Tag: remote field research

Return from Rat Islands

“Get in the shower Robinson Crusoe, you aren’t in the field anymore,” the WideEyedSpouse sounded a little snarky.

“I’m still cleanish,” I whined. So what if I didn’t feel it necessary to shower for the third day in a row. “You know,” I told the Spouse, “you can be too clean.” The Spouse looked me over, “yeah, well, you aren’t.”

I took a shower.

I’m now two weeks back from living in a remote field camp and running a multidisciplinary research program. I am remembering to flush the toilet regularly and I don’t wake up wondering where I am anymore. I have been warm, dry, and well-rested for days.

I miss the field.

The aching beauty of the landscape.

Corvie Bay North, Kiska Island.

Tiny, higher elevation young delphinium.

Segula.

Uncomplicated comforts.

Bathing with a view. Corvie Bay Camp.

The pure joy of a job to do, unencumbered by conflicting imperatives.

Heading home.

WideEyedFunk in 40 degree wind and rain in a cliff edge archaeological feature. I love my job.

But my gardens here in Buffalo are in bloom . Hamish the Corgi and Miss Tibbit the Useless Little Black Dog are here. And the WideEyedSpouse once again has my back against the world’s troubles. Home is good too.

July 4, 2014
The third crane on the Fish Dock.

My phone binged at me while I was stopped for an unloading school bus on Homer Spit. I watched the cutest collection ever of tiny-wee Xtra Tuff boots splash down into a puddle at the bus exit. I glanced at the console where my phone rested. “Third yellow crane in,” the message said.

The flashing red lights eventually quit blinking and I turned left onto Fish Dock Road. I putt putted the overloaded minivan between forklifts hauling fish bins, hoses, and hairy-faced men in overall Helly Hansens. Their Xtra Tuffs weren’t particularly cute. My minivan rental did not match the lifted pickups parked all over the place.

There it was, the Puk uk.

Image by C. Haupert 5/7/2014.

I walked over to the skipper to introduce myself. “Hi,” I stood next to him looking down into the Puk uk. “I’m C….” I told him. He glanced at me. “I figured,” he said.

My logistics handlers were already loading the WeatherPorts, fuel, and other gear. The skipper craned the stuff onto his foredeck using the Fish Dock crane – you pay for the cranes in 15 minute increments. We weren’t in a rush, but time was money so no standing around chatting.

Image by C. Haupert 5/7/2014.

I unloaded 25 bins of food and science equipment from the beleaguered minivan to plastic lined brailer bags. Hopefully the many layers of plastic between our food and the Bering Sea/North Pacific will keep everything safe and dry. I don’t like to think of the oatmeal and rice swelling into a rancid mass in the coming days.

I hopped down onto the boat deck to help Paula the Deckhand guide the brailers and then unload loose bins and gear from a fish bin the skipper lowered onto deck over and over again. Paula made a European noise in her throat. “What IS all this?” she gestured to the lumber, propone tanks and dozens of plastic crates. “Life and science for 9 people for a month,” I told her.

Paula, left. WideEyedFunk, right. Image by C. Haupert 5/7/14.

It was over in two hours. I shook the skipper’s hand, “See you in a week,” I said, “Smooth sailing,” I told him. We’ll meet up again on Adak.

May 9, 2014
Indiana Jones may have been a little smelly.

Think it through. He packs a gun and a whip in the smallest suitcase I’ve ever seen. There just isn’t room for spare socks and underpants.

He wears the same pants, shirt, and hat throughout every field expedition. That suitcase is too small for a couple of clean sets of clothes.

If you add it all up, he must have been really amazingly smelly. So smelly that it defies belief that he could sneak up on even the sleepiest, slow-brained guard.

I am speaking from a position of deep knowledge and experience here. I just packed up my gear for a field session in the far northern wilderness. Gun, whip, hat – sure they are in the bottom of the crate if you want to think so. Let’s say that the moment I learned the grant support came through I checked the loads on the revolver and tossed the whip into my packing crate, then finished off a couple of fingers of whiskey.

Or, you can picture me huddled over the computer monitor late into the night filling out over 100 forms for the university and the federal government so that I could legally perform the field research and justify spending the money. Exciting indeed. There may have been a couple of fingers of red wine involved.

The packing crate, duffel, and day pack are downstairs lurking in the front parlor. Hamish the Corgi doesn’t like them. Miss Tibbit the Useless carefully monitored each item as it went in. Wiggins the Ancient Cat is considering peeing in the duffel. Or the crate. He can’t decide.

Where ever Wiggins does decide to wee, he’ll be weeing on SEVERAL extra pairs of socks. I cut down on the collection this year and included only 16. So I like clean socks. I’ll be gone for a while. I won’t provide details but there are also plenty of underpants. And some extras of everything else. Plus, my eucalyptus oil for dabbing on my belt. I like to sniff eucalyptus all day and it aroma-protects me from colleagues who pack more like Indy. Way back in the 1990s, a colleague told me that they didn’t see the sense in bringing underwear to the remote field work because it just gets dirty anyway.

We were out in the wilds for two months that year. Yaaaah.

Think good weather thoughts in a northerly direction. Think good garden thoughts for the WideEyedSpouse as he is stuck here with my perennial beds and vegetable dreams. Talk to you on the other side – unless I manage dispatches from the far beyond.

WideEyedFunk, Buffalo NY, May 1.

May 1, 2014