Category Archives: Shorts

No Apology

I was going to tell you about the two magnificent bull elk that passed along the edge of my study site at 1668 m on the east side of the mountain, and how because I was alone, and kneeling, and looking at leaves, I saw them before they saw me. I really wanted to tell you how funny the gray jays found me the week I spent setting up air temperature sensors at the end of the field season, and how they came close, close, close, to watch and yell while I threw a tennis ball up into the trees like a maniac only to have it come straight back down again at my eyes, or arc over the wrong, too-low branch, or get stuck between the rough embrace of lichen and branch. I was hoping to point out how different being a second-year PhD student feels than being a first-year. How much I’ve been enjoying coding lately. How I went to a scientific meeting for the first time ever and printed my poster three times as big as everyone else’s because I didn’t know any better. I was going to say I know there will be ups and downs, but hey—maybe this is going to be all right. 

But I waited too long, and November 8 was two weeks ago today, and nothing is all right. So now we’re going to talk about horseflies.

I’m fond of complaining about mosquitoes, which settle like a veil and leave you pissed and itchy and distracted as all get out. But at least they don’t really even bite, just snake their slender probes beneath your skin and hope that you don’t notice them until they’re done. When you do notice them, mosquitoes are easy to kill. Horseflies (family Tabanidae), on the other hand—they’re hard core. They’ve got mouthparts like sharpened, jagged sabers, and they don’t suck from your veins—they slice open a shallow wound on your skin and wait for it to fill with blood, then sponge it up. You know. You’ve been bitten by a horsefly in high summer. It’s not a background buzz or burning itch you slap at lazily and then go on with what you’re doing—it’s the pain of having something cut out a visible piece of your flesh. It’s sharp. And it sharpens the mind.

Plato wrote that Sophocles likened himself to a horsefly, though he used the word gadfly—from Old Norse gaddr, a sharp metal spike, a goad. The city state of Athens, Sophocles believed, was like a huge horse—noble in its stature, but so large that it was apt to settle, slow to move. His words and ideas were the painful bites that it needed to sting it into wakefulness.

Listen, Sophocles is dead. He’s been dead for a while. Were he to be struck down, he said, Athens would sleep on…”unless God in his care of you sent you another gadfly.” So here we are. Our great state is asleep. Our leaders are burying their heads beneath their hands. Our media are playing lullabies. There is no other Sophocles. If you believe there is a God, you’d better believe we are the only ones he is sending. 

Here’s one set of ways to bite. Here are 2018 races to pay attention to. We need to fund the vulnerable Democratic seats to keep them from going the other way, and we need to fight for the few Republican seats that may flip. And here is what’s happening at Standing Rock right now that needs our urgent attention. Ross and I have done some of this work, but not enough by far. What stands in my way is that a lot of this requires a hell of a lot more personal discomfort on my part than I’m normally willing to give to anything besides type 2 fun. Right now, for instance, as I type, I have an idea about something quite small and specific I can do to help organize my community to action (setting up a regular meeting time for friends who might otherwise not do this to sit down for 20 minutes a week and make quick phone calls to reps). Yet I’m reluctant to take the first step toward doing it because it will take time (that I don’t feel like I have) and leadership (that I don’t want to practice). This is incredibly embarrassing to say. White nationalists are literally giving Nazi salutes to the president-elect of the United States and I don’t feel like I have time and leadership to spare. I’m saying it to you precisely because it’s embarrassing, and I’m committing right here and now to being way fucking better than that. To fastening, arousing, persuading, and reproaching, all day long and in all places.

There is no other Sophocles. We’re it. Terrifying, huh. Too bad.

“For if you kill me you will not easily find a successor to me, who, if I may use such a ludicrous figure of speech, am a sort of gadfly, given to the state by God; and the state is a great and noble stead who is tardy in his motions owing to his very size, and requires to be stirred into life. I am that gadfly which God has attached to the state, and all day long and in all places am always fastening upon you, arousing and persuading and reproaching you.You will not easily find another like me, and therefore I would advise you to spare me. I dare say that you may feel out of temper (like the person who is suddenly awakened from sleep), and you think that you might easily strike me dead…and then you sleep on for the remainder of your lives, unless God in his care of you sent you another gadfly.”

—Plato, Apology

P.S. Yes, only female Tabanids take blood meals. Don’t let that stop you, men.

Photo of a female Tabanid chowing down on the photographer, used by permission (all rights reserved by the wonderful Morgan Jackson). Click on the photo to read about Morgan’s encounter with this beauty.

What I Don’t

I can’t decide if it was bravado, a love of irony, or the urge to cast a mad, sideways benediction on the summer that made me title my last post What I Know. In fact, what has occupied my mind more than anything over these last few days and weeks before the (official) start of my very first season of field research as a PhD student is the terribly long list of things I still don’t seem to know! (And I don’t mean the answer to my research questions.)

Some uncertainties are small, and slide sharply under my feet like scree. I keep answering one or another, but that only means I slip down to the next. What should I use to mark the corners of the new study plots I’m planning to establish? (At first I was afraid I would have to use expensive tent stakes, but it turns out landscape staples stay in place well enough, and I can make site ID tags out of folded-over Gorilla tape.) Will I need two lines of space for this observation on my data sheet, or four? (I’ve no idea yet. Designing a data sheet has been driving me absolutely insane.) Why did I buy specimen vials that taper at the ends, so that small insects get lodged at the bottom like kernels of corn? (They were cheaper, and hey, I didn’t know that would happen!) Other problems are bigger. Will I make the right choices about where to site my new study plots, given that I have to do it now, while much of the terrain is still covered in snow and I can’t tell what will grow there? Will any of the protocols I’ve planned work out in practice? Is it insane to think I can accurately quantify damage to thousands of leaves on hundreds of individual plants? How will a beginning bug-hunter like myself successfully identify all the insects I collect? (The answer to this one might be Twitter!)

The hardest doubts come at me with the heft of a tree trunk. Even if I manage to collect usable data this summer, will I find any signal in the noise? Does anyone but me think insect herbivory is an important phenomenon to study in the subalpine meadow ecosystem of the Cascades? Am I making a mistake trying to launch my tiny research boat mostly alone, instead of collaborating with my insanely smart and accomplished advisor on one of her successful projects that’s already midstream?

As I’ve been packing up storage bins and backpacks with sampling equipment, camping gear, and field guides, these worries and a hundred others seem to slip into the spaces in between. But lately, at least, a lot of joy has been squeezing itself in as well. Excitement, too. And amazing gratitude. Whether this particular project succeeds or fails—and I know I will have to be clever, flexible, and open to alternate options at every stage of the game in order to give myself the best chance of avoiding failure—I am incredibly lucky to be able to spend this time using my mind and body to explore scientific questions that interest me, in a beautiful mountain environment where the weather is only sometimes terrible. I’m also lucky to have the support of a tremendous lab whose members consistently embrace opportunities to help and support me. Just this morning I went to meet Elli, a recent grad in the HRL lab who also did her dissertation research in the meadow system, so that I could receive the latest in a long line of generous gestures from her: A soil moisture meter for me to use all summer long and a methods book to share with the two awesome undergrad conservation scholars I’ll be working with.

I’m definitely terrified. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to do. But one thing is certain: At the end of this road, no matter what happens, I’ll know a hell of a lot more—about ecology and probably about life—than I do today.

All right—time to give my trusty hiking boots some TLC and cross my fingers that they’ll hold up through one last summer. Wish me luck.

A fantastically lovely longhorn flower beetle I saw feeding on Trillium ovatum pollen last week on the east side of Mount Rainier—probably Evodinus monticola vancouveri.

What I Know

That a drowsy sphinx moth moving slowly across the back of my hand has feet that feel like nothing else in the world, tiny hooks so gentle and sublime I wish my skin were made of loops on which they’d catch and hold forever.

That a bee in search of nectar can unfold its guarded, golden tongue so far you’d think it learned the trick from watching a magician with her scarves, and once or twice in my life I will be close enough and lucky enough and watchful enough to see it.

That the body can be bruised and scratched from the awl-edges of birch shrubs and the fine armored spines of devil’s club and the brittle bodies of dead trees, but none of it will hurt as much as the thoughts that rumble through the brain like summer afternoon storms, which are never announced and always expected.

That no matter how small the flower, there is an arthropod small enough to visit it.

That there is snow that you can trust and snow you cannot. I know the difference, sometimes.

That there are fears that you should heed and fears you should not. I know the difference, seldom.

That there are as many ways to make a living as there are living things. This is very nearly the greatest joy.

A minute thrips—look in the southwest segment of the flowerhead for a black-and-white beetle-like insect—feeding on a desert pincushion.

A minute thrips—look in the southwest segment of the flowerhead for a black-and-white beetle-like insect—on a very small desert pincushion inflorescence, photographed in Death Valley earlier this spring.

 

 

On The Downhill

Ross and I don’t tend to talk that much on the uphill when we’re hiking, largely due to the fact that I’m nearly always moving at a pace that makes me even less chatty than usual. But we often have wonderful, relaxed, surprising conversations on the downhill, after we’ve both had a chance to wring out the week’s preoccupations along with our sweat. Frequently these talks are about his science, my science, or some mathematical or statistical concept or other—I think because sore feet lead to a refreshed mind, and we’re both willing to take on sweeping or difficult ideas without much of a sense of expectation that we’ll get anywhere in particular.

Anyway, today I told Ross about a neat probability puzzle that Carl Bergstrom, an evolutionary and theoretical biologist at UW, tweeted last night. While we were hurtling back down to the trailhead we talked about possible approaches to the puzzle; we talked about why certain seemingly important and seemingly missing pieces of information didn’t matter; and we talked about the answer, which is beautifully simple and elegant. (Carl called it “easy”, but I certainly didn’t arrive at it on my own—although I have the good fortune of being able to pretend that that’s because the tweet containing the solution was the first one I saw…)

In case you are interested, here is the puzzle, and here is the solution. You can have fun thinking through it now, or save it for the downhill on your next hike!

Today’s climb was notable for another reason. We had been promised a terrible weather weekend, with rain predicted in all directions. As it turned out, and as you know if you live in Seattle, today was an absolutely beautiful day—partly cloudy, but definitely partly sunny, and very warm. But since we didn’t know that beforehand, instead of venturing particularly far afield we decided to sleep in and settle for yet another hike of our old, slightly boring, and extremely crowded friend Mt. Si. To make things at least little more interesting we did it with full packs (this just means all the gear you’d need for a multi-day climbing trip, and for me personally ranges from about 35 to about 43 lbs, depending on the trip and what group gear I’m carrying. Today I packed something like 36 lbs, approximately a third of my body weight). Anyway, it had been nearly eight months since I’d hiked with a full pack, so while I thought I’d probably do fine I didn’t have especially high hopes for my pace heading up the mountain, which involves 3,200 feet of gain in 3.9 miles.

Notably, though, I wound up topping out at 1 hour and 53 minutes. I don’t usually like to get hung up about finishing times, since that tends to be (emotionally speaking) a poor way to judge success if you’re someone who is never the speediest in your group. But I’ll acknowledge that personal records can be worth a high-five, and today’s time was both a decisive 13 minutes faster than my previous best for getting to the top of Si with weight, and the first occasion on which I made it up carrying a full pack in under 2 hours. So that was nice…except probably for all the other innocent hikers on the trail who had the unfortunate experience of hearing what must have sounded like a gasping bulldog behind them as I came up. (I breathe hard on the uphill. I told you.)

Okay, folks. That’s me. Take it easy like Carl’s probability puzzle.

Si view

The unexpectedly good view from today.

Me

So sweaty.

There’s No Accounting

An extra day—or rather, one that was outstanding in the ledgerbook we keep between ourselves, the planet, and the sun, and today was generously returned in more than full. I meant for it to feel momentous in some way, to spend it freely on what matters most—friendship overdue, or beauty, or some progress on the hardest questions—or at least outside. Instead I had a day much like the one I told you of last time, except a little harder here, a little easier there.

It’s funny; now it’s almost over, the debt seems quite unpaid.

Nancy Ekholm-Burkert’s James and The Giant Peach

Finding My Feet

Yesterday afternoon I stood on the north face of Buckhorn Mountain in the Olympic Range. Ross and I had just attained Buckhorn’s highest summit by way of a straightforward boot path that climbs up from Marmot Pass, and now we wished to descend its north face by a few hundred feet. Then we would cross a saddle and scramble up a series of gullies to Buckhorn’s second, slightly lower, but somewhat more interesting-looking peak. The two high points were so close to each other that a raven could have passed back and forth between them within a minute, and though the slope I was attempting to descend was quite steep, it was not much more so than many I had been on in the past. Islands of vegetation grew on it where firs and forbs had set the ground in place. But after picking my way down perhaps twenty feet of bare, loose dirt and scree, all the while feebly imploring Ross to stay close while I hesitated over each step, I was at a standstill. I could not bring myself to put either foot one inch lower on the slope.

When I stop what I am doing in the mountains, I like to think it is because of judiciousness, not fear. But we’d researched this traverse and were reasonably sure the risk and technical skill involved lay within the bounds of our experience. Ross is often more cautious than I am, and he wasn’t afraid. I was. I wished I could grip my heart in both my hands and squeeze it into steel, the damned traitor.

We turned around. In a moment we were back up at the first summit, fooling around on beautiful sharp rock and sitting like kings in high places. I gazed down on long drops with a steady pulse. Looking back on my strange paralysis on the north face, I wondered if it was because I’d twice this past season gone out in sneakers instead of boots, mostly out of sheer summer-addled foolishness. Both times we ended up hiking on similar surfaces—steep, loose dirt and scree—and both times I fell multiple times on the descent. And I thought of a short but seemingly inexorable slide I took on Clark Mountain early in June that I eventually arrested with my ice axe, also after having slipped on dirt. I wondered if I’d managed to condition myself into a low-level fear of this particular terrain, and if my mistrust had spiked because the exposure here was high.

 

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The frontmost peak in the picture above is the one Ross and I were headed for, and if you look at the narrow rib leading up to it, you’ll see the slope we were trying to get down onto falling away to the left.

The nice thing about summits is that (barring major post-volcanic restructuring) you can always come back to them and try to climb them again when you’re stronger, smarter, braver, and more skilled. The rest of life isn’t always like that; or it doesn’t always feel that way, anyway. Sometimes fear can keep you too far away from the mountains for too long.

This might be a good time to mention that I have finally started grad school. Friends: I’m a PhD student! Fear has become the air I breathe. It’s amazing, actually, how many anxiety-provoking moments have been compressed into the last three weeks. I’ve pitched research ideas and discovered they were impractical, confused, or full of scientific holes, and I’ve met with people who were kind enough to want to help me and had my thoughts be so scattered and at sea I didn’t even know what questions to ask. I’ve struggled to find a way to introduce myself to biologists—to whom I am now, suddenly and astonishingly, a (very junior) colleague—without sounding like I’m apologizing for my past lives. I’ve been convinced that I was going to be the only one in my cohort not to make friends. And, like absolutely everybody, I think, I’ve wondered if I’m supposed to be standing here, on this insane precipice, imagining what would happen if I fell. If I failed.

Still, I’ve been trying to trust my feet and keep moving. This is going to be a long trip, and the last thing I want is to find myself flashing back to small slips and slides when the exposure gets really high. The last thing I want is to condition myself into being afraid of this particular terrain. So I’m happy to report that this last week has been good. I’m still not sure I know what my dissertation research is going to involve, but I’ve come a long way since I had my first amorphous set of bad ideas and am now working on putting the corners on some decidedly-less-bad ideas. Actually, I will go so far as to say that I think they’re pretty cool, if somewhat ambitious. I’ve gotten to know my incoming class much better, and they’re a wonderful group of people. I try not to let their youth and brilliance intimidate me.

(I still find it hard to introduce myself. But I suppose there are some things even the mountains can’t teach you.)

There’s Gold in Them Hills

At typical ascent rates, at least as far as I can tell from decades of traveling back and forth across the earth—moving in search of knowledge, love, adventure, family, joy; fleeing from worry, work, confusion, loss, and grief—it takes less than four minutes for a fully loaded commercial aircraft to climb 7,000 vertical feet from sea level. This is enough time to turn a few pages of a book while your elbow kisses a stranger’s bicep; enough time to notice your ears fill near to bursting with awkward, bulky air; but not enough to allow for the strangeness of how close you’re getting to the clouds.

This past Thursday, it took me and five teammates seven hours and 45 minutes, including about an hour’s worth of quick breaks to eat, drink, and put on gear, to ascend approximately that same vertical distance. It was a journey of 5.5-miles (in one direction) that took us from Mile Marker 20 on the Cascade River Road to the knife-edge that is the summit ridge of Eldorado Peak at 8,868′, and during it we traversed a rushing river, pushed through rainforest, scrambled over boulder fields, crossed open, rocky meadows braided with streams and small waterfalls, and climbed steadily up and across both the Eldorado and Inspiration glaciers. When we were done we sat, full-hearted and sunburned, on the rocky spit that marks the edge of the peak, for three-quarters of an hour, naming cloud-lashed summits in every direction. Chocolate, dried mango, and satisfaction made a feast day. And then we turned around and headed home again, making it back down to the cars in about another five and a half hours.

If you add up our ascent, summit, and descent times you will arrive at 14 hours, car to car. This is enough time to sweat through your shirt once, twice, thrice, and then again; enough time for strangers to become, if not exactly friends, then partners of a wild and vital kind, who sense each other’s lightness and debility through strands of rope. But it is not enough—not really—to allow for the glory of how close you’re getting to the sky.

I was the slowest of the six of us, and I’ll admit that this was hard. The slowest climber in a group is always moving just a little faster than her own capacity, to keep from falling too much more behind. She rests the least and, if she is like me, frets the most. And yet climbing as far and fast as I did this week was more than I could ever have imagined, four short (long) years ago. I’m stronger than I was, and more forgiving when I fail to live up to my expectations for myself or to the standards that I steal from others without meaning to. I don’t give up, and though I grunt and pant and sometimes cry, I don’t give in to my frustration. Days like Thursday I still find a lump in my throat when I can’t go as fast as my companions, and it’s hard to speak to tell them not to worry—but even so, I think I’m better company.

Afterward, though. Those 14 hours shook awake the memory of how I fell in love with these great blue heights, these sharp green places, half a world away on my first summer out. I was not so strong and not so fast. But being a little weak and slow was also (I think now) a kind of gift. I was alone, and didn’t push, and gave myself allowance for the strangeness and the glory of it all.

There’s gold in them hills. I think I need to seek it out again.

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Today

I don’t reach easily for favorites. Perhaps it’s something tender left behind from early days, a hot primeval horror for the best that we are asked to place in front of friend and which becomes the world entire. Or maybe I just don’t like to commit. There is, however, one cool catalog whose topmost place, if it was mine to choose, I’d have no trouble with.

I have a favorite kind of bad weather.

Understand, when I say bad I don’t mean just unpleasant or annoying. I mean get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge bad; I mean it-may-not-kill-you-but-that-don’t-mean-it-won’t-try bad. And you may feel like sleet or hail or blizzards or typhoons should be front-runners here—but see, my favorite is a sneaky one. My favorite makes all other weather worse, and when it stands alone (although it never stands still for a moment) is formidable enough to take you down—or up, or over—without one peep from other players. Well, the thing is, I adore high winds.

I guess I don’t adore them right when they go at me, and especially not if I am setting up a large tent on the tundra or wheeling a suitcase full of laundry six blocks home. I guess today, standing 9,000 feet high on Rainier, less than a mile below our goal, I didn’t so much want to heap accolades on the gusts that NWAC’s Camp Muir wind gauges tell me blew at an entirely respectable 63 miles per hour at their strongest. I mean I guess I wanted them to die, and leave my face alone instead of throwing pointy bits of ice straight at it, and allow us to proceed without obscuring the way up in heavy clouds of spindrift.

But you know, favorites don’t always make sense. And if I tell you that the thing I love the most about the wind is that it makes you feel like you’re a boxer—not like rain or snow, which on their own are simply things you put your head down and endure—that wind is one to start a fight, and that it pulls at you until you have to muscle back at it, and use yourself against it—maybe you’ll agree and maybe you will not. I’m all right with that. Done with battles for the day.

The way up, seen when we were young and optimistic.

The way up, seen when we were young and optimistic.

Looking up toward Camp Muir.

Somewhere up there is Camp Muir. We made it to Moon Rocks, a spot right in the vertical middle of that long band of blowing snow.

The great Tatoosh Range, seen from a place where the wind was low(er).

The great Tatoosh Range.

Yesterday

After a headache has been with me for several days, through four or five triptans, fading to a shadow for hours at a time before ticking back into being like an ancient heart that cannot, will not, is fated not to cease its tenure on this earth, I start to feel a little comradeship with the thing. The headache’s desire to live is inspiring. I think about mountaineering disasters in which savagely injured people, left without food or water for many dry days and frigid nights, pull themselves down couloirs and over glaciers and pick through rock fields like broken insects, every reason in the world to die and nothing on their side. I feel for the edges of the headache and count the time it has spent cheating oblivion. If my turn comes, I think, let me be as dogged. 

On Friday it had been three days, and I had reached the stage of comradeship. I was also tired of trying to teach myself R while the headache gathered its resources, and equally tired of the bed. I got dressed for a run, even though I knew it was a bad idea. I just wanted to be outside. Two miles in I had already stopped twice to grip my head in my hands for a minute before resuming, a pointless thing you do because it feels as if pushing back on the pulsing must be a way to quiet it. It isn’t, of course. But running jags pain, so I walked to smooth the headache’s sawteeth.

I run around the lake all the time, but when you run it’s hard to take in more from the periphery than the occasional rotary phone ring of a Red-winged Blackbird in the rushes, or the delicate coughing of a tea party of Coots on the water. I walk around the lake with Ross sometimes, but then we’re often talking, and talking turns you inward. This walk was slow, to placate the headache, and quiet, because I’d nothing more to say to it.

I spent a long time looking at the bark on a single Silver Birch, which had the appearance of a sheet of white ice stopped in the midst of cracking and to which all kinds of things of interest were attached. Amid the greenshield and the oakmoss was what looked like an adult crane fly that had lost its battle to escape from a web, all crumpled stilt-legs and sailor-striped abdomen and tracing-paper wings. There was another Dipterid, alive and well, its body a dusty terracotta orange and wings a mosaic of scotch-tape. A Black-capped Chickadee was making noise above, and since I learned to love them in Chicago I was, as always here, disconcerted to hear its clear, descending Ohhh well! replaced with a faint tremolo. I wondered if that ever would seem right.

A little further on, a flock of Audubon’s warblers with egg-yolk rumps and throats spilled whistles as they circled the canopy of a cedar, like Cinderella’s helpers laying tinsel. Everything seemed to be in that cedar at once, though a lot of that was surely the ventriloquism that all birds practice without effort. I heard House Finches and Song Sparrows and Brown Creepers and both colors of hyperactive Kinglets, not to mention Juncoes trilling like spring alarms that no one can snooze. Crows, of course, were ubiquitous; but I never tire of their chest-dipping caws or their roulette-ball clatter. The headache was no longer the only thing keeping time.

I kept stopping to look at things in odd places and sometimes people then stopped to look at me. It happened with a Great Blue Heron, which I watched for about 15 minutes cleaning its bill meticulously. Its stiff pink probe of a tongue kept darting out and in and out and in between the mandibles, as if it were a separate creature, and every now and then the heron would gulp abruptly from the water with what looked like anger but was nothing of the sort. I could see its soft crest blowing slightly in the breeze, and soothed myself in counting the gorgeous feathered fray of its chest. It was the antithesis of the hectic songbirds, which seem to compress life as we know it, life full of desire, into the smallest, speediest form it can take. The heron was large and slow, and even when it did familiar things, like drink and bathe and look at you, it remained strange.

Because I had stopped to look at the heron and a woman had stopped to look at me, she saw the heron, too. She inhaled from the cigarette in her hand and then flung that arm away, with what looked like disdain but was perhaps nothing of the sort. “There’s a really funny-looking bird over here!” she said to her friend, who was tucking a blanket around a child in a stroller and did not care to comment. The heron also did not care to comment.

This morning would have been Day Four with the headache, but I took the second-to-last of my month’s supply of triptans last night, and it slipped away in my sleep. I don’t miss it.

 

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A Brief Announcement, or Misadventures in Metaphor

I have something to tell you, and it’s a little bit exciting.

One way to telegraph my news would be to show you the perfect cast-off exoskeleton of a Jerusalem cricket (family: Stenopelmatidae) Ross and I found last year on a scrubby canyon slope in northern California’s Henry W. Coe State Park. You’d see, without me saying so, how I’d matured beyond my old, inflexible container and emerged a bigger, better version of myself, with room again to grow. You’d think about your own past lives, and how they weighed on you like winter overcoats before you shrugged them off and looked at them piled up beside your feet—or maybe how, unsentimental as an arthropod, you were one who abdicated your used skins at once they cracked, without a second glance.

You would think pleasantly of starting over.

Another way would be to show you my bad feet. That is, I have an x-ray of my feet (aren’t x-rays marvelous?), taken when the pain they’d caused for years became too chronic to ignore, and on which I can attempt to trace my errant and defiant bone alignments. I could show you this x-ray, and tell you that to molt is also to migrate, both words arising from the same Proto-IndoEuropean root that describes passing from one place to another. You’d understand how far I’d come already, and how much longer I still had to travel on these same crooked conveyances. Reviewing your own course, you’d think of moments when you stumbled, but kept on.

You’d cheer the journey.

These kinds of tropes are pretty enough, when they fit, and as a writer I am used to trafficking in them and shaping thoughts around them (a task which sometimes feels dangerously backward, as if images are more important than the ideas they represent). But the truth is I’ve been trying to share this with you for a while, and metaphors are only getting in my way. So I’ll just say it plainly, because it is news that doesn’t need much of a flourish.

I’m starting a PhD in Biology at the University of Washington this fall!

(It does deserve an exclamation point.)

I’m delighted and honored to say that I’ll be joining a wonderful and very productive lab run by plant community ecologist Janneke Hille Ris Lambers. The Hille Ris Lambers lab conducts research that (broadly speaking) attempts to discover the mechanisms driving biodiversity, productivity, and community assembly, and to predict the effects of climate change on a variety of ecological patterns and processes at the species and community level. People in the lab study all kinds of things within this framework, many of them working on Mount Rainier because the mountainside provides a useful—as well as beautiful—system for studying change along an elevational/environmental gradient. I’m not sure yet of the exact shape of the project I’ll propose, but I know Janneke’s lab will be a fantastic place to pose some version of the basic question that most interests me: What role do interactions between species play in determining responses to climate change? I have lots of ideas, most of which will likely turn out to be bad ones; but fortunately the program builds in a little bit of time (about a year) to read, learn, and come up with a study design that stands a good chance of working.

For now, here I am. I know that very soon I’ll be engaged in a tremendously difficult long-term endeavor, much more difficult than getting into grad school in the first place. And I can’t wait to get started. But this week I’m mainly working on trying to memorize the nomenclature of ethers, epoxides, and thioethers. I’m studying for an exam about leaf energy budgets, plant water relations, and ecosystem modeling. And I’m collecting more things I know I don’t know with every paper I read.

It doesn’t feel like molting, or like migrating. It feels, besides terrifying, quite right. We’ll see.