rainoverthere

Another Promised Land

After Ross and I left Chicago I pined for certain things: the sanguine splash of cardinals in the trees; the husky downtown smell of raw chocolate on the verge of becoming sweet; the screech and flinty spark of a nighttime El train passing overhead on ancient, dangerously frayed tracks. I even missed the shock of skin meeting air on gelid winter days.

It took a long time for those aches to ease. I’ve told you before that I didn’t feel at home in Berkeley right away. I used to look out of our living room window at a towering pine in our neighbor’s yard and think: You don’t have to love this place all at once. Love a single branch of a single tree, and see where you get.

I started with a single branch of a single tree (a lovable pine, and today I am fond of all of it), and I got—you may tell from the throb of the heart on my sleeve—to a love that has been utterly, unexpectedly, enormous. I have lived for some time now with the knowledge that neither the borders of Berkeley, nor the outline of the Bay, defined my home.

I didn’t feel this way about Massachusetts or Illinois—but California? California is my kingdom. We’ve logged 54 hikes in the last year here, and many hundreds of miles. I’ve camped from the desert to the mountains to the sea, and driven along more twisting, narrow roads-with-a-view than I can count. The entirety of this skinny kicking leg of a state feels like it belongs to me.

I have been very happy to live here, is what I am saying to you.

And now that I have said it I will say one more thing, which is that I will also—and this is the God’s honest truth—be very happy to leave.

Here Be Announcement!

Ross and I are moving to Seattle in a few months. He’s finishing up his post-doc, and a new job is calling that has taken him a long time to choose. It is the perfect job for him right now, except for the fact that it will take us away from the place that has become our promised land. I know he has been afraid that this will break my heart—that we are moving from sunshine to rain.

But there can be more than one promised land in a lifetime, and we are still young, and there is plenty of space in this world for the two of us to disperse a little further. (And Seattle is a particularly beautiful place to stretch into, by anyone’s standards.)

I am starting a little bigger this time around. I already love the entire waterfall whose ragged spill you see below. I already love the mountain from which it flows. I already love every drop of rain in the sky, as long as it is raining over there. We’ll see where I get.

cascades

rainoverthere

P.S. In case you were wondering about my plans, there are a few excellent ecology programs in the Seattle area, and I will be ready to apply this December. It’s true that not being able to cast a net across the whole country will constrain the grad school application process somewhat, but I’m very grateful for the opportunities I’ll have where we are.

(Another slug, photographed on a different day, standing in as our featured image.)

We Knew Him

Power is a strange and misunderstood thing. We tend to think we have very little; we tend to believe it is by rule or nature wielded by others over us. When we grasp it we do so with fervor, as if it could slip from our grasp. It is true that those who hold power are often masters, or monied, or men. But the word is smaller, too, and some of what it possesses is mere ability. To be powerful is to do what is possible for you.

Several years ago I passed some time as the editor of a smart, quirky, now defunct online science magazine. One of our problems was a near total lack of money and therefore a dearth of regular contributors, but I did occasionally receive queries of varying quality. One letter arrived from a Portland-based freelance writer on a Friday afternoon in October 2010. The poor woman who wrote it had been misled by a pamphlet to which she subscribed into thinking that we were a children’s magazine, and both the email and her cheerful, pun- and exclamation point-filled 660-word submission were entitled “A Slug is Not a Bug.”

There was something of a supplication in her tone that I have not forgotten. She entreated me not to dismiss her subject, despite its lowly stature in the world. She assured me she had done her research. She hoped I would read the entire article.

I wrote back politely, explaining that we did not publish material written specifically for children, and that was the end of that. But oddly enough I have thought about her email several times in the intervening years. She was professional, this woman—or anyway, as professional as she had learned so far to be. She was as hopeful as I was myself. I have no doubt she wanted more out of her life. To be a children’s writer; to be published. To be taken seriously. I have had so little power in my life, it has seemed to me. But there were things that were possible.

*******

Ross and I had a gorgeous day today up in Marin County, hiking 11 miles along a coastal trail in Point Reyes National Seashore. The ground was exploding with the purple of Pacific Coast irises and the air with wrentit and golden-crowned sparrow song. The sea below the bluffs crashed ecstatically onto the shore. It smelled like fenugreek; it smelled like ocean. It smelled like wild mustard, steaming and vegetal. We found the flat imprint of the shell of a marine mollusc on one half of a broken stone. We talked about the future and the beautiful possibilities Ross’s career success is about to provide us with.

We also met a slug. We met this particular banana slug (Ariolimax californicus), eating steadily away at what I think was a large leaf from a stinging nettle (Urtica doica)—more power to it.

We stopped to check it out. We marveled at the fact that we could hear the leaf disintegrating between its rasping, toothy mouth parts. I took a video. Slugs are so cool, we said to each other, nearly simultaneously, as we stood up.

About 15 minutes later, as we returned from the mid-point of our out-and-back hike, we saw the slug again. It was no longer eating. It had clearly been stepped on, no doubt by accident but extremely decisively, perhaps by one of the merry pair we had just seen wielding hiking-poles. The slug’s head, eyes, and part of its mantle were crushed and softly fissured. I did not take a picture.

*******

This is a strange post, and not the kind of strange I had intended. Not exactly a memorial for a single particular slug whose last minutes on this earth we happened to witness today. It has an odd humor, perhaps. But so many things are possible: To dash another’s hope or recognize it. To be the accidental cause of a small cessation of life. To be most excellent, despite one’s size, at excoriating the same Urtica leaves that stung Ross’s bare legs all afternoon.

The Nearer Your Destination

In the vocabulary of rock climbers, a problem is the physical space between where you are right now and where you’d like to be in just a little bit. A solution is any one of the set of ways in which you might traverse that space. The joy of climbing, you immediately understand, lies in both problems and solutions: A particularly beautiful solution requires an especially interesting problem.

I wouldn’t call myself a rock climber, but I’ve done enough of it in the gym to have collected a small stockpile of techniques—I have a sense of how to stretch, and twist, and push on, and pull with, various bits and pieces of my body in order to make a seemingly inaccessible position accessible. I have a sense of how to approach the physical mass of a rock face, how to see hand-holds and foot-holds and how to exploit my contact with the rock itself so that friction and reaction forces give me extra leverage.

Ross and I let our Berkeley rock gym memberships lapse quite a while ago, but we like using these skills to scramble. If you’ve never heard of scrambling you can think of it as the middle ground between walking, which generally requires no skill or equipment—and technical climbing, which requires both training and gear. Yesterday the two of us spent a few hours inhabiting that middle ground in Sunol Regional Wilderness, a gorgeous park that lies just east of the Calaveras fault (part of the San Andreas fault system) and is blessed with an abundance of otherworldly blue-green serpentine and rich brown-black basalt rock erupting at intervals out of rippling hills. We scrambled in the sweet, clear waters of Alameda Creek, which has so many good-sized boulders in it that you can go nearly a mile straight through the creek itself and only occasionally have to hop over to one or the other bank. We scrambled up Rock Scramble Trail, whose nature does not belie its name.

I was having bouts of lightheadedness that day, on which more in a moment, but the weather was fine and the problems were interesting and the solutions satisfied. The daily push ups I’ve been doing for a few months helped me strong-arm my way up at least one rather tall boulder. I made a couple of singularly enjoyable moves that involved getting nearly horizontal, hands pressed to one whorled stone surface and boots pushing back against another. I got sweaty and I slipped and I ate a fly, and I thought: I wouldn’t mind it if the world were all boulder.

The lightheadedness was a thing of some note, though thankfully it was not only mild but almost enjoyable, in the way that, if you’ve ever gone under, the first flush of anesthesia hitting your veins can make you understand why “giddy” has two meanings. Sunday was the first time I became aware of it, though it’s continued through today and I imagine it may take a little while to subside. About ten days ago, I don’t mind explaining, my physician and I agreed that it was a good time for me to start transitioning off the medication I’ve been taking for the last 14 months. I was given a list of “discontinuation symptoms,” some of which were moderately terrifying and most of which I have very luckily avoided. But I’m pretty sure that this is where the lightheadedness came from.

The only other effect I am experiencing as a result of going off the drug is also of some note.

I have noted it in a conversation with Ross, and today in a letter to my dear friend Sarah, but I find it difficult to note it here, for some reason; perhaps that it requires telling you about one of the parts of myself I find the ugliest. The past 14 months have been good ones, and because of that and possibly because, I now realize, of the medication I’ve been on, this ugliness has not manifested itself very much at all. But it surfaced this past Saturday, while I was studying for an upcoming physics exam and struggling to call upon the concepts and equations I’ve been learning quickly enough to solve my list of practice problems in a reasonably finite period of time. And it surfaced on the drive back from Sunol yesterday, when I made several wrong navigation moves in a row on a busy highway.

Ugliness, in this case, is a sudden, blooming unhappiness—a kind of black choler rising in me like a force of nature—or at least, that is how I thought about it for most of my life. Ugliness is the choler itself, which is usually triggered by the sense that I’ve done something wrong or that something has gone wrong. It is also a secondary sense of outrage and panic about being infected with this feeling, and the desire to cut it out of myself as expeditiously as possible. And it is the almost automatic projection of both of these unhappinesses onto someone else, preferably in a way that has them wronging me—so that even if I have to be miserable, it doesn’t have to be my fault.

I was alone when it happened on Saturday, so Physics Itself took the brunt of my projected unhappiness, which was quite mild anyway and fortunately didn’t last very long because I had to shut my books and head off to meet an old friend. I noticed the choler, though, because it had been so long since I had felt it. Huh, I thought. It’s you. I haven’t missed you. It felt, a little, like a slipping.

On Sunday, of course, Ross was next to me in the car. It wasn’t exactly pleasant for either of us, but I’m very glad to be able to tell you that even without the smoothing benefits of a serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor, and even though I could feel the ugliness growing like a little massif between my ribs, the whole thing blew over within a couple of minutes. My old friend hasn’t changed, but I have. After an initial convulsion of frustration, I clued Ross—who’d been, understandably, mainly focused on helping us navigate safely home—in on what was happening with me. It took several minutes more before I could say I was no longer angry, or unhappy, or vehemently desirous of not being in the wrong, but I didn’t push those things onto him and I didn’t gorge myself on them.

There was a space between where I was right then and where I wanted to be in just a little bit. There was a set of ways to traverse that space. And I don’t know if it was beautiful, but I found one.

Not all the rocks we scrambled in Sunol had taken their place there as a result of the tectonic forces at play beneath our feet, but this is true of a lot of the park’s most remarkable and interesting problems. Because the fine-grained, iron-rich basalt that dominates the ocean floor is heavier than the the phaneritic (large-grained), silica-rich granite that makes up most of the Earth’s land masses, an oceanic plate will slip-slide below a continental plate when the two have a contest of borders. Down in the mantle, the subducted basalt will melt, be reformed, and alter in character before some of it is unearthed by other geologic events.

Zeb Page, a petrologist at Oberlin whom I do not otherwise know, has won my heart by pointing out that these rocks represent the only material in the world that was once subducted but is now available for study. This is rock that came from the depths of the Earth’s core, became part of its skin, was pushed back under for a second spell in that fundamental forge none of us will ever see, and then returned again.

And we get to climb on it. We get to practice getting nearer to our destinations—even if, after all, Paul Simon was a little bit right about that slipping and sliding thing.

 

2014-02-26 04.25.44 1

Five Minutes and a Hair Dryer

In the five years I’ve been skinning I’ve acquired a good many life lessons from it, which is on the one hand a surprising thing to say about the process of removing all of the soft tissue and some of the bone from a bird’s body and replacing it with cotton wool, thread, and a wooden dowel, and on the other hand entirely unsurprising, since we all learn from the things we spend our time working hard to get better at.

I thought about one of these lessons the other day, when I took these pictures:

Wet Bewick's wren

dry Bewick's wren

The photograph on the top shows a study skin of a female Bewick’s wren (Thyromanes bewickii). Underneath it is the same specimen, five minutes later. The only difference between them is the time I spent drying.

I know this doesn’t sound like much of a life lesson yet, but here it is: Embrace drying.

When a bird is wet—in life as in death—it looks like crap. The barbs and barbules that give feathers a smooth, tight weave when they’re properly preened crumple and stick together. Down turns into a kind of sludge. So for a long time I tried to avoid getting my bird’s feathers wet as I was working, even though I had to use water to keep its skin moist. I have no idea why, but I had somehow collected the ridiculous and unquestioned notion that if a study skin was going to turn out well, it had to look good all the way along.

But washing a bird really helps to remove blood, fat, and dirt from its feathers. And if you commit to the process—a wren might take five minutes to properly dry, a snowy owl upwards of an hour and a half, depending on the temperature and strength of the air stream you use—a good drying can make up for a lot of the things that might have gone wrong in skinning. Maybe you lost a bunch of feathers, or ripped the skin around the skull. A well-dried bird will still look like the best version of itself it can possibly be.

If this still doesn’t sound like much of a life lesson, here is a translation: To make something beautiful, be unafraid of making something ugly first.

A corollary: Something you think is ugly might just not be finished yet. It is easy to overlook what it takes to finish.

Either way—you can’t dry what you don’t get wet.

New Year's Eve hike

A Good Year Long Past Due: My 2013

Night has fallen on the first day of this new year, and I am lying on a bed in a Motel 6 in Ridgecrest, CA, with a towel wrapped around wet hair, and there is a part of me that wants to tell you 2013 was the best year of my life.

I hesitate to say those words so baldly, particularly because if the past 365 days lacked one thing it was enough good time spent with my family back home in Singapore. 2013 began with a visit there, but throughout most of January I was mired in the last and deepest phase of what I now recognize as a depression years in the brewing. I was barely able to converse and I’m sure I perturbed my relatives terribly.

I am very, very glad indeed to have been with my funny, forgiving parents, crazy cool sister, and hilariously smart nieces and nephew in the first weeks of 2013. They supported me more than they will ever realize—but in many ways I wasn’t really there at all.

Hard, then, to believe that things have changed so much since then. This isn’t a post about depression (although please email me if you ever want to talk about that) or its treatments (again, please email to chat—I’ve been extremely lucky and am happy to share details). But one reason this last year was so amazing was the simple affirmation it offered: Happiness can, and sometimes does, return like a blaze after it seems to have been lost.

This was my 2013.

Miles run: 251.8
I took the summer off running to rest my bad right foot and ankle, but was able to get back into things in the fall with the help of new shoes and insoles. My dear friend Sarah asked me recently why I run, and my answer was, essentially, to keep my body strong for things I like to do even better, such as the following:

Miles hiked (since April, when we started logging them): 318.2
Ross and I go hiking almost every weekend now, and if you put a gun to my head to make me choose my favorite thing about living where we do, this is what I’d say.

If with the same gun you made me choose my favorite miles, they’d be the ones that led to the peak of Mount Dana in August, at 13,061 feet the highest mountain in Yosemite.

Regional, State, and National Parks visited in California (again, since April): 26
I’ve barely made a dent.

Nights spent sleeping out: 30
Three major camping trips, two weekend trips, and a short-term stint in the field contributed to this figure, which makes me incredibly happy. There are very few things in the world I like more than sleeping and waking up without walls. And a mere three and a half years ago, very few things would have surprised me more than the suggestion that this would someday be the case.

I’ve loved every night out this year, but if I have favorites they might be the one where I got rained out on the sandy beach of the Lost Coast where I was sleeping sans tent and the one, just this week, where Ross and I camped off-trail in the backcountry of Joshua Tree and heard coyote song.

Prerequisite classes taken toward applying for an M.S. in ecology: 3 (+ 3 associated labs)
This grand, terrifying, immensely long-awaited life plan is going so well that I’m going to take another three classes next semester alone. I’m enjoying it so much that I cried the night of my chemistry final this fall, because I was so happy about how the year’s learning had gone and at least partly because it meant I didn’t need to take any more chemistry classes. Fucking cried about that. Good lord.

Marriages restored: 1
Ross and I are closer than we’ve ever been. (Hi, babe.)

Friendships injured and then, I very much hope, reclaimed: 1
T.—I love you.

Phobias overcome: 1
I began the year extremely nervous about highway driving—to the point where I basically couldn’t go anywhere that required getting on or off a highway unless Ross drove me. I am ending it, as I said, in a Motel 6 in Ridgecrest, CA, to get to which I drove three hours in the dark, using six different highways. This means the entire world to me. This means I can take myself anywhere.

I can take myself, for instance, to the parking lot of Buster’s, an abandoned supermarket in Bridgeport, CA. And I will, because this happens to be where the beginning mountaineering course I am taking is meeting this Friday morning.

It is 2014, friends. I am going to climb. I wish you every strength, joy, and luck as you do, too.

New Year's Eve hike

New Year’s Eve hike

The sun did rise, eventually. I really could not complain.

Fallout From a Fatal Gift

There’s this eerie sound that eucalyptus trees make when the wind is passing through the spaces between their belts of peeling bark. It’s not like any other tree I know of; when eucalypts talk, I hear the metal gate in front of the house my father grew up in, creaking on its hinges. That gate, along with the house and its porch and the purple and white periwinkles that grew in its garden, were all destroyed years ago to make way for new condos; but when I was little I used to stand on its bars and hitch the thing back and forth with all my weight. I was a very quiet child, and it was as much the creak as the swinging I enjoyed: a small assertion that I could disrupt the world.

I was waiting for something else to disrupt the world early this Saturday morning, lying on my back on a ridgetop in the Berkeley hills and listening to the eucalypts blowing in the oceanic wind:

We call them falling stars, as if they simply floated down like ash from someone’s cigarette late in the quiet night—as if they did what fond hearts do in love. We call them shooting stars, and this is a less gentled name; but if the incandescent streaks we see are missiles, who is hurling them?

They also call us.

It was the Geminids I’d come to answer at 4:45am. Forty-five minutes earlier I’d woken to my alarm, made myself a thermos of hot, sweet tea, petted a confused cat on the head, and driven up to Wildcat Canyon. Though city lights washed out the sky, the night was cloudless, fogless, and as dark as I could hope for it to be, since I had waited till the waxing moon had set like some great, aging cinder to the west. I was alone. Was quite awake. And waiting. God, I wanted the whole damn thing to fall.

It didn’t, but for over an hour and a half I watched pieces of the firmament break loose and arc across the sky, and was entirely happy to be where I was. One was a tremendous fireball that caught me in mid-step even before I’d settled down, bright as a sparkler and leaving a white trail behind it that remained for nearly a full minute afterwards.

Most were quite clear, but with short-lived trajectories; some were so faint they whispered in the corners of my eyes and on another night I might have talked myself into believing I’d imagined them. They came every few minutes, and I’m sure I missed a few pouring tea into a cup and sipping quickly as I could, unwilling to release the sky from view. But come they did, and after a while I knew I would not stop seeing them until the sun came up.

It’s a strange sensation, having confidence in shooting stars.

The sun did rise, eventually. I really could not complain.

The sun did rise, eventually. I really could not complain.

The year’s last major meteor shower goes by The Geminids because the shooting stars it sends out seem to radiate from the constellation Gemini, whose twin stars ride high and clear in the winter sky. Every shower has a core like this: The radiant of the Perseids is Perseus; the radiant of the Leonids, Leo. And every shower has another, truer, core: a comet following its own eccentric path across the solar system. When comets pass the sun, they heat and simmer, and along with steam they boil off parcels of cosmic debris that linger in a stream in space, only to burn up in our planet’s atmosphere as we hurtle through them every year.

There’s no such thing as an ordinary display of shooting stars. No wild, incendiary hail could ever be pedestrian. But the Geminids are special even among meteor showers.

They’re relatively young, for one thing—people have been watching the Perseids since before the Common Era, and the Leonids for over a thousand years. The Geminids showed up out of the blue, out of the black, out of the winter night, fewer than two centuries ago. They’ve grown steadily in number and intensity since then, and seem still to be mounting; a single fireball last year burned brighter than the full moon. Their fusillade lasts longer than a day, so you can watch them everywhere on earth.

The Geminids are mysterious, too in that lovely way scientific mysteries have of deepening even as their details come to light. Their source, the mystery goes, is not obviously a comet. Instead it is a dense, rocky body that looks more like an asteroid, and wouldn’t seem to be capable of burning off meteoroids as easily as an icy comet would. The latest theory astronomers have is that the body is in fact an old comet, still carrying ice within its heart but covered now in a clotted crust of interplanetary dust that makes it look like solid rock.

This doesn’t, prettily, explain it all. The debris this asteroid-comet-comet-asteroid casts out every year isn’t enough—not by a long shot—to account for the mass of the Geminids. And so our modern skywatchers wait, and scan the heavens, and hope to understand a little more about their secrets every time our orbits cross.

One thing they did right in the meantime, I think: they gave the strange fountainhead of the Geminids a wonderful name. It’s called 3200 Phaethon. The 3200 is because it was the 3,200th asteroid (or asteroid-like object, anyway) to be formally named. The Phaethon? Ah.

I remember Phaeton, although he’s not one of the more prominent figures in Greek mythology, because when I was 13 we did a series of skits based on the classics and my group performed unlucky Phaeton’s story. I think it was the tragedy that appealed to us—the tragedy and the crisis of identity. In case your own checkered past did not include such dramatics, I’ll tell you Phaeton was the mortal son of Clymene, a water nymph, and Helios: the god of the sun.

Around the time Phaeton came of age, we’re told, Clymene revealed his shining origins. None of his friends believed he’d come from divine stock, and to be honest, the young boy didn’t know if he believed it either. Off Phaethon went to find Helios, who embraced him warmly. But this wasn’t enough for our hero; he wanted to become his father. Let me, begged Phaethon, drive your chariot, the sun, across the sky. Just for one night. Let me take your place.

This goes as well as you’d expect. Phaethon, incapable of controlling the wild horses of the sun, careens across the sky and scorches heaven and earth alike until Zeus shoots him down with a thunderbolt to save the universe.

Some scholars believe the Phaethon myth was based on real celestial event, or that its purpose was to explain the desertification of the Sahara some four or five thousand years ago. More recently, it’s been employed as a metaphor for our own passionate mismanagement of the earth. We too, you might agree, have lost control of the reins we took. And there are monsters on the road.

“Suppose I should lend you the chariot, what would you do? Could you keep your course while the sphere was revolving under you? Perhaps you think that there are forests and cities, the abodes of gods, and palaces and temples on the way. On the contrary, the road is through the midst of frightful monsters….Nor will you find it easy to guide those horses, with their breasts full of fire that they breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils. I can scarcely govern them myself, when they are unruly and resist the reins.

Beware, my son, lest I be the donor of a fatal gift; recall your request while yet you may.”

—Bulfinch’s Mythology

These are chipmunk skulls in tiny vials. It doesn't take much room to store a chipmunk skull, which is lucky if that is what you are studying.

Prep Lab Shenanigans

As most of you probably know, volunteering as a study skin preparator has been a big part of my life since 2008. I used to write a lot more about prep lab life and the birds I skinned at the Field Museum over at my old site, The Science Essayist (all those archives, by the way, are mirrored here). I realize that I haven’t said much at all about volunteering at Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, my new skinning home. Partly that’s because it took me a long time to start feeling comfortable there—something that was not at all the MVZ’s fault, and had much more to do with how close to my heart The Field was and how much I missed it.

Anyway, to make up for this lapse I thought I’d share some photos from the last year in the MVZ lab. Warning: Almost everything you see will be dead. But I did leave out the skinned mouse floating in a bucket of water.

Like hospitals, funeral homes, and graveyards, the prep labs of natural history museums tend to be workplaces where gallows humor thrives. This is just sitting on the shelf above the catalog binders, data sheets, and field guides.

This is just sitting on the shelf above the catalog binders, data sheets, and field guides.

I think these are voles, but don't quote me on it.

I think these are voles, but don’t quote me on it.

I *just today* learned how to ID white-breasted nuthatches (Sitta carolinensis) by two of their calls; they were hopping in Briones Regional Park this morning. This was the first bird I prepped for the MVZ, a beauty of a thing.

I *just today* learned how to ID white-breasted nuthatches (Sitta carolinensis) by ear, or at least by two of their many calls; they were hopping in Briones Regional Park this morning. This was the first bird I prepped for the MVZ, a beauty of a thing.

This is a marsh wren (Cistothorus palustris). Don't you love it when wrens are named for where you'll find them? So helpful. Also, don't you love wrens? They're a little bit perfect.

This is a marsh wren (Cistothorus palustris). Don’t you love it when wrens are named for where you’ll find them? So helpful. Also, don’t you love wrens? They’re a little bit perfect.

This is a juvenile red-breasted sapsucker (Sphyrapicus ruber); if you've ever seen a pine tree ringed with rows and rows of neat holes, those are likely where sapsuckers have been earning their name.

This is a juvenile red-breasted sapsucker (Sphyrapicus ruber); if you’ve ever seen a pine tree ringed with rows and rows of neat holes, those are likely where sapsuckers have been earning their name.

Jun Senseri is a professor of anthropology at Cal, and among other things, he studies foodways—the social, cultural, and economic context surrounding how a particular group of people make and eat food. The prep lab has been processing sheep and goat remains that Sunseri collected from indigenous communities after the animals themselves were consumed.

Jun Senseri is a professor of anthropology at Cal, and among other things, he studies foodways—the social, cultural, and economic context surrounding how a particular group of people make and eat food. The prep lab has been processing sheep and goat remains that Sunseri collected from indigenous communities after the animals themselves were consumed.

I do not know why we had a warthog (Phacochoerus africanus) but I'm guessing it was from the zoo. I'm also guessing it had a bit of a violent life (look at that broken tusk!). I have no guesses as to why it chose to wear that embarrassing hat.

I do not know why we had a warthog (Phacochoerus africanus) but I’m guessing it was from the zoo. I’m also guessing it had a bit of a violent life (look at that broken tusk!). I have no guesses as to why it chose to wear that embarrassing hat.

This is a beautiful green-tailed towhee (Pipilo chlorurus); I think this particular bird has unusually dark olive/gray plumage on its back. You can just see a hint of a brighter green—almost yellow—at the edge of the left wing, and that's the same color in the tail that (mostly hidden on this bird) gives it its name.

This is a beautiful green-tailed towhee (Pipilo chlorurus); I think this particular bird has unusually dark olive/gray plumage on its back. You can just see a hint of a brighter green—almost yellow—at the edge of the left wing, and that’s the same color in the tail that (mostly hidden on this bird) gives it its name.

SEA TURTLE UNDERCARRIAGE!

SEA TURTLE UNDERCARRIAGE!

I am not sure what was going on here, but I think it had something to do with things decomposing at a particular temperature.

I am not sure what was going on here, but I think it had something to do with things decomposing at a particular temperature.

If this looks like a hummingbird chick that was mummified in its nest, that is because that is exactly what it is. Sad, but incredibly cool. I can't say for sure, because it came out of a freezer and I'm not sure how the museum acquired it, but if it was from around here it was probably a ruby-throated hummingbird. (Archilochus colubris).

If this looks like a hummingbird chick that was mummified in its nest, that is because that is exactly what it is. Sad, but incredibly cool. I can’t say for sure, because it came out of a freezer and I’m not sure how the museum acquired it, but if it was from around here it was probably a ruby-throated hummingbird. (Archilochus colubris).

These are chipmunk skulls in tiny vials. It doesn't take much room to store a chipmunk skull, which is lucky if that is what you are studying.

These are chipmunk skulls in tiny vials. It doesn’t take much room to store a chipmunk skull, which is lucky if that is what you are studying.

That’s enough of that for now; I’ll try to tell you more about the MVZ when I can. It’s really a very special place, even if it’ll never come close to replacing the Field Museum prep lab in my heart.

*******

One of the other things keeping me busy just lately has been a 10-day virtual book tour I did to promote the new edition of my book Mountainfit. You can find links to all ten stops here; my favorites include:
— This heart-to-heart with the brilliant eclectic Sienna Latham;
— This video chat with the endlessly charming Chris Clarke;
— This Spotify playlist, hosted by book-blogger Introverted Jen, which you can enjoy whether or not you read a single page of the book; and
— This guest post on DeLene’s wonderful blog Wild Muse , about peat moss, sucking bogs, and whiskey.

Many thanks to Jason Pettus, owner of the Chicago Center for Literature and Publishing, for requiring this demanding but rewarding task of all his writers, and to Lori Hettler, CCLaP’s marketing director, for scheduling all these stops.