#scienceandmemory2018

When you travel to Cordova, Alaska, in the summertime you’re bound to see some beautiful sights. You’ll see braided rivers, tinted turquoise by glacial waters, winding through the seemingly endless greenery. You’ll spot a bear, or seven, along with otters, seals, and the red backs of spawning salmon. And you’ll watch soggy grey mornings turn into breathtaking sunsets that disappear behind mountainous vistas.

There are picturesque scenes everywhere you go, but if you let yourself become distracted by the place’s beauty, you will miss out on what truly makes it special.

If you slow down and pay attention, you’ll feel it. Alaska’s heart still beats wild.

You can hear it in the thrashing water of the salmon runs, or in the stentorian groans of the glaciers. Everything around you is a testament to the fact that the place is ALIVE.

For newcomers it conjures a sense of awe, to step inside a world where the synergy amongst organisms is so strong, that the bond is palpable. The nutrient-rich waters from the Copper River Delta provide salmon with the food and habitat they need to thrive. Their existence supports the birds, the bears, and the people. It’s a complex network that allows for a simple way of life through its perfectly efficient design.

Alaskans understand this balance and observe their place in it. From descendants of the native Eyak peoples, to the descendants of Russian and American settlers, to the researchers who come to feed their curiosity, and to the fishers who come to feed their families, here the divisions amongst men fade and give way to a sense of comradery within the human species.

This is why we keep coming back to Cordova. It isn’t simply a field trip we take to study how a changing climate affects a historically stable ecosystem, or a pretty town we visit to bolster our portfolios with gorgeous footage and story material. We come to this unique place because it has the power to ignite a feeling of belonging in those who have grown accustomed to living in a world that has lost its sense of interconnectivity.

There’s a reason why the locals refer to the rest of America as the “lower forty-eight.” Priorities shift as you go north, and life operates differently.

Alaska is one of the last places in the country where the degrees of separation between the natural and the human world do not feel so vast. Following researchers into the field forced us to contemplate the potentially dire effects Elodea (an invasive water weed) has had on the salmon population. Flying our drones into the backwoods and seeing a mother bear catching salmon for herself and her two cubs allowed us to witness the direct effect a declining species population would have on other animals. When you get to see these connections first hand, the gravity of environmental reporting sets in.  The place teaches you to think more specifically, more scientifically, in order to comprehend the bigger picture.

This is why we do what we do ­— to remind ourselves, and others, that we are all in this together, to learn, to shed light on scientific findings that can help us be better stewards of the earth, and to remember our fragile and fortunate place in the cosmos.

Jessica Smith

Denzell Gallegos | Designer

Emily Goodykoontz | Writer

Meghan Jacinto | Writer/ Editor 

Julio Jaquez | Photographer

Bryce Dole | Videographer

Sam Smargiassi | Audio/ Writer

Deb Morrison | Professor 

Anna Rath | Designer

Julio Jaquez | Photographer

Jordan Blackburn | Writer

Hudson Miller | Project Manager/ Photographer

Abbie Winn | Photographer/ Video Editor

Devin Roux | Designer

Raffi Torres | Videographer

Dan Morrison | Professor and Visual Journalist

Joe Bigelow: Writer/ Photographer

Sarah Frimtzis | Photographer

Xavie Tow | Project Manager

Carl Ranney | Researcher/ Photographer

Olivia Dozois | Designer

Noah Andrews | Videographer

Whitney Calvin | Project Manager

Rachel Chambers | Photographer

CJ Keshap | Writer

Hannah Clauss | Designer

Early last Friday morning, Emily and I pulled ourselves out of bed and made our way towards the coast for one final trip to the South Slough. We knew we needed to get into the water in order to fully immerse ourselves into the Reserve’s unique habitat, and simultaneously dive deeper into our story. We connected with Eric Dean, the South Slough Reserve’s Education Program Specialist, and arranged for a kayak tour.

After attempting for weeks to find a time that worked for both our schedules and the daily schedules of the tides, we finally made a plan to meet at 10 am in the Oregon Institute of Marine Biology (OIMB) parking lot. We were slightly late due to an unfortunate smoothie accident that resulted in one backpack causality, but Eric was gracious and greeted us with a beaming smile regardless. Next to Eric stood Bethany, who was serving as a summer intern for the Reserve. They helped us with our gear and loaded us into Eric’s pickup truck.

As we climbed the winding road with our four kayaks in tow, Emily wasted no time in getting to know our hosts. She asked them things like how their names were spelled, their positions, and whether they thought the big clear cut we had just passed had any effect on the estuary beneath it. It was a treat to see her in action, and I think Eric and Bethany were surprised and honored to see a ‘student’ journalist operating under such professionalism.

We soon arrived at our destination of Hinch Bridge, and I realized it was my turn to go to work. I had my camera, three lenses, my iPhone, my GoPro, and three new dry bags to test out. The rest of them already had their kayaks in the water while I was still rearranging, double checking seals, and uttering panicked prayers to myself. Because estuaries are “where the river meets the sea,” the water we were getting into was salty and could destroy my camera with as little as a splash. With Bethany holding my kayak steady, I held my breath and pushed off. There were some wobbles, but I made a conscious effort not to overcorrect.  The tide was moving in much faster than I had thought, as was evidenced by the complete disappearance of a sandbar that was showing only ten minutes prior to us putting in. The wind was also a factor, although it was nothing compared to the first time our team came to Hinch Bridge.

Seeing that we were all ready and stable, Eric began to lead us up the finger of the slough. I quickly found that I would have to choose my photo opportunities wisely since clicking the shutter meant I couldn’t paddle, and not paddling could quickly turn my boat sidewise – leading to possible flipping. But as we got into a rhythm of pulling and dragging, the two motions competed less with one another, and I could maneuver my way around shots more easily.

At a particularly quiet section of the route, Eric pointed at what looked liked mailboxes attached to the top of old posts coming out of the water. “Those are nesting huts for the purple martins,” he said. Sure enough, just as he said this, a purple martin flew over our heads and landed on the box, which set off an eruption of peeps from its chicks. I could see their little beaks opening and closing as they impatiently waited to be fed. With bat-like speed, purple martins help keep the mosquito population under control, which is important in a wetland environment. The South Slough Reserve maintains boxes for the birds because purple martins have suffered nationwide habitat loss due to industrial logging, and similar species competition. I let the others go on without me, and waited until dad came back to feed the babies.

When I caught up with the group, Eric was describing to Emily where there had previously been flourishing beds of eelgrass. According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), eelgrass is “one of nature’s most valuable and productive habitats in the marine environment.” However, researchers at the slough have discovered that eelgrass patches have been disappearing at a rapid pace for unknown reasons. It felt eerie knowing this as we drifted under trees that had dead eelgrass draped around their branches.

Past the eelgrass graveyard, we saw glimpses of an elusive blue heron. We also saw huge turkey vultures, seagulls, and beautiful white egrets in the distance. Sadly though, as we got closer to Valino Island, our guide noticed that conditions were changing for the worst. In the volatile tidal zone of the estuary, water can go from calm to two-foot waves in a matter of minutes. Therefore, we regrettably had to turn around and let the current sweep us back to our starting point.

When we returned to the bridge, the water level had changed so much that certain landmarks where completely missing. We loaded up the boats and just like that, Emily and I were back on the road to Eugene. We’re happy we went, and definitely got some usable material that we didn’t have before, but I can’t say that I’m completely satisfied.

We are doing a story on place. Yet, I still don’t feel familiar with the South Slough. I feel like I know it as well as someone who goes on vacation to a resort town during high season. I haven’t seen the slough on its worst days when the sun hasn’t shone for weeks and the rain casts everything in a permanent grey. I haven’t seen the season’s change, or the birds gathering in the water at sunrise, and I’ve never heard the sounds of the slough at night. So how can I really know this place, and appreciate how its persevered in light of the many challenges it's faced? The truth is, I can’t.

In order to know a place, you have to know how it changes, and in order to recognize that change, you need to either stay in one place long enough to observe it, or come back. As journalists covering stories about environments and climate change, I think that it’s important to be committed to seeing that change through. Obviously in our lifetime, we may not see the drastic changes in our environment that scientists are predicting, however, we can document what we see, and hear, now so that our work may be useful for comparison for future generations. We can also make efforts to produce more long-form journalism pieces. Not all things change as quickly as the estuary tides, some things take longer to see, like a purple martin feeding his hatchling, or much longer, climate change. If we are impatient, we may miss something important, or at least meaningful.