Tuesday, August 5, 2014

New Town, New Wheels

I've landed in Long Beach, California. I moved here in May to go out on whale watch boats and collect data & photographs, focusing on the blue whales that have followed summer krill blooms to Long Beach for the past decade. Boats, photos, and whales is a heck of a triple play, and so with a little (OK a lot) of planning crammed into a few short weeks, I said yes and leaped.

I hit the ground running. Several orders of business were pressing, and highly motivated by principles outlined by Maslow: housing, food, transportation, work, dog, friends. Having found an apartment share online, I took a shuttle to the street address and dropped my bags. Shortly after, I set to the business of tracking down some wheels.

My 1/4th of a spacious apartment is about three miles north of the beach, and six miles north-east of work. Not an insurmountable distance on a bike and with the bus, but too far to hoof it. My first purchase was a beach cruiser. Sexy and comfortable, shiny and trendy, she was a beaut. I called her Ollie, inspired by the "Oliver" Cadet of Top Gear Fame. But just as with Hammond's ill-fated ride, the beach cruiser soon left me crying out in despair, "Olliiiivveeeeerrrr!!!"

She rattled. The seat picked up a squeak in the springs that began as mildly annoying and quickly progressed to embarrassing. The seat shaft also twisted, but generally only when I needed to make a turn in traffic. The pedals began to look worryingly flimsily attached to the rest of the bike. Basically, within days the lovely new Ollie was rattling apart.

The fine chaps at the department store where I'd bought her accepted the return without a hitch, seeming completely unsurprised to see me back. I began scouring Craigslist, and quickly located a refurbished commuter bike, a Giant Attraction. Being unfamiliar with the brand, I cued the music and did some research. Very little turned up, save one glowingly positive review calling it a little-known but indestructible commuter bike. Sold on the idea, I took a very long bus ride out to check out the proffered wheels. The Giant isn't new, or shiny, but the frame is sleek, strong, and exactly my size. All her parts were attached well and well made, the rims were new, and the brakelines good. I coughed up the cash and pedaled away, the proud owner of a new Giant. 

Weeks passed and untold miles sped under the skinny road tires. The Giant and are inseparable. Still unsure about the name, I wrapped a Life is Good bumper sticker wrapped around her frame. She now reads "Giant Action."


Wheels rockin' and rollin', I was in business, and still am. My dog flew out to join me and the apartment is quickly becoming home. Hello, Long Beach!

California Bound!

There is an organization called the Cascadia Research Collective. This is a group of researchers who are focused on whales in the Pacific Basin. Part of their work involves a partnership with the Aquarium of the Pacific in Long Beach, California. The Aquarium has a partnership with a boat company called Harbor Breeze, and sends people out on the whale watch boats to collect cetacean data. This data is first processed in-house and then sent to Cascadia, for the ultimate purpose of whale conservation.

I applied to intern with this project from Mario's, the chain pizza place at the base of our mountain in Trinidad, where we would sometimes go for Internet. When I got home from Trinidad, there was a voicemail from the Aquarium waiting on my cell phone.

Whales, conservation research, boats, photographs & data, Aquarium, and California? I'm in!

Monday, May 19, 2014

Home again! Maryland April-May 2014

April 16, 2014

The plane touched down at BWI airport at midnight, kicking off a month jam packed with good times, friends, and family.

Between baseball and beer, festivals and feasts, flowers and jazz and dancing in the kitchen, green leaf buds and the spring unfurled.



Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Red Sky at Night - April 2014

It's my last night in Trinidad, and I can't sleep worth a damn. Chigger bites itching like mad and a head full of thoughts drove me outside, where I am watching the "blood moon" lunar eclipse.

12:53am on the dot, the top of the moon took on a ruddy glow. Sitting out here on the back patio, the frogs and insects are noisy, and small insectivorous bats are hunting. I'm reflecting on my time in Trinidad, thinking of things to come, and watching the blood moon eclipse. I can’t help but think of the old sailor’s adage- “red sky at night, sailor’s delight.” I know this isn’t the kind of red sky they meant, but in the early morning hours at the end of a great adventure, it feels like a good omen.

I have more stories to tell after landing back in the States tomorrow, but for now, I just want to say thanks for reading along.

Signing off from Trinidad,

Karen 

Snakes on a Trail - April 2014

"Whoa that's a fer de lance!"

Four of our party of seven have just stepped over a small mottled brown snake, unawares. K- seems to have stepped on his tail, and the tiny serpent is hopping mad, coiled among the leaves. I stop on a dime and quickly back up, calling the alarm. The Guppy line freezes, everyone turning to look at the snake. Profanity from the hikers who have just passed over the fangs colors the air. The fer de lance is encouraged to exit the trail with a long poled fishing net, and gracelessly acquiesces. Uneasily, the rest of us pass by.

It's the right season to see them out during the day, but this was our first live fer de lance sighting this year. Several hours later, a second snake is spotted in the foliage, but quickly vanishes. Not twenty minutes later, a big yellow and black snake is sighted. This one, known to not be venomous, has our resident herpers chasing it down with glee. Unluckily for everyone, they chase it into a long narrow gulch through which we usually wade hip-deep.

"Nuh uh," I say, and scramble over the high rocky embankment above the water, followed by the less snake inclined of our party.

Everyone kept hawk eyes peeled for snakes as we head back out of the woods. The three snake day turns into four as a long body flashes away from the truck on our drive home. So snake season was inaugurated.

Paying attention during our next hike, the jungle visually less interesting as we stare at our feet. The topic is all snakes and snake stories, first hand, third hand, boogie man.

"It's crazy we're seeing so many now."
"'Tis the season."
"Fa la la la la, la snake snake snake."
"Fer de lance."
"Ha ha, very funny."
"No really. Fer de lance. Right there."

There are only four venomous snakes in Trinidad: two small brightly colored coral snakes,  and two pit vipers: the massive bush master, and the fer de lance - picture a rainforest rattlesnake. Sure enough, there is another juvenile fer de lance blocking the trail home. This time when we try to shoo him away, the snake climbs a plant and hangs out at belt height. Curled around the stalk, he won't budge. Keeping a hawk eye on the snake and turning pack side to the fangs, we sidle past, one by one, breathing a sigh of held breath as we make it through the gauntlet. Only another twenty minutes up the hill to the truck.

We smell and hear another snake toward the top of the trail where the Canadians saw a big fer de lance a few days before, but happily it slithers away from the sound of our tromping arrival.

Speaking of Team Canada, they had quite the snake adventure. They had some night sampling to do at the C- focal site. Hiking down in the dark, the first night was blessedly snake free. The second night, they saw a fer de lance as tall as M-, the tallest Canadian, nearly six feet. In fact, they saw five. Maple syrup must make you made of stern stuff, because they finished their sampling in the midst of the vipers. Me, I'm quite glad I was asleep.


We see plenty squished snakes on the road these days, and they are still frequently spotted on the trail. Before I finish my stay here, M- and I are sewing up, patching, and fixing the protective paneling in the snake gaiters. May never a Guppster be stung.

Sea Turtles by Starlight - March 2014


I woke in a hammock at Grand Tacaribe. I snuck barefoot past rows of cocooned sleepers, five camping hammocks zipped shut and one hanging open. J- and I are early risers, and I found her already on the beach. Pausing to drink in the sunrise, my feet were immediately swarmed by sandflies. Finding safety atop rocks jutting above the low tide line, I watched a white boat bobbing against the green blue of the sea.


The beach day passed in sand and sunscreen, swimming and calzones cooked over a fire. Finding leatherback sea turtle tracks on the beach, we vowed to return to the beach after dark.

(Leatherback sea turtle tracks)

Afternoon turned to Frisbee, until at last sunset chased us out of the waves back up the hill to tend the "Trini pot" – saltfish and bodi, okra and tomatoes and spices simmering over a driftwood fire. We fed the fire and passed the rum and conversation became punctuated by song. At last the bodi was cooked and Ramen was added to the pot. Plastic bowls and old yogurt containers with mismatched utensils sufficed, and we feasted until the pot was low. Full, we rallied to hike down to look for sea turtles. A huge moon hung promisingly in the sky, summoning sea turtles with the tide. 

Just as we gained the beach trailhead, G- came running back up shouting, “Sea turtle in the surf!” Skidding and scampering down the slick steep trail, I saw necrotizing spiders and and ant armies whizz by. As soon as my feet hit the beach, my flashlight went off and I ran west, sand flying. Three quarters of the beach down, I spotted a dark shape in the water. A wave lapped the beach and the rock swept forward. Green light flashed as the sea turtle lifted, her eyes eerily reflecting the moonlight.

We gathered on the sand, between the rainforest, sea and stars, watching the sea turtle’s slow progress onto the sand.

After an eternity, she ceased crawling and dug a deep well, well below the high tide line. Her nest filled with water, thankfully before she laid her eggs. Giving up on this spot, too close to the water, she lumbered in an awkward circle and ponderously returned to the waves.

Later that night, I woke hearing nature's call. Since I was up anyway, I returned to the beach. Walking the moonlit sand, the full gentle roar of the sea filled my head like champagne, already lifted on heady starlight. As I returned to the base of the trail, a huge shape caught my eye. A leatherback mother was slapping her flippers against the sand, packing the surface of her nest, this one dug well above the waterline.

I froze, delighted. She began lumbering to the water and I followed behind, stepping in the surf after her. As the waves crashed around her body and my knees, she lifted her head and looked straight at me. I was awed, and suddenly very aware of a beak the size of a Yorkie attached to a turtle on the cusp of extreme mobility. I backed off and watched her disappear into the dark Caribbean sea. 

Grand Tacaribe - March 2014

It was a three day jungle adventure to the sea. We drove a dusty pickup truck from the Guppy house, the cab full of seven Guppsters in stained field clothes and flip flops, the bed laden with field packs, snake gators, and hiking boots. We were looking for C-, his wife K-, and their children. We were hoping to begin our trek across their land. The kids popped over the railing of their house, a work of precise carpentry crafted from fire-resistant hardwood. Swinging in a colorful hammock on the open porch, they gave quintessentially Trini directions to where we could find their father.

“You go up so, then on so, then left at the river. Well, first you cross the river, and then go left, then down the hill, and then you go so!”

Each “So!” is emphatic, and accompanied by a hand gesture that you could probably interpret if you’d lived on this island all your life. Since the degree to which such directions are incomprehensible to a bunch of Americans, we agreed with polite interest until the litany ended. G- stayed for a while to play basketball with the kids, rebounding the ball and all six feet of him lifting them to dunk.

Not even attempting to follow the directions, we drove back to P- Road and began our hike. Starting as a wide paved dirt road, a highway for butterflies, the flat quickly gave way to a jungle path wound around the sides of the mountains like a band of brown ribbon. We hiked with open eyes and open hands and open mouths, chattering and passing water bottles and enjoying the greenery, not unlike the hikes to work but easier going and as yet unseen. A coral snake on the trail caused startled excitement, the small serpent's red and black stripes announcing a neurotoxin, fatal if only the tiny teeth at the back of a Sharpie-sized throat could break the skin.


We hiked on into the jungle. Boots began to wear on skin, but attitudes remained unblistered. Conversation began to center around the great distance remaining to lunch. The ribbon of trail wound again, and with a sudden roar the sound of the ocean rose through the trees.

We gained the trail to P- Falls and deviated from our course to the sea, hiking above the bank of a shallow stream. Jumping from the last ledge, the water fell dead ahead, beautiful and welcome. Packs were dropped and shoes were shed, and we jumped in. Cold water washed away the heat of the hike. Afternoon waned and bellies called, we broke for lunch, perching on the highest rocks, refugees from the armies of ants searching for tender morsels of lunch and flesh.


From the falls, we quickly gained the sea. The sight of tropical blue lifted our hearts – it is lovely to behold the Caribbean, doubly so when your journey’s end is near. Pah! If only we knew how far it would be. But no matter, for then the sun still shone and the sand squelched amusingly under our heavy-treaded boots, lunch was still bright in our bellies and the afternoon seemed young. The trail grew strenuous. We joked about our ragged edged breath, talking and laughing between stretches of quiet. The way wound on and off the beaches, up into the jungle, dropping on to the sand before climbing back into the rainforest again. We passed occasional dwellings, some like old tree forts, others little more than tarpaulin and faded rope.


Gaining a bluff with a killer view of the sea, G- triumphantly cried "The coconut grove!" Thirsty and tired, we drew cutlasses and chopped coconuts, drinking the sweet water and feasting on white coconut jelly. Some of the ripest coconuts fizzed like champagne, younger nuts gave a smooth sweet water. The grove rehydrated seven hikers and filled us with a view of the sea. Little did the rest of us know that G- was bluffing when he said, “Not much farther now. Maybe another hour or so.”


Day turned to night as we wound in and out of the jungle. Stretches on the beach were bright in the afternoon light, but stretches through the trees were deeply dark and dusky. The light grew faint and dark shadows gathered around leaves and fallen logs, and we armed ourselves with lights against the night. Resuming a now weary pace, a string of headlamps and flashlights pressed on up and down the mountains.

We kept the tiredness at bay putting one foot in front of the other and calling occasional encouragement to each other in the pitch black. J- snorted laughter and said,

“You know how some people complain hiking is just moving forward staring at the ground? This is the epitome of that. All I can see is the spot right in front of me. There could be a T-Rex with an astronaut in his mouth right next to the trail and we’d have no idea.”

This got a laugh, but quiet fell again. We concentrated on breathing and not falling off the cliffs in places where washouts made the trail scant inches wide. Habitually, we pause as a troupe whenever there's an interesting bug or plant or bird – usually G- can call the land bugs, J- the water bugs, J- can name the plants, and I can identify the birds. So when the frontrunner spotted a huge interesting spider we gathered round, interest quickening our flagging energy.

“Ohh, yeah,” G- said. “I know this spider.” He gave it a name I didn’t recognize. “A girl got bitten by one of those and a chunk of her finger necrotized.”

“Necrotizing spiders! Let’s move on, shall we!?”

We fell rapidly back into line and moved on at a good clip. Soon, though, glittering diamonds strewn all about the trail told us that this was a nocturnal species, and there was no getting past them. So watching were we placed our boots, grateful for the snake gators, we kept going. The dark livened insect activity, and we shared the very narrow trail with a line of red ants. A bellow came from the back of the line “KEEP MOVING!”

Constellations and moonrise illuminated the stretches of sand, and weariness set in earnest. We dropped onto a beach, much like the remote sands we’d been crossing for hours, but this time a name was spoken – Petite Tacaribe. This should be the last beach before Grand Tacaribe, though more jungle lay still in our way. The dwellings here were more permanent, large wood structures. Stone stairs carved in long winding paths down to the sea.

Grand Tacaribe! We had arrived. Crossing the whole length of the sand, G- ran ahead with a light to find the trailhead to our beach camp. A sheer hill rose before us, full of rocky roots and necrotizing spiders glittering eyes, but this time the trail rose straight up. At the top, we spilled out onto a level semi-cleared area around a big half-enclosed wood platform, roofed walls on stilts. The slats between the walls invited stringing hammocks. With a cheer we dropped our gear on the benches and split into teams, hanging hammocks and kicking up a fire for dinner, pasta salad made at home the night before and silver turtle hotdogs cooked over the fire.

Camp was up and running by a cheery blaze in a blink, fire burning in an open air clay oven by the open doorway. A freshwater mountain stream, clear water clean enough to drink fountained from a thin length of PVC pipe, serving as a spigot to fill our water vessels and a chilly open air shower. Nothing could keep us from the beach, and as soon as dinner was done, we headed down the steep hill to the sands of Grand Tacaribe. Swimming by moonlight, the white crests of the waves reflected brightly on the dark water, the sands hardly darker than a cloudy afternoon. Orion hung overhead, keeping watch, as we looked north over the warm Caribbean sea.