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 News of the Day
Field season
2006 has stepped from alleged reality
into marginalized memory.
Five federal
land offices were involved: Chequamegon National Forest, Superior National
Forest, Sheyenne National Grasslands, Grand River National Grasslands, and
Little Missouri National Grasslands. All were rare plant surveys. The season
extended into October this year, a welcome bonus of field work. Normally, at
these latitudes, October brings stiff winds from Alberta that sweeps you
from the field, and the obsession with rare forbs quickly becomes an
obsession with rare trees, particularly dead and dry oak trees, difficult to
find where so many heat with wood. Maybe they should put the dead oaks on
the protected list, then put exclosures around them to prevent
overconsumption by firewood cutters, which might allow the dead oaks to
bounce back, get a good population base, and maybe we could see some
reproduction and their numbers would just take off.
A new client
knocked on our door gave us a 3400 acre survey in tallgrass prairie in
eastern North Dakota, on the Sheyenne National Grasslands. This was a first.
Plus, it was for a federally listed species, Platanthera praeclara,
or Western Prairie Fringed Orchid. Big plant, up to the knee, with a spiral
arrangement of lacerated white flowers. Everybody was in bloom when we
arrived and we took it to be a cheery welcome. I guess we will be working
there next year too. The only drawback of that area is the wave of biting
insects. Some old-timers say the sun would be darkened at midday by the
clouds of black flies overhead. They say you would just point your shotgun
into the air at random and thousands would fall from the sky. Children would
make a game of who could collect the most. The winning child would be
presented with a gift by the mayor and his parents would have the honor of
feeding the community at the town hall that night. A great Black Fly Feed
would put all in a gleeful mood, the fiddles would come out, the corn mash
would pour, and a revelry would carry on until daybreak. Chores would be
deferred, school would be cancelled, and the day would be declared one of
rest. Black fly season would last for three months in this region, and so
too the revelries. This custom is widely recognized as one of the primary
causes of the widespread crop failures, bankruptcies, and mass exodus from
the Great Plains during the 1930's.
Web Changes
It
is about time I redid this site. It was three years old. People thought I
retired, expired, became bemazed, mobbed, or absconded. Not so. I tried to simplify
the site design.
Minimize the hyperlinks and tables. Expunge some pages. Throw in some
gizmos. And there it is.
Other than that,
this is where we'll announce anything else of relevance or of imminent development. Well,
maybe not. Is it so critical? This site is so small, why, the front door doubles as the
back door. But the chance may be worth taking. If you've visited us before and want to
know what's changed, take a look here first.
Recent Media
Coverage
Citizenry masses
outside of the storefront. The windows bulge from the swelling throng. Traffic is backed
up for miles. The phone lines are blazing. World leaders muscle through the crowds. So we
wish.
- Snow Burying Your Outlook?, Lakeland Times,
January 31, 1997, Pages 3, 4, 24
- Title, Publication,
Date...still waiting...
- Title, Publication,
Date...and waiting.
- Look, Nobody Knows, About me...I thought I had a big chance
in the fall of 2001 when I got an email from of all things, Self
Magazine. A big New York health and fitness magazine. They requested an
interview with me. You have got to be kidding. No
way, I thought, but it was true. But then, it was about proper snow
shoveling technique. They found out I shovel roofs in the winter, from
my old internet site. It seems that I was the only professional snow shoveler
on the internet. Imagining the free national advertising it would present for my business,
I gave the interview, passing along largely unverifiable boasts and useless blather,
indulging in tales of heroic rooftop struggles, outlines of a gritty but fanciful regimen
of strength and flexibility conditioning, trailing off into endless trifles and offhand
remarks. Despite all of this they thanked me and told me to keep an eye peeled for the
December 2001 issue of the magazine where the article would appear. Now the irony of this
is simply outstanding. I spend five and one half years of my life in a stuffy university
to acquire some fashionable degree, grope about in the job market for a decade enduring
humiliation after humiliation before I find my niche, build my reputation and skills over
the next ten years to the point that I am able to maintain my own environmental workshop,
and for what do I get national recognition? Science? Writing? Taxonomy? Field Skills?
Design? No, I get hailed before the jet-setting masses to demonstrate my snow shoveling
trade. A dainty song and dance, some cheerful banter, and a bow. Polite applause on
white-gloved hands. Snow shoveling. I mean, what does it take to do that? You need the IQ
of a laundry basket and the strength of a small horse but that's about it. You don't even
need to know how to read and write. Just ask my competition! All you need to know is where
the roof ends and the air begins. What is this?
- So, I waited for the day the December
issue of the magazine appeared. Time dragged on like it does in a dentist's office where
the clock ticks backward and like sap running from an apricot tree. At last, in late
November it blew into this wind-bedeviled Montana town. I snapped up the first one I saw.
For the next two hours I scoured the pages for some reference to snow removal but instead
found articles on great tasting desserts, hair styles, perfume, workout routines,
decorating, finances, you name it, but not one thing about snow removal. Outdone by the
likes of chocolate cream soda cakes, carbon fiber eyeliner, his and hers toilet seat
covers, and sweet bob and tail wispy hair gel bar and iron curling sets. I tossed the
magazine on the floor and sulked. I looked out the window for hours. Birds flew by. Clouds
raced up the mountainside. Water dripped on the porch. Nothing had changed. But then this:
I saw my wife reading the magazine a little while ago. She was looking at the combination
treadmill / bread making machine with deep interest. Wait a second. How did I end up
spending four dollars for this magazine? And how much more will I spend after she gets
done with it? Suddenly, I am calling my broker telling him to buy five hundred shares of Self
Magazine.
- So, this is where I end up. Right back
where I started. Nobody knows a thing about me. I am invisible. I will spend the rest of
my days sweating beneath torrid fogs in some bog that extends all the way into Canada,
standing on a trembling platform of Sphagnum moss that threatens to split open,
sucking me into the black tomb that has embalmed countless explorers before me. I could
scream, but the sound would evaporate into the blue sky. All that sees me are the insects,
a plague of them, boiling about my head, thumping my hat, sending out calls to others to
join in the feast. And they come, thick as dust, winding their way through the Black
spruce, advancing in military formation. Flailing my arms to deflect the hail of biting
insects serves no useful purpose. In fact, the perspiration generated by the vigorous
motion attracts still more biting insects and the arm flapping sends out subsonic waves
that attract still larger biting insects. By that point all is lost. It does not matter
that freak solar flares have melted my compass needle, or that the insect repellant has
induced apocalyptic visions, or that I have contracted distemper from the small mammals
that have gnawed into my lunch-pail. No matter. It doesn't matter at all. I remain as
always, relatively obscure.
- But wait. I get a call in December
2002 and it looks like it will show up in the January 2003 issue. Will this be my big
break? Will this be my Waterloo? What is up? Does it really matter? After all, winter's
gone up and moved to Canada.
- I have had it! My fifteen minutes of fame and wouldn't
you know it, a storm knocks out the power. They actually printed the article in the
February 2003 issue and have a gal posing with a snowshovel with a paragraph of advice on
how to grab it and shake it silly. And not even so much as a footnote acknowledging the
vast contributions this snowblind lout has made to the burgeoning business, the swelling
science of anthropormophic deflection of mass crystalline water from sloped planar
surfaces at near-absolute zero while under the influence of chocolate-chip cookies. Why,
I outta protest. I should make some noise. Raise a fuss. I have half a mind to write a
thesis on this. I just can't get up from this cha i
r .. .
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