Sunday, September 30, 2007
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River Patrol, August 2007
While I was at New River National River I got to do a river patrol with my favorite FTR (Field training Ranger). Mitch and I spent all day on the water. We put in at McCreery with our "cataraft" and rowed and motored our way to my house at Dun Glen.
The water was really low so it was slow going. Along the way we pulled in to check fishing licenses and contact campers. We found a group of guys getting ready to leave. They'd had a huge party, we could tell by all the beer cans in the fire pit. They were all packed up except for an entire trash bag worth of cans. I was really surprised while I was in West Virginia at the general attitude the people seem to have about litter. Every campsite I visited I would ask them to please clean up when they left. Everyone would act so sincere and tell me how they couldn't stand people who left trash and they always cleaned up more trash than they brought...etc. By the way, did we have any trash bags they could have? Because they always clean up after themselves, but they didn't have any bags.
Here's Mitch now, with an expression I came to be very familiar with in the three weeks I worked with him. It's his "giving Liz crap" face.
Mitch started out rowing, but I wanted to give it a try. I shouldn't have seemed so eager. Once I was at the helm he let me have it the rest of the day. The oars don't look that heavy. By the end of the day I could barely keep them out of the water!
Because the water was so low, there weren't a lot of places we could use the motor. Mitch and I both got the raft stuck at least once on rocks we couldn't avoid (by at least once I mean that Mitch got stuck once and I got stuck several times).
At 0700 when we started the water was still. Morning is the best time to be on the river.
We stopped on a nice deserted beach for lunch. We watched an osprey catch a fish and eat it. Mitch taught me about reading the river, looking for the "V" where the currents are and the way to pick the best route. And of course when I first got the oars I learned how to paddle in a circle... when I was trying for a straight line. Eventually I got better. The only other time I've rowed has been in a row boat and everything is backwards when you're facing backwards. So it took some getting used to.
As the day wore on, it got hot in the full sun in the middle of the river. I was doing the usual (whining) when Mitch told me to just go for a swim. He took the raft, I took off my duty belt and uniform shirt and dove in (or rather what passes for diving from me. I failed that section of swim lessons). The New River isn't as refreshing to swim in as I would've liked. The temperature is similar to slightly old bathwater. Not fresh and hot out of the faucet, but close. Nonetheless, it was a nice break for my tired shoulders. But then to my embarrassment, my spaghetti arms were unable to pull me up the slippery sides of the raft. After several failed attempts (laughing detracts from my ability to use my muscles as well) that included one leg partially in the raft and hands scrabbling for purchase on the thick rubber, I swam to a rock and Mitch came to get me.
Mitch enjoyed himself immensely. Watching me struggle with muscle fatigue and exhaustion while he yelled, "Paddle right!" or "Back paddle!" as if our very lives depended on it gave him no end of amusement. After the last rapid of the day I just dropped the oars and decided that the current would take us the rest of the way, or Mitch would take pity on me and put in the motor. He put in the motor, but the cost was that he told everyone how beat I was.
We got done with our river patrol just as a stolen car was set on fire and rolled off a hill. It was a long day... but I like overtime.
The water was really low so it was slow going. Along the way we pulled in to check fishing licenses and contact campers. We found a group of guys getting ready to leave. They'd had a huge party, we could tell by all the beer cans in the fire pit. They were all packed up except for an entire trash bag worth of cans. I was really surprised while I was in West Virginia at the general attitude the people seem to have about litter. Every campsite I visited I would ask them to please clean up when they left. Everyone would act so sincere and tell me how they couldn't stand people who left trash and they always cleaned up more trash than they brought...etc. By the way, did we have any trash bags they could have? Because they always clean up after themselves, but they didn't have any bags.
Here's Mitch now, with an expression I came to be very familiar with in the three weeks I worked with him. It's his "giving Liz crap" face.Mitch started out rowing, but I wanted to give it a try. I shouldn't have seemed so eager. Once I was at the helm he let me have it the rest of the day. The oars don't look that heavy. By the end of the day I could barely keep them out of the water!
Because the water was so low, there weren't a lot of places we could use the motor. Mitch and I both got the raft stuck at least once on rocks we couldn't avoid (by at least once I mean that Mitch got stuck once and I got stuck several times).
At 0700 when we started the water was still. Morning is the best time to be on the river.We stopped on a nice deserted beach for lunch. We watched an osprey catch a fish and eat it. Mitch taught me about reading the river, looking for the "V" where the currents are and the way to pick the best route. And of course when I first got the oars I learned how to paddle in a circle... when I was trying for a straight line. Eventually I got better. The only other time I've rowed has been in a row boat and everything is backwards when you're facing backwards. So it took some getting used to.
As the day wore on, it got hot in the full sun in the middle of the river. I was doing the usual (whining) when Mitch told me to just go for a swim. He took the raft, I took off my duty belt and uniform shirt and dove in (or rather what passes for diving from me. I failed that section of swim lessons). The New River isn't as refreshing to swim in as I would've liked. The temperature is similar to slightly old bathwater. Not fresh and hot out of the faucet, but close. Nonetheless, it was a nice break for my tired shoulders. But then to my embarrassment, my spaghetti arms were unable to pull me up the slippery sides of the raft. After several failed attempts (laughing detracts from my ability to use my muscles as well) that included one leg partially in the raft and hands scrabbling for purchase on the thick rubber, I swam to a rock and Mitch came to get me.
Mitch enjoyed himself immensely. Watching me struggle with muscle fatigue and exhaustion while he yelled, "Paddle right!" or "Back paddle!" as if our very lives depended on it gave him no end of amusement. After the last rapid of the day I just dropped the oars and decided that the current would take us the rest of the way, or Mitch would take pity on me and put in the motor. He put in the motor, but the cost was that he told everyone how beat I was.
We got done with our river patrol just as a stolen car was set on fire and rolled off a hill. It was a long day... but I like overtime.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
New River Gorge National River June-September 2007
This was my home for three months. Dun Glen was the name of the area. It's an ugly looking house, 
but it was free. FLETC paid for it. The Federal Law Enforcement Training Center also paid me $15 a day for food. $15! And here I am eating whether they pay me to or not.
Dun Glen was near the old Thurmond train depot, a historic town that revolved around coal mining and the railroad. My house was also maybe a 100 feet from the New River. The park loaned me a white water kayak and I spent a lot of time on the river by my house. I'd drive myself and the kayak up the road to Stone Cliff and ride down to my house. Then I'd pedal my bike to my truck and drive home. The whole thing took about an hour, so I could easily squeeze in a paddle before work.
Here's what my roommate called a fire lilly. My roommate, Don, was an invasive plant guy. He spent his days killing kudzo (the plant that ate the south) and other invasives. The fire lilly, though not native to West Virginia, is left in peace. The kudzo is more sinister and must be killed. The lilly just looks pretty and doesn't take up too much space.
Here I am at Long Point, one of my favorite short hikes. I also jogged out there a couple times and even played my bagpipes from the end. I wonder how far the sound carried?
The New River Gorge Bridge is in the background. Every October there is one day (Bridge Day) set aside for people to legally parachute or rappell off the 876 foot tall bridge. I didn't get to stay for Bridge Day, but while I was there I did catch an illegal base jumper. He led us on a four hour long chase in the dark woods, but in the end our fine-tuned woodsman skills lead us right to him (or he stepped on a stick as we were getting ready to call it off).
Unfortunately, while I was there we also had two people jump from the bridge without parachutes. Hollywood and rated-R movies can't compare to real life. Or real death.
I will always fondly remember most of my time at New River. I met and got to work with some extraordinary Rangers. They taught me some amazing things. One lesson that I'll never forget is that even the old grizzled veterans are allowed to say, "That was a bad one," and to admit that they'll carry it with them forever.
One of those suicides I'll always have with me. It took us 8 hours to clean up the mess. 8 hours! My whole shift. And I'll never forget that awful smell. The next day in church someone was talking about tithing, how we give 10% to the Lord. My mind started to wander. If I work 10 shifts in a pay period, then one shift pays my tithing. So one shift out of every 10 I'm working for the Lord. And I wondered which shift it had been out of the last two weeks. I figured it must have been the day before. While I was pulling that mess into the body bag and trying not to think too hard about what I was seeing or feeling, it occured to me that none of us were getting paid enough. Especially not the GS-5 River Ranger. But I didn't think my GS-9 salary covered it either. So I guess I was just doing it because no one else could.
It was one of my hardest days, so I decided that was the day out of the last 10 that I would pay my tithing with. That's the day that I worked for the Lord. And just like 10% doesn't even begin to cover what the Saviour did for us, neither does $23 an hour begin to compensate me for what I had to do. But I did it anyway, because of my love for my coworkers and my concern for the innocent people who would have to see it if I did nothing. But even that days work isn't enough when compared to the blessings we receive everyday and the chance that we have to live again in the presence of our Heavenly Father. Really, what is 10%?
but it was free. FLETC paid for it. The Federal Law Enforcement Training Center also paid me $15 a day for food. $15! And here I am eating whether they pay me to or not.Dun Glen was near the old Thurmond train depot, a historic town that revolved around coal mining and the railroad. My house was also maybe a 100 feet from the New River. The park loaned me a white water kayak and I spent a lot of time on the river by my house. I'd drive myself and the kayak up the road to Stone Cliff and ride down to my house. Then I'd pedal my bike to my truck and drive home. The whole thing took about an hour, so I could easily squeeze in a paddle before work.
Here's what my roommate called a fire lilly. My roommate, Don, was an invasive plant guy. He spent his days killing kudzo (the plant that ate the south) and other invasives. The fire lilly, though not native to West Virginia, is left in peace. The kudzo is more sinister and must be killed. The lilly just looks pretty and doesn't take up too much space.
Here I am at Long Point, one of my favorite short hikes. I also jogged out there a couple times and even played my bagpipes from the end. I wonder how far the sound carried?
The New River Gorge Bridge is in the background. Every October there is one day (Bridge Day) set aside for people to legally parachute or rappell off the 876 foot tall bridge. I didn't get to stay for Bridge Day, but while I was there I did catch an illegal base jumper. He led us on a four hour long chase in the dark woods, but in the end our fine-tuned woodsman skills lead us right to him (or he stepped on a stick as we were getting ready to call it off).
Unfortunately, while I was there we also had two people jump from the bridge without parachutes. Hollywood and rated-R movies can't compare to real life. Or real death.
I will always fondly remember most of my time at New River. I met and got to work with some extraordinary Rangers. They taught me some amazing things. One lesson that I'll never forget is that even the old grizzled veterans are allowed to say, "That was a bad one," and to admit that they'll carry it with them forever.
One of those suicides I'll always have with me. It took us 8 hours to clean up the mess. 8 hours! My whole shift. And I'll never forget that awful smell. The next day in church someone was talking about tithing, how we give 10% to the Lord. My mind started to wander. If I work 10 shifts in a pay period, then one shift pays my tithing. So one shift out of every 10 I'm working for the Lord. And I wondered which shift it had been out of the last two weeks. I figured it must have been the day before. While I was pulling that mess into the body bag and trying not to think too hard about what I was seeing or feeling, it occured to me that none of us were getting paid enough. Especially not the GS-5 River Ranger. But I didn't think my GS-9 salary covered it either. So I guess I was just doing it because no one else could.
It was one of my hardest days, so I decided that was the day out of the last 10 that I would pay my tithing with. That's the day that I worked for the Lord. And just like 10% doesn't even begin to cover what the Saviour did for us, neither does $23 an hour begin to compensate me for what I had to do. But I did it anyway, because of my love for my coworkers and my concern for the innocent people who would have to see it if I did nothing. But even that days work isn't enough when compared to the blessings we receive everyday and the chance that we have to live again in the presence of our Heavenly Father. Really, what is 10%?
Assateague Island National Seashore- 9/07
After I got done with field training at New River Gorge National River, I headed North. Back to Boston and my life there that I'd been absent from for over 8 months. But I had to make a couple stops on the trip home. One was in Assateague.
Of course my plants all had to come with me. Here's Phoenix on the beach soaking in the fresh air and sunshine. He didn't seem to mind the mosquitos as much as I did.
I should tell you a little about Phoenix and how he got his name. He's actually Phoenix II, the first one succumbing to dehydration while I was at my little brother's wedding. But anyway, when I worked at Sequoia National Park I bought a package of Sequoia seed. I planted them all in a small pot. They were gorgeous little guys, I had about 15 of them.
I left Sequoia for the trek back to Alaska. One of the stops early in my journey was Lake Mead National Recreation Area. It was an ill-fated trip from the get-go. The plants were hot in the car so I set them around my campsite and laid my sleeping bag out next to them. When I woke in the morning, all of my dear Sequoias had been clear-cut by the mysterious, slavering fangs of some anonymous beast. I cried. Where could I get another package of Sequoia seeds? My dream of having a piece of that lovely forest I'd worked in all summer had died. My little piece of the Sierra... gone to feed some unknown belly. I vaguely hoped that whatever had decimated and murdered my young charges had a stomach ache.
But I kept the pot of dirt, hoping that some late germinator might yet appear. How great was my joy when green needles poked from the soil! It was Phoenix, rising from the ashes of his dead compatriots. He later died, as mentioned above. Luckily, Phoenix II is doing much better. He's a very well traveled tree, (the only one I know to have traveled the AlCan and Cassiar highways) having recently been to Georgia, West Virginia, and, as you can see from the photo, Assateague.
To prevent a repeat of the Lake Mead Disaster, all of my plants spent the weekend on the top of my truck, out of reach of ponies, elk, and deer. Not to mention rabbits, rats, mice, and other vegetarian or omnivorous creepy-crawlies.
Here's a likely chomper of houseplants now. The ponies were everywhere. They totally ignored people, and certainly didn't seem like wild animals. The citation for feeding them is $500,
but I still saw apples strewn about near the road, leftover from a pony feeding frenzy. Perhaps if those thoughtless feeders of ponies had seen my friend (who did his field training at Assateague) shoot a horse that was hit by a car, they would think twice about enticing the horses near the road. Apparently, the horse had to be shot a couple times and it was quite traumatic for the visitors to witness. And of course, it's the Rangers who are blamed...
Here's a group waiting in line for the outhouse. Or at least that's what I thought when I saw them there. It was quite a line. They were actually hoping someone would come along and turn on the water faucet (the red thing in the photo). Eventually someone did. The horses mostly eat very salty vegetation so they require an amazing amount of fresh water. I'm not sure where they get it all.
To prevent the horse population from reproducing itself into starvation, the mares of Assateague are shot with contraceptive darts every year. Each mare is allowed to raise one baby to keep the genetic diversity high. On nearby Chincoteague the herds are owned by the Chinoteague volunteer fire department. They hold an auction every year to sell off excess horses.
Here's the sunset from my camp the first night.
I enjoyed my stay at the National Seashore, but those salt marsh mosquitoes are the worst I have ever encountered. I don't remember Alaskan skeeters being able to bite through my pants or my shirt! Clothes were no obstacle to the ferocious Maryland beasties. The only respite I had was either sitting on the beach (where the wind kept them away) or riding my bike very fast all over the island. I did a lot of both.
There's more than just wild horses on Assateague Island. Here's a picture of a Sika deer. They're actually elk, not deer. They're tiny little things, smaller than white-tailed deer. They hail from Asia. The ones on the island are descendants of escapees from a Boy Scout petting zoo. Though small, they are managing to outcompete the larger native deer. I stopped to watch one while I was biking around. It started at me, gave a strange little chirp, and bounded away into the bushes, showing me it's large, white rump patch. The one in the picture could've card less about me.
Of course my plants all had to come with me. Here's Phoenix on the beach soaking in the fresh air and sunshine. He didn't seem to mind the mosquitos as much as I did.
I should tell you a little about Phoenix and how he got his name. He's actually Phoenix II, the first one succumbing to dehydration while I was at my little brother's wedding. But anyway, when I worked at Sequoia National Park I bought a package of Sequoia seed. I planted them all in a small pot. They were gorgeous little guys, I had about 15 of them.
I left Sequoia for the trek back to Alaska. One of the stops early in my journey was Lake Mead National Recreation Area. It was an ill-fated trip from the get-go. The plants were hot in the car so I set them around my campsite and laid my sleeping bag out next to them. When I woke in the morning, all of my dear Sequoias had been clear-cut by the mysterious, slavering fangs of some anonymous beast. I cried. Where could I get another package of Sequoia seeds? My dream of having a piece of that lovely forest I'd worked in all summer had died. My little piece of the Sierra... gone to feed some unknown belly. I vaguely hoped that whatever had decimated and murdered my young charges had a stomach ache.
But I kept the pot of dirt, hoping that some late germinator might yet appear. How great was my joy when green needles poked from the soil! It was Phoenix, rising from the ashes of his dead compatriots. He later died, as mentioned above. Luckily, Phoenix II is doing much better. He's a very well traveled tree, (the only one I know to have traveled the AlCan and Cassiar highways) having recently been to Georgia, West Virginia, and, as you can see from the photo, Assateague.
To prevent a repeat of the Lake Mead Disaster, all of my plants spent the weekend on the top of my truck, out of reach of ponies, elk, and deer. Not to mention rabbits, rats, mice, and other vegetarian or omnivorous creepy-crawlies.
Here's a likely chomper of houseplants now. The ponies were everywhere. They totally ignored people, and certainly didn't seem like wild animals. The citation for feeding them is $500,
but I still saw apples strewn about near the road, leftover from a pony feeding frenzy. Perhaps if those thoughtless feeders of ponies had seen my friend (who did his field training at Assateague) shoot a horse that was hit by a car, they would think twice about enticing the horses near the road. Apparently, the horse had to be shot a couple times and it was quite traumatic for the visitors to witness. And of course, it's the Rangers who are blamed...Here's a group waiting in line for the outhouse. Or at least that's what I thought when I saw them there. It was quite a line. They were actually hoping someone would come along and turn on the water faucet (the red thing in the photo). Eventually someone did. The horses mostly eat very salty vegetation so they require an amazing amount of fresh water. I'm not sure where they get it all.
To prevent the horse population from reproducing itself into starvation, the mares of Assateague are shot with contraceptive darts every year. Each mare is allowed to raise one baby to keep the genetic diversity high. On nearby Chincoteague the herds are owned by the Chinoteague volunteer fire department. They hold an auction every year to sell off excess horses.
Here's the sunset from my camp the first night.
I enjoyed my stay at the National Seashore, but those salt marsh mosquitoes are the worst I have ever encountered. I don't remember Alaskan skeeters being able to bite through my pants or my shirt! Clothes were no obstacle to the ferocious Maryland beasties. The only respite I had was either sitting on the beach (where the wind kept them away) or riding my bike very fast all over the island. I did a lot of both.There's more than just wild horses on Assateague Island. Here's a picture of a Sika deer. They're actually elk, not deer. They're tiny little things, smaller than white-tailed deer. They hail from Asia. The ones on the island are descendants of escapees from a Boy Scout petting zoo. Though small, they are managing to outcompete the larger native deer. I stopped to watch one while I was biking around. It started at me, gave a strange little chirp, and bounded away into the bushes, showing me it's large, white rump patch. The one in the picture could've card less about me.
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