What Kind of Day Has It Been

I had good intentions to update this post this weekend, after I first returned home. I assumed that Saturday, after all my things had been unloaded and stored, that I would spend the evening leisurely contemplating the events of the past five months, and that Sunday morning I would be ready to write it all down. But Saturday evening I was more concerned with making a visit to Chipotle, and Sunday I couldn't quite convince myself to write anything. Also, I had to make another visit to Chipotle.

Despite the fact that my life has suddenly become much less interesting, my brain is saying it's Thursday and it's time to finish this post.

Last Friday I said goodbye to the BLM. You may remember my very first post here, in which I mentioned that on the first day of my internship, my boss was not at work. How ironic, then, or perhaps just fitting, that he should also be absent on the last day of my internship. Dwayne left on Thursday afternoon, after he'd been assured that I'd turned in all my equipment and finished the reports for which he'd asked. He and I never really "clicked," but we did get along well enough, so we amicably went our separate ways. And, in a gesture I've interpreted as a parting gift, Dwayne let me write and send official government correspondence, complete with letterhead, signatures, and pre-paid postage. Cool.

Friday morning our office was nearly empty. I had little to do, since I'd returned nearly everything to Dwayne and had already completed all my work. I whittled away the morning breaking the government rules about internet use in the office, reading and sending personal emails, running pointless Google searches, and looking for job openings. I emptied my desk, returned various borrowed items, took down my posters, and picked out my three favorite deer and pronghorn sheds to bring home. R brought in a chocolate cake (mmm... chocolate cake) and M took me out to lunch (mmm... lunch).

And that was that, really. I had a brief meeting with the field manager, Tulip; an attempt at a proper evaluation. Nonetheless, I was given the opportunity to voice my concerns, and the two of us had a good conversation about the benefits and drawbacks of the program, and all the things the internship could stand to improve. I turned in my keys, bade everyone well, and left.

The next morning, I loaded all my things, vacuumed out the apartment, and made the long drive home.

Several people have asked me what it's like to finally be back, how I felt to be leaving Wyoming. I was obviously enthusiastic about returning home, leaving the tiny, dirty town of Newcastle far behind. My mom asked me recently if my time in Wyoming now seemed a bad dream. So it might surprise everyone, much as it did me, to find that leaving Wyoming and my job with the BLM wasn't quite as easy as I'd imagined.

Don't get me wrong... For the most part, I couldn't stand the BLM's multiple-use land management policies, the bureaucracy, the ridiculous, languid pace at which tasks are completed. Nor could I stand the town in which I was living, the incessant, unrelenting noise from the trains wearing down my last nerve, the ever-present sour smell from the oil refinery, the brooding, suspicious people, the endless stream of hunters.

There were times when I was terribly lonely, when I wanted nothing more than a companion with which to go hiking or camping or visit nearby tourist attractions. I butted heads with landowners, bit my tongue in the office, forced myself to appear neutral in the face of competing interests. There were countless times in the field when I wasn't sure where I was going, when I got lost or turned around. There were times I'd drive into places not knowing whether I'd be able to get out.

I drove on washed out roads and into narrow, steep canyons. I climbed up and down canyon walls and the nearly vertical edges of crumbling drainages. I fought with broken posts and rusty barbed wire. I trespassed far more times than I would have liked. I slipped across hills, slid into ravines, jumped across creeks, and received more than a few cuts and bruises from meeting up unexpectedly with stumps, rocks, and yes, even the ground.

So... why do I feel like I've lost something?

Perhaps because, in the end, the internship represented a lot more than the sum of its negative parts.

Wyoming is gorgeous. Take away the fencing, the train tracks, the highways, get rid of the cattle, the hunters, the far-right-wing, anti-environment, hostile landowners, the oil and gas rigs, the weathered, beaten-down farmhouses... and what's left is incredible. Stunning. Endless stretches of fragrant sage... hundreds of species of flowers, each week a new one blossoming... towering, ancient cottonwoods. Groves of spruce and ponderosa pine...tracts of quaking aspen.... miles of canyon bottoms laced with grasses and gentle rays of sunshine. Every time I hiked off somewhere and dropped out of sight of the man-made world, I felt completely at ease, almost deliriously happy.

There were good people, too. Ally, who willingly works for the BLM full-time. Neela, who runs the Weston County Humane Society. Amanda, who came to walk the dogs there nearly every single day. Steve and Bob Carter, whom I visited with several times. David, who doesn't own a phone but was more than happy to show me around his property when it came time for me to trespass there. The Mills, who unlocked gates for me more than once. Paul, who was always grateful when I gave him a courtesy call. Ed , an absentee landowner who called me once from Iowa to warn me of a particularly temperamental bull on his property. Perino, Christensen, Simmons, and Popham, graciously giving their permission for me to traipse out on their land every week to look for grouse. Oil Roustabout Guy, who I often ran into and chatted with on Fridays when driving out to find 45. And of course, Russell Davis, who very nearly restored my faith in humanity.

And, aside from the people I met and the nuances of my job is this: my five months in Wyoming provided me a great deal more responsibility, flexibility, independence, and freedom than I've ever had. I spent nearly half a year entirely on my own. I saw things that most people will likely never see, drove on roads most people will never drive, traveled to areas few people have ever traveled.

As I made the drive back home, rain lashing down on my windshield, I surprised myself by thinking wistfully of the places I'd visited over the course of the summer... roads I'd taken, creeks I'd crossed, hills I'd summited, drainages I'd followed... places where the radio signal for NPR was good... places where the radio signal for NPR was bad...places I'd found my grouse... places I'd stopped just to be... places where I wondered "WTF am I doing out here?"... places where I'd never felt better. And as I thought back over everything I'd done and everything I'd seen and everything I'd felt and every place I'd been, I found myself wondering, just what kind of day has it been?

Note to Self: Invent Fake Boyfriend

Whoo boy. Do I have a story for you all. Here I am, on Wednesday evening, as I intended (for once) posting! Really something, eh?

Despite the fact that only a few days have passed, it seems like a lot has happened. First, Dwayne reconsidered his awful request for an additional 30-60 goshawk survey points, and as a result, I am officially finished with my goshawk surveys! This turns out to be An Even Better Thing than I initially thought, because Monday morning while I was out surveying I slipped climbing down a canyon and dropped (and shattered) our GPS unit. I was very glad not to have fallen myself, but without the GPS it would be extremely difficult to call for goshawks with adequate accuracy.

Luckily, Dwayne was (at least outwardly) phlegmatic about the incident, chalked it up to the rigors of fieldwork, and ordered a replacement. In the interim, I'll be making-do with a smaller, less fancy, borrowed unit. I feel like I murdered a good friend. Not to mention the fact that I just knocked down Dwayne's yearly budget by around $700. At least I'm no longer going after goshawk, and won't be out traversing canyons for a while.

The final count? 100 surveys, and one (that's right... 1, single) goshawk. Dwayne was thrilled. Go figure.

The relief of having finished the surveys is huge. Now I can move on to checking raptor nests, collecting vegetation data in key sage-grouse habitat, surveying prairie dog colonies for several threatened bird species, and setting up our bat detectors across the field office.

This week is the last week of the Upton project. Last night our active bat surveys went off without a hitch, but around midnight it started pouring down rain and didn't stop. Middle school students aren't quite mature enough to handle a day out hiking in the rain, so the teachers decided to shift the schedule and visit museums in Hill City today, leaving the wildlife hike until tomorrow morning. No skin off my nose... I'll gain credibility for being flexible. I had plenty to entertain myself for the remainder of the day.

This afternoon I returned home from a night of camping far less tired than I have been in the previous two weeks. I've been working a more 'normal' schedule lately, and without goshawk surveys on top of camping and the wildlife hike, I not tired at all. Fantastic!

Capone pitched a fit as soon as he saw me pull up to the apartment. The evenings I camp he doesn't get his walk, and cries all the louder the following day. I put my camping stuff away quickly and got out the leash to take him along our normal stretch before he tore a hole in the siding of the apartment.

About halfway through our walk a little hound mix puppy ran up to us and then took off as soon as Capone started sniffing his direction. As the puppy tore off, a guy appeared from behind an unkempt pickup, took one look at Capone, and swooned. Most guys drool over Capone, his beefy build, his block head, and, perhaps, his 'intact' nature. The guy laughed at his puppy running from Capone, and introduced himself as "Steve." It's not unnatural for people to introduce themselves in Newcastle. Perhaps it's a small town thing.

Steve admired Capone and asked if he always pulled. I explained that he only pulled that hard when he was really interested in something (in this case, the puppy). He suggested I use the leash as a harness, and I told him that I'd tried that several times and found the slip-lead method to be most effective. Then Steve asked what I did in Newcastle, and where I was from. I assumed he was making polite conversation.

Oh how wrong I was.

(Please note: the following text should likely be rated PG-13).

He laughed when I told him I worked for the BLM, saying I had a "real job." He asked what I did for fun, and I told him I spent most of my free time in South Dakota. Then he asked if I was available for dating.

I almost choked.

Steve, a guy who must be in his late thirties, wearing a cutoff t-shirt, balding, with cigarette stains covering his teeth, and toting a dirty puppy and a border collie who has had puppies of her own at least once, asked me if I was available for dating. Perhaps on some level I should have been flattered, but I was mortified.

I didn't choke, but I did freeze, and wasn't quick enough on my feet to adequately convince him that he was sniffing up the wrong tree. I danced around an outright rejection, but he kept trying- hard. He pulled the "we already have something in common" card, pointing to the dogs. He noted that he lived in South Dakota, a place I'd already said I spend a lot of my free time. He asked me if I liked riding horses, and if I enjoyed dancing.

(I do enjoy riding horses. Very much in fact. No! Don't lead him on! No!)

I jumped on the suggestion of dancing.

"No, I don't dance."

"Really? Do you know how?"

"Nope."

"Well, do you want to learn?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. Not something I'm interested in."

"Really? You don't want to learn? It's fun."

"Seriously. No. It doesn't do anything for me."

At this point I stared slowly edging my way down the street, away from him, letting Capone pull to his heart's content.

"We should do something sometime. You need someone to hang out with?"

"Um... I have friends in Buffalo." (Not necessarily a lie.)

"Well we should get together sometime."

(Well, gosh, Steve, I might really like that, if you were fifteen or so years younger, didn't chain smoke, and were ANYTHING like me.)

"Okay, well... I think Capone and I need to finish our walk. He's going to pull my arm off." (Hahahahaha... oh god get me out of here!)

"Well, I'll be around here for the next few weeks. Keep me in mind!"

(No chance in hell, buddy.)

"Well, it was nice to meet you, Steve." (Not so much, really.)

"You're lookin' good, Jax."

(Oh jesus... don't think about what he really means, don't think about what he really means, don't think about what he really means...)

I led Capone down the street, thinking I'd avoided a near disaster, only to have my hackles raised in alarm a few minutes later when I smelled diesel and heard his F-350 pull up alongside me.

"Can I call you sometime?"

"What?" (WHAT?)

"Can I call you sometime?"

"Uh... I don't have a phone."

"Seriously? You don't have a phone?"

"No. I get by with my phone at the office." (Oh man. Oh hell. Why can't I just tell him he's creepy and I'm not interested!?)

"Do you want one? I have an extra one." At this point, he reached into his pocket; evidently, to grab his extra cell phone and give it to me.

Who ARE you? What kind of person carries around an extra phone and offers it up to a complete stranger? Are you desperate?

"Oh, no, that's okay. I don't really need one."

"Well, here, then. Let me give you my number!"

"Uh... Um... Er....Sure."

Steve then proceeded to tear the back off a pack of Marlboros, write down his number, and hand it to me through the window of his trash-ridden pickup. Perhaps my repulsion showed on my face, because he then said, "I need to clean up a bit. You know- work an' all that."

"Um yeah. Heheheh..."

Thankfully, a cement truck pulled up alongside him, he was forced to return to work, and I was able to make my escape (relatively) unscathed.

I have to wonder, though. How old did I look to him? Or did it even matter? Why couldn't I just tell him to look elsewhere? Why can't a cute, twenty-something, well-educated guy take some interest? Do they even exist in this part of the country? Or anywhere?

I'm sure Steve may be a perfectly nice guy, but I was glad I at least had the sense to tell him I didn't have a phone. His intentions may have been innocent. Perhaps he's just as lonely as I've been out here and is just looking for a friend... someone to spend time with.

Yeah.

Right.

Now I suppose Capone and I will have to find a different route to walk... at least for a while.

Note to self: invent fake boyfriend. Convince the creepy older guys that hit on you that you're in a serious relationship. His name is.... Matt. Or Andrew. Or Patrick. Or.... Jack. Name doesn't matter. Just remember the name and don't get mixed up under pressure. He lives in Colorado. Or California. Or Oregon. Or Canada. Let's go with California... more liberal. Lots of schools there. He's my age. Or a couple years older. Going to school, for a PhD, just like I'm planning on doing. Soon. It's hard to be away from him, but this gig is temporary. Yeah. We're serious. Too serious for me to be messing around with a random guy in Wyoming. Right? Right!?

Next time, I'll be more prepared.

I made it back to the apartment, shut and locked the door, and said hi to my real boyfriends. Or at least the only boyfriends I plan on having here, lest some sort of miracle occurs.

I've finally given them names. So have a good laugh over my misfortune, and then say hello to:

Archer

Bokeh
and Rizzo!

'Planes, trains, and.... Well, actually, just trains.

There are two coal mines within fairly close proximity to Newcastle. The train tracks run along the northern side of the town and across Main Street, then turn east and south. Trains that pass through town have three street crossings within ear-shot of my apartment, one only half a block behind the cottage.

Regardless of the flashing lights and gates that lower when a train nears, it is still law for trains to announce their arrival by blowing their horns. Most conductors are conservative, giving two or three quick pulls as they near each intersection. Others take their horn-blowing very seriously, and feel that if they do not blow four or five times then some citizen may be caught unawares by the thousands of tons of steel hurtling down the tracks, the flashing lights, and the lowered gates.

Then there are the conductors that realize just how important their horn-blowing duties are, and understand that if they aren't as obnoxious as they possibly can be then someone will almost certainly step out in front of the train. These fine conductors rarely let up on the horn as they pass through town, blowing it continuously from the time they near Newcastle to several hundred yards after they've crossed the last intersection.

It is estimated that around 60 trains pass through Newcastle every 24 hours.

Welcome to the BLM

Lesson for the week: The government is slow. They make an art of red tape, bureaucracy, chains of command, approvals of approvals that were previously approved by someone whose entire job it is to approve of things. As a result, I've just finished my second week of work at the BLM and still have yet to do... anything. Really. I can't do any field work until I can drive a government vehicle, I can't drive a government vehicle until I am "trained" in defensive driving, I can't get training in defensive driving until I'm registered online at the National Training Office, and I can't register online at the National Training Office until someone- that's right!- approves of it. Which, by the way, might take up to four weeks. From yesterday.

I was hired for this position more than two months ago, turned in my paperwork barely a month after that, and here I am twiddling my thumbs for eight hours a day because someone somewhere can't get around to giving my name the go-ahead for a simple activation of an online account. Needless to say, my frustration meter has nearly peaked this week.

That aside, this is where I work. The deer isn't always there. It just happened to be crossing the street when drove by. I usually park in front of the tree. You know... just in case you were wondering.

The offices make a circular-ish shape around a small area in front where there is a receptionist's desk and a broom-closet sized room containing public information. The offices (and everything else, for that matter) are only accesible by key and/or code. Evidently, they really take security at the Newcastle BLM seriously.

My desk is on the eastern side of the building. If you look in the picture, I sit directly between the two windows on the far right side of the office. As an intern, I do not get a window at my desk. Windows are only for the 'real' employees.

My boss is "Dwayne," the critter coordinator at the Newcastle Field Office. His supervisor is the field manager of the office, "Tulip." So, technically, she's my actual boss, but I take direction from Dwayne. Dwayne is.... well, he's something else. Early thirties, about my height, egg-shaped head, buzz cut, balding, thick glasses, and starting to put on a little weight. That kid you used to know back in high school or junior high that was really nerdy, wore highwaters, hung out with the computer geeks, but always tried to act like he fit in by talking about football and frequently using the phrases "That is so awesome!" and "Man that is so cool!"? Imagine that kid as being thirty-something, and you'll basically have Dwayne.

He's a really nice guy, and I know he cares about the work he's doing. He's married, has three kids, and he and his wife are expecting a fourth any day now. Which compounds my "lagard nature of the BLM" dilemma. See, Dwayne has to show me everything he wants me to work on in the field before he goes on paternity leave. Unlike many people, he sees his wife's pregnancy as a tour of active duty, and plans on taking quite a bit of time off when the kid is actually born. If I don't get driver certification before his wife goes into labor, then I may very well be stuck in the office for two weeks doing exactly what I've been doing for the last two weeks- a whole bunch of nothing. Then, when I finally do get started, I'll have four months in the field to do five months-worth of work.

So please, keep your fingers crossed that something positive will happen this coming week. I'm really tiring of the disappointments. And the waiting. That too.

A Lesson in Small-Town Acquisitions

Long before I moved here I knew that the one modern convenience I absolutely could not do without would be internet access. Although I was in the fifth grade before my family had our first computer and several years older before the internet became commonplace, I've found that my daily lifestyle has become too deeply ingrained in the instant access to information to spend much time in civilized space without it. Thus, very soon after I arrived I began trying to find an internet access provider. Which, of course, turned out to be far more difficult than I'd ever imagined.

Monday morning when I went in for my first day of work, I asked the receptionist, K, if she knew of any internet service providers in Newcastle. "Well, let me think," she said. "I don't have internet at home, and I'm not sure how we get it here at the office." She thought about it, and decided she didn't know. She told me to ask B. I asked B. B does not have internet at home, either. B told me to ask L, who, it turns out, also lacks at-home internet service. I had to ask the youngest person in the office, aside from myself- Br, who is in his early thirties. He doesn't have internet at home, but he knew that the people to contact were at RT Communications. Finally I was getting somewhere.

One quick phone call to RT and I was back to square one. They wanted either a 12-month commitment or a non-refundable $200, and their internet service, with modem rental, ran about $100 a month. No dice.

After another two days of trying to find additional internet providers I was beginning to wonder if I might never be able to check my email again. Luckily, I remembered that Verizon has a mobile broadband service, and someone told me the location of a local provider of Verizon service.

Downtown Newcastle. I checked and double-checked the address before opening the door to a glass-fronted store called "The Carter Company." When I first stepped in the door I was sure I'd made a poor decision, that the store was closed for business and in the middle of renovations. The warehouse-sized room was littered with hitches, batteries, old furniture, rusty car parts, and the back wall was covered in painter's plastic. I balked and started backing out of the store when someone said, "Good afternoon, young lady. Come on in."

The "someone" was, Mr. Carter, senior, an old man sitting at one of the tables with a frayed deck of cards, playing Solitaire. I asked politely if they were a Verizon provider, sure that he'd look at me strangely and say no. But I was wrong. It turns out that The Carter Company is a AC-Delco Automotive Parts/U-HAUL/Verizon store.... Hm.

Mr. Carter, however, could not help me; for that we needed his son, Steve. He called Steve, then told me it would be about twenty minutes, and to have a seat. While we waited, he complained about Obama, swore the country was turning to socialism, and told bad jokes. He was well-meaning, though, and as I was desperate for someone to talk to, I almost enjoyed myself.

When Steve finally arrived I had to explain to him several times what I was looking for. When I finally convinced him that it was internet through the computer, rather than the phone, in which I was interested, he told me that he did indeed have the device I sought. He went to the back of the store to a desk stacked chest-high with papers, magazines, and receipts, dug around, and finally, from the bottom of a large pile, pulled out a crushed cardboard box containing a single USB mobile broadband device. I felt like I'd won the lottery.

It took Steve nearly 45 minutes to finalize the deal. He didn't have internet access himself, so he had to call in both the order to Verizon and the charge on my credit card, all using a rotary-dial phone. While he was busy, I discussed the weather with Mr. Carter, senior. (It rained all day, every day, for the first two weeks I was here.)

I've since been back to The Carter Company, both to chat with Mr. Carter and to notify Steve that he accidentally charged my credit card twice. When I was leaving, Mr. Carter remarked that I should come in and visit sometime, on my breaks, even if I wasn't mischarged. I very well just might. Next time, though, we might have to have a discussion about socialism.

Welcome to Newcastle

Newcastle is a tiny town in northeastern Wyoming, very close to the border with South Dakota, about 35 miles west of Custer. A few facts about Newcastle: The town is a whopping 2.5 square miles, has two grocery stores, a small library, a post office, a hardware store, a couple of gas stations, a Pamida, and (fanciest of all) a Pizza Hut and a Subway (which sadly does not carry my favorite sandwich, the "Veggie Max"). The population is around 3,000. And the median age is around 60. Seriously.

The town lies on an ecotone (transition from one ecosystem to another) between sagebrush grassland and the black hills. The black hills extend to the east and north and the grasslands run south and west. I'd be lost without the black hills here. They're no comparison to the towering Rockies, nor even to the foothills of mountains, but they're better than nothing.

I have a one-bedroom "cottage" leased here for the next five months, located directly between an oil refinery (which smells) and the train tracks (which, of course, facilitate the passage of trains... which are loud). It is small, but has all the space I need. There are vast improvements over my previous apartment back home. First, the hot and cold water lines aren't crossed, so I get hot water from the 'H' tap and cold from the 'C.' Second, the hot water here won't cause third-degree burns. I'm on ground-level, and I think the daily odds of breaking my neck have been significantly decreased without the Twisty Staircase of Doom. There isn't any lead paint (of which I'm aware), the freezer is a normal size, and I don't have to pay utilities.

It isn't all better, however. I don't have a dishwasher anymore, and the kitchen lacks any semblance of counter space. I no longer have a tub, and the carpet here is of the office variety. Although I probably wouldn't utilize an outdoor space (because of the mosquitoes and the refinery) I no longer have a front porch or use of a fenced-in backyard.

I'm renting from Rohn, a guy in his mid- to late-twenties that works as an electrician at the refinery. He seems nice enough, and has responded to my requests fairly quickly. He's a little awkward, though. Maybe because he spells his name with an 'h.'

Then there's Capone, a mixed blessing. Rohn's house is right next to the cottage, and the space between his house and my front door is occupied by a small, square, muddy dog pen, wherein Capone the pit bull spends most of his time. Capone is a sweet, exuberant dog that would love nothing more for someone, anyone, to pay him some attention. The time not spent in the tiny pen is spent locked in the garage. I don't believe he's ever been in the house, and apart from feeding him twice a day and occasionally providing him with fresh water, I'm not sure Rohn ever really interacts with him. I walk him every day after I get off work, but in the grand scheme of things my efforts fall far short of the kind of exercise and attention he needs.

He's obviously unused to being on a leash, as he feels it's his duty as a respectable dog to pull as hard as he possibly can to visit the greatest number of interesting places before he's dragged back to his white-fenced prison. He's short, wide, and pure muscle, so walks with Capone are far from the easiest part of my day. I've spent the last two weeks trying to convince him that not pulling will get him farther, but the lesson has been slow to take.

Lately, he's taken to sitting in the corner of his pen next to my front door and whining. Sometimes, he howls.