The Succession (8/29)

It's been less than a week since I left Dismal, but there are a few things that I miss, and a few things that have helped me settle into the abroad program I'm participating in this semester. I'm in Woods Hole, the first thing I noticed was that I didn't recognize too many of the trees here.

Though, I've lived most of my life not knowing much about trees, I had really gotten used to mentally running through my list of Southeastern Swamp trees as I rolled down the unforgiving gravel roads of the refuge.

There are a few things I recognize here: Queen Anne's Lace, which grows in great abundance in the swamp, speckles the landscape here with its white flowers and umbel shape. Poisonous to humans, there's a small cluster of chokeberry growing near the steps to the main building of my new school. Outside of our classroom, there's a tree I strongly suspect of being a tulip poplar that consistently distracts me from my lecture.

After working with the SCA and the Fish and Wildlife service, I've become so used to the outdoor classroom. The past three months, every time I've learned something new I've been standing waist deep in water, reaching shoulder-deep into mud, or in the middle of a forest. Sitting in a classroom all day that first day was difficult to adjust to- I was ansty, impatient, and I wanted nothing more than to be in the open air instead of locked in a frigid classroom.

We went out to do a weather reading, and it was raining. While I'm sure others were uncomfortable with the potential soaking, I may have been overeager. The cool rain on my arms was refreshing, I was content to be breathing the late-summer air and turning my body to face the wind. I would have honestly rather have had class out in the drizzle than in the uncomfortable, squeaking chairs of the lecture hall. Which is so funny, because I remember the first day I worked in the rain- I was miserable, wishing for a blanket and a warm cup of tea and a good book.

The things I learned in the Swamp are relevant to me now- the weather observations I made for surveys and flow measurements are the basis for the log I'm keeping throughout the days now. There's a potential project topic that uses the same acoustic technology that I made ditch measurements with. Even though I'm far from every home I've ever made for myself, I know that when I go to sea, I'll be soaking wet and perfectly content.

It's strange to consider that this sign won't great me every morning on my way to work anymore. It was the first thing I saw when I began my summer back in June, and it was the last thing I saw as I entered the fall.

This is my last post for this blog- I'd again like to thank all those that took the time to read my words and visit these places in my head. I've really enjoyed putting this experience into words, and I sincerely hope that a few of you will follow me as I move through my next adventure: http://seaofatlas.blogspot.com/

August 24th

Well, today was it- my summer is officially over, and it seems a little bit surreal.

For one, the weeks absolutely flew by- but as I click through my previous posts, it's obvious why the days rolled by so quickly.

So today, I tied up a bunch of loose ends, I sent in forms, signed papers, and packed up the camera the SCA so generously lent me for the summer. I went out into the swamp for the last time today- Fred and I went to snap a few pictures and read some staff gages. Then, in the afternoon he threw me a little pizza party.

It's so strange to consider the fact that I won't be pulling on my rubber boots on Monday morning to head into the office, coffee in hand. I got hugs and good lucks and good jobs and keep in touches. Between my chat with the refuge manager and my supervisor, I feel a lot more confident about how I did over the past couple of months.

I worked pretty hard- as I had intended to. There were days when I felt unmotivated, incapable, or tired, but there were also days when I felt eager, competent, and energetic. From the get-go, I felt like I had a steep learning curve to climb, just because I had a nonexistent background in water. I had no experience at all in field work- the only backpacks I ever carried textbooks in them. The only boots I owned were to keep out the Upstate New York chill in the wintertime.

Well then! I got good feedback- I picked things up quickly, and my willingness to jump in ditches and hike through the swamp was appreciated. Of course, I couldn't have been willing without the support of everyone reading this, without everyone that took the time to reach out or chat with me. My mentor, Juancarlos, has been a godsend the entire summer. My parents have been so utterly supportive throughout this entire experience.

I'm happy with what I've done! I've grown as a person- I have renewed confidence in my ability to seek out and accept new challenges. I pushed myself outside of my comfort zone and have emerged wiser because of it. I feel like a Vassar Girl- as strong and bold as the SCA's founder, Liz Putnam. The Great Dismal Swamp is a part of me now- not just the ticks and bug bites and tiny scratches I've picked up along the way- but now I can surely say that it's one of those places that has shaped me. I'm not just talking about the muscles I didn't know I had in my shoulders and arms, I'm talking about everything else. Of course, I've learned from the people I've been around, from those late night conversations at the bunkhouse to the long rides in the truck.

So now, armed with this new experience, I head into my next adventure- with a new fearlessness regarding the great outdoors. I hope that you've enjoyed reading about my summer, I really, truly appreciate your taking the time to share this with me. My intent is to do something similar with the coming weeks- you can follow my seafaring here: http://seaofatlas.blogspot.com/

Again- thank you! To those of you reading, to those of you at the Great Dismal Swamp, to the CDIP and the SCA and everyone connected to them, and of course, to the swamp itself.

True Swamp (8/22)

New enemy

I would like to begin this post with a polite rescinding of all of the nice things I have ever said about greenbrier. Blackberries will always be a sworn enemy, but after this afternoon, the greenbrier has fallen out of my favor as well.

            We got a slow start to the day, a bunch of refuge business fell out of the sky all at once. The office was abuzz with all of the activity, and when I went out to open a locked entrance for the people doing the preparation for the lidar flight, the rear driver's side tire began to hiss violently. My third flat of the summer! The gravel roads really chew up the tires on the vehicles.

            This was annoying and stressful, I ended up going to the shop for an air fill-up before I floored it to get to the tire shop. I didn't get back until 11 am, so the beginning of the day was a bit hectic.

            When things finally settled down, Fred and I headed out to take soil samples. This was something that has been on the list of things to do all summer, but with traveling to Prime Hook and the other refuge projects it's become one of the last things I'll do here.

            I've been writing about the swamp all summer, and now that my time here is coming to a close, I'm not sure if I did a decent job of putting this place into words. As I was out, tromping around in the muck for one of the last times, I was reflecting on sensations, both uncomfortable and inconsequential.

            So how can I adequately describe what it's like out there? The area we were sampling from today was very swampy- the vision of what I had originally imagined the swamp to be like. There was standing water, crumbly and burnt logs and plenty of thorns. The vegetation had grown up thick, and the thorny vine grew in arches over the maneuverable areas of the path. Most was mucky and wet, and every dry spot was covered in ferns and moss and dense nets of greenbrier and blackberry.

Very, very swampy

            Walking around the vegetation can be tedious, a step too fast can send you face first into the mud or back into the leaves. Too slow and the saturated peat can close in around your feet and pull menacingly at your boots. Every footstep sounds different, feels different- the unexpected firmness of a dry spot or the invisible foot-holding of an old trunk is startling after crunching through the vegetation and treading through the water.

            The firm stalks of blackberry and the hardy vines of the brier crack like static as they grab at shirttails. The criss-crossing of vines can be as immoveable as a brick wall. On the way back I found myself tangled up and I fell fat onto my backpack, the auger I had been carrying clanked awkwardly into the brush, and I felt like a bug caught in a web right before my legs went out from under me. As I scrambled to stand back up, stuck on my back, I felt like an overturned turtle, humbled by the density of the seemingly benign mass.

            As I close out my final week, I can't help but think that I'll miss it all.

Truly, the Beginning of the End (8/20)

I don't know how to begin this post- I am currently sitting on the train, waiting to get moving as people file in, awkwardly hoisting suitcases and carry-ons into the overhead shelf. The taste of a much-craved green tea matcha smoothie lingers on my tastebuds, and I have the crippling desire to stay in DC and take the place of my friend's brother and live amongst her family as a polite imposter.

            Ah, we're moving.

            My long weekend has been plenty of things, perhaps most significantly, it has been necessary.

            On Friday, I got up early and drove an hour to the Newport News Amtrak station. It was a clumsy trip- Google's final guidance to me were cryptic: "Turn right. Turn left." So of course, I ended up on the other end of the road, and then I ended up passing it and getting all sorts of turned around thanks to my free navigation app.

            From here, the trip was great: I found a seat next to an unimposing older lady that reminded me of my abuelita. It was something about her vibes and tiny shoulders that did it. We chit-chatted, and I found out that she came to the states as a student from Korea, and upon learning my major and complementing my complexion, she told me to go to med school and get a boyfriend, words I had in fact, heard from my abuelita. Then, in further abuelita-fashion, refused to take no for an answer when she offered me a snack. When I politely declined a hard-boiled egg, she gave me a handful of grapes.

Monument to FDR

            When I arrived at Union Station, Becca was waiting for me at the gate- she's a dear friend, a fellow brass player, and my Spring semester housemate. Over the course of the weekend I stuck to her like glue. She guided us through the metro system and I arrived, unstressed and content, to her home.

            After meeting her absolutely welcoming parents, she gave me a tour of her stomping ground. We traced chapters of her life, and having moved every couple of years, it was fascinating for me to consider what it was like walking to school with the same person every day for years.

            I saw the monuments that evening, after eating homemade pizza and sitting at a real dinner table visiting a real family dinner. At home, dinner is our gathering time- we all have our spots at the dinner table, and we talk about our days. So I don't think I can really describe how comforting and relaxing it was to be at the table with them.

Golden Lion Tamarin at the National Zoo!

            On Saturday, we walked until I thought my feet were going to fall off. We went to the zoo, to Adam's Morgan, to DuPont Circle. We were planning on walking to Georgetown, but our aching feet made the decision to take the bus.

            The entire weekend was full: of walking, certainly of eating, and the pleasure of being around people I know. I met a group of Becca's friends from highschool,, and another friend from Vassar. We watched a terrible movie, ate cupcakes from Georgetown cupcakes and as they talked about the people they know, I forgot about my tanlines and the quiet feelings of dread that are accompanying the approach of my departure.

Smithsonian Museum of Natural History

            After living for three months with strangers, in an unfamiliar place, visiting was wonderful- which is why I am stingily taking up two seats so I can wallow in my nerves without having to make small talk with any more strangers. I'm a very particular person. I like things the way I like them, and it's hard to be at ease when you're getting to know people in the house you're living it. It gets to be a little tiring, which is why it was so great to take a long weekend.

            So, filled with a spectrum of emotions ranging from nervousness to relaxation, I return to Dismal to start my very last week of Summer. I leave on Sunday.         

           

Dirty, as Defined by a Soil Scientist (8/16)



Dirt

 .

This week has been an interesting one. I already touched on all of the departures, but the swamp has been getting a number of visiting scientists from a couple different government agencies.



The first to arrive was another hydrologist from the US Geological Survey. A couple of weeks ago, while Fred and I were out doing those well-runs, we stopped by and checked some of the wells this hydrologist had installed. He wasn't anything like I expected, though I'm not sure why I was expecting anything in particular. Apparently, the culture of the USGS is a completely different brand from that of the US Fish and Wildlife Service. Their slogan is "Science for a changing tomorrow," and I like it.

Maybe I was expecting someone in a lab coat? I'm not sure, someone else in the office had mentioned that the USGS hydrologist had particularly technical way of explaining things, so I had my ears fine tuned for all sorts of jargon. I got a little (fractionalization of water?) but I suppose that I'm so used to slugging through primary research articles that I can get by.

Science-speak is like being half fluent in another language. Context clues are everything.



NRCS Soil Scientist, USGS hydrologist and his battered arms.



To continue- the project this guy is working on currently is really, really interesting. He's going around collecting water samples for isotope analysis. In case your chemistry is a little rusty, a periodic element, like oxygen, can have a varied number of neutrons. The most common form of oxygen has 16, but it can have more or fewer, and this is useful because a greater amount of one isotope over another can provide some clues as to where the water came from- because not all water is created equal.



However, during previous analysis, the mass spectrometer (Organic chemistry has been more useful than I care to admit) ran into some funky data due to the amount of organic material in the water. Since the water at Dismal is basically organic soup, he's collecting from different sites all over the refuge, and I've been tagging along.

I felt so very official, collecting water samples. Even though it basically just required filling a little glass bottle with ditchwater and jotting down a few specifics about the water itself (acidity, temperature... same science, different day.)

While we were out we stopped to service his wells and survey in some reference points. Ahh, how far I've come.

And then he got to poking around on his computer and I stood around, being utterly useless. I was playing with a dragonfly (I haven't had the chance to look this up to confirm yet- maybe it was a damselfly?) that had been hovering in the vicinity.

Perched on a branch, I watched as it's little head jerked back and forth, looking for lunch. As I waited for it to make a meal of one of the mosquitoes (revenge at last) I was pulling the thorns from an old greenbrier vine and chucking them into the clearing. When one passed in front of the dragonfly, it shot forward, connected, and returned to its branch.

Fascinated, I began throwing small pieces of plant matter in front of the insect, which would consistently zoom forward  and smack whatever I had tossed out of the air. I like to pretend we were playing catch. Eventually, it grew tired of my antics and caught a fly out of the air. I watched it eat before I joined its picnic with my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Later on, we met up with Fred and the soil scientist from the NRCS in the blocks at the southern end of the refuge. She's the one that had visited at the very beginning of the summer. She witnessed my first encounters with blackberries during that first, intense experience. She also brought another scientist, who seemed a little unhappy with being out on the coastal plain.

I felt much more confident this time around, I had been around the block a couple of times (ha.) and I was eager to show her how much better I had gotten at this sort of thing.

Typical of the rest of my life, things did not turn out the way I had expected. The other three fully grown, fully educated scientists bounded through that block like it was going out of style. I felt like I was booking it- leaping over logs, jogging through the saplings but it wasn't enough.

Alright, it was more of a fast trot, but still.

The blackberries were pretty obnoxious, I've been pulling them from my hands and knees all afternoon, and I have a shiny skin of Neosporin covering my forearms. Though I discovered the cause for my lack of speed- I care too much about my skin.

Every time I got snagged pretty good, I would pause to unhook the thorns or try to sidestep past them. These guys? Forget it, the USGS hydrologist was covered in blood by the time we made it to his well.
I couldn't believe it, his forearms looked like Halloween. I was slightly horrified, and then annoyed at the loss of my ability to complain.

Though the walk wasn't bad, I occupied my mind by thinking up science-inspired curses for the blackberries, such as I hope a point mutation halts your chlorophyll production and you die a slow, miserable, anaerobic death. Or I wish you a terrible meiotic nondisjunction that leaves your progeny sterile.


On the way back, it seemed like the rest of them were twice as fast as they were when we went out. I was also carrying and awkwardly-shaped well pump that was significantly heavier than I expected. I wielded that thing like a shield, with both hands, and I know my shoulders will be sore tomorrow.

When I finally popped out of the foliage, an earthen intern born of blood and the field, they were all sitting casually around the trucks, chit chatting. They eyeballed me as I emerged, and I was a little embarrassed that it took me so long to get through the relatively unimposing walk. The soil people grinned at each other- it was one of those looks that reminded me of the looks parents exchange. You know the ones, entire conversations that they think you don't have an inkling about? One of those.

Well- so what if I'm a slowpoke? So what if I'm young? I've never been one to colour inside the lines.

Soil 1 then looked me up and down and said, with the slightest hint of Virginia twang, "You are just too clean."

11 weeks down, 1 to go. Tomorrow, when the last intern vacates the premises, I'll be hightailing it to D.C, this time to visit one of my friends from school. I am just a little too excited to show off my bear (blackberry) battle scars, the tanlines that prove I have been working like a decent human, and the true scope of the bug bites that plague me.

The Exodus Pt. 2 (8/13)

I am a ball of nervous energy. Somehow I managed to work myself into an absolute frenzy- I leave two weeks from yesterday, but I started packing today, because everyone is leaving and I need to figure out how to get everything home without breaking the bank as well as my very soul.

At the refuge office today we ordered pizza for lunch, because after Friday, I'll be the last intern on the refuge (last man standing?). The YCC finishes up this week, in addition to Ocie and the other FWS intern. I spent most of the day finishing up one of the projects I started- I've been working on a water observation manual, for the next lucky hydrology technician intern. The day was unobtrusive. But once I returned to the bunkhouse, shining and spotless after the departure of americorps, I went into my fervor, squishing things into boxes to send home (Why did I feel the need to purchase so many books? I NEVER LEARN.) and maniacally taping and addressing things to go back West. My home zipcode became a sort of personal mantra while I rolled around the floor.

Then, after praying the to great god of the postal service, I started packing my suitcase, which means now I'll be too wound up to unpack anything and consequently have a pair of jeans to get me through the next two weeks.

Maybe I have two pairs. I don't even know any more. I even had the urge to pack my toothbrush.

But I always get like this around the time I leave- mentally packing and unpacking, organizing things into scientifically precise piles all around my room. Sure, I'm excited, but right now I can only imagine all the things that could possibly ever go wrong ever.

I can't stress the significance of having a pair of pajamas in my carry on in case of emergency. That is my priority right now. Having pajamas. I'm losing my marbles.

Anyway, one of the things that stuck out to me earlier in the year when I was applying for an SCA position was the name of this refuge. The Great Dismal Swamp. It sounds uncomfortable and formidable, and was the source of nightmares and a quiet self-loathing I developed at my most anxious points. I figured, everyone will have to take me seriously if I manage to make it through a Summer at a place with a name like Dismal. And then my logical brain kicked in and I ended up kicking myself- of course, everything worked out fine and I'm sure that's the way it's going to be once I set sail (get it?), but in the meantime, I'm in the middle of a crisis.

So I'm sitting here, wild-eyed, stressing about pillows and wondering what makes me so adventurous and why I feel the resistible urge to travel, because my life would be quiet, familiar, and comfortable if my silly little head didn't drag me all over the country. 

The past several days I've been talking to a friend from high school. He grew up in the airforce, like I did, and moved right after high school, like I did. When I told him I was nervous about my next move I can only imagine the way he considered the absurdity of my words. Kindly, he told me that it would be exactly like every other move I've made in my life. Which is utterly true, and only marginally comforting, because the parallel evokes a shadow of childhood terror, and I'm back where I started.

But I am incredibly lucky, my opportunities have been vast and tangible, and my experiences varied and fulfilling. Yet that definitive fact never quite prevents the mental shakedown I experience every time I decide I'm feeling especially young, capable, and adventurous.

The Exodus (8/13)

The crew quarters is emptying out, a little more quickly than I would care it to. Yesterday, nine people left- the eight americorps are on their way to a fire out west, and the longtime visitor's services intern has moved to Alligator River NWR.

And then- the two seasonal fire guys have been gone for about a week apiece, so today there will be a whopping three people at the bunkhouse, which is a stark difference from the 5-13 we've had throughout the Summer.

I have plenty of mixed feelings about this.

On one hand, it'll be nice to be able to let my dishes sit in the sink for a day or two and not feel guilty about who needs to use them. On the other hand, I've really come to like the dynamic we've established in the house. Now I have no one to play bananagrams with. :( And no one to talk Vonnegut with. :(( Or Game of Thrones with (which has become a bit of an event in our house recently) :((( So I guess my last two weeks will either fly or creep to a close. At this moment, it's impossible to say which.

Though, this Monday is already dragging. But that's probably my fault.

On Thursday, nine of us swamp people traipsed over to Portsmouth to see the band Mumford and Sons. It was at an outdoor pavilion, and it was incredible. I have always loved going to concerts, and every time I get the chance to see a band I love, the night is quickly cemented into my brain as one of the times in my young adult life. Especially when I make it to the very front, which I always do, heh.

Seriously- the only time I ever dance is when I go to these things.

So it was wonderful, and I took a lengthy weekend to recover from my dancing. Muscles I didn't even know I had ached, and Friday morning I was mildly convinced I had whiplash. Though that didn't stop me from staying up late Thursday, Friday, and Saturday making a ruckus with the rest of the quarters and I probably did more harm to myself than good. Today when my alarm went off, signalling the end of my ruckus-making, I accidentally turned it off instead of hitting snooze.

Freudian slip? I don't doubt it.

I'm not the only person having a hard time getting started today! I was fifteen minutes late into work, shoveling my breakfast down as I walked up to the office, but as I sit here typing this up, my supervisor hasn't wandered in yet. Maybe we should go ahead and call it a day at 8:30?