“You know, somehow at the end of the summer, I always manage to forget the bad parts of field work. I guess that's why I am always ready to get right back out there at the start of the next season.”
Another gust of wind slammed against the parked Toyota pick-up truck where we sat restlessly in waterlogged shoes and damp clothing. This trusty little truck, which always needed a little extra encouragement to climb the steep roads crisscrossing the Baraboo Hills where we worked, was currently providing us much needed solace. Not far into our workday, dark, booming clouds had rolled in with an accompanying solid wave of rain washing over us.
It was Jared, my graduate student mentor, who spoke as he studied the screen of his phone, on which he had pulled up a radar map of the area. The rain wasn’t showing any sign of letting up, but calling it quits would mean a waste of a field day, including the hour long commute each way.
At the time, I wasn’t exactly looking on the bright side of things, but I had to admit that he had a point. It was my second summer of field work, and despite the countless things I could find to complain about, I was still thrilled by the fact that I could describe my job as literally hugging trees (with a measuring tape to determine their diameter, of course). Sure, there was a lot more to it than that, but the essence still stands.
Thinking back to those two summers, my memories are filled with familiar routines and a scattering of special moments. We rose early to take advantage of the long summer days, and with the steady thrum of the engine in my ears, my head often lolled sleepily against the passenger-side window as we made our way to the field sites. My favorite days were those with an early morning fog eclipsing our view. As we crossed the Wisconsin River and headed toward the bluffs, the chilling vapor enveloped the valleys with an eerie beauty.
The more I observed the space and beings around me, the more my curiosity bloomed. I began to see the patterns of how various plants grew in relation to each other and in relation to the earth itself. I pondered about how plants would hold themselves up tall, while others crouched down between rocks. I questioned Jared about various names and species, and when even he was stumped, we would pour over old field guides to identify a new find. I ate my lunch with a trickling stream splashing about my bare feet and took water breaks under the dense shade of eastern hemlock trees (Tsuga canadensis).
We tried to save our work at Hemlock Draw State Natural Area for the especially hot days because it allowed us to fully appreciate the noticeable cooling of the air as we climbed down the steep path into the base of the shady ravine. In the winter, the rock faces lining the stream harden with thick swirls of ice, and even in late summer afternoons, the welcomed coolness was maintained.
The methodical rise and fall of the Baraboo Hills allows a neat pattern of plant and tree growth. On the tops of these hills, where the ravines extend upward to meet flat ground, there is often a transition to hardwood forests of basswood (Tilia americana) and sugar maple (Acer saccharum). As Wisconsin’s state tree and the bold image of Canada’s flag, sugar maples are well-respected trees. They are especially appreciated this time of year while their beautiful autumn foliage speckles the landscape. The slight warming of days near the beginning of the year are especially sweet as the sap awakens from the frozen win
ter and can be tapped to make sugary maple syrup. Sugar maples are persistent little saplings that can sprout up in a dark, shady understory. Here they wait until a large tree falls and a spot in the canopy breaks open. That is when the real race begins: the little saplings begin to grow, reaching out to the precious, limited bit of sunshine available until they have patched up the hole. There are places within the Baraboo Hills that are densely carpeted with small sugar maple seedlings. (And by “densely,” I mean up to seventy stems within a one meter by one meter square. You can trust me, as someone who counted these seedlings one by one!)
Field work certainly isn’t a fantasy; it can be uncomfortable, monotonous, and discouraging at times. After a day of countless squats to identify plants, measure soil depth, and capture canopy photos, I’m usually ready to head home to a comfortable chair. After rainy afternoons or the exciting experiences of a couple of hail storms, a hot shower does wonders for chasing the chill away. Sometimes things just go wrong, like the day we arrived at our plot only to find the entire hillside of seedlings we had planted and planned to monitor throughout the summer had been washed out in a large storm the night before. There were times when I am pretty sure I had more mosquito bitten areas than not on my skin. Their painful persistence is commendable; even with pants, a flannel shirt, two pairs of long socks, and a head net, they always found a way to bite me.
But somehow the wonderful moments always eclipse the discomfort. There was the time when a young, speckled faw charged up to me only to stop a few meters away and stare at me incredulously before wandering around our plot as we worked for the rest of the day. There were always fun discoveries: the caterpillar of a cecropia moth (Hyalophora cecropia), a couple of young, wide-eyed racoons
(Procyon lotor) staring down at us from a tree, the Acadian Flycatchers (Empidonax virescens) and Ovenbirds (Seiurus aurocapilla) that I never could catch sight of but always kept us company throughout the day with their song. And through it all, there were the most amazing people, inspired by the world and brimming with laughter as we climbed ravines and hugged our trees or swapped stories over a beer at the end of a long day.