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It’s hunting season, and this year I’m working through my end-of-semester stress with a rifle. I’ve never been a hunter before, but, as a native Vermonter, deer camp, hunter-safety orange, and the first rule of gun safety (always point your muzzle in a safe direction!) have been in my vocabulary since childhood. As I prepare for my first rifle season as a hunter, I have been surprised to find that many of my classmates did not grow up around hunting, and haven’t really thought about what it might mean to them. Staying safe during hunting season really boils down to three main points, and shouldn’t be intimidating or frightening.
- Be visible. Wearing hunter-safety orange any and every time you go out in the woods during rifle season is a must. A lot of people think wearing any bright color will do, but almost nothing is more visible and recognizable as human in the late fall forest than hunter-safety orange.
- Be respectful. Few things are more frustrating for a hunter who has been shivering silently in a tree stand since dawn than a person or dog thrashing obliviously past. If you think there might be a hunter already in the woods it’s best to stick to heavily traveled trails or to just avoid the area during rifle season altogether. Less about safety and more about etiquette, respecting other legal uses of the forests you love is a condition on which your own access depends.
- Take it seriously. “It won’t happen to me” is the wrong approach to safety during hunting season. Spend 8 hours looking for deer in the woods and your brain will start to make them out of everything – tree branches are antlers, the crunching leaves under a retreating rabbit are footsteps. I am not condoning the actions of anyone who would pull the trigger before being absolutely certain of their target, but I am saying that it is wise to set yourself up for success. Never assume your safety is someone else’s responsibility.
I love hunting season; it is full of memories of excitement and anticipation for me. When my dad got a deer it was a big deal, and I couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement, even during my 10 years as a recalcitrant teenage vegetarian. The deer would hang from the rafters of our garage for a time, while it was disassembled into small freezer paper packets labeled in my father’s shaky hand with strips of masking tape. I was in rapture of these deer, their beautiful fur and antlers an endless source of fascination for my young mind. The resulting packets were a staple of my childhood winters, when at the hands of my mother they would blossom into venison stews and chili that bubbled alluringly all day in the crockpot.
My dad hasn’t gotten a deer in quite a while now. He hunts less than he used to, and many of his cousins and hunting buddies have moved out of state. I’m not quite ready to let go yet though, so I’m putting down my books and picking up a rifle this year, and I’m going hunting with my dad. No one is more excited than he.
Shelby is a first year graduate student in the Field Naturalist program. She is very much an animal lover, but reserves the right to occasionally kill and eat them. She is also a very good shot.
By Sam Talbott
I inherited many things from my dad: blue eyes, an affinity for two-cylinder engines, and a passion for woodworking. A set of long-handled carving tools made the journey north from Massachusetts to Vermont with me. I left behind a stout wood lathe, a former resident of the local vocational high school. Between its dark-green metal housing and the exposed 2×4’s of the garage is a well-kept pile of saw dust and wood chips.
If you were to plunge a soil auger into this pile, you’d see a resemblance to “varves” left behind by freezing and thawing cycles of glacial Lake Vermont. Large wood chips give way to fine sawdust—evidence of increasing from 60 to 400 grit sandpaper. The red layers are not redoximorphic reactions, but rather the presence of redwood, Honduran rosewood, and other species not found in the typical New England northern hardwood forests.
The redwood (suspected to be Sequoia sempervirens) made a clandestine trip eastward after being salvaged in the early 1980’s. Large blocks of this wood have been situated around my mom’s house, purporting an insipid appearance. It wasn’t until recently that I discovered the splendid inner grain hidden behind a weathered exterior. Using one of my dad’s bowls as a template, I attempted to turn a nine inch diameter round.
A common theme lurks among my personal ventures: I have no idea what I’m doing. Sometimes the engine starts first kick, other times it takes me 4 hours to realize the fuel switch is off. With woodworking, it is all up to the potential hidden behind layers of bark and cambium. The finished products of Redwood (and similar species) speak for themselves, regardless of form or function. Whittling down a block into two chopsticks would furnish a pair of beautifully extravagant eating utensils.
I speak highly of foreign timber, however Vermont’s forests contain an arguably greater potential than the aforementioned exotics. The gnarliest of trees can have the greatest capacity for charming grain. Burls, or stress-induced growths on trees, are a perfect example of this conjecture. Although challenging and dangerous to turn, the results are worth it. Another woodworking project is borne out of reaction wood—the formation of a hardened elbow along the bole of a tree in response to natural disturbance. These make perfect walking sticks or wooden canes with limited input from the craftsman/woman.
There are approximately 4.46 million acres of forest in Vermont, each one hiding infinite potential for bowls, spoons, and cutting boards. I urge you to go out and salvage from fallen logs and limbs, only a sharp knife and 100 grit sandpaper is required.
Snorkeling in frigid waters for a species at-risk
By Levi Old
“We have a large adult!” says Jen.
I rise to one knee and pull the fogged snorkel mask off my head. “A big one?” I mumble in a haze.
“Yeah, really big. Much larger than I’ve ever seen this far up the creek,” she replies, pointing to where it kicked its caudal fin gently against the downstream flow. “It’s right there beside you.”
I cinch the mask on my face, place the snorkel in my mouth, and dunk back into the frigid water:
Twenty-six inches of wildness.
Jen pops her head out of the water and says, “Isn’t that just a beautiful creature?”
She snorkels one side of the creek and I snorkel the other. An assistant in waders walks the creek, tallies our fish sightings and makes sure we do not go hypothermic.
Jen O’Reilly, a biologist for the US Fish and Wildlife Service, leads the recovery effort for the Odell Lake population of bull trout, a Threatened Species under the Endangered Species Act. The recovery team consists of US Forest Service, Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife, and Trout Unlimited. In order to monitor recovery of bull trout, biologists conduct an annual juvenile count in Trapper Creek, the only known spawning location for this population.
Trapper Creek is a tributary to Odell Lake. In the shadow of Oregon’s Diamond Peak, the lake lies in a glacier-carved basin physically detached from the Deschutes River by a 5,500 year-old lava flow. The flow enclosed the lake, genetically isolating this population of bull trout.
At midnight this past July, ten of us in dry suits and thick neoprene hoodies shimmied up different reaches (Fig. 1) of Trapper Creek. Shallow in most places, the snorkel is more of a crawl and scramble than a leisurely swim upstream. Even in mid-summer Trapper Creek is icy cold.
We closely observed the nooks of each piece of in-stream wood and dove into pools where rapids converged and bubbles enveloped our sightlines. We held dive lights, counted each fish and estimated its size class. We kept our eyes peeled for the creek’s bull trout.
Bull Trout – A species at-risk from Levi Old on Vimeo.
Named for their broad heads, bull trout (Salvelinus confluentus) serve as apex predators in aquatic systems of the West. Often called “Dolly Varden (S. malma),” they are in fact a separate species. Bull trout exist in less than half their historic range and prefer clean, cold waters. As a member of the char genus, they grow to be shark-like beasts in comparison to their trout relatives. Bull trout can measure up to 41 inches and weigh as much as 42 pounds.
The Trapper Creek bull trout population is known as the only adfluvial, non-reservoir population of bull trout in Oregon. During the 20th century, the building of railroads, construction of revetments, and removal of woody debris turned the creek into a large ditch of rushing water, unsuitable for spawning bull trout.
In 2003, this all changed. The recovery team restored the channel to increase spawning and rearing habitat by deconstructing revetments, placing woody debris and rebuilding a meandering channel. The annual snorkel count of juvenile bull trout increased from 26 in 1996 to 150 in 2005. Restoring, sustaining and monitoring native habitat is crucial to the survival of this iconic species.
If you find yourself on western waters, keep an eye out for these stream predators. Light spots of yellow, red and orange cover their dark bodies, and a white margin can be found on the leading edge of their ventral fins. And watch out, anglers: they will steal a hooked fish right off of your line.
Enjoy the video:
Bull Trout – A species at-risk from Levi Old on Vimeo.
- Montana Water Center. (2009). Trapper Creek. Retrieved on October 16, 2014, from http://wildfish.montana.edu/Cases/browse_details.asp?ProjectID=36.
- Richardson, Shannon and Jacobs, Steve. (2010). Progress Reports. Retrieved on October 16, 2014, from http://oregonstate.edu/dept/ODFW/NativeFish/pdf_files/Odell_BT_Report_final.pdf.
By Clare Crosby
I spent my childhood hosting acorn cap tea parties for fairies, scurrying on calloused feet to collect eggs from the chicken coop, and reenacting Little House on The Prairie in the meadow behind my house, just east of Austin, TX. I did not suffer from “Nature Deficit Disorder.”
But as I grew, my interests shifted. I traded the meadow for well-manicured athletic fields and our old pond for swimming pools. My interest in my Central Texas natural surroundings paused around 8 years old. I never figured out what species of oak provided teacups for my parties, only that the caps were nicely proportioned for fairies. Neither did I learn what type of moss my fairies used for seat cushions, only that it opened into minute stars under sprinkled water.
I’m embarrassed now, as a naturalist, to admit that I don’t know even some of the most common species of my home state. This lack of knowledge, however, offers opportunity when I return to Texas from Vermont, the home of my formal ecological education. As I walk old trails and come across a familiar (yet unknown) tree, my inclination is to turn to field guides or a trusted expert to tell me what to call it, who eats it, and what it might reveal about the soil beneath it. In Vermont, I have had a string of wonderful professors and peers to teach me about the natural world, assisted, of course, by an ever-growing library of field guides. I hope to be so lucky again in Texas. Continue reading
By Joanne Garton
I remained still underneath a swirling aquatic world. Corals of brilliant blue and pink mixed with fish of bold black and yellow. Water of crystal clarity ebbed and flowed towards gorgeously blond sand. Sea anemone wavered and I watched, transfixed, as the bulging eyes of a massively prehistoric stingray reflected the wonder of it all.
As the sea swelled, forty violins soared to a grandiose peak. As a wave smashed on the rocky shore, cymbals crashed and drums bellowed. And as the wave dissipated, a bassoon emerged from lonesome depths where a barrier shark swam far from the colorful critters near the sun’s dancing rays.
It took three wave and cymbal crashes before I realized that this music of the sea had been choreographed with Hollywood precision. As a tourist in the Georgia Aquarium in Atlanta, I was listening to the soundtrack of nature, piped in through the invisibly scattered speakers that followed my trail and amplified my mood. Those soaring chords and delightful suspensions latched onto my wonder and awe, building my anticipation and enhanced my excitement when the belugas breeched or the sea lions wrestled.
But was this a bad thing? The music kept me focused, adding drama to the already dramatic, while drowning out the hoards of young families that mixed in with my own. Carefully arranged and built to sell, this supposed music of nature sets the mood that inspires us to linger a while, more so than perhaps, these days, silence can.
Of course, real nature is not silent. Winds sweep, critters cluck, wolves howl and woodpeckers tap. So do other animals hear music in nature? What about insects, reptiles, or microbes? What do they hear? Continue reading