Saturday, August 29, 2009

That was actually not my last day at Toolik.

As it turns out, we decided to stay an extra day to finish field work and to give us more time to pack the truck. We made that decision on Thursday, so Friday the 21st turned out to be my last day at Toolik.

Once we had decided that, we didn't feel so rushed and frantic, and my last day turned out surprisingly well. Although it mostly consisted of packing the truck during the day, another camp T-ball game was scheduled for 8:30 Friday evening, and I got to join in.

Camp T-ball consisted of any number of staff, students and RAs per team, using the camp pad between the carpenter's shop and the dining hall as the playing field. Out of bounds were where the towers (outhouses) and residential buildings began, and bases were made from old truck mudflaps. The T-ball apparatus itself consisted of an orange construction cone with some kind of pipe stuck through the top, onto which a largish foam Nerf-like ball was placed for hitting with a hollow plastic bat. Rather than the usual 3 outs, there were 5 outs per side, and after both sides had a few beers the outs and score counts got rather random. It reminded me of the kinds of games I used to play in the street with my sister and brothers and our school friends outside our house growing up in Chicago (minus the beers). At that time of year at Toolik the game was played basically during a two-hour sunset, after which true darkness came on and the temperature dropped. We all went inside the dining hall to warm up, and I stayed to chat with people, something I usually didn't do when a full day of work awaited the next day.

I would have been perfectly content to end my last night this way, and was pleasantly surprised when I was told some people were going on a boat ride on Toolik Lake and I was welcome to join them. As an RA for tundra vegetation studies, all of my work was carried out on dry land, and though numerous opportunities to swim or boat had presented themselves all summer, the fact that I have zero boating experience as well as zero swimming ability meant I'd had pretty much no interaction with Toolik Lake during my stay.

We left just before dark, and the clouds to the west had parted revealing the last of what must have been a magnificent sunset. The air was quite cold and the boat traveled through the water at a speed that was just a hair's breadth from scary, but since I had spent the entire summer with the guys who'd invited me and had seen far dicier situations turn out for the better, I accepted the beer that was handed to me and took a sip without failing to notice that the far shore seemed to leap frantically into view. We stopped for a few minutes at a tiny island on the far shore before racing home, banking the boat at an incredible angle. Scott, the camp's carpenter and overall mechanical guru, sat in front like some mad expedition leader, insisting we all stick a finger into the water to feel the energy of the boat propelled through the water by Shelby, another of the camp's mechanics as well as its fire marshall. I declined, as the air was plenty cold and only magnified by the sight of the Brooks Range looming white across the lake. We got back in one piece, and though it was no doubt just a lark for the guys, for me it added a much needed dash of excitement, and something to always remember.

But I think they knew that. This is how the people of Toolik are. Generous to a fault, talented as they breathe, hard working, and always ready and willing to have fun.

When we left in the morning, they, and the remaining RAs, were there waving to us goodbye.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Today is my last day at Toolik.

We leave tomorrow morning, an 8 or 10 hour drive down the haul road to Fairbanks. I will stay the weekend with my employers at their home while I look for apartments. So far I have zero appointments to view apartments. They keep getting rented. It's hard to secure an apartment when you're several hundred miles away and can't beat other potential renters to the punch by getting an earlier appointment. You can only send an email expressing interest and hope they haven't rented by the time you get back to civilization.

On top of it we still have fieldwork to do this afternoon. I'm less than thrilled by that, I was hoping to have a day of relaxation, take care of personal business, do some sketching and such. I have to help finish not only the field measurements but the packing of the rest of the lab. Last night I came back from gathering samples to find everyone in camp playing a lively game of T-ball. I would have loved to join in but couldn't possibly have done that with my employers working away in their lab until 10:30. I've been on the clock a lot here. Sigh. I'm ready to leave and yet kind of sad about it, trying not to beat myself up about whether I could have had more fun instead of keeping my nose to the grindstone and trying to be good.

You only get one chance to do whatever it is you do. So I guess whatever you've done it's best to be OK with the result and move on.

I will miss walking on the spongy, springy, often wet, fragrant tundra. The many hours I've spent on a clear day walking alone through this landscape surrounded by its vastness, happily distracted by its unique and endless detail, were some of the best I've ever known. It's weird, but the other day I went up to one of my favorite spots and told the land how much I love it and how much I will miss it. This is the thing I fell in love with, so dumbly and blindly, with no hope of it ever returning my love.

So now that I've said my goodbyes to my dear tundra, I can't wait to get home and see my dear husband and family. It will be brief, because in a week from now Joe and I say goodbye to our friends and family and drive up to Fairbanks. It seems I've succeeded in figuring out a way to be near my beloved wonderland.

In truth, I'm still scared. But it's OK to be scared and go through with it anyway.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

The mission is over!!

What a great sound, the helicopter coming into the pad. Right at dinnertime too!!!

Our friends must be so hungry. They will have a great dinner tonight.

YAY!!!
Finally, the clouds have lifted and the rotors are spinning. They are taking off to bring Sarah and Casey back to camp.

I hear the helicopter now. We can actually see it from my boss' office in the lab. He's just left the pad.

Good luck guys, come back soon!
They are ok. As of lunchtime they spoke to Mimi by satellite phone and were hunkered down playing cards in their tent. We can still see fog obscuring the view of the mountains west of Toolik Lake.

Bad weather this morning.

At 7 am rain and thick fog. They will have to wait just a little longer.

At breakfast today people were still able to make jokes (they're missing some good desserts, they should have taken a raft etc). I suspect this is just a way of coping, of saying out loud: everything's still OK.

I'm a born worrier, and though I don't want to make it worse than it is, I'm starting to find the jokes a bit irritating.

I think because it could have been any one of us. So every hot cup of coffee, every mouthful of hot food, has a different taste in my mouth today.

He's Back--Again!!

He's coming!

He descended so, so slowly in the near dark, and Mimi shone the headlights of her truck on the pad for him to land.

The rotors are in low rotation now. I imagine they will be shut off shortly.

This is what I mean about a backbone of steel. This is not the kind of job for everyone.

I imagine that he feels as badly as the rest of us about the other group, and knows he's the only one in camp who has the ability to rescue them. It has to be a heavy thing.

Shutdown.

The first group are all back.

This is as much as can be done at this point.

It's pitch dark out now, at 12:26 AM Alaska Time

I glanced at my window and I can no longer see it. I have been used to seeing the sky all summer through the single small window that faces south towards the Brooks Range, but it has completely blended into the darkness at the other end of my weatherport, and not even the screen of my laptop can illuminate it.

Perhaps his plan was to land at the river while there was still some light, and pass the dark hours with the rest of the Itkillik group. Perhaps he has brought some extra food and gear for them. In the morning I imagine his first thought is to try to get the two others at Anaktuvuk.

I guess all we an do is wait until dawn.

Still Waiting...

With my space heater fan turned off I hear the wind rustling nervously at the fabric of my weatherport. A truck passes on the haul road uphill from camp, a faint sound that registers simply as "not the Toolik Taxi". I'm getting colder, but I have heat at my fingertips. The two people at Anaktuvuk will be very cold tonight. They have a tent provided with their emergency gear, but I can't imagine it is enough. The National Weather Service calls for:


TONIGHT...CLOUDY. RAIN LIKELY AFTER MIDNIGHT. PATCHY FOG AFTER
MIDNIGHT. LOWS AROUND 40. SOUTH WINDS AROUND 15 MPH.
.TUESDAY...RAIN LIKELY. SNOW LEVEL FALLING TO 2000 FEET.
ACCUMULATION OF 1 TO 3 INCHES POSSIBLE. PATCHY FOG. TEMPERATURES
STEADY 35 TO 45. VARIABLE WINDS LESS THAN 15 MPH.

The forecasts here cover such a huge area they are often sketchy. It could be 40 on average but locally some parts of the tundra could be much colder. Or, possibly, warmer. I hope it stays dry for them.

Jonas Has Gone Back for the Others..

I heard him approach, then the sound died away. Itkillik Group 2 must be down to 4 now, so he should be able to get all of them back, assuming he can fly back at this point. From the sound he's to our South and West, tracking the Itkillik North. Of course he has a GPS unit but from what little I understand about these things the pilot has to be able to see terra firma in order to fly.

I just can't sleep until I find out what happens next. Until then I'm rather a nervous wreck. I turned off my space heater to be able to hear Jonas' approach, and now that he's gone I can turn the blower back on, but I don't want to miss anything. As with the generator, I imagine that I can still hear the faint hum of the Toolik Taxi.

I guess as I have quite a stomach ache right now and it would be hard to sleep.

It's not quite a MASH episode.

Being real life, it's much more complicated. On my way over to our lab trailer I saw someone hauling some gear and found out she was taking some warm clothing over to the dorms to some of the people who'd returned. Jonas (I wasn't going to use people's names, but I have to say I couldn't not use his name in my last entry, seeing as I've shared meals and movie night and wisecracks with the guy) brought 5 people back (the normal load is 4) and has gone over to Galbraith airstrip to refuel. I asked one of the PIs if he's really equipped to fly in the dark and the answer was that he's really not, but it turns out the Itkillik group is only 14 miles away, and he may be able to use the river's reflection of the twilit sky to get the second group. Two of the people in that group now waiting by the river share our lab with us.

The other two people, at Anaktuvuk, are much farther away and impossible to retrieve at this point. I know one of them slightly, and just recently met the other, who is here for only a short term.

Meanwhile, those that returned have been provided with warm clothes, food, and have been moved to the warmer trailer dorms rather than the vinyl weatherports to spend the night in. The camp manager said that he has re-stoked the sauna too.

Re-fueling will take about a half hour, and at this time of night it's not completely dark (2 am is "solar midnight" up here when the sun is at its lowest point).

I hear him. At least I think it's him. It's way darker now too. Jonas be careful, be safe!

Yep, that's him, he's coming back. I'm sure he's been in contact with his flight coordinator on what he should do next.

THEY MADE IT!!!

The helicopter just flew past my weatherport. I heard the flight truck roar out to the road to go meet them. Since there are a total of 11 people it remains to be seen how many returned, and whether the pilot will go back for the others.

The rotors are still on, so it's possible he might hot offload that group and go back out. It's sometimes hard to tell because for hot offloading as well as for shutdown the rotors are kept revolving at a lower speed, so he will shortly now either shut down or rev up again to get the others. HE'S GOING BACK!!

It's got to be extremely risky doing that, but he's going for it.

Godspeed, Jonas!

Monday, August 17, 2009

It's autumn on the tundra.

In what seems like no time at all the foliage has turned all shades of red, gold, purple, orange, and the weather has alternated between brilliantly sunny and mild to bouts of rain and snow.

It is my last week, and after something like seventy days, life has settled into a rather comfortable and predictable routine for the most part. The week started like every other that I've seen since I came to Toolik. You wake up, have a hot breakfast and begin your day. This may consist of long hours in the field, or it may involve a long stretch in the lab at your computer or weighing and measuring samples. For two separate groups today it meant a helicopter ride to the Anaktuvuk River burn site. Various projects are being carried out there; we did our vegetation sampling late last month, and practically every week some group has scheduled a flight out there throughout the entire summer.

I didn't see them leave today, I barely remember the helicopter taking off this morning, the sound has become so routine. Perhaps it is for this reason we informally call it the "Toolik Taxi". It was cloudy this morning but the ceiling was high and it was good flying weather. By late afternoon the clouds broke up and it got quite warm and pleasant. My group did some field measurements at a local site, we took a Toolik van and spent about 2 or 3 hours scoring vegetation for the presence of pathogens and herbivore damage before returning to camp for another excellent dinner.

By that time it had become a beautiful clear evening, and shortly after dinner I signed out a camp bike and went for a ride on the local gravel roads. Partly because I had quite a bit of dessert (apple crisp served warm with vanilla ice cream) and partly because the evening was so beautiful I wanted to get one more chance to take a ride on a beautiful evening before I leave camp on Friday. As I rode along I saw some low clouds hugging one of the nearby low rounded mountains just to the north and west of camp. I did my usual circuit of the old camp pad, the end of the old airstrip, and the "japanese garden" where people have built large cairns from the shore rocks along the west end of the lake. By the time I returned the bike, some 20 minutes later the sunlight was veiled over by mist, and in a matter of minutes was completely obliterated. It seemed too quick that the camp had become shrouded in such a thick fog. I tried to remember if I'd seen the helicopter on my way out. The helicopter pad is on the main road near the entrance gate, and I seemed to remember that the pad had been empty. Yes, it was, because on my way out I saw a ladder sitting out there, and thought of the song "Stairway to Heaven" thinking that was kind of funny because the ladder which is normally used by the mechanic to get on top of the helicopter lead to nothing but thin air.

It became clear by degrees that the two groups who had left early this morning would now be stuck in the fog. We kept hearing updates through the grapevine once someone checked in with the flight coordinator, who was in satellite phone contact with the pilot. At the last update at 10 PM there was a group of nine including the pilot camped on the Itkillik River. They had a fire going and everyone was fine and in good spirits. Each time you fly you are given one or two green rubber bags that contain or are supposed to contain a tent, sleeping bag, and some food in case of such strandings. The pilot always brings extra sleeping bags and food, and though there were only three bags and nine people it seemed that their situation was stable.

The other group consists of just two people with a survival tent and no sleeping bags. Their situation is much more worrisome, and although they are at the same burn site, it is such a large area, consisting of several hundred square miles, it would be next to impossible for them to make it to the other group.

They are out in a vast and wild area far from the nearest road (which is the Dalton), it's getting dark, and there are wolves and grizzly bears no doubt roaming around in the near dark out there in search of errant rutting caribou.

I find it especially hard to sleep now. It is the time of year when it gets dark up here, almost pitch dark, and even if the fog were to lift it is now too dark to fly. So they will be stuck there until at least the morning, when hopefully the fog will lift.

Yesterday I rode the camp bike to my favorite local spot and lay down on a dry heath covered hill under the brilliant sunshine. When I returned from my ride a group of people had set up a net near our lab and were playing a lively game of badminton. We had had ham steaks, scalloped potatoes, and bread pudding in whiskey caramel sauce for our Sunday dinner. Life here, up to now, has been rather good.

On my way to my room tonight I heard a humming in the air and for a second thought it was the helicopter. It was the diesel generator that hums away 24-7 at the edge of camp, providing us our heat and hot water and electricity so that we can do our work and eat and sleep in comfort. Up until now I have tuned the sound out of my life here as a kind of white noise.

I'd do anything to hear that helicopter right now. I have the feeling the minute we hear that baby coming we are all gonna run like hell up to the pad to greet them. Like a MASH episode, our MASH episode.

Guys, I hope you're safe and warm tonight. Come back soon!

Sunday, August 9, 2009

I will be leaving camp in twelve days.

For weeks we've enjoyed clear, dry weather with temperatures in the low 70's. Today it is around 30 degrees Fahrenheit. Yesterday evening became windy and rainy and overnight changed to snow! I went to bed with my weatherport rocking in the storm, and woke up to a transformed landscape. The hills around camp are dusted in white, and low clouds to the south are beginning to lift, revealing the crags of the Brooks Range sharply delineated in blues and greys against the pure white of its north slopes shining under the morning sun.

The light coating of snow has a way of bringing out the contours of the tundra much like a charcoal sketch, unlike the velvety effect that occurs at the height of summer when the land is covered in actively photosynthesizing greenery.

I will be leaving camp in twelve days.

To say I have enjoyed my stay here is a poor way of conveying all the I have experienced during the summer. At this point with just under two weeks to wrap things up, I can say that I wish I had more time and yet I am ready to leave. Last night before falling asleep I realized that it has been sixty-two days since I have heard a car's honk, a dog's bark, a child's cry, a jet plane engine, an ambulance or police siren, a car alarm, or the jingling bells of the ice cream men that ride through our neighborhood with their tricycles this time of year.

I have heard very frequently the wail of the yellow-billed loon, the two-note chatter of the siksik (the arctic ground squirrel) which sounds just like its name, and the shrill caw-caw-caw of a small band of ravens who like to come sit on our our chimneys and check us out. I have decided that what they are saying is: LOOK EVERBODY, A WOMAN HAS JUST COME OUT OF THE TOILET!

I've also heard on a practically daily basis the roar of the helicopter, various vehicles, pumps and machinery that are what keeps this place functioning, and at night it's not uncommon to hear banjos, guitars and voices coming from the music tent, or the raucous roar of people whooping it up after hours by the bonfire.

This morning I awakened to the completely new sound of sheets of snow sliding down the sides of my weatherport. This morning in the lab I can hear by my window the patter of water dripping from the downspout as the day warms and the snow, perhaps, decides to pay us only a brief visit.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Helicopters and Food. Oh, Boy!

I wanted to write at greater length about two topics I've already touched upon before: helicopters and food. They deserve a second mention, partly because they are not normally something that you get for free in the course of earning a paycheck, and partly also because they are two of the more sublime fringe benefits of being here.

The pilots will joke that they are glorified taxi drivers taking researchers to their various study sites dotting the tundra, but when it comes down to it, flying a helicopter over mountainous terrain fully loaded with people and their gear that often includes sensitive and costly scientific instruments, live samples, and sometimes dangerous chemicals, has to take a backbone of steel. Just prior to liftoff the cabin of the aircraft vibrates considerably and the sound is deafening (earplugs are always given to each passenger and headphones for hearing and communicating with the pilot must be worn, not to mention seatbelts). At liftoff, the helicopter makes a tremendous effort to get airborne vertically, after which the pilot is able to fly forward and gain altitude. For all that power, takeoffs and landings almost feel like levitation because they are so smooth, and, except for the engine noise, almost barely noticeable. One minute you are flying a couple thousand feet over what looks like a nubby carpet of vegetation, the next minute you see individual tussocks and shrubs just a few feet below, and before you know it you're on terra firma--with nary a bump to to indicate you've just made contact with the earth. If the pilot can't see the ground below, then he will not fly. Several times we had gotten ready to fly and were told we had to wait in camp due to heavy fog. On our last trip--to the Sag-Atigun Valley on Friday for a one-day sampling of four transects with a team of eight people--heavy smoke from a wildfire about a hundred miles south of our location almost totally obscured the view of the mountains surrounding the valley, and the pilot had to hurry to get both groups returned to camp in a timely manner as the smoke and dimming evening light was making it difficult to see. In situations where other groups are waiting out on the tundra for a pick up, we often "hot" unload our gear, with the rotors still turning. During a hot load/unload you are instructed to stand close to the aircraft, have one person in charge of unloading everything from the baggage compartment in the rear, and exit as a group at a 90 to 45 degree angle from the pilot's window, making sure that he sees all of you and gives you a thumbs up first before you leave. Also important is not approaching the helicopter from uphill--lest you run the risk of decapitating yourself!

That is it for now about helicopters. I wanted to say more about the food. Or just at least pay tribute to the fantastic made-from-scratch menu here through a litany of some of the dishes I've had recently:

Bell peppers stuffed with spicy chunks of beef and topped with cheese, Peruvian style; nectarines in sugar syrup with fresh mint over home made shortbread with creme fraiche; tandoori chicken and indian vegetable curry over basmati rice; sesame butter cookies; vegetable lasagne, caesar salad, and classic tiramisu; potato-kale soup; pumpkin pancakes with real maple syrup; apple cranberry muffins; apricot almond scones; arugula with peach poppyseed dressing; mexican chocolate cookies; classic flan; blackberry pie; seared tuna steaks with a black sesame crust; blue corn sourdough bread; African peanut soup (one of my favorites!); cold slabs of jerk chicken; buttermilk pancakes; roast cornish hen in apricot sauce; roast turkey with stuffing and cranberry sauce; green bean casserole with french onion topping; carmelitas (mexican chocolate caramel brownies); Korean barbecued short ribs; macadamia nut torte; minted mango chutney over fresh vanilla custard; plum tart.