When I first set off for my time as a CLM intern, nestled in the middle of an Oregon forest, I expected a period of solitude and stillness. I thought everything would slow down and go quiet—a sharp contrast to the busyness of graduating college right before.

In some ways, that was true. We spent our days monitoring the phenology of our seed-bearing friends. I felt like I was moving with the slower, natural rhythm of Kairos time, purposefully noting each plant population as it moved through stages of growth: budding, blooming, ripening, and then fading, red and blue fruits growing only to shrink into white, crusty remnants, once bright flowers becoming brown and crispy. At the start of our season, I could scoop up the plethora of bees lying lazily in the flowers in the meadows, but I can’t find them anymore. A wasp that once dug into my soup and flew off with a bit of tomato pays my lunches no more visits. The dragonflies that danced around Fay Lake in the height of bloom and warmth are hard to find now; all that remains of their presence are shimmery fragments of discarded wings in the mud.

As someone accustomed to measuring time by deadlines, I always seemed to be counting down—whether to the end of a school year or a job that stressed me out. Time was very numerical. For once, I’m not anxiously awaiting the end of something. Time moves differently and too quickly now. Although I don’t feel that any moment went unappreciated or wasted, I still wish I could go back.

One reason I took this job was my interest in conservation agriculture and agroecology, even though my background is mostly in conventional horticulture and gardening. I wanted a position that exposed me more to the natural flow of things, and this internship has done just that. Unlike anything I’ve done before, this job felt like a partnership between the natural systems and us interns, not a battle. We gathered seeds from prolific plant populations, intending that the cleaned, prepared seeds will be spread across barren soils next season. (If this will actually happen, I’m not sure, considering that the U.S. Forest Service budget was cut and seasonal hiring has been suspended…) We’ve contributed to wildlife surveys, measured beaver dams and lodges, and caught insects in jars to identify them. One night, we even went in search of northern spotted owls. Driving forest roads at night, we’d stop, play owl calls over a radio, and wait for curious owls to call back and check us out to see what all the ruckus was about. IT WAS FIRE. We didn’t get off work until after midnight, but I had no trouble staying awake. We’ve attended meetings on timber production, went on a backpacking trip to map threatened and endemic species, and had a front-row seat to witnessing how all the elements of the forest work together.

But the solitude and calm I expected didn’t materialize. Chaos and camaraderie marked every day of this internship. We stayed busy with trips, nights out, hikes, and karaoke. Our months were filled with inconvenience: my car was broken into, Ash’s belongings were stolen, there was a hospital visit, and, of course, there was the heartbreak in the office when news broke about the USFS budget cuts that led to layoffs for our wildlife friends. And it’s not been quiet, either. We are in a constant dialogue with each other that for whatever reason involves singing more often than speaking.

This blog post feels personal, even though it’s meant to be about my job. But this job is personal. Every bit of knowledge I’ve gained, every plant we’ve worked with, is tied to memories. And now, as the season ends and our conversations turn to how quickly time has passed, I’m drenched in nostalgia, so forgive me! I’m a mess!

I see Scotch broom, Cytisus scoparius, and remember the spittlebugs that fascinated us when we first arrived. Thimbleberry isn’t just Rubus parviflorus; it’s Ash’s comic about our workday. Snowberry, Symphoricarpos mollis, is Ella crouched in a patch, trying to walk away after filling bag after bag, but unable to resist. Trillium is the retired forest botanist, Tom, racing up the mountain, leaving us struggling to keep up and desperate for a breath. Coneflower, Rudbeckia occidentalis, is Ash, unhurried and peacefully walking about a meadow in the cold rain. Penstemon is hiking down an old road, picking up fallen branches, and playing a game like the Japanese martial art, kendo. Mountain ash, Sorbus sitchensis, is rock skipping on Elk Lake. These plants exist and evolve alongside us, not despite us.

As remarkable as the program itself has been, I’d be lying if I said the best part of it all was anything other than Ash and Ella. I’ve never spent as much time with two people as I have with them over these past several months. I’m so grateful they were my co-interns, and I’m hopeful we’ll reunite someday! But for now, it’s time to return to Texas. Then, come January, I’ll head to New Zealand—new plants and, hopefully, new friends await.

As this Internship rounds its final turn I struggle to not panic about the next step from here. The future seems so uncertain sometimes especially with seasonal work and trying to embrace the uncertainty while leaving my friends feels like I’m driving with two slashed tires. I am going to miss all the wonderful people I have met and places I have seen, but in these times of struggle I remember the wise words of the one and only Micheal Phillips (an amazing co-worker and role model) “Life is just a series of Hellos and Goodbyes.” So with these sad goodbyes I decided to make a little slideshow to reminisce on my favorite photos and moments from these last few months with Ash and Katie. Hope you enjoy!

In the spirit of complete transparency with all my loyal fans, I have a confession to make. In the weeks leading up to moving from New York to Tahoe (and even a few weeks after moving), I was feeling a lot of regret. I was very apprehensive about living somewhere so different from anywhere I’d lived before and my initial bear encounter did little to assuage my fears (only my day one readers will understand)…I missed my friends and my home ecosystem of the coastal salt marsh. Over the course of the summer, I shed quite a few tears thinking about fireflies, katydids, and New York bagels. There were even some points early on in my time here where I wondered if I made a mistake. But now, as I write this on my last day of work, I would not trade this experience for anything.

I’ve always had a bit of an adventurous spirit, but I never really nurtured that part of myself until I moved here. I’ve surveyed burn scars, climbed up to staggering peaks, wandered along the shore of the lake, waded, swam, and explored every nook and cranny of the Lake Tahoe Basin in the process. I woke up every morning at 5:45 am (the earliest I’ve consistently woken up in my whole life) excited to experience new things. Whether it was a wildflower-filled meadow or a centuries-old whitebark pine (Pinus albicaulus) forest, I got to spend time in the most magical and awe-inspiring ecosystems. Not to get all hokey, but it’s hard not to feel a little spiritual looking out at the kinds of landscapes I encountered every day.

On a personal level, there were certainly some challenging aspects to the past few months. Being away from the large queer community I am used to has been difficult, especially when moving somewhere new without knowing anyone. That being said, experiencing a bit of isolation here prompted a lot of self-discovery and forced me to be more independent. As much as I am looking forward to reuniting with my friends and community, I am a much more self-assured than I was when I arrived here. In a more practical sense, I have learned so much as a botanist and ecologist: I’ve seeded, planted, keyed out species, worked with endangered species, mounted herbarium specimens, and done a whole lot of seed scouting and collecting, all of which was completely new to me. I feel much more capable in a professional sense and am more confident in my ability to learn quickly on the job than I was on my first day.

It’s nerve-racking meeting a new crew (and honestly new people in general), but getting to know the botany crew here at LTBMU was the highlight of my time here. We bonded over the long days weeding and seeding in the hot (and later, freezing) weather. I had so much fun in the field with everyone, and I was surprised by how quickly they made me feel at home. I’m going to miss them all dearly, and I hope we meet again soon! Saying goodbye is always the toughest part of the field season.

I’m flying home to New York in two days, and in some ways I feel similar to how I felt back in June, on the eve of my move here. I am going to miss my friends (love you botany crew), the plants I’ve come to love, and the incomparably beautiful Sierra Nevada region. I feel a bit nervous about what’s to come (I have LITERALLY no idea what I’m doing next), but I’m excited for the next chapter of my adventure!

September 28^th, Saturday 

A buzz in my earpiece plucks my attention away from the bride, gliding down the aisle toward her groom to the tune of “Bloom” by the Paper Kites. What is it now? I whisper in annoyance. Not now! I pick up the call and the news drops. Fire on the mountain. “They’re calling it the Elk Fire, up near Dayton, Riley Point”. It’s Kaitlyn, my co-intern, measured in her tone, but voice barely concealing a smoldering anger. I grit my teeth as the soon-to-be-wed couple meets at the altar, and the ceremony begins. “How?” I hiss into the earpiece. “Lightning strike”, Kaitlyn growls. The blasted cumulonimbi! Confound them! Lurking all summer, teasing with strikes every hot, muggy afternoon, just now making their move right as all our backs are turned… An electric rage crackles across my skin, and I hear roaring thunder at my temples as my head pounds. Not on my forest!  

“If anyone objects to the wedding of this couple, speak now or forever hold your peace!” calls out the priest at the altar.  

“Hold it!” I leap out of my pew, and the crowd gasps. Striding up the aisle towards the ceremony, I say, “Congratulations, but I’ve got to go.” I reach out to shake the hand of my cousin, the groom, as he furiously gestures for me to take a seat. I turn to address the family and friends— “The plants. Botham City. They need me!” I hear the bride mutter behind me, “um… who is he?” I turn my head halfway to face her, and a grim smile turns up the corner of my mouth. “I am Botman.” In a whirl of coat tails and unkempt end-of-field-season hair, I swoop out of the nearest window and disappear into the night, leaving behind no trace of my presence but a room full of puzzled faces. 

September 29^th, Sunday 

My plane touches down in Billings, Montana. As people grab their things and disembark, I’m just wrapping up a fascinating botanical dialogue with the man in the window seat sitting next to me about the intricacies of working with one of the most esoteric dichotomous keys in “Vascular Plants of Wyoming, 3^rd Edition” by Robert D. Dorn. “When you collect a specimen of Erigeron, make sure you get the roots. Once you’re out of the field, it’s anyone’s guess whether that thing is perennial, or if it’s lacking rhizomes or a well-developed woody caudex. And don’t be led astray by any lead about a wooly-villous involucre! It’s usually just sub-puberulent to strongly hirsute.” I slap him on the shoulder and chuckle as I get up to leave. “Alright, uh. Thanks man,” he mutters gratefully. My gaze lifts, and it looks like everyone is off the plane! Clear aisle, not a soul in my way. Perfect. I strut briskly down the aisle and give a curt nod to the cleaning crew as I pass. There’s a job to do. 

September 30^th, Monday 

The sun rises blood red over the Botcave (the Bighorn NF Supervisory Office in Sheridan, Wyoming), and there’s excitement—and smoke—in the air. The Elk Fire is now about 6,000 acres, and everyone with a red card is gearing up to head out to the blaze. Kaitlyn’s already at the office when I burst through the doorway. “To the Botmobile!” I cry. I grab my pack, radio, and trusty hori-hori, and fly out the door. Kaitlyn rolls her eyes, but grabs the keys to our Jeep and follows me out.  

Although the fire is still miles and miles to the North, the air is thick with smoke as we ascend onto the forest on US Highway 14. Being a law-abiding representative of the Forest Service, with the emblem stenciled on the side of the ’Mobile, I know I must stick to the 40-mph speed limit, winding around every switchback curving up the mountain. But man, it feels like we can’t get on the mountain fast enough. The urge to rush to the rescue of my plants makes me wish we were going 65. I say to Kaitlyn, “we’ve got to get lights and a siren on this thing. Can you make a note for our next team meeting with the Aquatics shop?” Kaitlyn sighs. In agreement. 

We crest the mountain range and it’s a relief to find blue skies overhead. Perhaps the Elk Fire won’t be as all-consuming as it threatens to be. We spend the day scouting for Artemisia tridentata ssp. vaseyana: A short, flat topped variety of Big Sagebrush, which flowers late in the season and will be our last collection. It’s all scouting and PR today, no collections. We reassure each and every family of Artemisia shrubs we come across that a heroic crew of Forest Service fire fighters and employees are keeping the Elk Fire at bay. Admiring eyes shine out of each little flowering head as we stroll through the shrubland, but I know they’re the ones who truly deserve admiration—Many will remember the heroism of the brave firefighters risking life and limb, but who will remember the humble Artemisia tridentata ssp. vaseyana who donated 20% of her seed to the cause of post-fire revegetation? 

The morning stretches into the afternoon, and we head back on Highway 14. We learn that wind has been ripping along the East slopes of the mountain, angering the Elk Fire and whipping it South, nearing the highway! The Wyoming Department of Transportation has closed the highway, and we’re turned around at Burgess Junction. Drat! The Elk Fire has shown itself to be a formidable foe. A long detour South and East brings us off the mountain on Red Grade Road, and we’re met by an admonishing call from the head of the Aquatics shop upon returning to cell service. We probably shouldn’t have gone out into the field today. “Yes sir, sorry sir”. It’s big news—In just an afternoon, the fire had grown to more than three times its size! The Elk Fire had stomped across steep slopes populated by thousands of innocent Lodgepole Pine and Spruce, gnashing its teeth as it gobbled up now 22,000 acres. Who knew a fire could grow that fast in a day? A sobering lesson now stored away in Botman’s gourd. 

October 21^st,  Monday 

Nearing a month has passed since the Elk Fire began, and it’s snatched up over 96,000 acres, but is slowing to halt. The fight has been long and grueling—over 900 personnel are working the fire, hailing from many states all over the country. Miles of hand lines and dozer lines have been put in place, and fire retardant frequently cascades down from planes and helicopters. Fire fighters and red-carded Forest Service employees alike spend up to 30-hour shifts on the mountain and return as heroes.  

Local communities pour out their gratitude. This morning, as we drive through the town of Buffalo to approach the south side of the mountain, signs in the windows of many businesses read “Thank you firefighters!” (“and botanists!” where I’ve had a chance to make some edits).  

We’ve been hard at work this month too. Confined to the Botcave for most of the month, keying out plants, mounting herbarium specimens, writing an end of season report, and preparing our seed to be shipped off to the Couer d’Alene native plant nursery and seed extractory—a lot of people think it’s action, action, press conferences, and more action, but the life of a botanist isn’t always as glamorous as you might imagine. 

It’s now later that day, two hours into a collection of Artemisia, hunched over the small shrubs which blanket the hills around me as far as the eye can see. I wipe the sweat from my brow and straighten up to scan the horizon for danger. A deep and powerful rumble sounds from behind… with plant-like reflexes, I whip around to face the impending threat!  

Whew! It’s only a member of the public, approaching in his old truck to speak to Kaitlyn. He must inquire about our duties here, because I hear Kaitlyn give him the run down: “we’re collecting seed, which we’ll ship off to a native plant nursery for the production of even more seed, which will come back to the forests for roadside plantings, restoration projects, and post-fire revegetation.” As far as cool catchphrases go, it doesn’t roll right off the tongue, but it’s sufficient to produce a salute and a “thank you for your service.”  It’s the answer we’ve given all summer, but as the Elk Fire raged, that phrase has rattled around in my brain, and now the necessity of our work is close at hand. Our seed may indeed make it back to the Bighorn in coming years to rescue singed and demoralized native plant communities. Not all heroes wear capes—some wear a hard hat and fire pack. I’ve heard it said also that some wield a hori-hori.  

The battle against the Elk Fire has been fought and won, but not without plant casualties. I look into my paper bag and see amidst the chaff and seed: hope. The journey for these little seeds starts here, and it may end here. It will be a long journey. But plant life, helped along by its (super)human champions, will prevail over the Elk Fire here on the Bighorn National Forest. Native plants will reclaim their soil. 

Kaitlyn looks to be about done with her conversation, and the engine of the man’s truck revs up to leave. We’ve gotten the seed that we need from these Artemisia, and it’s time for us to head home. I lift my head, give a final salute to my friends the sagebrush. I turn and, with a knowing smile, fire off a quick volley of finger guns at the man in the truck before I steal away towards the Botmobile. Swelling with pride, it’s moments like these that I know deep in my heart, I am Botman. 

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Eliza and I are ending our term in one week. October has been the quickest month of all. It started by saying goodbye to our co-intern, Li, and finished with matching alien Halloween costumes. Now, snow covers the tops of the mountains, and the fall leaves lose their last bit of color. Despite the turn towards winter, there was still a lot to do this month.

At the beginning of October, Eliza and I went out with hydrology to do water sampling. We drove out to this little creek on some private property. We hiked to a shallow creek that flowed through tall grasses and shrubs. To set up our equipment, two people ran a tape measure across the stream while the others set up the probe and the flow-measurer, which was this fancy-looking stick with a fan on the end. We measured the depth and flow across the stream, and recorded temperature, pH, and dissolved oxygen levels.

By measuring the flow and the depth, the hydrologists can calculate the water discharge. The water samples are tested for nutrient levels, which when multiplied by water discharge, shows the pollution effect on the Bitterroot River. depth x flow = discharge discharge x nutrient levels = stream’s pollution effect on Bitterroot River

Streams have a total maximum daily load, which is how much nutrients can be in a stream and not harm the wildlife and plants. So, by measuring the nutrient levels, depth, and flow, they can determine if the total maximum daily load is being exceeded.

After using the fancy probe, we took two water samples. The samples are sent to a lab and tested for nutrients like nitrogen and phosphorus. One water sample was taken straight from the creek, and the other was filtered. The filter removes the particulate nitrogen (nitrogen attached to sediment or organic matter) and leaves any dissolved nitrogen.

The dissolved nitrogen is more readily usable to organisms than particulate nitrogen, so its effect in the stream is greater. This means knowing the total nitrogen levels (unfiltered sample) and the dissolved nitrogen levels (filtered sample) is important to tell the whole story.

We also learned that phosphorus is often attached to particles in the stream bed, whereas nitrogen is more often dissolved and easily flows downstream. This means if a stream is being polluted at one location (dumping sewage or agriculture runoff), the high levels of nitrogen and phosphorus can have different effects. Because nitrogen is less “sticky,” it can cause more issues downstream than at the source of the pollution. Because phosphorus is “sticky” it can accumulate at the source of pollution, and can’t be washed away.

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Another cross-training we did was a soils survey for a proposed fuel break. For the survey, we walked along a transect line and dug a hole every 200ft. In the hole we recorded the top layer (duff, moss, bare soil), and the presence of roots, charcoal, rocks, and mycorrhizae.

Andrea, the soils technician, also needed to determine the soil texture. She would feel the dirt and declare it as loam or sandy loam or even silty loam. The way she described learning the soil textures reminded me of the way I’ve learned the plants here. After feeling the soil so many times, she developed a sense of what each soil type feels like without being able to articulate it explicitly. This is how I feel about distinguishing grasses or Asteraceae species. When I see them, I know who they are (or at least who they are not), but when I try to describe the leaf blade angles or the shape of the bracts, the differences become hard to explain.

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With Botany, the last weeks of October have been dedicated to planting pollinator islands. The area where we established the pollinator islands burned in the Trail Ridge wildfire in 2022. Right now, it looks quite destitute with blackened trees and bare soil, but apparently, bumblebees like to make their nests in areas with exposed soil and downed trees. However, the bees need a food source, and currently, the vegetation is lacking. So, the idea with the pollinator islands is to provide food sources in areas where bees might like to nest.

In each pollinator island, we planted 188 plants. We used hoedads, which is a tool I had never heard of but made the planting fairly easy. Unfortunately, in the past, the plugs haven’t always survived very well. In order to find and track plug survival in the following years, we measured each plug’s distance to the center and the azimuth. This was a lot of measuring, but I got much better at using a compass!

However, during this project, we were racing the season change. The temperatures were dropping, and we wanted to get the plugs in the ground before it froze. We encountered two snowy days, one of which resulted in having to turn around after enjoying cups of hot chocolate, and the other required sifting through the snow to get the plants in the ground before it was too late.

Overall, I really enjoyed this project. While collecting seed is important, we don’t get to see the positive effects. The work for this project felt very tangible and it was fun to directly change the land.

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Our second to last weekend Eliza and I hiked Trapper Peak, the tallest peak in the Bitterroot range at 10,157ft. Its stark silhouette always inspired awe and mystery, and after talking about hiking it the entire time we’ve been here, we were finally ready.

We started at dawn and hiked up with the sun as it rose over the valley below. Soon, the navy sky lightened and the pinpricks of remaining stars faded. We kept passing lookout spots for this wide canyon. At first the view of this canyon was a dark abyss, then it turned monochrome-blue with the morning, and finally, the sun peaked over the Sapphires on the eastern edge of the Bitterroot valley and cast a magnificent fiery light onto the tips of the peaks.

We hiked up and up, removing layers as we got hot from the incline and putting them back on as the altitude sucked the heat from the air. Eventually, we made it past the tree line. The summit was in sight, across a large talus field. We scrambled and hopped across rocks, and eventually made it to the very top.

The view was beyond incredible. We could see everything: the bubbling hills of the Sapphires, the harsh canyons that line the valley, the dense forests of the West fork, and a new view of the jagged peaks that stretched, seemingly forever, to the west. It truly did feel like we were on top of the world.

And what an amazing way to end our experience here, to stand at the peak of the mountain that we have seen almost daily, the peak that towers over the rest of the valley, that seems so grand and inaccessible standing below it. Standing at the top of Trapper, it felt like I was looking at every field day, rare-plant survey, and seed collection all at once. From the top, we could see the entire valley: highway 93, the river lined with cottonwoods, the farms and ranches spread onto the slopes of each side of the valley. It seemed like a perfect place to live.

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This experience has been so amazing and I have learned so much. My first week here I was so overwhelmed with moving to a new place and learning so many new plants, but what was strange at first soon became comfortable and familiar.

At first, the dry air seemed to steal all the water from my nose and throat, but eventually, I came to appreciate the lack of sticky summer air that I was used to. At first, unfamiliar shapes and patterns of plants surrounded me. Now I can walk through the forest and call out the names of plants around me. At first, the town of 800 that Eliza and I call home seemed oppressively small, but I quickly found comfort in the simplicity of being a short walk to the grocery store or solitude at the river.

I got so lucky with my co-interns and botany team, and they were such an amazing part of the experience. I am so grateful for my time here and everything I’ve learned about plants and about myself. I will greatly miss the beauty and serenity of this valley, but I am looking forward to being home.

– Cicely

Smokey Collection:

Sunrise and sunset collection:

Plant collection:

Amazing view collection: