Ah, Guam’s many a wondrous things: the beautiful reefs, the eclectic people, the not-so-lofty mountains, the Staphylococcus aureus. “What in hell is that?” you may ask? It’s an unpleasant little bacteria that has basically infected every person here at one point or another. Well, at least those who engage in outdoor activities (or spend a lot of time in hospitals). Despite all of my precautionary measures (i.e., running a hash, working outside in vegetation-choked areas with shorts, etc.), I have developed a little something they like to call Staph infection, what results from the hard work and tenacity of our microscopic friend, Staphylococcus aureus. Fantastical.
In a previous entry, I mentioned Leptospirosis as a potential threat to adventure-seekers (or merely those who enjoy a nice bath in the river while sporting open wounds), but Staph is much more prevalent. It’s fairly easy to get, as I have learned, but, luckily, easily treatable in most cases. My case started sometime Monday. It began merely as an irritated hair follicle just above my kneecap, probably from wearing wet, muddy pants while exerting myself for an extended period of time. I’ll frequently get similar annoyances (especially on my thighs) when it’s hot outside. However, they’re usually areas that are just a little red, rarely sore, and they go away in a couple days. This, however, was an entirely different story.
Thinking it was just another aggravated pore, I picked at it a bit and went merrily along my way. The next day, it was fairly sore and still very much present. “Ah,” I thought, “it will go away in a couple days.” Haw! The next day it was a tad larger, so I decided to really give it a go and pick the hell out of it. Good decision! I blame my mom (a.k.a. Mrs. Pick-A-Lot) for arriving at this decision, given that 1) mom’s know just about everything and 2) it’s her most common strategy for any minor skin irritation of the pores. I figured there must be some bit of foreign matter lodged in there that needed extraction. Well, after substantial efforts, I got nothing. With the exception, that is, of agonizing pain. The following day, Thursday, I was gimping around like a champ. My “minor irritation” had turned into a large, swollen, painful lump upon my knee. Yummy.
I worked from 7-noon on Thursday and, knowing something was quite wrong, went to the Seventh-Day Adventist Clinic. This is the same location to which Brent drove to be checked out for his current ailment. SDA is, so I’ve been told, far and away the best medical facility on island. I’ve heard a couple horror stories involving Guam Memorial, such as serious misdiagnoses, used needles on the floor, and, in one instance, nurses forgetting to remove the I.V. needle from someone’s arm (I think this was Pete or Jason). Upon going up to the counter to ask for, uh, some assistance, please?, the nurse took out the needle, set it on the counter, and left it there. Sanitation and medical professionalism at its finest.
After some brief fiascos trying to prove that I have health insurance (I had yet to receive my insurance card… coincidentally, it had arrived that day and was sitting in the lab), I was shown in to see Dr. Todd Lloyd. Dr. Todd was a nice guy: your classic, bright, young, fit, extremely Christian physician. He quickly pronounced my leg gangrenous, beyond repair, and a severe biohazard. The only solution was amputation. He whipped out the nearest hacksaw… or so the story would proceed if it were any good. Actually, he determined, after a brief inspection and some squeezing, that I was infected. Dr. Todd also informed me that it was a good thing I came in when I did. Infections near joints can get pretty nasty if left untreated for too long. If bacteria invade the joint to a substantial degree (don’t ask me how much, how deep, or for what period they need to be festering in there), they can cause serious, sometimes permanent, damage. Luckily, I was not at this level and he prescribed to me Cephalexin, a generic antibiotic. I have to take it 4 times a day for the next ten days. If, after a couple days, things haven’t improved, I’m supposed to go back. This is also a precautionary measure because, as I learned online, there are an increasing number of drug-resistant Staphylococcus aureus infections occurring around the world. No worries, though. And, if I go back, I get an I.V.! Let’s hope they dispose of the needle properly.
On an unrelated note, Brent just bought tickets to Hong Kong for himself and Haldre (on a related note, the two of them are now dating). There’s a rugby tournament there, which should prove to be a great time. But maybe not as great as the drug scene. The following is an excerpt from a recent conversation:
I: “Heroin?”
B: “It’s free there!”
I: “You’re gonna do the smack?”
B: “When in Rome!”
Yikes.
In all my excitement about this past weekend's exploits, I forgot to mention that I actually found a snake last week. The planets, my flashlight, and my eyes aligned such that I saw a blatantly obvious snake right in front of me. Whew! And I was beginning to think Stevie Wonder and I had more in common than playing the drums. My find was really less than spectacular, since not only was the snake moving at the time, but it was sitting directly on top of a small tree with little vegetation. Given, I still found it, but it wasn't any indication of impressive observational skills.
Last night, I think I lost the small bit of ground I thought I gained. Andy (here's more on Andy for those of you-- such as Andy-- who wanted more) and I conducted a roadline search at NCTAMS. After 3 hours of scanning the trees, neither of us saw a thing. On our way back, we performed the usual protocol of scanning the ground for any serpentine passers-by. I was scanning thoroughly on my side, only occasionally looking up to get my bearings as to how far we were from the car. During one of these brief instances, Andy happened to look over on my side of the road and see a snake right in front of me, warning me of its presence. So, Andy found the one snake of the evening... on my side of the road (this one was moving, too). D'oh!
Yes, I was pissed off. But not at Andy, despite what he may claim. I was angry with myself for not seeing a f[bleep]ing snake right in front of my face. Again, to try and justify myself (let this NOT be construed as some kind of slip of the tongue in regards to how numerous people have suggested I look like Justin Timberlake... I don't), I had looked up for a moment, which is really why I didn't see the snake. Mainly, I just wish that Andy hadn't looked over when he did, since then I would know if I would have seen the damn thing on my own. I told Andy, during my self-loathing, that, in the future, if he sees a snake on my side, to not say anything unless I walk past it and it's blatantly obvious I missed it altogether.
For those of you that may be reading this who know Andy, he's a good searcher. You can also send him an e-mail reasserting that it's not a bad thing to see a snake and say something about it :) I informed him of this, but he still felt badly for seeing the snake (and that's merely because of my reaction). So, Andy, I said it to you in person and I'll say it here: I'm sorry. Also, you're a stud. Ladies, if you're interested, Andy's new calendar is out now. Check it out.
This whole not-being-able-to-find-a-snake thing brings up an interesting point about brown treesnakes. I'm sure some of you are thinking, "But he said the island is crawling with snakes! Why are they so hard to find if, at one point, there were estimated to be 13,000/sq mile?"... or something to that effect. Well, these snakes are ridiculously cryptic. In fact, I think each one of them is required, upon hatching, to learn the techniques in Monty Python's famous skit, ”How Not to Be Seen.” Their goal is to hide from searchers (okay, not us, specifically, but they're not drawing attention to themselves, of course), potential predators (although there really aren't any here), and their prey. Also, they have no eye shine like some other nocturnal creatures, they are brown (think sticks), and for the most part we're looking for them in, albeit low, extremely thick jungle.
So, it's not as if you can see loads of them dangling from every tree. As I have quickly learned, even when a large group of us are out there, we're lucky to see 10 (and that's a really high number). There are some folks who have done very well in finding snakes, but this is especially true for Karen. Her spotting ability is very impressive and I'm hoping to learn something from her. Maybe she does some yoga before a search, centers her chi, and polishes her contact, all adding up to the makings of super-human snake-o-vision. I just don't know. Whatever it is, she's real good.
I'm sure Karen would be quick to point out that I found a snake in the daytime with her on Monday. She found one in some pandanus and I followed suit shortly thereafter. However, this was inside the small snake enclosure in which we performed our initial searches when I arrived. The snake density is much higher in there, plus brown treesnakes seem to really like chilling in pandanus during the day. This is not to detract from our finds: it was great that we caught them. I'll just be more convinced of my abilities once I find a couple more at night.
I guess one of my frustrations is that, while working at Patuxent, I was very good at finding and catching amphibians. It was rare that I had a problem finding things, whether they be frogs, salamanders, or whatever. But searching for amphibians is much different than searching for brown treesnakes. With frogs, they are often vocal or, if they are hiding, they jump when you get close to them. You also can be pretty assured that, with most species, they're going to be near some kind of wetland habitat, so that narrows down the search immensely. With the salamander searches, you're often looking under debris or rocks in their respective habitats. I guess you're just actively seeking out the animals in somewhat targeted areas in which you can have greater certainty of finding them. It seems like there is much less certainty in where you can find a brown treesnake. They could be in any species of tree, on the ground, in shrubs, near water, away from water, it really doesn't matter. Some studies have suggested preferences for certain plant species, but much of that is still inconclusive.
Much of this, I'm hoping, is a result of having a lot more experience with amphibians (and therefore having a more refined search-image). With time, I should get better at finding these snakes. I enjoy this work a lot and, even though it gets boring at times (e.g., when I'm not find jack squat), it's still fun to be out looking for herps. I mainly want to become good at finding them so that I'm able to do well in our studies, but especially on rapid response deployments. That's when finding the snake matters most. Also, I want to be able to claim I'm an awesome snake-spotter. The ladies love that.
I'll end this entry on the lighter, non-self-deprecating side. Soon after I arrived here, I had mentioned something about [Thomas] Magnum P.I. in an e-mail or maybe on this site. Maybe that's because my good friend Westy and I watched so many episodes soon before I came here. Anyway, Joe suggested that I grow a mustache and have people start calling me Magnum. Well, dear brother, I'm sorry to say that the title is taken. A guy, who I believe works for D.O.D. as a wildlife consultant (or maybe he's with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service), has secured that nickname from some of the folks on the project. And I have to say he's much more deserving of the title! This guy actually has a mustache, he's tall (, dark, and handsome...wait a minute...), and I've seen him wearing some pretty skimpy shorts on occasion. For the benefit of my friends over in 242 Gabrielson: "Hot pants... make ya... shoot yaself! Haaaaaay!"
I survived, mildly scathed, my adventures on this weekend’s hashing adventures. It has yet to be determined whether infection will set in among the hundreds of shallow slashes on my arms, but, from what I can tell, I’m in the clear. As a sad precursor to my tales in this entry, my steadfast compatriot, Mr. Brent Vickers, was unable to attend the famed Berserker, this made especially ironic since he helped set the course. Unfortunately, Brent has come down with some kind of illness that, albeit nonfatal, incapacitated him enough that he was forced to abstain. His symptoms include fever, a swollen lymph node, bumps in his mouth, and fatigue. A little break from work, a lot of sleep, and a hefty dose of Amoxicillin should hopefully do the trick.
In Brent’s place was my other comrade, Mr. Andy Wiewel (although being the brave soul he is, he probably would have attended, anyway). Although this was my first weekend of hashing, I had attended the much shorter, normal hash on Saturday. The berserker was Andy’s first. A bold lad his is, indeed, but we’ll get to the tales of that in due time.
Late afternoon Saturday (4pm, to be exact) was the rendezvous time for the first go. Brent and I drove down to the meeting place, a church (not by coincidence, I’m sure: those Christians among the group would probably want to say their final prayers from this point) in Agana Heights, about 20 minutes south of where I’m staying. There we encountered a slew of bizarre characters that definitely fall into their own category of adventure-seekers. Many were athletic (the cross country running physique), seasoned folks, most of whom were wearing t-shirts they acquired at various hashes around the world. There were also several who did not at first appear to be physically up to the task of running like maniacs through the woods, whether that be due to age or physical condition, let alone getting beyond a resting heart rate. One guy (though others were wearing them, this guy deserved it) was wearing a t-shirt reading, “XXXXL Fat Boy Athletics.” However, they all proved to be quite capable of doing just that, even if a bit slower than the rest. It is true that a lot of these activities have much to do with will and, to some extent, less to do with being in shape.
Not only did these people appear eccentric, but their nicknames were even stranger. Just as a few examples (I’ve censored out certain names for the sake of decency… you never know who’s reading this), there were Tampon, Who’s Your Daddy?, Hamhock, Sex, Bambi, Berserker (can you say “frequent hasher”?), Pink Torpedo, Needs Meat (okay, so maybe that shouldn’t have been included), Viagra, Chili Chili, and Saw Bones. All of these names have a story to go along with them, most of which I have yet to hear about. Lest I be scarred for life, maybe I should be kept in the dark.
From Agana, the caravan made way to the southern-most chunk of the island known as Inarajan. The course was set along the topographically varied property of one of the hashers, allowing unruly behavior to be all the more acceptable. We parked our cars along the main road and met up down an overgrown side street. Our first order was to “step inside the box,” which was basically a starting line. The hares, who I soon found are the ones who set the trail for the hounds, gave us a little themed introduction to the trail. On this particular occasion, the three hares were among the shortest of the group and, due to this, they decided to have a Wizard of Oz theme, in which they were members of the lollipop guild. They were dressed entirely in green, blue, and red, respectively, each with matching striped socks that looked as though they belonged on a circa-1980 basketball team. Before beginning, they each took a hit from a gas tank (as in, gaseous, not petroleum-based fuel) filled with what at first we thought was nitrous oxide, but ended up being, as was obvious when they began to sing (oh, yes), helium. And so it went: “We represent the lollipop guild, the lollipop guild, the lollipop guild, and…” Before that becomes too obnoxious, you get the idea.
The little munchkins were given a 5-minute head start, during which time Tampon, the overseer and fluorescent-hard-hat-wearing man, informed the FNGs (that is, F@%$ing New Guys) of the rules, which I won’t fully explain here since they have little relevance unless you’re actually running the event. Suffice to say, the hares lay down various markers indicating their path, many of which are meant to confuse. This often leads people off track until they see a marker telling them they need to turn back and try again. What fun! Often select members of the lead group will investigate different directions and find the correct path for others in the pack. Other than that, you’re just following the path and enjoying/bearing/loathing what befalls you along the way.
This particular course certainly ended up being the most appropriate for someone around 3 feet tall. Any brush that was cut was only removed to about that level, so, in the forested areas, you were either crouching down or crawling to get through. As is the case when it has been raining so consistently, it was also incredibly muddy, which lead to numerous slippery spots. We crashed through the woods at either a jog for fast walk, with occasional interspersions of running, as we made our way. One of the best parts, for me, anyway, came towards the end. The course lead down a very steep, slick hill that was covered in bamboo. Much butt sliding and grabbing at underbrush was had by all. At the bottom of this hill, we were plunged into a river. Although this river may very well have contained Leptospirosis (a nasty little disease caused by a bacteria found in many water bodies at the island’s southern end), the cool water was refreshing and sufficient to remove most of the mud I had collected along the way.
After exiting the river, the trail lead for about 100 additional meters and, well, that was it. It was over before it began (only about half an hour). Needless to say, that was much shorter than I was expecting. In addition to being concise, no one succeeded in catching the hares this time. Of course, that’s not saying much given their stature in relation to the course. Also, when you get a 5-minute head start on a thirty-minute course that you know better than your taller counterparts, you’re kind of assured a win. But that’s neither here nor there.
Once finished, everyone gathered around the “On-Home” as it’s called for a bonfire, refreshments, and revelry. Much beer and other drink were had by all, but this was especially true for the hares. For, as I quickly learned, “If one hare drinks, ALL hares drink!” And thus it was repeated about 500 times during the closing ceremony that never seemed to end. Yes, the strange ritual, lead by none other than Tampon, he of the bright helmet, honored, embarrassed, or otherwise chastised pretty much every person in the large group surrounding the fire. The hares got the full brunt of this.
The most entertaining aspect of this process was that the ceremonial drinking was conducted out of a metal bedpan. Each time a person was called upon to speak, their shoulders were draped with the official Agana Hash sash, they poured a can of beer into the bedpan, and they drank down as much as they could in one gulp, pouring any remaining beer behind their body or on top of their head. As was expected, myself, along with the other FNGs were called up for a sort of induction. We were required to say our name, where we were from, who made us come (ahem), what we thought of the hash, and either sing a song or tell a joke. If we did not comply, we would be forced to “pull down [our] pants and expose [our] penis[es] to the ladies.” Now, both the ladies and men would be “exposed” to such an unimpressive site (this being especially true if one is in front of a large group of strangers in wearing wet pants), so there’s a lot of incentive to come up with something funny to say.
I chose the former route, stating, only when asked, of course, my name, where I was from, who made me come (my response to this being the standard “your mom”), that I thought the hash was short and muddy, but good (which brought many a boo-hiss from all but the hares), and sang a chunk of Monty Python’s “Bruce’s Philosphers Song.” This seemed to go over all right, especially given that I was not forced to remove any clothing.
Soon after this, but long before the rites ended, Haldre, Brent, and I left for greener pastures, namely dry clothes, dinner, and a movie, not necessarily in that order. We went to Blockbuster and finally decided upon “Lost in Translation,” which none of us had seen, but about which we had heard a lot of praise. I’ve been wanting to see that movie for a few months and luckily Brent remembered to look for it. The only problem was, they were all out. Feeling thoroughly dismayed, Brent continued half-heartedly looking for something else. In a rare instance of properly-firing nerve endings, I thought to head up to the front desk and see if they had a copy amongst their recently returned selections. Upon initial inspection, the Blockbuster employee at my service found nothing, but, with additional encouragement (i.e., strangulation), he found a copy. Eureka! All was right with the universe and we finished off the evening in good spirits, our minds and bodies sated.
Not so bright and early the next morning, I was up making cookies like a madman. We’re not talking ordinary cookies, either. These were monster cookies the size of a salad plate (or about 7’’ in diameter). I had made some prior to the hash the day before, but the double batch of dough proved insufficient. By the time I was through cooking the second double batch, I had about two dozen cookies of that size. ‘Nuff for the berserker, ‘nuff said.
Soon after I finished my baking (just call me Betty), I gathered up my newly purchased “rocket” Camelbak (small and stealthy), Powerbars, gloves, flashlight, shoes, and, let’s not forget, pants. Leaving Brent on his death bed, I headed over to Andy’s place where he was at the ready, swimming trunks and all. Let’s say it would have been a painful day for Andy, in more ways that one, if he only worn those. So, I had brought along with me an extra pair of outdoor-type-person (i.e., awesome) pants and thin, long-sleeved shirt for him to wear. Needless to say, he looked extremely snazzy. It would have been smart to be wearing a long-sleeved shirt myself (rather than the short-sleever I was wearing), but l was fairly unaware of that particular danger until it was too late.
We met up at the same location and again proceeded down to the southern part of the island. The crew was smaller this time, consisting of almost 20 people rather than the 40 or more from the day before. Most of these people were the die-hards, or wanna-be die-hards (myself included), who apparently like pain… a lot. Running tights, energy bars, and “personal hydration systems” abounded. We were ready to take on the world… or at least kill ourselves with overexertion for no particular reason.
This is probably a good time to briefly discuss the landscape of southern Guam. Being a small tropical island with no recent (in geologic time) volcanic activity of any significance, there aren’t really any mountains, per say. There are what amount to big hills (the highest of which is about 1300 feet), but nothing comparable to many places in the states to which many of you reading this are probably accustomed. This being said, many of the large hills/small mountains around here are incredibly steep. In many places they’re practically vertical and, unless you have climbing gear and a distinct love of heights, not physically possible from a hiking perspective. It was during this hash that we climbed up some of the very steep, but not vertical, sections of numerous large hills. For, in my case, a total of four hours.
For the berserker, the hares (in this case Haldre was one of two) are given a 15-minute head start. Though this may seem like a large chunk of time, it’s not really that much with so much difficult terrain to cover. This is especially true when you have some really determined guys on your tail that can run like antelope, maneuver over treacherous terrain like mountain goats, and climb like orangutans for hours. Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but when you’re taking baby steps down a steep, muddied, knife-edge hilltop (or just sliding on your ass) while one of these guys flies by you as if there’s more than enough traction (traction that, in fact, does not exist), it’s not so far-fetched.
Although a major chunk of the group was what seemed to be several miles ahead of me from early on, I was still with a good group of folks for the first half of the journey. Myself, Andy, Berserker, and a young lad named Mica were all trucking along the hilltops, where we had views of some of the island’s most beautiful spots. Around the top of the first hill, rain began coming down in sheets. It was incredibly windy, too, but it felt fantastic. At that height, many of the mountain tops were cloaked in low clouds, reminding me some places I saw in Maui and Puerto Rico. Rain and wind were a blessing for the most part, but the major drawback came in effect on the trails. They were muddy and incredibly slippery the entire way. Still, that made some descents that much easier in that you could slide down with a fair amount of speed. I became proficient at the sitting butt/foot slide. Picture, if you will, sitting down with your legs outstretched in front of you. Tuck one leg up near your body, placing a lot of your weight on that foot. Keep the other leg out in front (to stop you from smashing into rocks) and steer with your arms. It’s a lot of fun and pretty efficient if you distribute your weight correctly.
After the first mountain, I was by myself for a chunk of time, meandering through a thicket of bamboo in a swampy lowland area, which lead me to a river. I saw some flagging along the river, but I wasn’t sure exactly which way to go (the markers were both upstream and downstream from me). I went downstream for a bit and crossed over to the opposite hillside (also incredibly steep and covered in bamboo). I hacked around, looking for flagging for a bit, having thought I saw where people had gone before me. After a few minutes, the other three lads came up behind, catching the current downstream. I soon joined them and had a blast on what was for a little while a natural waterslide. We got back on track for another long climb uphill, which was covered entirely in sawgrass. This lovely plant is what became responsible for slashing my arms to bits over the course of the hash. It was omnipresent, thick, and tall. Surprisingly, it wasn’t too bad while you were in the thick of things (thanks to exhaustion and adrenaline), just a bitch once the journey was over.
Much climbing past, including some tricky places though triphasia, until I saw before me a pile of soiled chord. I was crawling under some shrubbery at the time and at first thought it was some junk left by a previous hasher. Upon following said chord, I reached an interesting section involving a brief vertical incline of wet rock, over which this now obviously rope was placed. Suddenly, and unequivocally, I knew what I had to do. CLIMB! It wasn’t far to climb, but it was tricky, especially when you’re tired and there’s a precipitous drop-off right next to you. I looped the rope around my hand and, after a few changes in footing, yanked myself up.
By this point, let’s just say I was pooped. And it wasn’t even half over. Yeah! The following section was by far the most difficult for me because it involved climbing up a muddy section of hill where there was no way to stand up and little ability to gain any footing at all. Basically, I had to pull myself up the hill with my arms one lunge at a time. Finally, I was at the top and took the only break of the journey, namely to remove the collected gravel (much of which was from the river) from my shoes. Taking Billy Joel’s advice, I remembered my second wind, ate a Powerbar, and proceeded down one of the most level areas of the trail.
From about this point on, I was alone and, given that this is already quite the epic, I’ll summarize more concisely from here (probably much to your relief). The rest of the way was a series of ups and downs over mountains, about three from what I remember (with various hills in between), all accompanied by spectacular views. During the time I was along this upper, somewhat flat section, the clouds had partially cleared away and the sun was beginning to set. The sunset was blocked by clouds for most of its descent to the horizon, but you could still see the orange light poking through. There was also a clear view of the ocean from several sides and, along with the quiet and breeze, it was the most peaceful place I’ve been since arriving.
Around 40 minutes later the lights went out and my headlamp came on. There’s nothing quite like the experience of climbing up slippery slopes in the dark, looking for small pieces of flagging or paper (much of which has been tread upon several times) to find your way. The crescent moon, accompanied closely by Venus right now, was pretty spectacular, but it was the only thing I could really see by that point. At the top of the final major peak, the highest one, I believe, I discovered something amazing. Gold, you say? The remains of a caveman? Nope. A cane toad. And a gigantic one at that. This was literally right at the summit. Why was there a toad up there?! I have no clue, but I was surprised… and honestly impressed.
I muddled through and, around 8:30pm, I made it to a road. I had run out of water about two-thirds of the way in, so by this time I was hankerin’ a drink big time. One of the diehards, by the nickname Knave, had caught up with me towards the end (the only reason he was behind me was because he had taken a major detour, thinking he saw one of the hares… he quickly passed me), but we met up again along the road and somehow made it back to the vehicles. We were less than a mile from them, which, after all the hiking I had done, wasn’t a bad jog. We picked up Knave’s truck and went back to fetch Andy, Berserk, and Mica. Another hasher was waiting at the cars and soon after a load of the front-runners arrived in a car. We quickly learned that where we had come out was nowhere close to the actual end of the hash. By miles.
Apparently, somewhere about halfway through, we took a wrong turn, missed an “on-back” (meaning “turn around, moron”), ended up seeing markers that, unbeknownst to us since it was dark and we were coming from a different direction, were from the first portion of the trail, and arriving close, but not quite, back where we had started. In actuality, it wasn’t a huge difference in distance. On a map, our path was much shorter, however, it was much steeper for basically the entire way. Those that followed the real path had it much easier in terms of topography. Whatever the case, it was certainly a lot of fun. I just feel responsible for the screw up since I was calling back to let the other 3 know where to head. I guess I don’t feel too badly since Berserk, a far more experienced hasher, figured we were on target, And, yes, this is all a lame justification for the fact that I screwed up. You can see right through my paltry excuses!
Well, folks, it’s time for me to hit the hay. It’s late here on Guam, I need to wake up early for field work, and I’m sure you have better things to do than read this posting. Let me just say that this whole berserk experience was a hell of a lot of fun and, once I recover a bit, I’m probably going to do it again. Yes, I’m insane. Also, lasagna, after you have been jogging over rugged terrain for several hours, is one of the best things you could eat. Although, I suppose that really goes for anything slightly palatable.
Some of you faithful readers (I should be so lucky!) are probably very excited to hear about my near death experiences on this weekend’s much-anticipated hash. Yes, it was built up as the ultimate test of endurance, an odyssey so death-defying and physically taxing as to make even a Navy S.E.A.L. cry for his (Charlie Sheen) or her (Demi Moore) mother in agony. But, alas, dear friends, such was not the case. It was rather like a cake walk, stroll in the park, or frolic through the tulips on a warm spring day. Normally, it takes a rip-fueled, beefcake Olympian 4 hours to complete the course (known lovingly as the “Berserker”), but I did it in a brisk half hour. Now, here I must make an extremely important distinction: there are normal hashes and then there are the berserkers. Normal hashes, in which maybe 60 people participate, are really difficult, or so I’ve been told. But berserkers, in which maybe 15 individuals take part, are absolutely insane. We’re talking out of control, cough-up-a-lung, bust-a-gut, crap-your-pants, lose-every-bit-of-metabolic-water-to-perspiration grueling…times 10. So, as you can see, I’m no ordinary human being for having accomplished this. Let’s just say, you can call me Clark and I’ll be chilling in the Fortress of Solitude if you need me. Yes, the Kodo drummers may run 10 miles on a beach every morning and engage in, what they call, intense physical training on THEIR pansy island of Sado, but things are immeasurably more difficult here on Guam. Here, we are…
Okay, so I’m lying. I didn’t do the hash! I admit it! I’m such a useless slob of a weakling that I couldn’t bear the thought of running through uncharted areas of this jungle-laden island, in the process losing precious bodily fluids by the gallon. I’m a two-bit, no-good hack! No, no, my friends, in reality it was postponed due to the fact that one of the main individuals responsible for laying out the course (along with Haldre) had to work all day. Because of this 1) the course could not be finished in time and 2) he would not have been able to participate in the hash, which is, of course, no good. Haldre and Brent had also spent all day Saturday laying out half of the course, in the process bringing both of them to near exhaustion. The prospect of having to endure tribulations such as the berserker the following day was just too much to bear.
The true test now will be to see if all the cookies I made for this epic event will last through the week. I made a double batch of your basic chocolate chip cookies (though bigger), one of which was about 8’’ in diameter and given to Haldre (in thanks for the cake she made me). I believe she has finished the whole thing by now. Most of the other cookies are still here, but I’m prepared to make more this coming weekend. I think I may even prepare several huge cookies so that each of the few participants in the berserker can have a gigantic treat at the end of their arduous journey.
So, I live another week… another looong week. Which is kind of tough, because now I have a little more time to contemplate my existence, contact friends and family one last time, and sweat out the week in anxious expectation of my impending doom. Not that this has been built up for me or anything, a fact which, at this point, I blame almost exclusively on Brent. That’s not really a bad thing, though. I have to admit he has gotten me pretty excited, even if some of his warnings are exaggerated (which, honestly, I doubt they are). For example, when I saw him Sunday morning (the first I had seen him since he laid out some of the course with Haldre), one of the first things he said to me was, “Dude, we’re gonna die [long pause]. Okay, for one, you definitely want to wear pants… and gloves. And your Camelbak. That’s a must.” It got worse from there. In a nutshell, I am prepared to lose either my manhood, a limb, some essential organ, or all of the above. I’ll impart all the gruesome details to you, I promise. Even if I have to do it from a hospital bed a la Steven King.
In lieu of more trying activities, we (that is, Andy, Brent, Haldre, and I) took a hike to some nearby caves on Sunday afternoon. It was a beautiful day, hot and humid, but gorgeously sunny, much in contrast to how the weather has been over the past couple weeks (as far as sun is involved). We drove to the trailhead at the northern end of the island (about 15 minutes away from where I’m staying) and hiked in about half an hour. The trail was fairly well traveled, though at times a bit overgrown. It was also laden with what’s known in Hawaii as “'a'a” or “Really sharp volcanic rocks that make you say ‘D’OH!’ and other expletives when you step on them.” There wasn’t too much, though, and, given the short distance of the hike, it was not a problem.
What did end up being a little bit of a problem were the spiders. Good god, man. I was told that Guam had a decent spider population before getting here, but I had no idea what I was in for. There are hordes of them, their webs stretching across every meagerly open space at two-foot intervals. This is not, I repeat, NOT a place for those multitudes of you with arachnophobia. The one consolation for those to whom spiders give the willies is that these spiders are by no means aggressive. I have heard of no one that has been bitten by one, even when walking head-first into their web, which I have already done about seven thousand times. Of course, that probably doesn’t matter in the slightest to someone who hates spiders. Just the thought of having to be in presence of so many is enough to send them packing (Gram and Stacie, I’m thinking of you specifically).
Being the trooper (i.e., dumbass) of the group, I decided to take the lead or “take one for the team,” as it were, and sustain numerous faceloads of spiders and their webbing on the hike down. Most of the time I was flailing a short (in retrospect, too short) stick around at the air in preparation for the sticky, invisible threads that may escape my view. Often this worked in displacing the webs, but I still looked as though I was warding off beasts seen only to me, much to the amusement of my companions. Andy informed me that my thrashing reminded him of what Don Quixote may have looked like while on his quest. Thanks, friend. Other times, though, I still got a substantial amount of webbing lodged in my eyebrows, eyeballs, or mouth. This is why I’m a wildlife biologist, folks. As my aunt, also a wildlife biologist, recently said, “This is why we go into the profession. The opportunities to revel in the outdoors!”
We finally made it to the cave, although I looked like Frodo after being pierced by the giant eight-legged freak in Return of the King. Luckily, this cave contained cool, refreshing water, just the right substance for cleaning up my sweaty, sticky self (don’t take that the wrong way). This cave was really cool, actually. The surrounding rock is mostly limestone, which is very porous, allowing water to percolate through and fill parts of the cave with pools. The limestone also acts kind of like a filter, so the water that drips though is fresh and quite clear. It’s probably really basic, too, although I don’t know that for sure (Damn me for not bringing my handy pocket pH tester with me!).
Another cool thing about this cave is that past visitors have filled the inside with candles. One of your first tasks upon entering, if you want the full experience, is to light the candles and then enjoy the very cool Dead Poets Society/Séance atmosphere. Unfortunately, there were no bats hanging out (no pun intended… okay, it was intended) in the cave (another thanks, in part, to the brown treesnake), which, fortunately, meant the cave (and therefore water) was not littered with guano. There were also some mediocre stalactites, cockroaches (not many), and moths flittering about. Other than that, it was just us, the cave..., and the ghost of long dead pirates protecting their precious booty!
My main adventure today was, for the first time since arriving here, swimming in the sea. Yes, I’m ashamed to admit that it took me two weeks to enter the briny deep. Even that description is a misnomer, given that where I was ended up being far from deep. It was, at most, neck deep the whole time. The location was a public beach in Tumon, where many tourists (or recently-landed biologists like myself) go to take a swim. The beach lies at the base of a large cove, the mouth of which contains a protective ring of reef. The waves break out there, leaving the inner sanctum of the cove relatively calm, shallow, and free of riptide. This outer reef actually surrounds most of Guam, allowing some fairly safe swimming. There are still plenty of dangerous places where one would not want to swim and this includes out beyond the reef. There are some incredibly treacherous currents surrounding the island and many people die every year as a result of trying to swim within them. One such example actually occurred yesterday. A man was snorkeling at the beach near the refuge and apparently got bashed around by some waves and swept out to sea in the currents. It’s tragic, but also stupid in that there are signs everywhere down there, in both Japanese and English (this guy was Japanese), warning about the dangerous currents.
So, using extreme caution in an isolated area with 3 feet of water, I snorkeled around looking at some cool tropical fish. The first creature I saw was a sea cucumber… followed by another and another. There were actually thousands of them, so I quickly lost interest. This shallow area was surprisingly abundant in fish and coral, allowing me the pleasure of seeing a ton of different species. Thanks to one of Priya’s gifts, a pocket guide to Micronesian fish and other critters, I’m now able to identify some of what I saw. These may not be quite accurate, but I saw, among other beasties, butterfly fish of various kind, some angelfish, a wrasse, a few parrotfish, surgeonfish, goatfish, trumpetfish, emperor fish, and numerous triggerfish, including one who was really pissed at me. This guy had apparently staked out his little round chunk of coral (possibly protecting his offspring, although I couldn’t see anything resembling eggs for baby fish around) and he wasn’t going to let some big oaf with a dumb mask and fake fins bust in on his turf. Each time I went near his piece of coral, which was often because I found him amusing, he would “bluff charge” me, much like a black bear except smaller and more colorful. Oh yeah, and without any ability to actually cause bodily damage. Apparently this guy was having a bad day because I saw numerous others of his species, all of whom had no problem with me and, with the exception of a few that swam quickly in the opposite direction in terror, paid no attention to me.
In closing, I’ll leave you with a fun task brought to me through my good friend, Westy. Westy, who some of you reading this may know, is a crackhead friend of mine from college. And, no, not a REAL crackhead. She’s just extremely energetic, except for when she’s sick (such as the time I went to visit her in Maine for a weekend soon before I left), in which case she’s brought down to the activity level of your average hummingbird. Westy lives on a farm in Freeport, ME, where they have about 40 belted Galloway cattle. While I was there, several of the females were pregnant (thanks to the valiant efforts of their big ol’ bull, Avery), but there were no births. Well, soon after I left the cows started popping out calves like there was no tomorrow (there are now at least 9 of them). One of these calves was born of my birthday… and he was a boy. And, no, they didn’t name him Isaac. As a birthday present to me, Westy has given me the honor of naming him. I would have named him something extremely cool (like Isaac), however, there are serious restrictions on naming these little bovines for the sake of keeping things in order: 1) the name must begin with x, y, or z (this is the 2004 coding), 2) it must have the same number of letters as the mother’s name, and 3) it must contain the first letter of the mother’s name (in this case “n” for Nadia). I told Westy I thought Zaeus would be good (a made-up version of Zeus, using the “ae” often used in scientific nomenclature), but I realized it doesn’t contain an “n.” I think I’ve decided on “Xenos,” which is Greek, meaning “favored guest.” I find this appropriate seeing that I was the friendly guest to their home who helped out with chores, including shoveling Avery’s poop.
It has been a long week. It was a good week, but I’m definitely glad that it’s the beginning of a long weekend. Three of the days this week have involved waking up early for field work, taking a break midway through the day, and working again until about 11pm. The field work has been at the new closed population area that’s being constructed. This is a large, square area (about 225x225 meters) enclosed by a chain link fence. The fence will be lined with a fine mesh and topped with a “bulge” on both sides. This will prevent snakes from getting in or out, thus the population inside will be isolated (i.e., “closed”).
My main task has been hammering pieces of 1.5 m rebar into the ground along transects running through the study area. Basically, I pick up 13 of those babies and walk through waist-deep vines, hammering them in about every 16 meters. This is made especially enjoyable since the area is loaded with rocks. It’s actually not too bad (plus it gets easier because I have less to carry the farther I get), it’s more that my hand hurts from all the pounding. The point of putting in this rebar is to mark where snake traps will be placed. Also, it allows folks cutting paths through the vegetation to see where they’re going and make a (relatively) straight line. That was going to be my task today, cutting swaths through the plots with a Shindaiwa. Watch out kids: man with a spinning saw at the end of a pole! Unfortunately, mine was having severe idling problems and the engine kept cutting. I was therefore forced to kukri my way by hand through some thick transects to give a clear view for the Shindaiwers.
The condition of the plot is kind of indicative of the overall look of Guam in many places. One would kind of expect tall, thick jungle in the undeveloped areas of the island. In fact, where there is vegetation (apart from grass), it’s mostly stunted trees, low shrubs, and seemingly impenetrable clusters of vines. Some of that has to do with the fact that Guam was creamed during WWII. Much of the vegetation was destroyed, making it necessary (or so they thought at the time) to reseed the island. This, like most reseeding projects at the time, brought even more non-native species to the island, many of which took over. This is especially true for some of the vines and the Tangantangan trees. At least the Army Corp of Engineers didn’t come in and plant a whole bunch of multiflora rose like they did on parts of the east coast (Maryland was where I gained the experience with that crap). That lovely flora is extremely invasive and is covered in very sharp, stout thorns.
The main factor that keeps all the vegetation low on the island is typhoons. Guam is frequently hammered by these storms and they usually level large areas of forest in the process. It’s kind of the same idea as alpine climates where plants get stunted from the extreme weather. Obviously you don’t have the cold conditions to facilitate that here, but the high winds and storm damage have a similar effect.
Before coming here, I heard about the presence of a large number of cane toads (Bufo marinus) on the island. Cane toads (or Marine Toads) are natives of the southern U.S. and into South America, but they have been brought into all sorts of places, such as Australia and Guam. They, like many introduced species, are often brought for the purpose of eliminating some other invasive or pest species. However, they always become a problem themselves. These toads grow quickly, in large numbers, and they become very large. They also eat just about anything that will fit into their mouths, including other cane toads (which would be great if it happened more, seeing that cannibalizing a poisonous cohort can kill them), so many other animals suffer as a result of their introduction. I love amphibians, especially toads (as my good friend Evan would softly say: “I love toads.”), and, even though I know they’re bad, I still think they’re pretty cool. This is made especially true seeing that I haven’t seen any before this week—I’m sure my opinion will change over time, but I doubt I could ever really despise a big toad.
It wasn’t until yesterday that I actually saw a living one. Earlier, I had seen them all over the roads, squashed by passing cars. Their carcasses are literally everywhere along the roads (often next to the bodies of dead boonie dogs—in one half mile stretch of road I saw 4). This gal, who I named “Jumbo,” was hiding under some bushes in the closed population site. She was significantly larger than my hand and her body, when puffed up in a defensive pose, was about the diameter of a softball. Picture an inflated whoopie cushion and that’s the size attained by some of these toads. Last night it was raining and, just in my yard alone, I caught 8 of them. I put them in the sink out back and had a little toad photo shoot, during which one of the males latched onto a female. This guy was amazingly persistent. Whenever another toad hoped on his back (mainly to try and escape the sink, not to push him off), he would let out a release call and squeeze the female harder, which often made her jump. Since she had this guy latched onto her back, she kept losing balance and falling over, often on top of the male. During these incidents, he held on like a champ. I even experimented by picking the male up, which forced him to hold the entire weight of the much larger female. He still held strong. That’s one hell of a grip! I let the toads go soon after and the happy couple probably went on to spawn a whole new progeny of toadlets, who will further overpopulate the island. I’m such a good herpetologist.
Ah, that reminds me of how much I’ve currently sucked at nighttime roadside searches for brown treesnakes. We’ve gone out about 3 times to do the searches and I am the only one out of four to have not seen one damn snake. It probably has less to do with my lack of spotting abilities and more the fact that I’ve just had bad luck. Haldre has informed me that it’s very likely I just didn’t have snakes in the areas where I was searching (said she while thinking, “Man, this guy is BAD!”). The reason I say it's just bad luck, besides trying to justify my ineptitude, is because I have done really well with the barrier searches we’ve done, where I often find snakes in cryptic positions. Also, not to suggest that I'm the man, but I’m pretty good at finding things. Some folks may concur. So, with some luck and a little more focus, I hope to see a damn snake one of these nights!
One of our other activities this week was visiting the local wildlife services and department of agricultural resources (DAR). We got to see some highly (aggressive) endangered species (I was joking about the aggressive part), such as the Micronesian kingfisher. There are only about 40 left in the world, about 5 of which were housed at DAR. We also saw Mariana crows, an endangered fruit bat, and some Guam rails. They also showed us some introduced Ranid frogs (the “true frog” genus, to which Bullfrogs and Green frogs belong), Coqui frogs, and greenhouse frogs. All of those frogs were very recently discovered on the island, probably arriving as stow-aways on imported plant material. Some of them were just discovered a couple weeks ago: invasive species in action.
My birthday was on Wednesday and I had a nice time out on the town with Brent, Haldre, Andy, and Karen. We all went to Ban Thai, an excellent Thai restaurant in downtown Tumon. I was really hungry and ate a lot (big surprise there, I know), which included some panang curry chicken, wonton soup, fried dumplings, Thai iced coffee, and a “Singapore Slinger” (I think that’s what it was called), which Brent bought for me (“My friend here will have a Singapore Slinger.”). We left in a plump and contented state for Haldre’s place, only to be greeted by cake and ice cream. Ohhh yeeeeeeah. Haldre is so awesome for doing that—it was really good chocolate cake, and the ice cream, the first I’ve had since on island, was much appreciated. Speaking of which, ice cream is ridiculously expensive here, albeit expected given that it’s shipped to the island. It runs for about $7/half gallon. And that was basically all we did (good story, Isaac!). Pretty unexciting, but it was nice to be fed in the company of friends. Plus I think my Mom will feel better knowing that someone gave me cake and ice cream, not to mention balloons and party hats.
So, in my fledging effort to get into better shape, I’ve been running pretty consistently, mostly at night. It’s still humid at that time (it always is), but the lack of sun makes it immensely more tolerable. I run about 4 miles each night and I felt really good with tonight’s run. My legs don’t hurt anymore and the cramps (most often on either side of my torso) are mostly absent. I’m also trying to use the gym at NCTAMS, but I need a “wellness card” along with my Navy ID to use the facilities. All this in combination with swinging a kukri around for hours at a time should work to shed a few pounds.
Speaking of shedding a few pounds… and sweating like a maniac while running through the woods for hours… I’m going to participate in some “hashing” this weekend. I think I mentioned the concept in one of my earlier entries. To briefly recap, you’re running a route through the woods and some people are “hares”, while the rest are “hounds.” The hounds chase the hares with the goal of catching them. It’s basically just a fun was to get a lot of exercise, see cool parts of the island, and be belligerent. I’ll likely die in the process, but that will make it easier the next go around.
Well, kids, that’s all that’s fit to print for now. I’ll probably fill you in on the details of this weekend’s exploits on Monday night my time (Sunday for many of you). It’s going to be tiring, but, I think, enjoyable. Today (the 13th) is my friend Sheila's 25th birthday, so I'll conclude by wishing her a Happy quarter century milestone :)
It’s been a week since my arrival to this strange little island called Guam. Getting used to the heat and humidity hasn’t been nearly as difficult as I thought it would be, which can probably be attributed to the breeze that rarely subsides. Right now it’s the beginning of the dry season (or so I’ve been told), with winds coming into the island mainly from the northwest. They’re really nice. We’ll see how they are during the rainy season. Of course, it’s interesting that they call this the dry season, given that it seems to rain at least a little bit every day. I’m not complaining, believe me: the weather is gorgeous here. It’s just interesting getting acquainted with a tropical climate after coming from a place where it was consistently below zero and dry.
Now, back to Guam being strange. There are some really interesting things about this island that may or may not be unique to this place. This is the only pacific island apart from Hawaii to which I’ve been, so my perspective is going to be a bit narrow. In terms of culture, there is an interesting mix here. Almost all of the tourists are from Japan, many of whom hang out in the highly developed (and exceedingly sleazy) downtown area of Tamuning. This place is a combination of places like Planet Hollywood, the Hard Rock Café, large department stores, even an IMAX theater (something I would be interested in checking out depending on what they’re showing), along with an abundance of strip clubs, gun clubs, and other sketchy establishments. Apparently some of the Japanese tourists are big into shooting their firearms inside buildings while on vacation: good times.
The dominant ethnic group on the island, the folks that were here first, are the native Chamorro people. The Chamorro (I haven’t seen “Chamorran” or something like that used) people are the original inhabitants of the Mariana Islands, of which Guam is about the southern-most island in the chain. I believe all of the Marianas are now under U.S. control. I’m going to try and learn more about the Chamorros and maybe even learn how to speak their language a little (it has yet to be seen how successful I’ll be at that). It feel that I have a responsibility to do so, given that I’m on their turf.
There is also a very large U.S. military presence here, a fact of which I’m sure most folks are aware. Almost everyone I spoke with who has/had been in the military has at some time been to Guam. Andersen Air Force Base takes up a good chunk of the northern end of the island, while the Navy has a strong presence in other parts of the island. I haven’t had too much interaction with the folks stationed here, but I’m sure I will with time. I do have a navy ID now and I’ll soon have one for the air force base. I don’t know what they’re thinking giving me those kinds of privileges. Let’s hope they don’t let me get my hands on a uniform of some kind—then there’d be serious trouble (trouble for me, that is).
Apart from that, Guam is a mix of various other people from different parts of the world, mostly from east Asia or other islands (Korean, Chinese, Filipino, etc.). There is also present on the island an extremely hairy beast from the western coast of North America. This is a rather reclusive creature, for the most part placid, unless seen mowing down opponents on a rugby field. Perhaps you’re thinking of Sasquatch? No, dear friends, I’m speaking of Brent Vickers: one of the hairiest people I’ve ever met (though he still doesn’t quite beat Charlie Edson). I’m thinking his nickname should be “Wooly.” Of course, Brent is much more than a mammoth: from what I’ve experienced so far, he’s an insightful biologist, an expert rugby player (his team from UC Berkeley were the national champions), and an extremely funny guy. I can already tell the sarcasm is going to be laid down mighty thick with this brown treesnake team.
I think it’s about time that I devote some of this blog to that very group of folks, those individuals with whom I’ll be spending a lot of time over the next year or two. Before I got to Guam, I wasn’t aware of how many people are on the USGS Brown Treesnake Biological Assessment, Management, Interdiction Task Force and Suicide Squad Rapid Response Team Extraordinaire (a.k.a. the USGSBTBAMITFSSRRTE). I kid, I kid. We’re merely known as “The Brown Treesnake Project,” a component of which is the Rapid Response Team, which parachutes (not literally, though planes are involved) into pacific islands where there has been a legitimate brown treesnake sighting. We then try to find the snake or the population of snakes that may be present in order to eliminate the problem (or at least find out, early on, that a population has become established).
The coordinator of the Rapid Response Team is Haldre Rogers, an amazing woman a little older than myself (I’m pretty sure she’s 25). Apart from being an exceptional biologist, she is basically a Super Athlete (not to be confused with Super Dave, who was not even close to a “true” athlete). Haldre is originally from Vermont, where she probably spent her childhood and adolescent years running up mountains at top speed. She participates in adventure races in which she is frequently the winner, even when most of her competitors are men in peak physical condition. In her presence, they are proven to be the pansies they are. No, no… again, I jest. I’m sure these guys are good… she’s just better, that’s all. Another of her extrajobular activities is playing rugby with the Guam Rugby Club. She’s the only woman on the team and she’s a great player (I got a taste of her skill this weekend at the annual rugby tournament, “True Grit,” which her team won). Brent has quickly joined up with the club, so I’m sure I’ll be seeing quite a few matches while I’m here. Who knows, maybe I’ll join up at some point? After which I’ll proceed to get absolutely destroyed. So maybe rugby isn’t in my future, but I do want to do some mountain biking with Haldre once my bike gets here (which will be next June). I’m sure she’ll leave me a massacred pile of Jell-O, but it will be the beginnings of getting my ass into great shape.
At the helm of our crew is Michelle Christy, our resident Aussie and post-doctorate researcher. I haven’t had too much interaction with Michelle, but she has been very kind and welcoming to me since I’ve arrived. She also has a great sense of humor and her passion is frogs. If we didn’t get along to some extent, you know something is not right with the cosmos. The other post-doc on the team is Claudine Tyrrell, who I have yet to meet. All I know is that she’s from New Zealand and got a great deal on her apartment. This is probably a good time to mention Gordon Rodda, who, I think, is basically the current head honcho of the project. I stayed with Gordon for my last night in Fort Collins and he’s an amazing guy. Gordon looks like your average Vermont woodtick (scraggly beard, crazy hair, torn up shirt, old jeans, etc.), but don’t let that fool you. He’s a brilliant ecologist with many ridiculous skills in other venues. As an example, just a few years ago he and his wife Renee were building their new home. Through some blueprint errors on the part of the architect, an extra room was built into the house. So they have an extra room, which Gordon didn’t know exactly what to do with. After rearranging some things (and moving walls… much or which he did himself), Gordon decided to make it a workshop. But he didn’t have tools! So, Gordon went out and bought a bunch of woodworking tools. Now the only problem was he had never really used this stuff, so he had to learn how. In a matter of a couple years, he became a highly skilled woodworker. He has made several bookshelves in his home (not “just” bookshelves, either: we’re talking beautiful pieces made of cherry with oak inlays all sanded down and “perty”), a gorgeous desk with pear-shaped drawer stacks, and these amazing matching bureaus for himself and his wife (they involved bending wood and making these curved patterns that stick out of the wood and flow between drawers—it’s really difficult to describe, but much more difficult to make!). Then there’s the Rube Goldberg-esk marble machine he made. I could go on.
My other compatriots on the team are Matt, Chris, Karen, and Andy, all great folks. Matt is originally from Alabama and quite adept in all things related to snakes. He has done a lot of work with vipers, which seem to be his main passion. Chris is a Delaware native: he enjoys long walks on the beach, reading under shady trees, and skating on Yeager’s pond. Whoops! Sorry, that’s something else. Before this position, Chris worked as a biologist at a wildlife refuge in Las Vegas. Yup, you read that correctly. It’s actually inside the Bellagio and currently being run by Siegfried and Roy. I’m joking, it’s really operated by Wayne Newton. Actually, I’m not sure of the details, but it’s this relatively small sanctuary that, I think, is surrounded by (or adjacent to) sin city. I guess there are some cool, and rare, animal species managed there. Karen originates from southern Florida and she has a cool story. Karen is in her early 40’s (though you would think late 20’s), she has 3 kids, and she recently went back to school and earned her bachelor’s. Now she works on a tropical island and catches snakes for a living. Yeah, baby! Her daughter, Dianna, is an artist (the little I’ve seen is great stuff) and she’s living here for a few months. Her son, Matt, will also be coming to Guam for a couple months this summer. Then, we have Andy, who I talked about in my last entry. Andy is a funny kid: originally from Missouri, he is the team’s rodent man (and I don’t mean that with any offense). I have a goal for Andy: expose the boy (ahem) to some “CULCHA!” [read, “culture” with a strong New England accent] as Ellen Cox would say. He has been a bit sheltered in his existence and needs to at least get acquainted with the wonders of Thai, Indian, and, God forbid, other ethnic foods.
Finally, there are Pete and Jason, both of whom have been on the BTS team for quite a while. Jason is the longest standing resident, with about 10 years under his belt. Pete is a really nice guy and, as described by all members of the team, the best snake handler we have. They seem to trust him, probably because he likes them and handles them gently. The same cannot be said for Jason, who, though nice, handles them pretty roughly. The snakes respond by trying to bite him whenever possible.
And that is the team—11 crazy individuals (on Guam), all sharing the common goal of managing, reducing populations, and preventing the spread of brown treesnakes. This week and the next couple weeks are really an orientation period for Brent and I. This week we learned the basics: how to handle snakes, “morph” snakes (measuring and weighing them), use equipment (chainsaws, etc.), fill out time sheets, maintain the lab, mess with your coworkers, etc. Much of our time will be spent training for the Rapid Response Team. The RRT training is pretty intensive and there are numerous requirements that must be fulfilled before you can even go on a deployment: 31 hours of night searching (6 of which are an introduction to the methods—we did 3 last week), 2 hours of fenceline searching, 8 hours of trapping (much of this will be done during normal work), 3 hours in a venomous snake workshop, and another 9 hours with other workshops. It sounds like a lot, but much of what we’re doing in the next couple weeks is this training. I’m sure it will go by quickly, plus it’s just a lot of fun.
On Thursday night, we had a lot of fun doing our first nighttime search. During the day, about 10 snakes were released into an outdoor enclosure (basically a wall of concrete surrounding a chunk of jungle) from which they can’t escape. Later that night we go in and try to find them. For the first exercise, each person goes in looking for snakes, writing down each individual they see (avoiding repeats). No one can point out a snake to anyone else, so this is done basically in silence. At the end of the session, you compare how many snakes you found. We then did a brief roadline search, where you walk along a road and scan for snakes in the trees. The last task was going back into the enclosure and rounding up all the snakes. That was a blast. I think we caught all of them within half an hour, which is no small task for us amateurs, especially when some of the snakes are small and climbing in the tops of trees.
Outside of work, things have been pretty good. I’ve spent most of this weekend watching Brent and Haldre play in the rugby tournament, which was a good time. I took tons of pictures and I’m excited to see how they turned out. There were teams from Australia and Japan there, all of whom were talented. One of the teams, the Samurai from Japan, were insane. Those guys are insanely fast and incredibly good at passing and cutting. It’s one of those things that needs to be seen, but picture all these relatively small guys up against these beefy Guamanian and Australian dudes. The latter folks are by no means slow, but these Japanese guys ran circles around most of them. In the end, Haldre’s team prevailed (they work really well together as a group, plus the Samurai lost one of their best guys to an injury in the final game), however, those Samurai really impressed everyone. Geez, I feel like Bob Costas.
Oh, I need to conclude by talking about some of Guam’s other weirdness. Okay, there are tons of people (it’s mostly the Chamorro guys who I have seen do this) that have small, S-10-sized pickups that they jack up into ridiculously top-heavy, “muddin’” trucks. They’re literally jacked up at least 2 feet higher than they should be. I swear, if they took a sharp corner, they would definitely flip over. I’ll try to post some pictures of them. These pickups remind me to mention how terrible many of the drivers are here. They’re not bad in terms of speeding or tailgating (such as Maryland), but more driving into the road when it’s way too dangerous to do so, turning off slowly without blinkers, and, as one guy did to me this afternoon, driving in the breakdown lane next to me. This guy was probably on PCP. I’m heading back from the rugby game, when I hear this honking behind me. Along comes this guy in the breakdown lane, truck full (in both the cab and back) with guys. He rides up alongside me for a bit, then falls back. I look in the rearview mirror to see him slowly move back into the lane. The only problem is that there is a car directly where he’s merging in. The car had to move completely into the opposing lane and go around him before having a head-on collision. Yikes. Good thing this was at only 35mph or else it could have ended badly.
Also, there are chickens and "Boonie" dogs (i.e., wild dogs) EVERYWHERE. The folks next door to me have a boonie dog the BTS folks have named Nipples. I’m sure you can guess why. Some people have mocked that Joe and Lisa’s dog, Carly, has large nipples. Au contraire, mon ami: this dog is in a league of her own. This dog has cow teats! She’s also in pretty bad shape health-wise, but that seems to be the case with most dogs on the island. And, really, what better way is there to end this entry than on the subject of dog nipples? I can think of no other.
It may have involved the loss of a kidney and the better chunk of a day, but I’ve finally made it to Guam. Who would have thought that traveling into the future could be so hard on the butt? Yes, there’s nothing like coach seats (especially those shoved betwixt two other coach seats) to give a whole new meaning to the term “wall-ass.” But enough about the completely predictable hazards of extended travel: here’s what happened during the journey.
Brent and I left Fort Collins on Friday afternoon via the Shamrock Shuttle (motto: “Service with a smil…ing leprechaun”), our destination being the Denver airport (an airport with more land area than the city of San Francisco. Literally.). From there, we took more shuttles to our respective hotels. I stayed at the Hampton Inn, which was a pretty nice place. Their exercise room left a lot to be desired, but I won’t hold that against them. The wall composed entirely of mirrors was a tad creepy, though, especially if, as I suspected, there were cameras back there.
The next morning, I was up bright and early at 4:30am, which is coincidentally the time my Mom wakes up EVERY DAY. I find it amazing that we share so many genes. Anyway, I took the shuttle in, went through security (and the additional screening that I always seem to get… I think it’s the scruffy beard), and made it with plenty of time before boarding. This was made especially true given that the flight crew didn’t show up until half an hour after we were supposed to leave. D’oh! Apparently, they were confused (or had received the wrong information) as to what flight they would be on that morning. Personally, I think it may have gone a little something like this: “Hey, Frank, you want another shot of Tequila?” “Oh, geez, I dunno, Dianne, we do have to work tomorrow. Ah, what the hell.”
Even though the crew was late, I’m relieved that they arrived. I mean, what would we do without the flight crew there? It would be utter chaos! Seatbacks and tray tables would not be in their fully upright and locked positions. Peanuts would sit locked away in cabinets as passengers slowly wasted away. And how on earth could you possibly operate your seatbelt without their expert assistance? “Let’s see, I think I slide this flat end into the fold here…no, maybe not. Okay, I think this thingy with the lever goes under that other metal piece here. Damnit, why won’t this work?! Maybe I should just….ARRRGH!!!” And then you’d just tie it in a knot, too frustrated to go on.
Soon we boarded the plane and all was well. Or so we thought. As we were taxiing out to the runway, the pilot came over the intercom with the usual words of encouragement: “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!” Just kidding. He actually said, “Folks, I know we’ve already been delayed, but there’s something wrong with the plane and we need to have maintenance take a look at it.” Around we went, back to the gate. The problem was minor: they just needed to change one of the tires under the nose (that must be one beastly jack), but this was sufficient enough to ensure that there was no possible way we would make our flight to Honolulu.
Once in LA, we decided to see if we could get on another flight to Honolulu and, since we would definitely miss the flight to Guam, we could at least stay in Hawaii for a day. In your dreams, dirt bag! Or so the folks at American Airlines seemed to say. This wasn’t really an option, for many reasons that I won’t get into. Albeit a minor setback, they hooked us up with free lodging at the Embassy Suites, which ended up being quite fancy pants. It had a big, open lobby (it was open to a glass roof in the center, with the rooms along the perimeter) full of plants and pools, many of which contained coy, ducks, and even turtles. It may be best they kept their doors shut to avoid the influx of wildlife.
The next morning, we managed to get to the airport without a hitch and, more amazingly, onto our flight without problems. The pass through security was made interesting by a singing TSA security agent ("More bounce to the once...you knoooooow what I'm talkin' 'bout!") and, for the first time along my journey, I wasn't selected for additional screening. Yes! They merely strip searched me. Ouch.
I had the pleasure of sitting next to a really nice young woman (and, yes, she was beautiful, much to Brent's jealousy, especially since he had to sit between two rather large and unsavory people). Her name was Eileen, the daughter of a Salvadorian mother and Mexican father. She loves LA and has lived there her whole life, which is an interesting contrast to the often negative things I here about the city. We had a great time talking about all sorts of things, including her business in Honolulu. She works for an accounting firm and she was going to be on Hawaii for 3 days auditing the Teamsters. That's right, one of the most notorious unions ever. She assured me it was pretty boring stuff, but I think it at leasts sounds cool (if not slightly dangerous). She and her coworkers apparently had an offer to go out on a yacht belonging to one of the union's members. Hmm, attractive young woman in bikini on the yacht of some shady character, all in the setting of tropical paradise. Sounds like an episode of Magnum P.I. or perhaps Hawaii 5-0, though I never saw that show. Let's hope she made it back safely to her hometown of LA without being held hostage at uzi-point.
The flight was smooth, on time, and made much more tolerable through good company. All the passangers even had their own little TV set (luxury!). I watched Secondhand Lions (one of the producers of which is the aunt of Evan, a friend of mine from Patuxent), a part of Beauty and the Beast, and, let's not forget, elephant sex. Yes, Eileen and I got more than an eyeful of a male elephant's member. That is one scary (albeit impressive) sight. I have never seen a female elephant run so quickly in my life.
We had a brief layover in Oahu, during which I got my first helping of humid tropical air while sitting in an open air portion of the terminal. The transition between flights was very smooth in that we took the same plane to Guam. That way there was no going through immigration, moving of checked baggage, or changing gates. I love Hawaii. The trip to Guam was a tad more painful, in that it was a couple hours longer than the flight to Hawaii, my butt was already a bit sore, and I was jammed in a middle seat. However, the folks I was sitting next to were cool (one guy, who didn't talk much, appeared to be in the military, while the girl on my other side was an engine mechanic). The girl, whose name was Wendy, I think, was only going to be on Guam for 5 days, after which she was going right back to the states. Oh boy! Such is the life of someone in the military.
Finally (and I'm sure whoever is reading this is thinking the same thing, but for different reasons...), we made it to Guam. Our bags were there and, after making it through customs, we met up with Andy, the rodent biologist on the project who picked us up. Andy is a really nice kid and very much a midwestern boy. He doesn't swear (just like [not] me), is polite to a fault, and oozes wholesomeness (and I mean that in the nicest way). He talks a lot, but apparently no more than I write in these blogs. And on that note, I'll leave the further tales until my next entry.
