Hello again!

I realized that I didn’t include any pictures in my last post, so I will try better this time to boast some cool photos I’ve taken around the block.

I began my July in Denver, driving down to spend the 4th with some family: we danced, we watched fireworks, we hiked, we ate good food, and we also got stranded on the side of the road…

Me, my two cousins and my sister started the day with a beautiful hike in the Rockies and then waded in a nearby creek. The views were spectacular and the water refreshingly cool. This carefree and peaceful energy was abruptly stifled when my cousin realized that her roommate had forgotten to return the keys of the car before taking off for a different part of the Rockies with her own family. With zero cell service, we had no immediate way of contacting the roommate and asking her to come drop off the keys. So, cooking in the sun on the side of the road, we hailed cars asking them to call the roommate’s number and let them know that her friends are stranded without keys. After a few hours of slaphappiness and desperation, we finally saw her car turn the corner to return us the keys. Yay!

On another note, work with the RMRS is going smoothly! We are on schedule and collecting a bunch of important data. We are continuing to discover cool bugs, birds, and plants.

Yesterday was my last day at our Badlands site, and I’m so grateful I was able to work in such a stunning and characteristic region, connecting with history and the past. The Badlands are ancient remnants of life gone by; once the bottom of a former ocean covering the plains, these otherworldly structures of chalky orange, yellow, and cream have been eroding away ever since, leaving streaming striations of colors representing different eons of life. These picturesque towers of old have opened me to more ways to conceptualize our world. They have opened me to the understanding that many facets of our lives are simply consequences of history. We are often in conditions that are the results of decisions and events that have happened before us. That’s why, sitting atop a Badland staring past the blazing sun setting on the prairie, I had the realization that we, this generation, need to do our best to make the right decisions so that others living generations from now will be able to live happily in places diligently conserved by their predecessors. Conservation is so important! Here are some pics I took on a recent trip, enjoy:

I have now only a few more weeks to soak in as much as I can of this experience before having to head home and get ready for grad school in France. Time has moved so quickly, and it will only continue to move faster. Each moment spent here has been so formative and energizing, and I will continue to open myself to the present and absorb as much as I can before leaving this enchanting place.

See you in August, for the last time…

Carston

It started off innocuous enough. Shin high fields of green forbs, speckled with yellow inflorescences, grasses still peaking through their canopy. It was not long until I realized their true nature. Melilotus officinalis, or yellow sweet clover, an old enemy from my time in the tallgrass prairies of Iowa, more a nuisance than anything. Here in Buffalo Gap National Grassland, SD, they reign supreme, fed on the rains of last year, granting them the strength to dominate these vast fields.

Before we knew it, it seemed to swallow us up as it grew ever upward, the scent of honey thickening the air into a strange gaseous syrup. The M. officinalis stood at chest height with us, and as we ducked beneath its canopy to observe the rest of the plants hiding beneath it, we entered new worlds. A cover survey became a bushwhack through this seasonal midwestern jungle. Stem counts became a dive beneath vegetative waves. No step could be made without the fear of crushing the clover which enveloped our research plots. Their dominance does seem to be waning though, as the dry heat of the summer begins to transform them into brittle husks of their previous selves. And with this desiccation, I see hope, though I fear for the health of the other plants which have lived under the iron fist of sweet clover this year.

It is hard to believe that I have already been here in South Dakota for a month and half! My time here has felt like a whirlwind of change. In May I walked across a stage and received my Bachelor’s degree, and early the next morning I took off on my own in my hastily packed car, my course set for the Black Hills. From there, I hit the ground running at the Rocky Mountain Research Station in Rapid City, SD, training with the other seasonals on my team. A first-aid class, Forest Service driver’s license, and crash course in local plant ID later, and we were off to the field.

Our work takes us out of the hills into the fields of Buffalo Gap National Grassland where we hope to determine the effects of varying seasonal drought conditions and grazing on the the growth, physiology, and diversity of the mixed-grass prairie. When we are asked what we do, we have taken to telling people that we are trying to make sure that the cows, bison, and grazing wildlife have food each year. Which we are often reminded of as rancher’s cattle watch us from the distance. Most days are spent with our heads near the ground as we identify, count, and measure the various species which make up the grassland community. If you could not tell by my little introduction, this community is currently uncharacteristically dominated by M. officinalis, whose first-year seedlings last year benefitted from a rather wet season, resulting in the explosion of yellow we now see.

I don’t spend all of my time hanging out in the grasslands though, as I live nearly smack dab in the middle of the Black Hills. In fact, my backyard is literally the Black Hills National Forest! A short walk out my back door and I am lost in slopes of ponderosa pines, a perfect escape when I need a little bit of space from the ever-present tourists who come to see Mount Rushmore, which is also only about 20 minutes from my house.

What I was not expecting though, was that one of the most striking features here would be the consistently picturesque clouds which form over the Hills. Each day seems to produce an uniquely beautiful cloud formation for us, though I am still learning what each is trying to tell us about the weather at that moment, as my now hail-dimpled car can tell you from experience. All the same, the rock formations here, which could often be described as cathedral-like in their own right, are often overshadowed by the vast mountains of water vapor which are built above them. I feel bad waxing poetically about them when there is still the Hills themselves to talk about properly, but there are still more blog posts to make, so I am sure I will get to it.

I am already thankful to be able to spend another season out in the field, and I am looking forward to continuing to learn from the rest of my time here with the RMRS!

Tired and hungry after my long journey from Wisconsin, I pulled into the dusty driveway of my new home for the summer, deep in the heart of the Black Hills. This is where my story begins and will most definitely end, in the quaint government house nestled among the pines on Maggie Lode Road (still don’t know why the street was named this but someone must’ve hit it big! [a lode describes a vein of ore within rock, something the Hills are known for]). The moment I’m writing this post I have now spent about a month and a bit here in South Dakota. Let me tell you what I’ve discovered in my short time living in this new, fascinating and beautiful corner of the earth:

Part one, the pines are in bloom…

What is that yellow dust covering my shoes? Maybe just some saw dust from someone logging nearby. Fairy dust possibly… But it covers my car, too. Must’ve been a big log! But wait, it’s in my room, and on the tables, and in my ears and all over my feet, too!

The pines are in bloom and everything is covered in a thin layer of yellow dust. Thanks to a quest I received from a fellow traveler at the Renaissance Fair in Lead, I was able to understand that this happens every year and lasts for a few weeks in late May and early June.

The Hills are dominated by a single species, Pinus ponderosa, or Ponderosa Pine. The bark smells a sweet vanilla caramel and the pinecones drop from meters above; I’ve been fortuitous enough to be bonked on the head by one, a goal of mine ever since seeing them fall from the canopy with such force. In fact, I thought my dad had thrown it at me but, looking directly at him, realized that I had not seen him move his arms… what a treat!

So, after our few weeks enveloped in this pale powder, the pines stopped their pollination procession, happy with their success. This powdery parade didn’t stop me, however, from exploring our massive “backyard” (endless forest service wilderness) and other parts of the Hills. Along with my roommates/coworkers (room-workers or co-mates [still working on the name]), I’ve gone on many breathtaking hikes and botanized until my brain is spinning with latin. Some highlights include the big hole I found (planning on descending soon, sorry Mom [she doesn’t like this idea]), the Billy Jack (a $5 deal at the Chute rooster which indulges all the senses with a shot of cheap whisky, a PBR, and a cigarette), jumping off rocks into a lake for $20 (thanks to Jimmy? Rodney?, a high schooler from Sturgis or something for daring me to do this thing I was already planning on doing), and my parents coming to visit me so we could all camp together South Dakota style.

During this time, I also spent my time working (I know, weird right!) with the RMRS (Rocky Mountain Research Station, an entity within the US Forest Service) in the field learning new plants and ecological concepts, watching storms form, counting grass, sweating a lot, seeing Bison, and making constant jokes with my awesome co-workers. This is where part two of my adventure begins…

Part two, Sweet Clover invasion

Most of my June was spent out in the Buffalo Gap National Grassland, sitting in a field of lady bug larvae, Red-Winged Black birds and these funky structures that simulate drought conditions by preventing 50% of rainfall over a certain area, an integral part of the project I’m working on. This cool and awesome project, developed by Jaqueline Ott and Amy Symstad (two amazing ecologist, sooo smart), aims to better understand how flash droughts, paired with cattle grazing, affect plant species growing in the grasslands. The data we’re collecting hopefully will allow ranchers to better manage their cattle vis-a-vis climatic changes in order to preserve the native grasses and plants on which they allow their cattle to graze.

Before heading out into the field, we were warned about myriad threats, rattlesnakes, badgers, heatstroke, and hazards of all sorts, but one thing exceeded all my expectations of what a pest could look like. Imagine thousands of acres of yellow stretching for miles around. A sweet, intoxicating smell of delicate flowers, charming and bright, fills your nose. And when the wind runs through the rolling hills of the plains, the aroma and the herbage create a hypnotizing dance as thousands of these alluring plants sway their stems and stalks to the trills of the Meadowlark songs.

I also hate it. I’m covered in their little flowers: in my hair, in my shoes, in my pockets, everywhere. I’m also convinced they are actively untying my shoes, because I’m retying them probably 5-10 times a day, and I’m constantly walking through this stuff. It has become so tall that it creates a hot microclimate unbreachable by any solace of wind, so when you’re laying down looking at grasses you are swamped with sweat. I swear I hear the sweet clover looking down and laughing. It also hogs all the water and nutrients for itself so everything around it is sad and underdeveloped. I don’t know for how long yellow will remain my favorite color.

Part three, revenge

Now, at this point in the field season, we have to collect clippings of plants before we mow everything down to determine productivity. You probably see where this is going… Yes, I do have fun cutting the stems of this flagrant plant, shoving it into bags destined to the heat of hot ovens. Some stems do test the sharpness of my blade, but when they finally cede to my deadly snip, I feel nothing but joy. Our meager impact will not, however, dry out the will this plant has to come back every two years to scourge the plains with its yellow invasion.

So far though, I’ve had a great time working, playing, and learning in this wholly new experience. Looking forward to the next month and a bit.

Thank you for reading, see you in July.

Carston