By Catherine Dale, Atlas Coordinator
This post was originally published on the fieldwork blog Dispatches from the Field.
My lungs are bursting as I stumble to a halt, slipping on melting snow crystals. Squinting against the glare, I lift my head – and immediately wish I hadn’t. Behind me, a vertigo-inducing slope of snow drops away. In front of me, the sight is even worse: the slope continues up…up…up. At the top, four figures stand waiting impatiently. It’s clear that I’m hopelessly outclassed. As I force myself to start climbing again, I can’t help but wonder: is it too late for a career change?
I guess I should back up and explain how I got myself into this situation. When I finished my PhD, I had a singular goal: I wanted to continue doing fieldwork and research. So when Birds Canada offered me a job coordinating Newfoundland’s first Breeding Bird Atlas, it seemed like the perfect opportunity.
Breeding Bird Atlases (BBAs) are ambitious projects that aim to map the distribution and abundance of all birds breeding in a province or state over a 5-year period. Every Canadian province except Newfoundland has (or is in the midst of producing) at least one BBA. The end product allows us to better understand the health and distribution of bird populations and can be used as a tool for conservation planning.
Most atlas data is collected by volunteer citizen scientists, making atlases a great forum for community engagement. But once in a while, the coordinator is lucky enough to get out into the field too. And when the opportunity presented itself to do some pilot surveys in the remote regions of Gros Morne National Park…how could I say no?
I drove into Gros Morne under a spectacular rainbow, arcing across hills and lakes of the park. It seemed like a good omen. And although a few days of weather delays frayed our patience a bit, finally the skies cleared and we climbed into a helicopter for our flight to the top of Big Level, one of the highest points in the park. As we swooped over Western Brook Pond, Gros Morne’s famous freshwater fjord, I couldn’t wait to get started.
We descended into an alien landscape: the arctic-alpine habitat found in only few places in Newfoundland. For a few hours, we wandered under the widest blue sky imaginable, exclaiming when we crossed paths with an enormous arctic hare and enjoying the silvery sound of horned lark song.
But then we started our hike towards the cabin where we’d be staying the next few nights. And once we were on the move, the evidence that I was way out of my depth accumulated rapidly.
I’m a fairly active person, and I thought I was in reasonable shape…until I spent a day trailing four people (all with a distinct resemblance to gazelles) across tundra, snow, and bogs. As the warthog among gazelles, I was also the most likely to plunge without warning through the crust of snow we were walking on, landing with a thump in whatever was below. With each minute, I lagged farther and farther behind.
My problems were compounded by my short legs and terrible balance, which resulted in me frequently tripping over rocks, trees, and my own feet – not to mention being unable to cross many of the streams my gazelle companions leapt over easily.
Reasons #1 and 2: Warthogs aren’t made for long-distance hikes involving lots of climbs. Short legs and poor balance don’t help either.
By the time we made it to the cabin – after a solid eight hours of hiking – I was beyond done. I collapsed on the cabin deck, and I might still be there, if some kind soul hadn’t provided incentive to get up in the form of a cold beer.
I told myself the next morning would be a fresh start. But when the alarm sounded at 4:30 and I rolled my aching body out of bed, I realized I had overlooked another reason I’m not cut out to be field biologist – or at least an ornithologist.
Reason #3: As documented in previous posts, I’m very much not a morning person.
But birds start the day early, so we had to as well. Our plan was to conduct 8 to 10 point counts each morning. A point count involves standing in one place for a set amount of time (in this case, 5 minutes), and documenting every bird seen or heard. Sounds straightforward, right? But because birds are more often heard than seen, point counts require sharp ears and an encyclopedic knowledge of bird song.
As we climbed a steep hill to our first point, all I could hear was my own panting. I managed to catch my breath when we stopped to conduct the count…only to become aware of yet another problem.
Reason #4: I don’t know enough bird songs.
I could recognize some of what we heard, but definitely not all of it. I especially struggled with the partial songs and quiet ‘chip’ notes that were often all we heard. Luckily I was with several spectacularly talented birders, who were more than capable of conducting the counts. But after a few days in the field, I was feeling pretty discouraged.
And then on our last day, we came across a(nother) sound I hadn’t heard before: a single repetitive note, like the alarm on a tiny car. We tracked the sound to a nearby conifer. Perched at the very top, staggering as the tree swayed, was a greater yellowlegs.
Shorebird in trees look undeniably ridiculous. Gawky and awkward, the yellowlegs scrabbled constantly for balance as it fought to stay on its perch. It was impossible to watch without laughing…and I began to feel better.
Shorebirds aren’t built to perch at the top of trees, but the yellowlegs was there anyway. And now that my first atlassing excursion is over, I’ve reached a conclusion. Maybe I’m not naturally suited to this job. It certainly doesn’t always come easily to me. But the things I don’t know, I can learn; the things I struggle with, I’ll improve at with practice. What matters is to be out there trying.
It’s true there are many reasons I’m not cut out to be a field biologist…but there’s one reason I am: doing this job makes me feel alive. And for me, that cancels out everything else.