THOSE WHO PLAY IN THE DARK

Jacob Alexander 8-25-19

Standing waist-deep in a cattle pond at 1:00 am with innumerable amounts of swarming insects crawling over every inch of bare skin was not exactly how I pictured my summer going. Yet that’s what happens when I answered Zack Cordes’s call. 

I’d been hired by the Kansas Department of Wildlife, Parks and Tourism to work as a summer tech on their stream crew. However, the streams we were supposed to survey were overwhelmingly flooded by rains unheard of in early summer in Kansas, so we were tasked with “busy work.”  

Meanwhile, over on our sister crew, “the bat crew,” there were reports of frozen waders and long nights with no bats to show. It was a tough break compared to our days of hauling sandbags and dismantling observation blinds. About two weeks into the stir-crazy busy work, I received a text from the bat crew’s leader Zackary Cordes. It turns out one of their crew suffered a summer-ending knee injury, and I so serendipitously was one of the few available people with rabies pre-exposure vaccination.  

So began my summer escapades with the ragtag group of budding bat biologists. Comprised of leader Zack and technicians Brenna Lawless, Chloe Million, and myself. This team of four would start the week by placing four acoustic detectors in predetermined locations. These detectors collected inaudible call data of bats throughout the week as part of an ongoing nationwide effort, the North American Bat Monitoring Program. Comprised of a receiver box, microphone, t-post, and telescoping paint pole, this simple set up allows for passive detection of bats flying within a given area around the omnidirectional microphone. Data recorded each week from these detectors was analyzed by an individual for verification of species identification. Each bat species has its own unique auditory signature, almost like a fingerprint. This double-checking of the identification was essentially like making sure that the fingerprint did, in fact, match the bat species identified by the receiver. 

After the detectors were set up, the crew checked into our hotel and took a short break before we geared up for a night of netting. Typically, I would drive the follow truck and get to watch and sometimes guess where Zack was going to go. You certainly learn quickly that google maps aren’t always as accurate as you would like them to be. Eventually, we arrived at a site and did a quick scouting to identify where potential net sites were and what net arrangements would best fit that particular site. Bat nets, or more accurately, mist nets, are nets of varying lengths comprised of fine mesh with four vertical levels. The way they capture bats is by taking advantage of the bat’s rituals. Each night bats fly out of their roosts and fly to the closest water source using their eyesight and memory rather than echolocation. Contrary to the popular saying “blind as a bat,” they actually possess rather good eyesight and use it when they’re flying at certain times. Although exceedingly good at detecting and avoiding objects in their world of flight with eyesight and echolocation, mist nets are so fine that by the time a bat is close enough to detect them, it’s already tangled up and slightly confused as to what just happened. Our crew had the ability to set a single-high net, a double-high net (two nets set on top of each other), and a triple-high net (three nets stacked). The sites we typically looked for were shallow streams with overhanging trees, forming a flyway or corridor for bats. Additionally, we look for mature trees, field edges, and non-water corridors such as roads with overhanging trees. These site selections are usually done beforehand by Zack. Once at a site, our scouting sessions determine things such as: 

“We’ll set a triple high there” 

 “A single upstream” 

 “A double downstream” 

 “A triple on the field edge” 

  From here the crew did an impromptu huddle break and scrambled about the trucks assembling what gear was needed. Setting up nets can be quite the emotional roller coaster. Some net sets are exceedingly easy and go up in no time. Others, however, can bring just about the most patient person to tears. Complications include, but are not limited to: rocky stream bottom (this requires the construction of a rock holster), steep muddy banks, 75+ percent humidity, excessive insect activity, telescopic poles not telescoping, and birds in already opened nets. Once these challenges were tackled a base camp was set up where the data collection happened, aka, the real deal science. Then we sat and waited. A net check was done every 15 minutes. Nights varied in success which ultimately equated to a variation in oddball conversations such as: 

 “Hey, Zack do you believe in aliens?” 

 “What do you think the government is hiding from us.” 

 “What’s the largest animal you could take on barehanded” 

  There was also a quite typical banter surrounding food between Zack and me which may or may not have driven Chloe and Brenna crazy. However, the nights we didn’t have time for these riveting conversations were often the best. This is simply because we were catching bats in high enough frequency to remain busy between net checks. 

Once caught in a net the bat was gently removed from its entanglement, put in a paper bag, labeled, and let sit for 30 minutes to deposit a guano sample (part of Chloe’s upcoming study on dietary habits).  The removal process was where the swarming insects came into play. Due to the fact that we worked at night, we wore headlamps which unfortunately also functioned as insect magnets. So, as we were struggling to untangle a bat, while wearing leather gloves with latex gloves over them we also had to try and not think about the thing crawling into our ear canals. It was no walk in the park and was certainly not for the faint of patience. It was a bit like trying to solve a puzzle that was constantly being messed up by toddlers who were also using you as a jungle gym.

When the 30 minutes was up, the bat was removed for data collection. The data we collected on bats included forearm length, weight, juvenile or adult, sex, reproductive status, wing score (the quality of the wing tissue), and a wing punch for DNA analysis. The wing punch was taken using a biopsy tool designed for humans. The hole left by the punch would heal within a few weeks and close on its own. After all of the data was collected, the bat was released back to its insect-eating existence with the help of a gentle toss. 

 At the end of the night, the reverse struggle of putting up nets happened in the form of takedown. All the slippery slopes, stubborn poles, and high humidity were now amplified by the sleep deprivation incurred by working into the wee hours of the morning. Once all of the poles and nets were rounded up, a decontamination zone was set up. Poles were wiped and sprayed down with various decontaminates proven to prevent the spread of Pseudogymnoascus destructans, a fungus that causes White Nose Syndrome (WNS). White Nose Syndrome is a disease that affects bats in hibernation. As the bats hibernate, the fungus spreads and ultimately wakes them from their sleep. Bats then expend far more energy than they had accounted for, which causes them to starve to death. This fungus is rapidly becoming widespread throughout the United States and was documented in  Kansas in 2017. Fortunately for the plight of bats, this fungus has also  high interest in bats and bat research by scientists globally due to how detrimental the fungus has proven to be. 

With decontamination done, the trucks were loaded up and we shambled into our respective hotel beds and crashed for the remainder of the morning. 

Fueled by talk of food the night before we assembled on the trucks wearing our “civilian attire” for crew lunch the next morning. This was arguably one of the best perks of the job. Since we traveled around Kansas to various cities, there was ample opportunity to try new and delicious meal options. This was taken advantage of by our crew who now could probably write the book on Mexican restaurants in Kansas. After lunch, the afternoon was free to frolic about doing whatever our personal preference was. Come 18:00, it was it’s time to gear up and roll out to execute another night of netting in a different location. 

 The whole summer was comprised of this. Each site had its own struggles and its own beauty. There were certainly good times and certainly trying times. Throughout our travels, we were able to meet the wide variety of people that call this state home. Occasionally wonderful individuals accompanied us whilst netting. Landowners were inviting and made us feel like we were part of their family visiting for the night. I took away far more from the summer than I think I could have ever realized. My hope is that some of those individuals we encountered along the way will stop and ponder for an extra moment the uniquely complex beauty of bats and the uncertain plight they still face.

Self Flagellation (Elective Suffer) 

JACOB ALEXANDER 7-2018

         I once read that it’s important as an adventurer to engage in self-flagellation (aka elective suffer) in the outdoors. So that’s exactly how I found myself festering in a wet tent in the middle of a campground two miles from the trail where my roommate and I were supposed to be on.

         With one week between our summer jobs and semester my equally outdoorsy roommate Cullen Fisch and I decided to plan a backpacking trip. Hiking a section of the Colorado trail seemed like a winning plan until I came across a 30-mile loop in Routt National Forest near Steamboat Springs, Colorado. The photos google turned up looked remote and beautiful... a winning combination. So, we packed our bags and headed for Colorado.

                We arrived in the town of Yampa, Colorado (gateway to the trail) at an ungodly time of 1:30am and decided to camp at a site just below the trailhead. Tired but optimistic we set up camp under the Milky Way. Personally, I was excited to try out a new bivvy that I had recently purchased to save weight on long backpacking trips. The fit was snug, and the warmth was next level, important things for nights that can drop below 40. Unfortunately, this joy lasted all of three hours, for that’s when I was woken up by the dripping wet inside of the bivvy. Turns out the thing collected so much condensation it was able to soak my sleeping bag... miserable! Still half asleep, the remedy to the problem was to take the bag and sleep in the car. Resting easy knowing that I had packed a tent for backup.

         An hour later this is where Cullen found me looking cold and haggard with my face pressed against the foggy glass. With double the sleep I received he was eager to get us breakfast and head out on the trail, and we did just that.

         All in all, we had no major setbacks and started on the trail with a blazing pace and unmatched optimism. This quickly devolved into the occasional exclamations like, “I’m so tired” and “my body hates me” and even “I want to die this hill is so steep” breaking through the white noise of our gasping for air. Quickly though, those were drowned out by the sheer beauty of the wilderness we were hiking through. No other humans for miles. No other tracks on the trail besides horse. We were alone with our thoughts and our kind company in the solitude of the mountains.

                Mile after mile ticked by as stories were shared about life, love, and how to save the world. With zero cell service we could only count on a faint blue dot on a red line for navigation, and oh how fickle that would come to be.

         After a quick break for lunch (bagged tuna), it was onto mile eight of our planned 15 mile day. Easy trails with low grade made for a fast pace and high moral considering the state of our sore bodies. We arrived at what seemed to be another trail hop and checked the blue dot to confirm. Confirmation sadness! Our little blue dot was around two miles from where we were supposed to be. As the thunder of a mid-afternoon storm rolled we looked and each other. More or less in shambles we talked out the options as the sheets of rain barreled towards us. By some crazy turn of fate there was a well-established campsite nearby. We scrambled to get our tents up and our gear dry as the sky’s opened up on us. A little trail magic perhaps, one of the nicest camp hosts we’ve ever met came out of nowhere and offered to help us get our tents up. Very soggy and thankful we accepted the help. After the rain subsided we officially met him... a man by the name of Willy. As we cooked dinner Willy came over to talk. He told us he travels around working odd jobs out of his converted camper trailer. The man lived freely and made it his priority to live outdoors where we only visit. A life Cullen and I were quite envious of.

                  As we ate dinner, Cullen and I talked over our options. We could hike the two or so miles back to the trail and just push on until we drop.

         “Not the best option, but an option,” Cullen pointed out. He’d been feeling pretty bad due to a slight dehydration and altitude sickness.

         Our second option was to hitch a ride back to the trail and the turn we had missed. This seemed like a better option in the long run, but still a lot of suffering on the part of Cullen.

         Opinion three was my personal favorite: stay the night at the campsite and then wake in the morning and hitch hike all the way back to our car.

         Turns out for all of the parties involved option c was the winner. We even talked Willy into taking us the first 10 of 71 miles.

            The morning came earlier and colder than expected. Cullen was still asleep and could use the rest, so I went for a small hike to take pictures. When I got back we packed and went to Willy’s trailer to hitch a ride and start our day. He kindly offered us a tour of his trailer conversion and we obliged taking in as much knowledge of how to live off the grid as we could.

                 The short 10 miles to where we were being dropped was full of good conversation and warm laughter. This helped boost our morale before an unpredictable 61 miles of hitch hiking.

                    Willy had told us that the road we’d be hiking on was well traveled, and after about ten minutes Willy proved to be right about the amount of traffic on this secluded dirt road. We heard a car off in the distance and turned to see a couple came up the road in a blue rav4. They kindly pulled over at the sight of our haggard bodies and desperate thumbs. Their names were Jeremiah and Carly and fit the bill of stereotypical hippies. As we found out they were headed up the hill to hunt for mushrooms... one of their favorite pastimes when the rain allows. As we got to talking they told us they were in the business of hemp and we’re pretty well off, albeit you wouldn’t be able to tell for their appearance. They lived in a small mountain town and put a lot of their earnings back into the community to benefit youth. Conversations of legalization of hemp, mushroom hunting, and the best way raise your kids in today’s world made the 10 miles seem like one. Before we knew it we had parted ways with wishes of good luck and a shared hit from an apple pipe (myself politely not included), courtesy of their hemp jobs. Stoke lifted and all downhill ahead of us our pace became fast.

        The miles started to tick by, and we joked about the lack of traffic on the road and how many miles it would be if no one came along. It was around that time that a old red Honda Accord came around the bend behind us. The thumbs went up and the smiles turned on, and  the car pulled up alongside us. A woman of about 26 with the brightest of smiles asked us where we were headed.

         “Yampa or as far as you’re willing to take us.” We replied in unison.

         She kindly offered to take us all the way to Yampa. Her name was Jerrica, and like Willy she lived a life of no permanent home base. Just living free from adventurous job to adventurous job. She hailed from Wisconsin but had spent time in anywhere from Columbia to Colorado. Like our previous drive the talk was light, and we were once again offered Colorado’s favorite green. Cullen being the polite passenger indulged graciously. The ride turned out to be our largest help covering close to 30 miles, which flew by thanks to kind consideration and good vibrations. As we were arriving into the outskirts of Yampa I talked about how good a burger from the local cafe sounded this followed quickly by a shared look between Cullen and I. It was in this instant that we realized in that moment that we’d left our wallets in the car, so no burgers for us. Yet without hesitation our gracious driver offered money for food and a ride to the cafe. We politely turned her offer down as she’d done more than enough for us, and with that we departed the red Accord with smiles and new faith in the goodness of humanity.

                 With more miles ahead of us the heat and realization of how beat down our bodies were settled in. An uphill climb met us and shortly after we started our first car came by... thumbs up and smiles to look less like murderers. Unfortunately, they didn’t buy what we were selling and drove on past. So, we walked on joking about how we must look to the cars that passed. It must have been pretty rough because the next three cars passed with similar results as the first. We started to think that the next 20 miles would have to all be hiked. That is until we saw a dirty Subaru Outback coming up the road.

         “It’s a fucking Subaru Outback... there’s no way it can’t stop,” I exclaimed to Cullen who lost so much faith in people he didn’t turn around to throw up a thumb.

         Miraculously, the Outback actually stopped and a burly man in a bandana with coonhound at his side asked where we were going.

         “To the top,” we replied simultaneously.

                  He explained he could probably get us that far but one of us would have to ride in the bed of his Outback, naturally this task fell to Cullen. This left me to navigate the conversation and figure out if we were in crazy hands or not. Our diver turned out to be a log home plumber named Joe. A motorcycle man in appearance, but a teddy bear at heart. He spoke highly of his dog named Daisy who found refuge in my lap and comfort in my scratches. Meanwhile, Cullen was being tossed around what could barely be considered a bed. I checked on him with the occasional thumbs up both to see if he was okay, and to reassure him that we weren’t about to be driven to our untimely death. Back in the cab of the vehicle Joe blossomed into a very talkative man. We both shared our long-time love of the area and even some of the campgrounds.

         “Number 11. It’s my daughters favorite. I come out here early and stake a claim to it just for her.” Joe said while looking off in the distance. He looked as if this spot meant the world to not only his daughter, but to him as well because it means they’re together.

         So, along the way to the top we stopped and scouted his spot to check for vacancy. Unfortunately, the spot had been taken.

         “Well let’s just check the post to see when they leave.” He said with a bit of sorrow in his voice.

         We did just that and found that the occupants were leaving the same day. Joe decided to take us to the top and then come back down in hopes to catch them on his way out, and we did just that. A few rough miles and some sharp turn landed us back at our car. With one final goodbye to our last ride, this time devoid of anything extra, we settled into our car and breathed a sigh of relief.

         “We fucking did it. We actually fucking did it.” We both exclaimed through tired laughter.

         “Now we just have to make it through these forest fires and we’ll be home free.” I said to Cullen and we pulled down the mountain road.

         That’s exactly what we did. After a quick pizza lunch in Steamboat Springs, Colorado we headed rather close to some large forest fires and on home. Luckily, we had gotten good information from my father that lives in Denver about the fires, so we avoided them rather easily.

          They say it’s not an adventure until something goes wrong, but amongst the failures in your plan you learn. You learn valuable lessons that carry you into your next journey. If you talk to me about any of my adventures, there’s never a big focus on what went wrong or how bad it sucked. You’ll hear tails of beautiful destinations and people who made the journey worth it. So yes, you have to experience some elective suffer. That’s what builds character and makes the memories you’ll never forget.

          If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to Red Cross Wildfire Relief. Wildfires in the American West have devastated not only wild spaces, but those communities that live in the surrounding areas. So please consider donating today: Red Cross Wildfire Relief.