#uoclimatereport

In case you missed the sunrise this morning...

More adventures in timelapse photography. I still have so much to learn. 

We intended to hike to Crater Lake yesterday, but somehow ended up on top of Eyak Mountain.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  No complaints. In the words of one of my favorite authors, Douglas Adams, “I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be.”

Time is a curious thing here, in this land where humans have lived for ten thousand years and geological forces have shaped it for millennia before that. Time is a difficult concept to grasp, to begin with, and when we bring in the conversation of climate change, it becomes even more unfathomable.

Which environmental changes are simply flukes, and which are longer, significant trends? How can we know? How can we be sure? It seems the only way TO know is to look at things in terms of time, to compare the present to the past. And herein lies the very heart of Science and Memory: Both science AND memory are vital to our understandings of time and the changes that we are seeing.

Science lends us the numbers, data, and documentation. Memory lends us the traditional ecological knowledge that goes back farther than science can reach, and tells the larger story that the numbers and data cannot convey. Science gives us information, memory gives us context. Science provides the evidence, memory paints the picture.

Timelapse photography has always fascinated me, and so one of my goals this summer is to work on perfecting the technique. With every timelapse I take, I am surprised by what it brings out, revealing things that we would never notice otherwise, in our normal experience of time progression. The spiraling way a gull swims in the water, how the oystercatchers run along the beach, the way the trees shimmer in the wind when morning sunlight falls upon their leaves, or how the clouds cloak the mountains in such tender a way. When we speed up time we can see these things, and yet in our normal lives it is nearly impossible, unless we sit somewhere long enough and just watch.

The great irony of climate change is that even though it’s nearly imperceptible on our human timescale, we must think beyond timescales in order to respond to it. If we could take a timelapse of our entire human history, perhaps it would seem more tangible and we could all – myself included – better understand the urgency to change the societal infrastructures that continue to accelerate disruption to our climate.

Until then, I suppose I will have to satisfy myself with capturing the smaller pieces of beauty and magic found in our world, appreciating what we have, and what we are fighting to save.

Three weeks ago when I first arrived in Cordova to begin work on my master’s project, I was walking along the docks taking photos when I met Captain Anna Young. She noticed my camera and told me she was a filmmaker.

“Hey, me too!” I said.

“You know, I’m looking for someone to sail to Valdez with me to help work on my new film,” she told me.

I wanted more than anything to go with her. Alas however, I could not commit to a month at sea, but instead I spent the entire day hanging out with her, listening, and filming a piece about her and her story.

Captain Anna is the prime example of how you cannot separate out humans from our environment. She made her entire living as a mariner since the 1960s, fishing in Alaska, working on boats, and now, at age 70, she’s taking up sailing.

The Exxon-Valdez Oil Spill in 1989 destroyed her livelihood, along with all the fishermen whose lives depended on the natural resources of Valdez Narrows. After the oil spill, she went into a deep depression, but found art, writing, and filmmaking as a way to heal the emotional damage that had been done while she fought back to restore the other parts of her life lost in the disaster.

Something about Captain Anna captured my heart. I went back to the harbor a couple times to find her again, after that one day sailing with her. The first time went back, I found her boat, but not her; the second time a few days ago, the boat was gone. My guess -- and hope -- is that she's on her way to Valdez now, following her dream.

Bon voyage, Captain.

There are many advantages to spending a long time in one place, one of the most important of which is observing change over time.  Several weeks ago when I first visited Power Creek, I saw nothing but a peaceful, clear stream bordered by ripening salmonberry bushes and thick alder. When I returned to it three weeks later, however, the scene was much different: the Sockeye salmon are returning, and beginning to spawn. 

In fact, one female sockeye has even built a redd (that’s salmon-speak for a fish nest, where they lay their eggs) right by river bank, offering a unique opportunity to film their spawning behavior.

As you watch the video, note the bright red salmon (males) and the slightly more dull-colored one (the female). Notice how the female circles her nest, using her tail to cover it with pebbles and bottom sediment. Watch how the males continuously circle and fight, competing to fertilize the eggs.

Soon, Power Creek and many of the other local forest streams in Cordova will be teeming with sockeye doing the same thing. Keep checking back here for more updates on the salmon run!

Change is so important for the process of creativity.  

The other day we talked about how your perspective changes and enhances in a new place. Things we might overlook day to day at home are suddenly vibrantly interesting. 

As an artist, this enhanced perspective inspires me to draw everything. When I look at an object, I imagine how a pencil would twist around it, creating texture through line, pressing down harder in the areas of shadow and releasing where the light hits. In a new place, inspiration can be found anywhere. 

Suddenly, a half eaten apple is waiting for its portrait. As I explored its shape and texture, Karly noticed that it looked like a globe with mountain ranges. In Cordova, we are surrounded by mountains and it seems like I’m constantly thinking about our little blue earth and the affect we have on it -- I guess this change of scenery not only only inspires a new excitement for seeing, but also seeps into the way that I draw. Everything is connected.

Whoa, what’s up with that crow? Well, funny you should ask! You’re looking at a pretty sweet adaptation that many vertebrates have, but we don’t often get a good look at: the nictitating membrane. Most birds, reptiles, amphibians, fish and even some mammals actually have a secondary, semi-transparent eyelid called a “nictitating membrane" or “nictitating eyelid.” It’s kind of like a built-in set of goggles that the animal can see through, while still being able to protect its eyes from water or debris. 

Raptors like eagles, hawks, and falcons, will close their nictitating membranes when they’re diving for their prey so they can still see as they’re going in for their kill. The membrane will also close quickly a fraction of a second when the eye is blinking naturally, as pictured above. Some evidence even shows that crows will flash their nictitating membrane to communicate when they are juveniles, or during courtship displays.

Pretty nifty, right?

I still can’t believe that I just got back from four days in the backcountry of the Copper River. The itchy mosquito bites on my knees and elbows, and my tired, sore muscles are the one reminder that it was real, despite how wild and unbelievable it all seems now. 

I feel so lucky to have gotten to spend this time with the four research technicians who spend the summer doing this work every day. Three times a day, they boat out to two fishwheels positioned in a narrow stretch of the river, and count the Chinook salmon that get scooped up into holding tanks. They measure, tag, and send them upstream where they will hopefully complete their life’s journey. Despite the repetition, hard labor, and remoteness of the job, all four technicians, including Megan and Darren pictured above, expressed their commitment to and passion for the larger implications of their work.

“This job is specifically rewarding, because this data is being taken for population estimates to manage the fishery directly,” says Darren. “...like, you go, you sample, and then they make direct decisions based on that.”

“It’s a really interesting project, because there’s nobody else counting the king run in the Copper River, which everyone prizes as a rare, wonderful salmon,” Megan says. “And, it makes you feel kind of important when you think about that, because it is really important data to be able to know how many fish are coming up this river. I think it’s great that there are these fisheries, but to be able to sustain them and keep track of them, you need to know what’s going on.”