My Least Favorite Season

Last Friday I ventured out, as I do at the end of every week, to track down my collared grouse. 45 was comfortably in the same area I've found her the past three weeks, hunkered down in greasewood alongside Skull Creek. After finding 45, I drove forty miles to the southwest, to Cellar's Loop, where my other four birds reside.

I started my tracking there with 64, my wayward female, whose wanderings miles from the site of her initial capture left me clueless about her location for nearly two months. This week she had ventured east and south, now comfortably on Simmons Ranch.

After flushing 64, I drove deeper into the grassland, to a area known fittingly as "Wildlife Draw." I turned the car down a bumpy two-track cutting through tall sage to a basin where my third female and my only male have spent most of their time. As I started down the two-track, I flipped on my receiver, tuning it casually to 94, reassured, as always, to her the faint, consistent pulse indicating that she was nearby... beep... beep... beep... beep... beep. I listened carefully to the signal, deciding that she was likely still a quarter- to a half-mile away, and stopped to check on the male, 254, before driving much farther in.

As I turned the dials on the receiver to pick up 254, my heart dropped. His signal was there, and loud, indicating he was nearby. But it was fast, nearly chaotic... beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep. A mortality signal. The collars are programmed to give a faster signal when the animal hasn't moved for a period of 24 hours, indicating death.

I parked the truck, my hands shaking. I grabbed the receiver, an antenna, and a pair of gloves, not relishing the thought of finding my only male disemboweled somewhere it the sage. I followed the signal up a hill, reminding myself that predation is a natural part of wild life. But as I summited the ridge, everything changed.

Below me, in the basin, I saw a flash of black, a dog, trailed by two individuals in bright orange, one carrying a gun. I sped up, desperate to find the male, terrified that his death was not natural, but a consequence of an inhumane and unwarranted "sport." My heart raced as the signal turned me towards a truck parked not too far away. Was I really fated to find the dead bird stored in the cab of some hunter's pickup?

Perhaps you can imagine my relief when, a few minutes later, the signal again indicated the male was somewhere in the basin, and not near the truck. I followed the signal, getting closer, and closer, and closer, the signal becoming louder, the direction narrowing to a single line. Had the hunters shot the bird and left it? I approached the area where I knew he must be, slowing my pace, scanning every space in and around the sage. I took one step, then another. Then, suddenly, three grouse rocketed upwards from the sage, all wings and feathers, chucking indignantly at my intrusion.

Out of habit, I quickly scanned their necks as they flew away. Wait! There- on that male! A collar! My collared male! He was alive! I was reassured that it was in fact my collared male as his signal became fainter, gradually fading as he disappeared from view. How strange... The collar must be malfunctioning, but my male was alive and safe. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

As I trekked back toward the two-track, I noticed that one of the hunters, a woman, had returned to the pickup, and was eyeing me suspiciously. I decided to counter her gaze with the least suspicious action possible: I walked over to talk to her.

"Hi there," I said. "Are you after grouse?" Please say no...

"Yes. Are you hunting grouse?"

Damn. Does it look like I'm hunting? I'm holding an antenna! "No. I'm with the Bureau of Land Management. I have three radio-collared grouse in this area, and I'm tracking them down."

"Oh, is that so? How often do you find them?"

"I come out every Friday. I was actually really nervous a few minutes ago. The collars on one of those birds I just flushed over there," I said, pointing, "was giving me a mortality signal, and I thought he was dead."

"My husband shot a collared grouse yesterday. Maybe it was that one."

Wait... what? "No, he was alive. Where were you yesterday?"

"We were right here. He shot it over there," she said, gesturing vaguely to an area about a half mile away, near some cottonwoods.

"Was it a male or a female?"

"I don't know. You'd have to ask my husband."

"What did the collar look like? Do you still have it?"

"Um... it was small, and black, and had a little antenna on it. We took it to the Forest Service office in Newcastle yesterday evening."

Oh no... Oh no, no, no... I just found 254, and I know 94 is nearby. But what about 14? She's been near those cottonwoods twice this summer. Could it really be...?

"We had a great day yesterday," she continued. It's so pretty out here. We saw lots of those antelope [pronghorn], and the weather was nice. Plus my husband got his limit... two birds! That one with the collar was pretty small. He said he normally wouldn't have shot it but it was far away and he couldn't really tell, so he just fired. But he got it! There are so many around here, it seems like. He's hoping to get another two today. He usually comes out with friends, but no one could come this year so I came with him...."

She kept talking, about the weather, about her husband, about Wyoming Game and Fish. She occasionally asked me a question or two, about the BLM, or what I was learning about grouse, about the upcoming decision whether or not to list the species as endangered. I wanted to tell her what I really thought- that it's ridiculous to have a hunting season on a species that may soon be listed, whose habitat and numbers have been threatened and declining for years. But all I could muster were rote answers, trying my hardest to be polite, all the while wondering if there was any chance that another group had collared grouse in this basin.

After the woman had exhausted her store of small talk I took my leave. She invited me to return later on in the afternoon to talk to her husband, who would have more details about the grouse shot the day before, but I knew there would be no need. I would either find 14, or I wouldn't, and either way I would have my answer.

I drove out of the area and circled around the outside of the basin, driving into Christensen Ranch and up onto a hillside with a summit overlooking the entire draw. I had visited this hillside nearly every week since June, taking readings of the locations of all three birds in the area, helping to pinpoint the places to which each bird had traveled since my last visit. I had never, ever failed to pick up signals on my birds from this hilltop. I ascended the hill, receiver in tow, already set to "14." I crested the hill and turned around to face the basin, steeling myself. Deep down I knew, even before I flipped the switch to turn the receiver on, that I would not find 14 today, or ever again. I raised the antenna and swept it slowly in an arc, hearing only the soft grinding clicks of static.

You may have read at some point, or perhaps heard, that it is considered "unscientific," or perhaps "too subjective" when researchers name their study animals instead of assigning numbers. After all, the point of science is complete, unbiased objectivity, records and data unfettered by anthropomorphism and human emotion. What they don't tell you is that the real reason most researchers don't name study animals is because it's easier to lose a number than a name, less painful to learn that "23" or "157" has died or been killed than "Henry" or "Tulia."

So ironically, after being sure that 254 was dead, terrified that he'd be shot, then immensely relieved at finding him alive, I was blindsided with the information that 14, a grouse who hasn't been on public land in months, was gone.

I love autumn, but the coinciding hunting season is something I wish would never happen. I feel as if enough deer, elk, pronghorn, rabbits, badgers, skunks, foxes, coyote, raccoons, and birds are killed on the highways every day. It will only get worse as we approach October, when rifle season opens. I can only say I'm glad I'm almost done with my fieldwork. Dealing with hunters isn't something I handle well.

Autumn

This week marked the official beginning of fall, the autumnal equinox. Monday morning dawned chilly, grey, and windy, and I spent hours fighting with sixty-mile-per-hour gusts, trying to keep the measuring tape in a straight line over sagebrush and prevent a host of data sheets from being blown away. Tuesday was much the same, and it wasn't until yesterday when the weather finally struck a balance between the intense summer heat and the impending cold of winter, tempering to a blissful 73 degrees with a slight breeze.

Autumn has always been my favorite season, a gradual transition marked with cold nights (great for sleeping), gorgeous days (great for fieldwork), and some of nature's most incredible displays. Waterfowl and songbirds begin their migration southward, bringing unique visitors to stock ponds and riparian corridors. Pronghorn, elk, and deer enter the breeding season, utilizing their ornamentation, grown since early spring, in an unending battle of strength and willpower, all for the chance to reproduce. And as the amount of light in the sky decreases, deciduous trees kill off the chlorophyll in their leaves, giving the other pigments- yellows, oranges, and brilliant reds- a chance to shine.

This week has been relatively mellow. Despite freezing, intense winds on Monday and Tuesday, my fieldwork has been relatively easy this week. I'm still ensconced in the tedium of vegetation surveys, but the finish line is on the horizon. Monday marked my last day in the southern part of Niobrara county. As a result, my surveys during the last three days have been much, much closer to the field office, cutting my driving time from two and half hours to less than an hour. Next Monday I have a final day of surveys close to 'home' in Weston county, then two marathon fieldwork days near the Montana border. Should things work out as planned, I'll be finished with veg surveys next Wednesday, and I'll have the opportunity to take next Friday off.

After that, I'll only have a month left before my work here ends.

For your enjoyment, here is one of the photos I took over Labor Day weekend (as always, there are others at www.flickr.com/photos/jaxzwolf). I might head over to South Dakota and Custer State Park this weekend to see if I can't track down some ducks, or perhaps, if I'm lucky, chance across some good old-fashioned rut action.

Devil's Tower

Another Week, Another Post

Surprisingly (or perhaps not), I feel I have very little to say this week. The last seven days have passed without incident, droning ever onwards as any other mundane set of circumstances. I map routes, I call landowners, I drive places, I collect data, I drive back, I come home, I check my email (to find that no professors- prospective grad advisers and former college professors alike- have yet replied), I read, I go to bed. All the while I feel a little lost here, as if somehow I'm stuck in a different plane, marooned in a strange little town amidst an endless sea of prairie while the rest of the world keeps pace with itself.

When I write these entries I often wonder if I'm not just talking to myself. I know that a few other people do read this, but "this" has largely become a strongly one-sided conversation, and I wish, sometimes, that there were more of an exchange, a give and take of sorts. A little existential tonight, I suppose, but it's how I'm feeling.

I find myself contemplating if the rest of my life will be like this- me off in some distant, remote place, far removed from the lives of family and friends, writing about my "adventures" and wishing, instead, for instant messaging, or Skype, or a satellite phone call, in lieu of an endless tirade written about, and largely to, myself. It will be the price I'll have to pay, I suppose, to do what I love. I wonder how often field biologists deal with this particular brand of loneliness... Or perhaps I should call it "alone-ness," as that's more of what it truly is.

This week I started vegetation surveys, which have been both much better and just as bad as I expected them to be. The good? This week they've mostly been in places with which I'm familiar, making navigation less challenging and saving time driving. Additionally, we're far enough past the growing season here that it's nearly impossible to key many of the grasses out to species, which means I've been able to group various species into broad categories- another huge time saver. The bad? Even with broad classifications, vegetation surveys are extremely tedious (not to mention boring, at least to me), and the sites are all still two hours or so from the office.

Still, things have been progressing more quickly than I initially imagined, and, barring car trouble, inclement weather, or "Do-It-Now" assignments from Dwayne, I should be able to have the veg surveys finished by October 1st. This will require two marathon work days on the Montana/Wyoming border, split by a night camping... Not something to which I'm looking forward, but I'm desperately trying to think of a way to bribe Ayme into coming along to make it less painful. Ayme, if you happen to be reading this, please come along to make it less painful. I'd appreciate it. Thanks.

I have 31 work-days left in my internship. Six weeks and one day. Maybe less, if I finish my work and finally get the chance to take all the time I've accrued from working long days, off.

Then comes the real trouble, however: What am I going to do then? It's a terrible time to have graduated, to be out of school. The economy is crap, hundreds of thousands of people are out of work, and nearly all of them are clambering for jobs, making it hard for a recent graduate to find anything. I'm simply out-competed, instantaneously, by people with more experience. Not to mention the fact that I'm looking for employment during an odd time-slot, from November to August, since (if everything goes according to plan) I'll be heading to graduate school. Who needs someone to work from November to August? No one.

I'm looking mostly for internships, temporary jobs geared towards the young and inexperienced, those who will work for lower wages and no insurance and have to consent to being pushed around a lot because they're young and inexperienced. But internships geared towards someone with my particular skill set are hard to come by in winter months, since fieldwork largely ceases between late September and mid-October in the northern hemisphere. Internships in related fields (naturalism, environmental education, wildlife rehabilitation, etc.) tend to be unpaid, last only three or four months months, or have two sections, one in spring running from January to July or August, and one in fall from August or September to December. It puts me in an odd spot, done with my current internship too late to work the fall sessions but far too early for the spring. What would I do with myself for two months without a job?

So most evenings I come home, walk Capone, and instantly afterwards hit the internet, scouring websites and search engines and forums and Listservs tyring to find something, anything in which I might be interested, for which I might be qualified, that will carry me through the winter months... at the very least until April, when fieldwork generally starts up again.

Then, of course, I have to hope that I actually will get into graduate school somewhere, so I don't have to worry about finding yet another job at the end of next summer.

Like I said, a bit existential tonight, and scattered, too, now that I read back over this, but it's really all I've got. Perhaps if I can think of something cheerier, or more interesting, I'll post it this weekend...

A Tale of Two Families

This is a story about two families, living in Wyoming, just on the western edge of the Black Hills. Both families have ranches, run cattle in Black Hills National Forest, grow their own hay. The couples that manage the ranches are older, in the 65+ age range, have been married a long time, and have grown children, and grandchildren. The families, in fact, are neighbors of sorts. Although there is a house that separates the ranches, the land owned by the first family abuts the land owned by the second, east of the county road.

In many respects, these families are very similar. They live in the same country, face the same hardships, and make their livings in the same sorts of ways. This is a story about two families, and how, despite their similarities, each family managed to shape the course of one of my days, in very different ways.

On Tuesday morning I returned to work, dismayed that my five-day break seemed to have slipped by so quickly. Although I'd greatly enjoyed the time I'd spent with my mom, I felt almost cheated when she left, as if two and a half days should have been three, or four, or five. I spent most of my time Monday attempting to stave off the feeling of terrible loneliness, and trying to convince myself that two months really isn't all that much time.

Tuesday was an office day. I knew I needed to deploy bat detectors, as well as make preparations to begin vegetation surveys. I went through the list of the eighty sample locations for the upcoming vegetation surveys, frustrated to find that many were at or near places I'd already visited, doing raptor nest checks, prairie dog colony surveys, and setting out detectors. Had I know this beforehand, I might be well into the vegetation surveys already, and would not have to spend the time returning to those areas.

While I was digging through files and phone books writing down phone numbers for all the people I'll have to call before starting veg surveys, I made a point to find out who owned the land west of the two canyons I'd need to visit to deploy bat detectors. I'd noted earlier that the only way into the northernmost site was from Beaver Creek Road, which runs along a valley at the western edge of the Black Hills. I looked at a map to plan my route in, then checked to see who owned the land (and the roads) I'd need to cross to get to the BLM land along the state line.

There were just two families- the Vore family and the Davis family- which owned the routes into Kinney Canyon to the south and North Thompson Canyon to the north, respectively. I called both houses, and, somewhat surprisingly, spoke with someone at each house. It's not unusual for me to leave messages and never hear back from anyone.

At the Vore's house I spoke with Susan, quite obviously the matriarch, who was quick and perfunctory and wanted to make sure that I wouldn't be driving across their land, but rather on established roads. I assured her that I knew where the roads were, and wouldn't drive on anything that wasn't an obvious two-track or better. At the Davis's I spoke with Russell, hard of hearing and seemingly confused, who had to ask me several times to slow down and repeat myself. Our conversation ended awkwardly, but I felt okay, because I'd been able to speak with both landowners and was thus assured that I wouldn't be antagonized- after all, they knew I was coming.

Wednesday morning I set out from the office in good spirits with both bat detectors, a map, my GPS unit, and a plan to visit Kinney Canyon first, since setting up the detector would require a half-mile hike in from the road. I passed the Vore's house, noting that someone there was gearing up for a horseback ride, and continued on north of their house to the road I was supposed to take to get near the canyon. I pulled in and travelled a very short distance to a pile of old branches, logs, boards, and bits of what appeared to be a windmill. Then, the road disappeared.

It's typical for two-tracks to become hidden among tall grasses, especially if they're infrequently used. I parked the Durango at the pile and got out, walking uphill, to see if I could pick out the two-track from above. To my dismay, I couldn't see any sign of any kind of road leading away from the pile. I double-checked my map and GPS, aligning them with the landscape to try and decipher where the road should be, but I already knew that the road was gone. Since I was on private land, I knew I'd have to turn around and find a different way in.

As I drove back towards the county road, the Vores, in their truck with their horse trailer in tow, pulled up and blocked my exit. I assumed they wanted to make sure it was me out on their land, so I wasn't terribly concerned. A woman exited the truck as I approached, and I stopped and parked the Durango.

"Are you Susan?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"I'm Jax."

"And what? Are you lost?" she snapped.

At this I wasn't sure what to say. I wasn't lost, I just wasn't quite sure where to go. I pulled out my map and showed her the area I needed to visit, at which she bristled.

"You said you were going into Thompson Canyon."

"North Thompson Canyon, yes, but I also need to get into Kinney Canyon, here," I said, pointing to the map.

"Right now I'm on this road, but it ends right here," I added, pointing again.

"You can't drive there! That's our pasture!"

"As soon as I realized the road was gone I turned around. I need to find a different route in. Is this road," I said, pointing again to a route a little further north, "still there?"

Susan grabbed the map from me, and as she turned to go back to their pickup, I could hear her husband from the driver's seat yelling angrily, "What the hell does she think she's doing out there? Doesn't she have a GPS?!"

I was now very uncomfortable, and sat nervously in the Durango while Mr. and Mrs. Vore argued over my map in their truck. Some number of minutes later, Susan returned, and said, sharply, "Just past the next cattle guard is a road into Thompson Canyon. Take that road in. STAY ON THAT ROAD."

"Okay. So these roads south of that canyon, they're not in use, or they're gone?"

"If you drive up that way you'll be driving through our pasture. That's OUR pasture. STAY OUT OF OUR PASTURE! Stay in the canyon. You can park somewhere there and walk to wherever you need to be. I guarantee you it'll be a long, hard walk, though."

"Alright," I agreed. "It's nothing I can't manage."

"Those bats must be pretty damned important," she spat, and stormed off to rejoin her husband waiting impatiently in their truck.

They backed up their truck and trailer and motioned for me to pull out in front, then proceeded to tail me until they were assured that I was going to take the proper road into Thompson Canyon, at which point they tore off and sped away to the north.

I was a little disappointed that my planned route was gone, but it was nothing compared to the sting I felt at the obvious displeasure of the Vores. I've become accustomed in the past few months to planning routes only to find that roads no longer exist, and although the road into Thompson Canyon was much farther north of Kinney Canyon than I'd intended, the detour would really only add an additional mile and a half or so to my hike in. Setting out the bat detectors was the only thing I'd planned for the day, so I wasn't short on time. But all the time in the world wouldn't erase the fact that two people I'd never met in my life were likely permanently soured to both me and (possibly) the BLM, simply because I'd driven up what I thought was an easy route in.

I was uneasy the rest of the morning. As I climbed up the southern ridge of Thompson Canyon and then carefully picked my way down several drainages into Kinney, I felt more alone and on edge in the forest than I had since my very first few days in the field, more than a year ago, when I'd started in on my thesis research. I kept looking behind me, with the eerie sensation of being followed, and every time I'd stop to work out the easiest path down a difficult route, I'd think of the cold glares of the Vores as they sped off, clearly inconvenienced by my ineptitude.

After the trek down into Kinney to set up one detector, I trudged back out, not looking forward to returning to the county road and then continuing northward to set the other. As I pulled up to the entrance road into my second destination and got out to open the gate, I checked the Davis's house closely... it didn't appear that anyone was home. Still, I was on alert, never knowing if and when I might run in to Mr. Davis out on his pasture. Just how clear was I on the phone the day before? Did he really know I was coming?

I made it into North Thompson Canyon easily enough, set the detector near the road, and drove out without being noticed. It seemed the Davis family really was out for the day. As I drove back southward and passed the Vore's ranch, I crossed my fingers that they, too, hadn't yet returned home.

Last night I slept poorly, dreaming of returning to retrieve my detectors to find that the gate into the canyon was locked, or that Mr. and Mrs. Vore were standing guard in Kinney Canyon, or that they both were waiting in Thompson Canyon to make sure I stayed on that, and only that, road. Even worse, I then dreamt of angry phone calls made to the BLM, complaining of my incompetence, that I'd trespassed on land on which they'd forbidden me to drive, that I'd ruined their good pasture.

I got up early this morning, not looking forward to returning to the area. The Vores were already gone by the time I passed their house. I was relieved, but not completely. It wasn't until I drove up into Thompson Canyon, parked, and started hiking back into Kinney Canyon that I felt I could let my guard down. I tried my best to release the unpleasant feelings that had been plaguing me since the previous morning. It was a good morning to be out, especially in the canyons, where the high walls cast shadows all day long, keeping the canyon bottoms cool.

I made a relatively quick hike in and out to get the first detector, then returned to the county road and started heading north to retrieve the other. I noticed immediately that, today, the Davis's house was occupied. What's more, when I got out of the truck to open the gate, I glanced over my shoulder to see someone crouched down alongside the barn. I entered the pasture, then got out to close the gate, when the figure stood up, and saw my car. I thought the best thing I could do was acknowledge that he saw me, so I gave a quick wave and got back in the truck and drove slowly off. I was only slightly comforted when the wave was, seemingly reluctantly, returned.

Once I reached the summit of the south ridge of North Thompson Canyon, I relocated the second detector, took it down, and stowed it's various pieces and parts, then turned and made the trip back down to Beaver Creek Road. A group of horses had been turned loose in the main pasture sometime after my initial visit, and I slowed on my way out to introduce myself to a curious buckskin, who quickly lost interest when she saw I didn't have anything tasty to give her.

As I neared the gate, I saw that the man was no longer next to the barn, but rather standing stock in the middle of his driveway, staring straight at me. I kept my composure, but was silently pleading, Please, not a repeat of yesterday, please... I opened the gate, drove through, and stopped and got out to close it, all the while acutely aware that the man was still staring. Once the gate was closed, I decided to give a final wave. My wave wasn't returned... this time, he beckoned me to come across the road. I nervously got back in the car and drove down the driveway, stopping next to him.

"Now, you must be Jax," he said, and, smiling, shook my had warmly.

"Mr. Davis. It's really nice to meet you."

"Did you find your way up there alright?"

"Yes, it was no trouble at all. You have some really pretty land."

"Well, come on over and sit a while. It's a gorgeous day."

I parked the car, turned it off, and got out, following Mr. Davis to the yard in front of his house and a bench swing underneath an ash tree. As I sat down, Mrs. Davis came out of the house to move a sprinkler, introduced herself as Loraine, and told me she hoped I was having a good afternoon, before returning inside.

We sat on the swing for more than an hour, talking. I quickly found myself with a cat in my lap, purring loudly while I scratched her ears and chin. Mr. Davis asked where I was from, what I did for the BLM, how long I'd be in the area. When I told him I was a wildlife biologist, he regaled me with stories of all the pronghorn, elk, turkeys, and all manner of other creatures he'd seen on his land over the years, of elk getting into his good alfalfa one winter, of the sharp-tailed grouse that had long since disappeared.

We talked about this summer's grasshopper plague, and the controversy over the wolf hunting season that just opened in Idaho. He told me about his children, nieces, and nephews that lived in the area, about trips to Yellowstone and encounters with bears in the park back before it became illegal to feed them. I listened to it all, enjoying the purring cat, the shade of the tree, the wonderful breeze through the yard, and Mr. Davis himself, who simply radiated friendliness.

When the two of us finally came to the consensus that it was time for us to return to our respective work, he wished me well, and told me that if I was ever back in the area to feel free to stop by. I told him again that I was glad to have met him, genuinely, and walked back to the car. As I unlocked the doors, a woman pulled into the driveway, quite obviously related to Loraine. She, too, greeted me happily, wished me a good afternoon, and told me cheerfully that I should feel free to take some grasshoppers with me. I promised that there were already several in the car, and that quite a few more were certain to hitch a ride on my way out, and we both laughed. As I drove off his property, I waved a final time to Mr. Davis, who waved back, smiling.

Two days, two detectors, two ranches, two families, and two very different outcomes. I'll likely never understand why the Vores were so angry. Perhaps they'd fought that morning, or had trouble with the government before. Perhaps they'd had issues with trespassers in the past, or didn't trust someone so young. Perhaps they were just unhappy people, taking it out on whomever crossed their path. All I can say with any certainty is that the Vores were unnecessarily aggressive, cold, and unforgiving, and my encounter with them soured my entire day, whereas the Davis's were warm, open, and friendly, and left me feeling great about myself and the world.

Never underestimate the influence you may have on a complete stranger. A single negative gesture, comment, or reaction may leave someone you've never met reeling, starting a domino effect which could very well lead to many unhappy people. Something as simple as a smile, on the other hand, even if you're not really feeling up to it, can have a much nicer results.

: )

T-Minus Two Months and Counting

After a week of eleven-hour workdays, increasing levels of job-related frustration, and the growing awareness that my boss has little appreciation for the work I'm doing (typical, I'm sure, of most jobs), I wanted to make this week a little easier on myself. With Labor Day approaching, complete with a free day off work, I decided to take Thursday and Friday off, too, and treat myself to a five-day weekend.

I set myself up for what I thought was to be a mellow three days- two days where my only task would be to deploy bat detectors at three of my last five locations, followed by the necessary weekly grousing on Wednesday. I assumed that setting out the detectors wouldn't take much time, and that afterward I could catch up on data entry and other office work. Not surprisingly, even that seemingly simple task ended up taking an inordinate amount of time.

I was well-prepared to set out detectors. Last Friday I had enough time after grousing to map out routes into the areas where the detectors would need to be placed, determine who owned what land, and to contact all the landowners, so that Monday morning I would be set to go. And in fact I was set to go... until I got out to a two-track just a mile from two of the three sites and found it to be in terrible condition. I've driven some rough roads this summer- unmaitenanced two-tracks, dirt and gravel roads, rocky, narrow inclines traversing canyons in the Black Hills... But I hadn't yet come up against something that threatened to maroon me in the middle of nowhere. Until Monday.

The road I needed to take had washed out, almost completely, at the bottom of a steep slope in an area surrounded by hillocks. Little gullies had formed, complete with dried-up pools and water-filled pits, the perfect width and depth to snare a tire or contribute to high-centering. The spaces between the gullies, pools, pits, and hills were so narrow that I couldn't find a decent path through. What should have been a relatively quick in-and-out deployment turned into a three-hour-long saga of intense manual labor towards road maintenance. Our vehicles are well-stocked with a variety of tools: shovels, Pulaskis, axes... I ended up using them all, carving out the side of a hill, filling in some of the holes, and trying to level out my intended route. I then spent about a half-hour gathering old planks from the remnants of a nearby fallen barn to try and make a bridge of sorts over the largest part of the impending ravine.

Though not really dangerous, the eventual drive was harrowing... Getting stuck somewhere is seen in most offices as the apex of ineptitude, the most pathetic thing you can do to yourself in the field, if for no other reason than the fact that it costs one of your coworkers a lot of time coming to winch you out. I made it through, but I did not relish the idea of having to come back.

I continued on to find the two-track nearly gone, and in places I had to rely entirely on the topographic map on my GPS to reassure me that I really was in the area the road ran (or at least, the place the road used to run). Eventually the path became easier to see, but it was obvious it hadn't been used in at least a decade: 6- and 7-foot-tall junipers were growing right in the middle of the two-track, junipers on opposite sides of the road had grown together over the tire ruts, and ponderosa pines had extended their branches out at windshield height over the old path. I spent almost as much time winding in and out of and around the trees as I had digging my way in.

I finally made it to my first detector location, had a relatively easy set-up, and continued on to set the other. The road had become clearer and less overgrown, so I was feeling good. And then I ran up against the worst gate I've ever faced, which, based on the number of gates I've had to fight with this summer, is saying a lot. What ensued was an epic battle of wills, with the rusty barbed wire and old wooden posts of the gate largely winning. When I finally did manage to (roughly) secure the gate back in place, I realized my success was tempered by the fact that I would have to open and close it again on my way out, and yet again the following day when I came back to retrieve the detectors. Damn you, gate!

Although I should have had plenty of time left for office work at the end of the day, I didn't end up getting back to the office until after 3:00 PM, meaning I ended up yet again working more than eight hours. Not wanting to face "the road" a third time, I decided to try another route the next day, technically the other end of "the road" that came into the area from the opposite direction. After printing off more maps, calling more landowners, and driving out to the area the following morning, I found that the other end was, in fact, gone, without a trace, completely overgrown and impassable. So I made the trek back around to the other side of "the road" and once again braved the wash-out, trees, and, yes, the gate, too.

Luckily, the third location really was an easy in-and-out, and was situated next to a pond rife with Northern leopard frogs and minnows. The pond also sported a muskrat and some type of Scolopacid (a sandpiper of some sort, or one of its close relatives).

The week continued to improve, as yesterday, after nearly two months, I finally picked up a signal on my other long-lost female grouse, and after about two hours-worth of hiking in the interior of Thunder Basin, I managed to find her... right next to the highway.

Of course.

I did find her, though, for which I was happy. In fact, I found all five of our radio-collared grouse, something I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to achieve in the course of a single workday. So the week "ended" well.

Now I'm enjoying a luxury: five days off. Although one day is nearly gone already, I have four more to look forward to. I spent most of the day today engaged in my typical weekend chores- cleaning and doing laundry. I invested much more time than usual cleaning, and I threw some cooking in, too, because my mom is coming tomorrow to visit! Why anyone would want to spend any time at all in Newcastle is beyond me, but I suppose my being here probably adds a modest incentive.

Just in case you were wondering, we'll be spending most of our time in South Dakota.