Roving Biologist

Current Mood: amused

As I mentioned in a previous post, when I moved in to this trailer the kitchen was stocked, if you can call it that, with two plates, two glasses, a fork, and a butter knife.  This wasn’t too big a problem, because I’d brought most of the essentials with me, and a trip to the local Family Dollar supplied the rest.

Yesterday when I got back from the field, the kitchenware fairy had been.  It looked like the aftermath of a not-very-festive wedding shower.  There were boxes of new kitchenware stacked everywhere, along with a rather curt (typed) note reading “Put these items where they belong immediately.”  There was a set of pots and pans, eight place settings of dishes (including mugs), a dozen glasses, a case of bargain-basement flatware, a set of utensils, a cutting board and set of knives, and a coffee maker.

I packed most of my things away and filled the cupboards with the new ones.  Some of mine are still out, filling the gaps in the kitchenware fairy’s shopping list—dish towels and oven mitts, for example, and the teakettle that I consider far more essential than a coffee maker.  But the pots and pans are a definite improvement over the nesting set I travel with, and stoneware dishes are much nicer than Lexan.

I suspect the kitchenware fairy is a harbinger of roommates.  I will try not to resent that these future arrivals, whoever they may be, are apparently important enough to merit a properly stocked kitchen, while I was not.  After all, I have (for the two weeks remaining of my stay) the only single bedroom.

It’s been raining a lot lately, and I can’t work in the rain.  No, let me rephrase that.  I can work in the rain, and I have on plenty of occasions.  I mustn’t take the telemetry receiver out in the rain.  That expensive brick of electronics is not packaged in a waterproof housing.  I can, with some effort, fit the receiver under my zipped-up raincoat—I have carry it in front of my belly, like a pregnancy, with the strap around the back of my neck instead of over a shoulder, and getting the coat zipped requires a certain amount of writhing, but it can be done—but it’s hard to hear the signal that way, and very awkward to get to the controls, so that’s more of a solution for getting caught in the rain than for going out in the rain.  So when it’s raining I get time off by default.

 Rain days, however, are not like ordinary days off.  If it’s raining when I get up in the morning, I can’t just decided to drive in to the city and visit a nice dry museum.  No, eventually it has to stop raining, and then it will be time to work, to scramble to get as much done as I can in whatever is left of the day.  So if it’s raining in the morning I can roll over and sleep for another hour, or I can sit at the kitchen table typing up a blog post, but I have to keep one eye or ear on the weather.  Rain days are for reading, or knitting, or cooking somewhat more elaborate meals than a work day allows, but they’re not for going off and having adventures.  Essentially, I’m on call.

 If we were still trapping raccoons it would be different, of course.  You don’t want to leave a cold, wet animal sitting in a trap any longer that you have to.  If we had traps out, we’d be out the door as soon as possible on a wet morning to bring in any animals we caught, and get them into the shed where they could dry off.  One particularly mud-soaked raccoon, chilled enough to shiver, even got a bath (while sedated) and then put in one of the trailers (in a trap) with the heat turned way up to recover from his misadventure.

 The various projects I’ve worked on have had differing approaches to rain.  “Don’t get the electronics wet” is a pretty standard rule, but not every project uses anything electronic.  You can’t band birds in the rain—wet feathers are bad news.  You can observe animals in the rain, but mostly you’ll observe them hunkered down trying to stay as dry as possible (unless you’re working with a rain-loving animal.)  You can do playback surveys in the rain, if you can get your caller wet, but the animals may be less likely to respond, so some projects allow it and others don’t.  You can collect tracks from a trackplate box in the rain, but you have to work both quickly and carefully to avoid getting the tracks wet and smeary.  And in every case you have to keep your data from getting wet and smeary.  There is special waterproof paper available, but it’s expensive, and few of the projects I’ve been on use it.  Enclosed clipboards are a cheaper but less effective solution.

 A rain day every now and then can be nice, and allows me to catch up on sleep or domestic chores.  Five rain days in a row is annoying, and causes a substantial backlog of work.  Much more of this and I’ll start to wonder if my time might be better spent building an ark.

Current Mood: irritated

I have bad ATV juju.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I dislike the machine.  It’s actually quite useful—it goes places a truck can’t, much faster (and more pleasantly, where mud is concerned) than I can go on foot.  In some ways, it’s better than a truck, especially when it comes to turning around on a levee, and it’s more comfortable for me to drive than the truck I mostly use, in which the seat doesn’t move and if my back is within a foot of the backrest I can’t reach the pedals.  I’m not quite at the point where I’d want to ride around on an ATV just for fun, but I can understand why some people do.

But bad things happen to me when I’m using the ATV.  Getting stuck in the mud was obviously attributable to inexperience.  Twisting my wrist* by hitting a bump too hard?  Inexperience again, plus maybe going just a bit too fast.  Breaking a ratchet strap while I had the ATV loaded up on a truck?  Those ratchet straps were worn well past the point when they should have been replaced, and they were going to snap at some point.  Fine.  A series of unfortunate events, all logical and explicable. 

Running over an underground wasp nest and getting stung** six times in the back?  Seriously?!  That’s just too much.

Yes, you can twist an ankle or a knee hiking, or step on a wasp nest.  I’m well aware that field work comes with more minor occupational hazards than the average desk job.  But that machine and I are going to have to have a little chat.  In the meantime, please pass the Benadryl.

 
*Mostly fine now, thank you.

**Again. I'm mostly fine.  I’m not allergic, so I'm just itchy and welt-y.

Current Mood: tired

I’ve been here two weeks now.  It’s been… interesting.

First there was the “how do we hire you” brouhaha.  On day zero, the word from the personnel office was “Hi, here’s some paperwork, you’re a Transient.”  Rather a lot of paperwork, actually, and gee, isn’t that a lovely job title.  Then it was “Oh, wait, you have a degree… you can’t be a Transient, you have to be a Research Associate.  Come back and do some more paperwork, and we’ll need a copy of your transcript,” immediately followed by (from the boss, this time) “Except that I can’t pay you at the Research Associate rate, so you need to be 3/8* of a Research Associate even though I need you to work full time.  You might still get full benefits, though.”  Hmm.  At least it will look impressive on my resume.  And full benefits would be a new and different perk.   The next day (just before the trip back to town for that new paperwork, and from the personnel office again) it was “Never mind, we’ve received special dispensation to hire you as a Transient.”  From whom?  Do I get a choice?

 Then there was the amazing appearing, disappearing technician.  There were supposed to be three and a half people on this project:  the boss (who is a grad student), two full-time technicians (I’m one of those), and the undergrad (who comes on weekends and is therefore the half.)  The other technician showed up two days after I did, which was more or less the plan, and left three days after that, which was not at all the plan.  He had a family emergency.  I sympathize.  But he gave the impression that he’s not coming back, and the boss has decided not to hire someone to replace him.  Because of the lead time required to hire and train a new technician, and because he apparently liked what he saw in my first week’s performance, he decided we (which mostly means me) could do without that third person.  And… (sing it with me, if you really know your Gilbert and Sullivan) …although the compliment implied inflates me with legitimate pride, it nevertheless can’t be denied that it has its inconvenient side!  Namely, the hours.  This first full pay period I worked just under 130 hours.  That’s a bit more than full time, no?

 The new skills, though… telemetry is every bit as straightforward as I expected.  Using an ATV is also pretty simple, and maybe even fun, although it has its quirks.  I’m apparently the only person in the state of Louisiana to ever wear a helmet on an ATV, so that’s earned me a number of odd looks and a certain amount of ribbing.  Oh well.  The throttle is a thumb-lever on the handlebar, and I’m finding it a very odd spot to have a sore muscle.  And then there’s been the adventure of finding the boundaries of the “All” in “All-Terrain Vehicle.”  One of the first days I was out on my own I came to a spot where the trail disappeared under water.  Serious water, as far as I could see.  Could have been a lake, except for the trees growing out of it.  So I figured it was impassable and went elsewhere.  I related this to the boss, and he said, “I’ll have to take you out there some time and show you.  We’ll get muddy.  It will be good for you.”

And so he did.  He drove straight through the swamped trail.  I rode on the back.  It was maybe a half-mile to dryish land on the other side, with the mud and water sometimes coming over the top of the tires and even up to our knees, but the ATV never balked.  Where there were downed trees across the trail, we either went over them, or if they were particularly big, went around, which meant going over whatever happened to be in the woods next to the road.  This, apparently, is what an ATV is really for.  So, fine.  I drove going back the other direction.  I got it high-centered on a downed tree.  He got it un-high-centered by being more aggressive with the throttle than I had been.  And then he said, “don’t worry, it’s pretty much impossible to get an ATV truly stuck.”

 Clearly, the poor man had no idea what happens when you tell me something is impossible.  A few days later I got one of our ATVs well and truly stuck in the mud.  Deep, thick sucking mud, the kind that will pull your boots right off.   I had to climb up a downed tree to get a cell phone signal** and explain to the boss that I was stuck;  yes, badly stuck;  and where I was.  He came out with another ATV and a winch.  As he inspected the situation he kept saying “Good Lord!,” which would have been really worrying if he hadn’t been saying it with something close to a smile on his face.  I think he might have been impressed.  He certainly wasn’t angry.  And we did eventually get it out.  Wonderful things, winches.  If I’d been on one of the ATVs with a built-in winch, I wouldn’t have needed help getting unstuck.  (When I go through that area now, I go around the mud, straight over the top of several downed trees.)

 So after two weeks:  I’m very tired.  I’m frequently filthy.  I’m occasionally frustrated.  And yet somehow, I’m having fun.  Go figure.

 I’ll write an explain-the-science post later, after I’ve read the official research proposal.  I can tell you, though, that I was right about the connection between turkeys and raccoons being that raccoons eat turkey eggs.

*fraction approximate.  I don’t exactly remember at this point.

 **could have been worse.  If cell phones weren’t at least semi-reliable here, we’d be on radios, and everyone else with a radio would have known I was stuck.

Current Mood: happy

I made it to New Orleans for Mardi Gras after all.  Or more properly, for Carnival, since I was there on Sunday, not Tuesday.  I wasn’t sure I would.  My thoughts on the matter progressed like this:

     1)  “Of course I’m going, how could I not if I’m in the area?”

     2)  (after some nagging by concerned family members)  “Maybe it’s not safe for me to go alone.”

      3)  (after arriving here and learning my work schedule)  “Oh.  I won’t have a day off.  Ever.  I guess I won’t be going.”

 And then someone or something prodded some sense into my boss, he realized that I’m not an indentured servant and he has to give me the occasional day off, and he suggested I take a day off specifically for the purpose of going to Mardi Gras.  I applied the same logic to the safety issue that I did to backpacking solo in grizzly country:  if my only options are to go alone or not go at all, I’ll go alone and keep my wits about me.  And off I went to New Orleans.

 I only had half a day there.  Even on my supposed day off, I had to help put a collar on a raccoon in the morning—it really is a two person job, and by that time only the boss and I were around.  Then there was the two hour drive there, and the nagging awareness of the two hour drive back, the having to work in the morning, and the need to at some point buy groceries.  It was noon by the time I got to New Orleans and found a place to park, and I left at dusk.   No doubt I missed out on some of the more risqué elements that must surely emerge after dark, and perhaps that is an important part of the authentic Mardi Gras experience, but I enjoyed the relatively family-friendly portion of the festivities.  Perhaps another year I’ll have the opportunity to go, maybe with a group, and stay out all night.

 So what did I do with my half day of Mardi Gras?  I wandered the streets of the French and Latin Quarters, gawking at the interesting architecture.  I listened to wonderful live music.  I struggled to find something to eat—there was plenty of food available, but almost none of it vegetarian:  Cajun food involves lots of fish, shellfish, alligator, and chicken, and even the beans and rice includes sausage.  I would up with a very boring cheese pizza for dinner and a quite tasty falafel sandwich from a hole-in-the-wall middle eastern place for lunch.  I determined that hurricanes are too sweet for my tastes, and that drinks sold on the street have less alcohol in them than you might expect (and are overpriced, but that’s no surprise.)  And yes, I allowed plenty of time between that discovery and the drive back to camp.

 And, of course, I watched parades—three of them—and caught things thrown off floats.  The floats were clearly put together on a smaller budget than, say, a Rose Parade float, but were impressive none the less.  In one of the parades all the floats were covered in metallic mylar.  Many of the floats clearly had a significance that only a local would understand.  Wagons carrying jazz bands probably outnumbered marching bands, and the jazz musicians appeared to be having a far better time than the marchers.  The steam calliope from Winona, Minnesota was a real surprise.

 I knew that people threw things off floats in the Mardi Gras parades, but I didn’t realize just how much stuff gets thrown.  My catch includes several pounds of beads (seriously, I think they might outweigh some of the raccoons), two stuffed animals (one of which I gave to a little girl standing near me), and a spear.  Yes, a spear.  Also being thrown were cups (which went strictly to the watchers on the downwind side of the parade, in spite of the best efforts of the throwers—it was a windy day), plastic coins (which mostly ended up in the street, for the same reason), footballs, tomahawks, tote bags, rubber balls, and frilly panties (I did say relatively family-friendly.)

 And the good times rolled (a bit.)

Current Mood: cranky

Safely arrived at my new job.  Trip was uneventful save for torrential downpours in Tennessee.  Unpacking, getting settled, blah blah blah…

 
As some of you may already have heard, the housing provided by this new job is a trailer.  And not just any trailer, but a FEMA trailer left over from Hurricane Katrina.  Or rather, two FEMA trailers—one for men and one for women.  Apparently, here in what my new boss described as “the Christian South” unrelated and unmarried men and women sharing the same housing is unthinkable.  I’m the only woman on this (small) crew, and at present we are the only crew in residence, so I have the female trailer to myself.

 It’s a single-width trailer with three bedrooms, one bathroom, and a kitchen/living area.  The floor is covered in linoleum, the walls are something that appears to be a linoleum/wallpaper hybrid (except for half a wall that is, inexplicably, bare drywall), and the ceiling, oddly, is stuccoed.  None of the doors quite fit in their frames.  This may be because the structure flexed in transport, or it may be that the humidity here is enough to warp even faux wood.

 The kitchen has a standard fridge/freezer, stove/oven, microwave, and sink (without garbage disposal.)  I was warned that beyond that it might be poorly equipped.  “Poorly equipped” in this case turns out to mean two plates, two glasses, a fork, and a butter knife.  Fortunately, I was reasonably well prepared, but I now have a shopping list with such items as silverware, sponges, dish towels, ice cube trays, and a small sharp knife.  The cabinets are very obviously cheap, but seem to be holding up to whatever use they have received so far.

 The bathroom is no better than the kitchen.  The toilet runs continuously, and while I am proficient at toilet repair I really don’t feel that I should have to pay for the new flapper it needs.  The shower is so dismal I nearly cried the first time I used it—almost no water pressure, and most of the water just runs down the shower wall.  Replacing the shower head might help, and it’s something I can and probably will do, but again I really don’t think it should be my responsibility.  I’ll also need to buy a drain plug if I ever want to take a bath.  On the other hand, the water here reeks so badly of sulfur that I may not want a bath or a long shower even if they become possible.  But I consider a decent shower one of the cornerstones of civilization—and given how dirty I’m going to be getting, and how frequently (this is, hands down, the muddiest place I’ve ever been) it’s all but essential.

 The bedroom is fine, largely because I was able to commandeer the one actual mattress and box spring set in the place.  The rest of the beds have a bizarre all-in-one box and mattress with far more corrugated cardboard in their construction than seems reasonable for a bed.  The window seems to be stuck closed, but I can probably get it to open if I work at it.

 Yes, I am living here for a temporary job, not because I lost my home to a hurricane.  I’m well aware that this makes me far more fortunate than most of the occupants of FEMA trailers.  But I can certainly see how moving into one of these after surviving a hurricane would seem like insult on top of injury.

Oh, and while I’m whining… (because that’s certainly what I’m doing in this post…)  There’s no alcohol allowed on the property.  You probably all know I’m not much of a drinker, and I’m no fan of drunken co-workers.  But.  I’m an adult.  Everyone I’ve seen on this property so far has been an adult.  Is a glass of wine with my dinner really that much to ask for?

Current Mood: geeky

To tell this story I’ll have to finally explain the trackplate boxes we use to collect data in the field.  The boxes are a plastic tunnel about three feet long, one foot wide, and one foot tall.  The back end of the tunnel is closed off with a square of 1/2 inch wire mesh, secured with binder rings and duct tape.  Inset six inches from the front of the tunnel are three pieces of barbed wire, spaced so that a fisher-sized animal can get through them but usually has to brush against at least one wire to do so.  The trackplate itself slides into the bottom of the box.  The first seventeen inches of the trackplate are covered in soot.  The next nine inches are wrapped in contact paper, sticky side up.  The last four inches are bare, and that's where we put the bait-- four ounces of raw chicken.  The idea is that for a fisher (or other animal) to get the chicken, it has to first cross the soot and get its feet dirty, then walk on the contact paper and leave us nice clear tracks.  After a small free meal it then turns around and leaves the way it came.  Either coming or going it may leave some loose hair snagged on the barbed wire.  (No, this doesn't hurt the animal, any more than brushing your hair hurts you.)  The tracks allow us to identify the animal to species, and the hair is sent off to a lab for genetic analysis.  (This is a simplified description, of course, but it's good enough to set up this story.)

That's the way it's supposed to work, anyhow.  I had a fisher this run who had a different idea.  He* pulled open the back of the box and got the chicken from that end.  This is not particularly unusual-- many of the larger and/or smarter animals go through the back of the boxes from time to time.  Fishers, foxes, ravens, and bears are all likely culprits, and while they sometimes leave clues as to their identity it isn't usually solid enough evidence to be recorded as data.  This fisher, though, after getting the chicken without needing to go through the box, went through it anyhow-- from back to front, leaving faint dirt tracks on the contact paper and tracks through the soot.  All the tracks led out of the box, save for one half track (toes and the very front of the palm pad) right on the front edge of the soot-- whether this means that the fisher turned around to look at where he'd been, or that he initially approached the box from the front and then decided to try the back, I couldn't tell you.  This happened on my first check of this box.  All the rest of the checks the back of the box was opened and the chicken gone, but no tracks were left.  One trip through the box was evidently enough.

*I use the male pronoun deliberately.  As with many carnivores, male fishers are bigger than female fishers.  Not so much that you'd notice if you saw one running around, but enough that tracks can sometimes be identified to sex just by looking at them.  Not always that, even, as there's a fair amount of overlap, and even the biggest male fisher was once a little baby fisher.  But from the size of these tracks, I'm fairly confident that this silly fisher was male.