the conversation better.  They were fascinated with my eclipse chasing and experiences.  Politics stayed out of the discussion, and mostly medical issues, too, a rarity among the elderly.   These people had worked for decades and were enjoying their retirement.  I wonder if they would be if it were not for the science so many disparage or the liberal programs of Social Security or Medicare.  I just wondered, but I kept my mouth shut.

I did open it later, however, to speak to the man who owned the RV and had been quiet most of the evening.  Quiet people often have a lot to say, if one can draw them out.  This man was no exception.  He was a physicist who worked at JPL and was surprised that I knew of it.  Are we so “educationally challenged” these days that we don’t know of the JPL, the place that allowed Americans get to the moon and do all sorts of other wonderful things?

The man was a pioneer in fiber optics.  He told me about silica (SiO2), the stretching and strength properties of the pure substance, which is the best spring we know of.  He told me that he thought it was better than satellite transmission, since it was faster and had fewer delays, so long as it was protected.  Satellites, as we all know, are far from safe, given solar radiation and space junk.  Bouncing signals off satellites leads to longer delays.  They are also more difficult to repair.  Fiber optics have revolutionized society, including medicine, although I learned fiber optics were most helpful was in transatlantic cables.

This man disparaged himself by saying that he was out of date.  But his explanation of fiber optics was by far the best I had ever heard.  Perhaps that is because he mentioned one of his teachers in quantum mechanics:  Richard Feynman, arguably the most brilliant physicist in the 20th century, and who single handedly figured out what happened to Challenger using simple science that even most Americans could understand.

I’ve come full circle.  In July, I met a young physicist from Germany, a woman who is working on an X-Ray telescope that will allow us to learn a great deal about X-Ray radiation sources in the universe.  She represents where we are going–brilliant, part of a large team, well educated, well traveled and articulate.

In November, I met an 80 year-old retired physicist who worked on fiber optic cables and studied under Feynman.  He represents the past and helped me understand how we got to where we are today.   Twice now, I’ve gone to see something and discovered far more.  In July, I went to see an eclipse; in November the Sandhill Cranes.  But my memories of both will be of two different people I met on each trip, young and old, German and American, woman and man, same field, different eras.  Both had a great deal to teach me.  All I had to do was draw them out.  For some reason I really don’t know, I did and was better for it.

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…AND THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

September 1, 2010

On an early March afternoon this past year, I was on my hands and knees building a large sundial at Rowe Sanctuary in central Nebraska, where people stand on the date and their shadow tells the time.  From the second week in March through the second week in April, Rowe is busy as visitors arrive from all states and a few dozen countries to witness the Lesser Sandhill Crane migration, one of the three greatest natural sights I’ve seen  and one of Jane Goodall’s top ten.  I was working pre-season and decided a nature center like Rowe needed a sundial.

I was using markers, T-squares, a calculator and duct tape when a good looking young man stopped by.  He was friendly,  and I knew him as the Great Plains photographer Michael Forsberg.  Mike was interested in what I was doing with trigonometry and ellipses and then asked if I could find him information for the full Moon azimuth as it rose. He wanted to know exactly where in the eastern sky he would see it rise.

Fulfilling a request from Mike Forsberg suddenly became my top priority, so that evening I sent him the information.  He later e-mailed me pictures he had taken out in the viewing blinds, including an incredible shot of 4 different species of geese flying together.  Imagine, the premier wildlife photographer in the American midwest e-mailing me pictures he took!  Later that week, when I saw Mike again, I had him sign one of his books for me.  I just happened to be making a sundial when he walked by.  He just happened to stop.  And that changed my life. I just didn’t know it at the time.

When I left Nebraska in early March, I felt I had unfinished business.  I had not been there when the migration was in full swing, nor had I led tours to the viewing blinds, which had been a goal–a dream–of mine.  Four weeks later, I flew back to Nebraska, to volunteer at the height of the crane season, when 600,000 birds are on a short stretch of the Platte River, flying in at night to the safety of the braided channels and flying out to the fields in the morning to eat waste corn.  That week, I worked 17 hour days, sleeping on the floor in the visitor center, because local housing was full, listening to the cranes call on the nearby Platte.  The first night I shared a floor with– Mike Forsberg– who now knew me.  We didn’t talk much but I soon learned Mike is modest as he is good.  He deeply respects Rowe volunteers, because we help make some of his photography possible.  His nature photography is the best I’ve ever seen.

I finished my training and became a lead guide, meaning I could take visitors to the viewing blinds.  I got to talk about Lesser Sandhill Cranes; I watched people smile and heard them cry when they saw the cranes land, “dance,” and call before them.  Sandhills are large and loud, their voice primitive and deeply primal, echoing across 3 million years of time.  My enthusiasm outweighed my shyness, and I thoroughly enjoyed guiding.  We volunteers were a cohesive group, all of us working together to do whatever needed to be done, even if it wasn’t our “job.”  That week, I felt alive in a way I seldom have experienced.  So often, I told visitors, “I work 17 hour days, make coffee at 5 a.m., clean toilets, sweep the walk, give “Crane 101 talks,” do odd jobs, get dinner, sleep on the floor and see the cranes morning and night.  Am I lucky or what?”  When I called home, my wife commented my voice sounded different.

Mike stayed in the visitor center a second night:  two Mikes, two nights, too cool, two of his books I bought.  Mike signed the second one, too, adding a stunning phrase, calling me “a man of great spirit,” for he had quickly recognized something in me that I had not fully appreciated:  I have a deep spiritual connection to nature, the outdoors and wilderness. Mike is a man of faith and told me he felt closest to God when he was in the photography blinds, where people are taken in late afternoon and cannot leave for any reason until mid-morning the following day.  He said the experience was beyond comparison.  I’m going to do it next spring.  It has become one of my dreams, and while I, a scientist and a statistician, consider myself a practical person, not far below the surface lies a deeply spiritual, emotional dreamer.  Somehow, Mike knew that and how to help me understand myself better.

Last July, after the eclipse in El Calafate, Argentina, I sent Mike a picture.  I was a bit embarrassed to be sending a handheld shot to a famous photographer.  Mike, however, immediately replied “very, very cool,” saying I must be the only guy in the world who was going to Patagonia in July and to northern Alaska in August.  I wrote him after I returned from the Brooks Range, 118 degrees north of where I was in South America, telling him I would be ordering one of his pictures as a gift.  I am becoming friends with a special man, because we share a spiritual bond with the outdoors, especially Sandhill Cranes.  If he hadn’t stopped when I was making the sundial, this never would have happened, and my perception of myself and indeed my life wouldn’t have changed.

*                                *                                 *

July 9 is a holiday in Argentina, independence day.  I was in Buenos Aires, appropriately staying on Avenida 9 Julio, the largest street in the world.  That day reminded me of Christmas, for it was a winter holiday at a similar latitude south of the equator as I live north.

I went to a restaurant as part of a tour, going up a narrow set of stairs to a table with other people on the tour.  One of the guides asked me to sit in the middle of the table next to a young German woman.  And that changed my life and hers, especially hers. She and I will never be quite the same again.

The woman, Maria, was a young German scientist on her first trip out of Europe.  She, like me, was in Argentina for the solar eclipse.  Both of us had expected to take a plane to fly over the clouds to see the eclipse, but the flight had been cancelled.  My trip down to Buenos Aires involved barely making a connection; had I missed it, I might have gone home, since the probability of seeing an eclipse in Patagonia in winter is poor.  What kept me going was the idea if I didn’t go, and people saw the eclipse from the ground, I would never forgive myself. I didn’t know at the time the details of Maria’s trip, but it seemed clear we would be “clouded out.”  I later learned she had been at a conference in California, had a car accident on a freeway, and brought no winter clothes with her, since she was also planning to see the eclipse from the air.  To say we were both depressed and having an awful trip was an understatement.

Maria was completely fluent in English.  I asked her what she did, learning of her work in preparing an X-Ray satellite for launch to the LaGrangian point furthest from the Sun.  Fortunately, I knew something about LaGrangian points, where the Earth and Sun’s gravitational pulls are equal, leading to stable orbits for bodies located there.  Because I had studied physics, I was able to ask intelligent questions, soon learning about the LaGrangian point 1.5 million km beyond the Earth where the satellite was going.  Because I knew about conics, the concept of parabolic and hyperbolic mirrors was understandable, and the major and minor axis of the elliptical orbit clear to me.  I listened to Maria for a good 30 minutes.  When she asked me what I did, there wasn’t much to say except I chased eclipses, taught math as a substitute, once practiced neurology, liked cats and was a vegetarian.  She taught math, liked cats and was also a vegetarian.  Naturally, she was most interested about my eclipse experiences.

On the afternoon tour of the city, we spent some time together, Maria convinced she wouldn’t see the eclipse.  This being my 20th eclipse trip, I told her many times:  “Maria, it isn’t over until it is over and we didn’t see it.”  Indeed, a year earlier, in China, a small window opened up through thick clouds right at totality.  We went absolutely nuts.  It was the only eclipse I ever saw while I held an umbrella.

I didn’t see Maria again until the next afternoon in Patagonia, when she was an invited speaker at an eclipse conference.  I asked a question, later going up and telling her she gave a good talk.  She looked like she needed to hear that.  That night, at the hotel, I invited myself to Maria’s table of 4, since I was otherwise going to eat alone.  I was the de facto trip weatherman; I was following several South American weather models, knew the barometer was rising, the streaming moisture into the “cone” of the continent was cutting off, and high pressure was building over the eastern South Pacific.  Maria wanted to know my forecast; I was cautiously more optimistic, telling her to ask me about the barometric pressure the next morning.

That night, the barometer rocketed upward, the sky cleared, and we awoke to a beautiful sight:  the southern hemisphere stars were visible.  Maria had never seen the southern sky before.  I didn’t sit on the bus with her but with Anita, a senior colleague.  When Anita pointed out the Southern Cross on the bus ride to Perito Moreno glacier, I did something quite uncharacteristic for me:  I went to the front of the bus and asked how many wanted to see the Magellanic Clouds under a dark sky.  A lot of sleepy faces raised hands.  Nobody objected.  We stopped for 5 minutes so everybody, including Maria, could view our companion galaxies.

That afternoon, I worried about clouds interfering with the eclipse, but Anita fortunately kept Maria far from me.  When totality was imminent, Maria and Anita joined me, and Maria cried as the Moon completely covered the Sun.  I shouted, as did others, and I stared in awe of the shadow cone of the Moon, which I had never seen so clearly.  But my greatest memory is hearing Maria cry.  It was one of the most moving experiences of my life, and I’ve seen totality 12 times.

The next morning, I said goodby to Maria, and I haven’t seen her since.

But unlike every other eclipse trip I’ve been on, we’ve corresponded.  First it was by Facebook then e-mail and frequent Skype chats.  That has never happened before.  Maria told me that she almost had a panic attack in the restaurant, and my listening to her calmed her down.  Just my listening.  She got so excited from the eclipse that she has cast off shackles that led her from living a full life.  My wife and I invited both Maria and Anita to the May 2012 annular eclipse in northern Arizona, so they can see the Grand Canyon and the eclipse.  Maria will cry at both. I know she will.   Recently, she went skydiving for the first time.  She is learning C++ programming so she can become indispensable on the Australia eclipse in 2012 and get a free trip there.  Maria has been the best correspondent I’ve encountered in my life and we’ve become good friends.  Because of her, I’m learning German, and I plan to visit her next year.  Maybe every year.  And that has changed my life.

Had we not had such bad starts to our trips…Had we not been seated next to each other in Buenos Aires…Had I not known something about LaGrangian points and infrared radiation…Had I not been an amateur meteorologist and in demand…Had I not stopped the bus so people could see the Magellanic Clouds…Had we not seen the eclipse, none of this would have happened. Maria would still be wanting to see her first eclipse, and I would  not be learning the four German cases.  In August, when I returned from northern Alaska, I had a four hour layover from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. in Anchorage.  Had I not met Maria, I would have been bored, tired and cranky.  Instead, I chatted with her on Skype, passing the time quickly.

The older I get, the more unpredictable my life has become.  If I hadn’t been making a sundial, if Mike Forsberg hadn’t stopped by, if I hadn’t been seated where I was, and if I hadn’t known about LaGrangian points....

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A SILVER LINING (IT AIN’T OVER UNTIL IT IS OVER)

August 2, 2010

My 20th eclipse expedition was to the Argentinian Patagonia in austral winter.  We were at the end of the eclipse track, at sunset, when scattered clouds will more easily block the eclipse view.  Worse, the eclipsed Sun would be over the frequently cloudy Andes, increasing the likelihood of blocking clouds.

But we had no worries.  We would be flying through the eclipse track over the South Pacific, having clear skies and an extra minute of totality. But two days before I left, the plane we were to use was taken out of service for major unscheduled maintenance.  There were no other planes available.  We would be ground based.  I thought that we had a small likelihood of seeing it–well under 5%.  On the way down, I almost missed my connection because of thunderstorms and decided if I missed the plane, I would go home.  Two things kept me going:  (1) I don’t like to give up and (2) If I didn’t go and they saw the eclipse, I would never forgive myself.  I made the plane to Buenos Aires with 10 minutes to spare and was in Argentina 10 hours later.

At lunch on the holiday, two days before the eclipse,  I sat next to Maria, a young German astrophysicist.  She discussed her research so clearly that for once I said little, just listened, and learned a great deal.  She was involved in sending a satellite to the L2 LaGrangian point, one of the places where the Earth and Sun’s gravity balance each other.  I thought there were only 2 such points; there are 5.  I learned a lot of other things, too, since I just stayed quiet.  Turned out that my allowing Maria to talk was exactly what she needed.

When we started discussing eclipses, I learned that Maria got under the wrong cloud and missed the 1999 Munich eclipse that went over her home.  To put it mildly, Maria was primed to see this one from the air.  But now there was no plane and she had limited winter gear, because she hadn’t expected to see it from the ground.   Like all of us, she was was emotionally devastated, and 2 days prior to the eclipse, the predictions were not good.

I told her my many close calls and said, “Maria, it isn’t over until the eclipse is over and we didn’t see it.” That afternoon, I talked with her on the tour about eclipses, trips, physics and travel.  She was smart, curious and articulate.

Prior to leaving Buenos Aires, I was online alternately looking at South American weather models and flight delays, since the air traffic controllers had a slowdown.  But, the controllers behaved, we got on the plane and flew to El Calafate the day before the eclipse, for InterSoles, an eclipse conference where Maria and Anita, astrophysical colleagues, were speakers.

During the conference, several noted my constant looking at my watch, which has a barometer.  It was rising, which it had been predicted to do, even though the sky was completely overcast by evening.  Every free moment, I was on the computer, willing the weather models to improve.

The barometer continued to rise.  It remained overcast.  After dinner, I was in my room,  now learning the IR model for South America showed the moisture fetch that had slammed Chile had stopped and shifted north. I was cautiously optimistic.  I don’t sleep well during the night before an eclipse and was up at 4, looking out at a sea of stars.  The barometer had risen a whopping 13 mb overnight.  My optimism increased.

After breakfast, we went outside where Maria saw the Southern Cross for the first time.  The ISS flew over as well.  This was a good start to the day.  On the ride to Perito Moreno glacier,  I got the idea of stopping, since we were well out of town, and allowing the riders to view the Magellanic Clouds under a dark sky, since we couldn’t see them at the hotel.  It is highly out of character for me to stand in front of a bus of many strangers, and ask if they minded if we stopped.  Nobody objected, and everybody got a great look.  I was relieved.  Now Maria had seen the Magellanic Clouds for the first time.

We spent 2 hours at the glacier, listening to icebergs calve, watching sunrise on the mountains.  On the return, I was now in full worry mode.  Still clear skies,  I worried about mountain convection and orographic lifting that comes in the afternoon.  The eclipsed Sun would be a degree above the horizon, so any significant mountain cloudiness would be a problem.

On the way up the single track to a high plateau, over El Calafate and Lago Argentino.  I saw a cloud.  My worry increased.  At the site, I saw a large lenticular cloud sitting on a mountain to the southwest, spewing clouds to the north, but for at least an hour, they dissipated.

Then I noticed more lenticular clouds further north, and the clouds no longer dissipated.  The eclipse was 2 hours away, and I didn’t like the weather.  I willed the Moon to move faster.  The eclipse began, and as the Moon moved during the 65 minutes it would take to cover the Sun, I realized that sunset would be much further north than I had been told.  There were no clouds in that area, and 30 minutes before totality, I knew we were safe.

Maria joined me, used my binoculars, and did what many do during an eclipse–cried.  It WAS beautiful.  She had gotten the perfect end to her day–a dream came true, a total solar eclipse visible in a clear sky.  Had we been on the plane, the view wouldn’t have been nearly as good.

This was one of the most difficult eclipses I’ve gone to.  It was one of the most beautiful ones.  And the reaction from Maria was the strongest emotion I’ve ever witnessed.  All eclipses are memorable; this one is at the top.

It isn’t over until it is over. And sometimes, good things come out of what seems to be bad luck.

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HELPING THE NEXT GENERATION

April 29, 2010

I’m a lucky guy–I’ve canoed the Quetico/Superior since 1981, and while I’ve camped from Alaska to Algonquin, northern Minnesota is my favorite destination.  In 1992, I spent 5 months as a volunteer wilderness ranger in Ely, the most content I have been in my life.  But one of my more memorable trips was a recent solo up and back to Pipestone Bay, lasting barely 5 hours.  It was Earth Day and the first time I ever canoed in April.

I went to Ely for the annual Vermilion Community College Foundation scholarship banquet.  For 5 years, my wife and I have sponsored a scholarship for a student selected by the College who is studying environmental or wilderness course work leading to a career in those fields.  I try to attend the banquet to present the scholarship.  It’s our legacy to a town and wilderness we deeply love.

Two days before leaving I realized that if I arrived in Ely early in the day, I could rent a canoe and get on the water.  I was thrilled at the prospect (my wife said, “Why am I not surprised to hear this?”) and made arrangements.  I arrived in Ely at 9 on a perfect traveling day, got the canoe and drove out to Fall Lake.  I quickly shed every layer except for a shirt and PFD, and I could have taken the shirt off as well.  I wore neoprene gloves but really didn’t need them.  I saw nobody, except mergansers, a loon and several immature eagles at the south end of Pipestone Bay. I sat in the sun, enjoying a better view of the falls than I’ve had on the 30-plus times I have hurriedly crossed that portage.  Here’s a video of the falls and a few soaring immature eagles (they are immature because of their lack of a white head and general mottling.)

I contribute to three scholarships:  the amount of money the Foundation annually disburses has doubled since 2005.  I worked with the Friends of the Boundary Waters to create a scholarship in 2008; they and I jointly fund it.  I would also present that scholarship at the banquet, which pleased me no end–an Arizona guy who brought two fine Minnesota organizations together to create something good.

Up on Pipestone, I shot video of immature eagles soaring in a cloudless sky.  After lunch on Newton, I portaged back to Fall, paddling by the campsite where my wife and I stayed on 9/16/2001:  we started that trip on 9/11, unaware of events, heard the next day on Basswood River “the country was shut down,” but had few details and were nervous what we would learn when we exited.  On every trip since, we always note the presence of aircraft.

As a Navy veteran, a shipboard medical officer, I had long wanted to establish a scholarship for veterans, whom I feel should get free education.  Patti Zupancich of the Foundation worked with the Brekke and Langhorst families to allow me to contribute to an existing scholarship in memory of two young Moose Lake cousins who died in Iraq, 6 months apart.  Their aunt would attend the banquet but declined to present the scholarship because she knew how emotionally difficult it would be.  Patti suggested that I present the award, which was met with immediate approval.  I was grateful both families allowed me to contribute; I was deeply moved by their additionally allowing me to present it, one of the greatest honors I’ve ever received.

At 3 p.m., I came off the water, tired, sore and happy to have used muscles that had forgotten what paddling and portaging entailed.  It felt good to do J-strokes, scull, sweep, avoid rocks and portage again.  It felt right to solo in the wilderness.  But it felt odd to know in an hour, I would change from canoe clothes to coat and tie.  I had never done that before.

The banquet is always festive, which must be difficult for those who give memorial scholarships–a gold star family from Wisconsin presents one each year, too.  There is also one in memory of “Jackpine” Bob Cary, given by his daughter.

The recipient of our scholarship was there with his parents.  I enjoyed seeing how happy the three of them were.  The recipient of the Friends scholarship had taken people on tours to Listening Point.  One of the Brekke-Langhorst recipients had spent 4 years in Iraq; his father was also a veteran, and we had an interesting conversation.  The other recipient, a young woman, was ex-Navy; both of us have sailed many tens of thousands of nautical miles on the same seas in different eras.

As expected, presenting the Brekke-Langhorst scholarship was emotional, and I wanted everything to be proper.  The brave young men’s aunt thanked me, but I felt I received more than the recipients.

Every time I give, I seem to receive more.  I’m hoping the Friends get enough support to sponsor a second scholarship.  I hope some of my fellow wilderness travelers will remember those students in Ely, at the edge of the wilderness and on the edge of poverty.  If giving money is not possible, haul out a lot of trash on your next canoe trip.  Do something good for this special wilderness.

In 1938, Sig Olson, Dean of what was then called Ely Junior College, wrote “Why Wilderness?”, stating exactly how I feel on the trail:  the need for “sweat and toil, hunger and thirst, and the fierce satisfaction that comes only with hardship.”   Sig referred to hardship on the trail, not financial hardship.  There’s a scholarship in his name, too, which I want to honor by ensuring hardship stays only where it belongs.

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SANDHILL CRANES+2 WHOOPERS, 2010, PART II

April 7, 2010

This site is still under construction, but the You Tube videos are worth seeing:  the first shows a brief version of a pair dancing.  This is to release stress, to bond and to release hormones.  I can’t help but think it is just pure joy as well.  The second is at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLQTOIt_gBM and shows the first plus about eight more minutes of the birds calling.

I went to Rowe for the beginning of the crane season, but it was a very cold winter and the birds didn’t show up until March 1.  I had a few great views, but left before the season really got going.  I felt like I had unfinished business on the Platte and went back at the end of the month.  I worked 17 hour days, slept on the floor in the gift shop (so I could hear the cranes on the nearby river when I woke up), cleaned toilets, led and assisted on viewing blind tours, washed dishes, and basically did whatever needed to be done at Rowe Sanctuary.  Even ran the Crane cam one night, which is on Rowe’s home page.  I haven’t felt so alive in a long time.  Rowe has a full time staff of only 4; there are many local volunteers and folks like me who come from a long way off to help in any way they can.  I felt blessed and very fortunate.  Also saw two whooping cranes at a long distance, so the pictures aren’t great.  But I saw them.

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SANDHILL CRANES, ROWE SANCTUARY, 2010

March 3, 2010

After missing the 2009 season due to illness, I came up here on 25 February.  It was cold, snowy, and the Platte was frozen.  The only cranes I saw was a flock of 20 over Lincoln.  What they were doing over there is anybody’s guess.  Bet they wondered, too.

But the weather has changed, and here are some YouTube videos.  If you go to mrqssm, you will see all the videos I took.  The audio is outstanding, and the last was the best.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inYeOS_Gm6k

What does a volunteer do?  Just about anything!  Rowe is part of Audubon, but they get NO funding from the national.  Everything they spend they must raise.  There are only four staff members–Bill, Kent, Tony and Keanna, and they are all very different people who work very well together.  They are the engine, but the volunteers are the fuel that make the place run.  Rowe needs people in the gift shop, showing people the birds outside during the day, somebody to run errands, to run the crane cam, to give crane lectures, to clean the place, sweep, clean the bathrooms, re-stock, greet people in the parking lot, do maintenance work, etc. etc.!!

I was early season, so there were few visitors.  What did I do?  Hauled a box spring through the upstairs window, since it wouldn’t fit going up the stairs.  I set up camouflage at two blinds, using drills and staple guns.  I re-hung 19 windows in one of the blinds, using drilling and various boy scout knots.  I made beds, cleaned bird poop off the building and the sidewalk, knocked down old nests, which led to the former.  I built an analemmatic sundial by the parking lot.  I got a complaint that it was slow, but that is because the Sun is running slow.  Or our watches are running fast!!

I helped Tony set up the Crane Cam upstream.  I got to play with great power tools, drive a beat up but serviceable pickup through rural Nebraska, saw Sun reflect off snow geese (yes, they are incredible pests, eating their way out of their habitat–like humans, I might add–but they are pretty) and had the blinds to myself morning and evening before season opener.  I hacked down weeds around three blinds with a retired Kearney math teacher, so we could talk math.

Oh yes, I got to meet Mike Forsberg, the renowned wildlife photographer, and was able to give him some information about moonrise azimuth.  I talked to him in a blind one night, just the two of us, the same day he signed a book he authored for me.  He then sent me five lovely pictures he took.  Was that cool or what?

And I got to meet loads of great local Nebraskans who come to volunteer there as well.  They were all great, and while a couple thought I was the Energizer bunny, it was only because I kept forgetting stuff and was running all over the place.  Want to do something good with your time?  Rowe needs volunteers!  Want to contribute to something worthwhile?  Rowe Sanctuary is a place to do so!

Some other pictures:

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