Curiosity

Maxillary turbinates in a caribou skull. 

I was browsing my field journal from last year the other day when I stumbled upon some words I had written prominently across a page.  They were boldly and strikingly alone in a book otherwise filled with words, scribbles and doodles. I didn't recall writing them, but their placement was jarring. I wanted to remind my future self of these words.

“Be Curious...Embrace Curiosity. Don't be afraid to tell people about science.”

 

The radar tent: Sept 2013

These words fall between my entries for September 29^th and 30^th. At that time, I was in a camp along the Susitna River helping with a bird migration radar study. I had the night shift, working from midnight to 8am watching the radar for any sign of our avian friends migrating through the area. While the others in camp slept, I worked and contemplated all manner of things, from my navel to our place in the cosmos.

I don't get tired of the night sky.

At the bottom of the page in my journal, in scrawling second thought hand, I noted “RadioLab Shorts: Tell me a Story.”  This must be where those words come from, or at least, the catalyst for me writing them on this page.

Friends had been listening to RadioLab so much in the previous year that it seemed as if every conversation began “Today, on Radiolab...” I teased them about it and for some reason never listened myself. Well, that changed at radar camp. It might have been the endless hours of solitude, the maddening swish swish of the antenna just outside, missing people so much or a combination thereof. Either way, I listened to what must have been close to every podcast RadioLab has produced. I could go on and on about how it made me laugh, cry, get angry and feel generally amazed; but I won't. I'll simply say that if you've never listened; you should.

Polygons: Fascinating landscape feature.

Curiosity. I believe this is a trait that I hold near and dear to my heart. It is a large part of who I am and how I define myself. I'm interested in many things, particularly when it comes to the natural world. I feel as if that's a huge reason behind my love of the outdoors. The mountains, rivers, forests, tundra and alpine meadows are a treasure trove for the curious mind. Put you're face to the tundra, breath deep and try not to feel something. Countless times I've found myself marveling at the processes at work on glaciers or the ecological systems continuing on around me in the boreal forest.

Get close and actually experience the tundra

Being curious is a fundamental part of being a scientist. But interestingly, it is also a strongly childish trait as well. I know more than a few people who would describe me as childish. But is that such a bad thing? Why do we try and push these traits aside, hide them under a cloak of maturity? Do we really think there is nothing left to learn? There is a section in one of Benjamin Hoff's books (The Tao of Pooh, or The Te of Piglet; I cant remember which) in which he talks about curiosity and how it relates to Taoism. I believe the game of Pooh Sticks was his example from the Hundred Acre Wood. Hoff uses it to demonstrate that Pooh displayed curiosity, and in turn, the basics of the scientific process. I find myself thinking of this often, particularly as I had and still do have, an affinity for Pooh Sticks.

Look at that comb! Isn't that awesome? Photo credit: Raphaelle

Last week, I had the opportunity to drive to the Teklanika River on the park road in Denali National Park and Preserve. It has been a fantastic spring here, and the park was practically devoid of visitors on Tuesday. We drove slowly, enjoying each others company before my busy field season kicks off in mid-May. Wildlife was out and about, and we saw and heard many species of bird and mammal. I never fail to be amazed at the new things I notice and enjoy about the natural world. Hearing the comical clucks of a male willow ptarmigan, the inquisitiveness of a group of caribou, and the territorial squabbles of Dark-eyed Juncos is always a marvel to me. How bland and boring the world must be to those without curiosity; to those who have shunned that childish side of themselves.

These two just saw a bear. 

Don't push your natural curiosity aside. Don't silence your inner child. Take a moment right now and write down a few words for your future self. Just a note that you may stumble upon in a few weeks or months. Write it boldly and prominently, in a way that grabs your attention.

“Be Curious...Embrace Curiosity. Don't be afraid to tell people about science.”

Mountain Happiness

It started out as a simple idea really. Whilst out for a day of backcountry skiing on the College Glacier in the Eastern Alaska Range, the thought struck me; why not camp out here? Here I was, thighs burning from some of the best backcountry powder turns I'd ever had, and I was hopping on a snowmachine and headed home. I didn't want that day, that feeling, that exuberance that comes from a day like that to end.

The day that started it all. Amazing powder on the College Glacier 2012.

That was April 2012. The next year, I wanted to make it happen. It was, to say the least, a logistical cluster-fuck. Arctic Oven tents, snowmachines that we didn't have, firewood, a disproportionate amount of booze, fuel, emergency gear, people coming from all over the place...the list goes on. My vision that first year was one of a party glacier camp. "Here's our location, we'll be there for a week, come out and party with us!" Non-stop snow meant deep powder, but terrible snowmachine and light conditions. Long story short, it was a learning experience. I feel, aside from a few relatively minor injuries, that most people had a good time. Or perhaps the passage of time has just dulled my memory of the less than fun times. Perhaps it was the Vicodin.

Minor injuries 2013

As December 2013 rolled around, I had resigned that Mountain Happiness wasn't in the cards for 2014. My stoke levels were low going into the holidays as Alaska was having a miserable year for snow. I didn't have the motivation to deal with the logistics, which I anticipated being even harder than last year as I didn't work for Outdoor Recreation anymore. I apparently misjudged my friends though, as I started receiving all manner of texts, emails, phone calls and Facebook messages asking when it was going to be this year.

It was an opportunity to learn from the mistakes and miscues of last year. Three snowmachines instead of two. Three Arctic Ovens. More firewood than we really needed. Less booze (though, this ended up being a mistake. Thanks Seth for bringing out more!) Everyone was in charge of their own food. So many little things that made the whole trip easier this time.

Mountain Happiness Camp 2014

As much as it frustrated me the first year, Mountain Happiness 2014 made me realize how much I love the logistical puzzle of planning a trip like this. Planning gear, coordinating with people across the state (and other continents) added a challenge that I hadn't dealt with before. Snowmachines from Anchorage and Fairbanks, half the crew coming up a day early from Anchorage, the rest coming down from Fairbanks. Firewood from here, sleds from there. It was crazy fun trying to figure it all out. And it wasn't just me. Everyone knew what an undertaking this was. I mean, setting up a remote camp for a week on a glacier in Alaska in mid-March? There was every opportunity for shit to go wrong. But, in a testament to the friendship that we all share, everything went off smoothly.

The Mountain Happiness Crew

The snow was better than I could have hoped for given our seasonal snowfall at that point, the weather was incredible (7 straight bluebird days?!) and the campsite was simply stunning. We skied, we drank, we flew kites, and rode snowmachines. Friends got engaged, friends got drunk and threw up, and friends admired the beauty of the mountains together. It was what I wanted Mountain Happiness to be, what I had dreamed of that first time skiing in that valley. It was an incredible week. A week that I will always remember and be thankful for. To all the friends that made it possible, that were there to share it with me; thank you so very much. Though my goggles hid them, I had tears in my eyes as we descended the glacier on the last day.

I was lost after that. Completely and utterly lost. Mountain Happiness had been all I thought about for weeks, even months prior to. I had no desire to pick up my skis. I had no ambition to go back to the mountains. How could I? In my mind, I had reached the top. In those days and weeks following, I felt as if everything would pale in comparison to what we had put together and accomplished.

It's a feeling I recognize I get a lot after a trip. I am the proverbial donkey, ever lusting for the carrot dangling from the stick. My drive, my stoke, my ambition crumbles when I finally get that damn carrot.

I don't manage it well. I'm sure my friends will attest to my irritability and general crankiness after Mountain Happiness. Thankfully, I've had some fieldwork to distract me and give me the time I need to reflect on the trip and dream of the next big trip. And so the cycle will begin again. Planning, logistics, packing, repacking, lists upon lists, frustration, putting all into motion, exuberance and the eventual feeling of drifting aimlessly after. As much as the beauty of the wilderness, or the camaraderie of friends drives me to go on these adventures; this cycle does to. I need these trips, I need the wilderness. They are my carrot.