Cooking and Teamwork

Olivia Truax

Amherst College

On an expedition filled with steep learning curves (you’ve never seen snow before? Try telemark skiing down a hill with a 30-pound pack! You’ve never slept outside before? How about camping on a glacier! You’ve never had a science class before? Let’s talk biogeochemical field methods!) the steepest, by necessity, is that of camp cook. When your name appears on the “plan of the day” as part of the three-student cook team it’s do or die. Well, I doubt that our camp of hungry JIRPers would kill a cook who, at the end of a long day of fieldwork, failed to produce an edible meal. However, cooks do run the risk of going down in JIRP history like “that idiot in such-and-such year who cooked the pasta into barely edible salt mush.”

Luckily, Brittany, Lyda and my first mistake was one of quantity not quality. Fifty JIRPers can eat a lot of oatmeal. They cannot, however, eat eighty servings of oatmeal. Having made it through breakfast without memorable slipups we faced our next task: lunch and what to do with 30 servings of rapidly congealing Quaker Oats (because all of our food on the icefield is delivered via wildly expensive, gas-guzzling, helicopters, food waste, always environmentally and financially irresponsible, is inexcusable). Word to the wise: 1. JIRPers love burritos 2. if you mix leftover oatmeal with brown sugar, flour, raisins, vegetable oil, and baking powder and stick it in the oven it won’t turn into an “oatmeal cake,” but it will turn into a delicious pudding-esque dish even if you forget about it and bake it at 400 degrees for an hour and a half.

For dinner we decided that it’d be a fun challenge to make a meal that used every dish in the kitchen. Well, our goal was to make enough roasted potato medley, chopped salad, and beef stew, for 51 people— no more, no less. The somewhat predictable result was four hours of chopping and roasting twenty-five pounds of potatoes, sweet potatoes, and carrots in a single oven, stewing canned beef in the largest cast iron skillet I have ever encountered (this behemoth requires two burners), and a brief stint as short-order cooks desperately trying to chop enough peppers, apples, and lettuce to keep the salad bowl full in the face of the seemingly inexhaustible appetite of a never ending line of JIRPers (it was our own fault, we told them to help themselves to “bottomless salad”).

The Mass-Balance Team - Evan Koncewicz, Victor Cabrera, Tai Rozvar, Olivia Truax, Alex Burkhart and Kate Bollen - present their research proposal on the deck at Camp 10. Photo by Matt Beedle.

The Mass-Balance Team - Evan Koncewicz, Victor Cabrera, Tai Rozvar, Olivia Truax, Alex Burkhart and Kate Bollen - present their research proposal on the deck at Camp 10. Photo by Matt Beedle.

When the line of salad-seeking JIRPers finally ended we had a moment to enjoy our meal staring out at the view of the Taku Towers from the porch of the cook shack before the mountain of dishes called us back inside. Sitting with Brittany and Lyda, enjoying the meat Brittany stewed, clutching a cup of coffee Lyda brewed, and savoring the last of the peppers we had frantically chopped I found myself reflecting that 1. Kirkland-brand canned meet and pre-ground coffee has never tasted so good and 2. my day cooking, a task that I’d dreaded as a chore for weeks, had been one of my favorite days so far on the icefield. Sometime in-between preparing almost twice the amount of oatmeal we needed and the final dash to finish the salad something about JIRP clicked for me. Far from the day I had anticipated away from the science and exploration I thought constituted the “real” business of JIRP, my time in the kitchen—surrounded as I was by the laughter I shared with Lyda and Brittany, the aroma of baking “oatmeal cake,” and the smiles of JIRPers with full bellies—took me to the heart of what it means to be part of an expedition family.

Here on the icefield we talk a lot about community and teamwork. The idea that we are stronger together than the sum of our parts is an organizing principle of our daily life, drawing us closer as we navigate the challenges of living and learning in this harsh environment. I began to feel the strength of this community on the long trek from Camp 17 to Camp 10 when the quiet encouragement of the person ahead of me on the rope team got me through the final slog up the crevasse field to our camp at the Norris Cache. It buoyed me when I took a hard fall running through Camp 17 to grab my ski boots for a sunset ski on the Ptarmigan Glacier and my fellow JIRPers patched up my bruised knees and low stoke level (word to the wise: DO NOT RUN IN CAMP). Co-authoring a research proposal and digging snow pits with the rest of the Mass Balance project group, I’d begun to feel an inkling of what’s possible when JIRPers devote themselves to a project as a team. But it was in the kitchen with Brittany and Lyda brainstorming an original menu from limited ingredients and dashing about to make enough salad that I first understood that phrase “stronger together than the sum of our parts” as not only an aspirational aphorism but an incontrovertible truth.

Completing the two-day traverse from Camp 17 to Camp 10. Photo by Catharine White.

Completing the two-day traverse from Camp 17 to Camp 10. Photo by Catharine White.

Our meal won’t go down in JIRP history. I’m sure the potatoes we agonized over have already begun to fade into the many delicious meals we’ve had here on the icefield in the minds of our fellow JIRPers, but my first day in the kitchen will stay with me. Working together wasn’t always easy: I stubbornly stuck to the idea that we should fry up two sausages to feed 51 people for dinner long after Brittany and Lyda, sensibly, pointed out that if we did that 40 JIRPers would go hungry. But, together, we produced three meals (none of which involved sausage) that kept our expedition, our community, happy and fed.

"Snake Linda": The Field Science of Drone Photogrammetry

Kenzie McAdams

Purdue University

A new morning was upon us, and the familiar misty cloud that lives over Camp 17 greeted us and the new day. After a delicious breakfast of spacon (spam bacon) and oatmeal, we learned of our upcoming “Plan of the Day”. With safety training winding down and afternoons starting to become free for academics and field science, we were all given the choice of a variety of different opportunities to take part in for the day.

We started our day in the library, with a lecture by academic director Matt Beedle that introduced us to photogrammetry. Photogrammetry. The term was familiar, but I really had no firm grasp on what it meant. Matt described photogrammetry as “the science or art of making reliable measurements using photography”. During lecture, we explored the two types of photogrammetry: terrestrial (on land) and aerial (from the air). The focus of this lecture was on exploring and using Structure-from-Motion (SfM) Photogrammetry. SfM is a low-cost and effective tool that we utilized to obtain high-resolution datasets. The SfM method relies on multiple overlapping images that photogrammetric software uses to match points taken from the same feature in each image. With that in mind, Matt prompted us to think of some difficulties we may have with using this method on the icefield. One of the primary issues we would face in our attempts to image the icefield would be the lack of these identifiable features on the surface, due to it being a vast white expanse. Nearby Lake Linda, on the other hand, would pose as the perfect target for our experiment. The lake is a meltwater feature that drains subglacially down the Lemon Creek Glacier into the Lemon Creek valley. Due to its identifiable ridgelines and rock surfaces, it includes many reference points for the SfM software to do its analysis. Moreover, it is an ideal location to use aerial photogrammetry to model the elevation of the lake basin because it is not an easy task to obtain these measurements terrestrially.

Team Drone in front of Lake Linda on the Lemon Creek Glacier. From left to right: Uwe Hoffman, Chris Miele, Matt Beedle, Deirdre Collins, Kenzie McAdams, Cézy Semnacher, Louise Borthwick, Alex Burkhardt, Lucas Beem. (Photo credit: Matt Beedle)

Team Drone in front of Lake Linda on the Lemon Creek Glacier. From left to right: Uwe Hoffman, Chris Miele, Matt Beedle, Deirdre Collins, Kenzie McAdams, Cézy Semnacher, Louise Borthwick, Alex Burkhardt, Lucas Beem. (Photo credit: Matt Beedle)

After a discussion on the pros and cons of drone flight path design, our initial task was to create two flight paths. During this discussion we chatted of techniques related to camera angle, area coverage, and possible difficulties with the surrounding topography. We students collaborated to design two paths: one that flew in a spiral pattern radially outward, with the camera facing at a 45-degree angle, and the other in a snake-like pattern with the camera facing straight downward. We had to think carefully about our camera angle choices, because if the angle of the camera were at the same angle as the slope of a feature, the image would not capture it. Student Alex Burkhart explains that by creating the spiral pattern, the 45-degree camera angle would continuously capture the rim of the lake as well as always capturing a portion of the concave basin. I helped to design the snake pattern, with the intention that by having the flight zig-zag over the surface with the angle facing straight downward, we would cover the most area and have the smallest chance at missing any features.  After we had our paths set, we journeyed out on our skis towards Lake Linda.

A screenshot of the 3D image of Lake Linda with the “Snake Linda” flight path photo positions marked as blue squares. (Photo credit: Matt Beedle)

A screenshot of the 3D image of Lake Linda with the “Snake Linda” flight path photo positions marked as blue squares. (Photo credit: Matt Beedle)

Once in the field, our first priority was placing Ground Control Points (GCPs) around the rim of the lake. These GCPs served as exact locations for JIRP faculty surveyor, Uwe Hoffman, to collect GPS coordinates. With these GCPs geo-referenced, we can later locate our whole model in space. We wanted to space the GCPs consistently around the rim of the lake, so we decided to make the hike up and around the large moraine on the back side. The hike consisted of a side-hill ski up to a small ledge where we removed our skis from our feet and continued to bootpack up the ridge. In order to test the different methods of photogrammetry, students Auri Clark and Cézy Semnacher took photos terrestrially along the hike using their iphones.

Kenzie McAdams preparing to position a GCP. (Photo credit: Cezy Semnacher)

Kenzie McAdams preparing to position a GCP. (Photo credit: Cezy Semnacher)

After placing all of our GCPs, we started our drone flights. During Spiral Linda, everything was going as planned until we noticed the drone getting pretty close to the rocks. As it flew closer, we could start to hear the concern in Matt's voice: “Is the drone going to hit the cliff? Is it worth continuing the flight?” After some speculation, Matt made the final decision to abort the mission. For our second flight, “Snake Linda”, we changed the flight elevation of each point to ~40m higher than previously done. We started our flight, everything going as planned, until we noticed an unexpected visitor: above the ridge we could see an eagle flying curiously around Lake Linda. Now we were not only on patrol to make sure the drone didn’t crash into the rocks, but also to keep an eye out for an airborne eagle attack. We suddenly noticed the drone once again flying precariously close to the rocks: How could this be? We had just updated all of the settings to make sure our flight ran smoothly. We re-checked the flight path, and then realized our mistake: we had neglected to adjust one point by 40 m. To prevent disaster, Matt took over manual control of the drone. All in all, after a few close calls with the rocks and one pesky eagle, we had collected our field data.

Once back at Camp-17, Matt uploaded our data into a program called Photoscan.  Photoscan generates a point cloud, which creates a 3-D surface that produces a model from all of the aerial photos taken in the field. We can use this 3-D model of Lake Linda to visualize and obtain surface elevation measurements. Unfortunately, the images from Spiral Linda weren’t recorded by the drone, so we only created a model using the Snake Linda flight. If we were to do this field experiment again, we would try to recreate the Spiral Linda flight so we could compare it to our current model. We can continue to use this technique in the future to observe the surface elevation changes over time of our favorite meltwater lake, Lake Linda.

A screenshot of the final 3D image of Lake Linda in Photoscan. (Photo credit: Matt Beedle)

A screenshot of the final 3D image of Lake Linda in Photoscan. (Photo credit: Matt Beedle)

Not-So-Academic JIRP Lessons

Auri Clark

University of Puget Sound

Coming into this program as a biochemistry major, I have been busy absorbing many academic topics completely foreign to me, including photogrammetry, sedimentology, and glacier mass balance. During the last three weeks on the icefield, I have also been busy learning many important skills and random facts unique to the JIRP experience:

1.  Counterintuitive to your first instinct, always pick the bed with the most nails sticking out of the walls around you. You may regret this decision momentarily when you hook your pants on one trying to climb out of your bunk early in the morning or when you roll around in the middle of the night and feel one poke you in the back, but I promise these minor setbacks are worth it. It is difficult staying organized when you are living out of a backpack. If you want to be able to find your clean pair of socks among all of your stuff (and the clothing of the 20 other girls you’re sharing sleeping quarters with) after a long day of skiing, as well as have a place to hang your wet ones inside, you want as many nails as you can get.

2.  There are only two ways to wake up after setting your sleeping bag and bivy out on the rocks on a beautiful night. You might think that sleeping outside means falling asleep under the stars and waking up to a beautiful sunrise next to the Taku Towers, slowly sitting up to yawn and stretch, and enjoying the amazing view until you are ready for breakfast. In the five times I’ve slept outside, I have never had such a pleasant experience. I have woken up to a slow drizzle on my face that quickly turned into a downpour, which then somehow crept its way through my bivy and into the space between my toes. This experience usually causes an immediate attempt to find cover and sometimes a long scramble through the pouring rain in shorts and a t-shirt. At other times, I have woken up in a full sweat to the sun high above me, converting the cozy bundle of synthetic down I curled up in the night before into a thousand degree torture chamber. This experience, even more uncomfortable than the previous, also requires immediate evacuation of your sleeping bag at a less than ideal hour of the morning. Yet I will still sleep outside over my bunk every chance I get.

My first night in Camp 10, sleeping in the best bivy spot. The view is looking across the Taku Glacier at the Taku Towers (they can be spotted right in the middle of the peaks shown). This night included both an early morning sprinkle and a glaring …

My first night in Camp 10, sleeping in the best bivy spot. The view is looking across the Taku Glacier at the Taku Towers (they can be spotted right in the middle of the peaks shown). This night included both an early morning sprinkle and a glaring sun wake-up. Photo by Auri Clark.

3.  The JIRP schedule tends to run on a different clock than the usual. I’m not talking about using military time, although that has been quite the learning experience for me as well. If it’s 0845 and the staff says you MUST be ready for today’s excursion at 0900, you should try and be ready by 0930 and if you’re with an especially prompt group, you may even leave by 1000.

4.  I thought I knew about sunburns before coming up to the icefield as I’ve had my fair share of painful experiences with them before. During our mini traverse, one of our first days out on the snow and ice for nearly 10 hours in beautiful weather, I applied sunscreen diligently at every opportunity. I even put zinc oxide on my nose and cheeks to save what I know as my most vulnerable sunburn spots, despite my concern for looking dorky in all the awesome pictures I was sure to be featured in. I was so proud of myself going to bed that night without any burns, unlike many of my goggle-tanned companions, but this joy quickly disappeared upon waking up the next morning. The sun reflecting off the snow managed to fry the entire interior of my nose. I couldn’t wipe or even touch my consistently runny nose for the next couple days without thinking my whole nose might be peeling off with the amount of pain it caused. If you are planning on spending a full day with sun exposure coming from below as it reflects off the snow, don’t forget to apply sunscreen to the inside of your nose. I wouldn’t recommend applying sunscreen to the inside of your mouth, but do try and get rid of wide-open mouth breathing habits as well.

The trail party ahead of my own using crampons to navigate the ablation zone on the Lemon Creek Glacier during our mini traverse, with beautiful and dangerous blue sky above. Photo by Auri Clark.

The trail party ahead of my own using crampons to navigate the ablation zone on the Lemon Creek Glacier during our mini traverse, with beautiful and dangerous blue sky above. Photo by Auri Clark.

5.  No matter how full you are, you can always seem to fit in one more piece of pilot bread. For those of you who don’t know what pilot bread is, it is a palm-sized, flavorless cracker, and they are absolutely addicting. It’s not so much the plain cracker I crave at the end of every day, but the endless number of topping combinations: peanut butter and jelly; butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar; leftover spaghetti sauce and parmesan cheese; the leftover mix of sauce and salad dressing left at the bottom of your dinner bowl. Whatever you are eating, it somehow tastes better on pilot bread. Just know that once you try one topping with pilot bread, you will end up trying every topping and every combination of toppings with pilot bread by the end of the night. And the next night you will try them all again.

Many of these findings may not be applicable to the remainder of my life, and probably not most of yours, but they do present a good insight into the icefield lifestyle. And to the future JIRPers reading this blog—remember these lessons, as I am confident they will still be relatable for the summers to come.

FFNL

Kristen Lyda Rees

University of Alaska Southeast

Throughout the process of becoming a FGER at JIRP, I have learned many things. Such as the true extent of the scientific community’s love of acronyms. Therefore, this blog is titled ‘FFNL’. FFNL is representative of Family, Friendship, Nunataks, and Loyalty.

Long ago, banners and standards were raised in progressions of your family. Crests and flags were a reflection of who you were loyal to and what you fought for. We don’t necessarily all walk around with a standard blowing in the wind before us, but we often wear the banner of others. If we all looked down at the clothes we’re wearing and the stickers we put on our water bottles, we’d see the labels and logos of a company, corporation, or organization whose material products we use and believe in. This is not a bad thing, but I believe it is an important insight to recognize which kickball team we are playing for, whom we are showing allegiance to and whose battles we are fighting in. Our friends and teams are things we get to mindfully select in this life.  I hope the staff and faculty all look at their JIRP badges and feel proud of what they’re fighting for.

Kristen Lyda Rees and JIRP friends in the Camp 17 cook shack. Photo by M. Beedle.

Kristen Lyda Rees and JIRP friends in the Camp 17 cook shack. Photo by M. Beedle.

Where we come from and who our family is are two things we don’t have the privilege of choosing in life. Our parents play a massive role in forming us as citizens of society and organisms with a niche in the ecosystem of Earth. I could write an equal and separate paper with respect towards the lessons I’ve learned from my mother. She is a glorious reflection of humanity and I owe her much, but I’m going to talk about my father for a minute. A few days ago, I got news my dad had had a seizure and lost motor skills and sensation in the left side of his body. Yesterday, he went into brain surgery to remove an egg sized tumor growing on the surface of his brain. He is doing very well and I even spoke to him for a few minutes. He is proud to be able to touch his finger to his nose. He should be leaving the hospital in the next day or two.

In Terry Tempest William’s ‘Refuge’ she speaks of growing up in Utah within the cultural bounds of the Mormon Church and her ties to the natural realm of the high desert.

“It is a well-known story in the Desert West, ‘The day we bombed Utah’ or more accurately, the years we bombed Utah: above ground atomic testing in Nevada took place from January 27th 1951 through July 11th 1962. Not only were the winds blowing north, covering ‘low-use segments of the population’ with fallout and leaving sheep dead in their tracks, but the climate was right. The United States of the 1950’s was red, white, and blue. The Korean War was raging, McCarthyism was rampant. Ike was it, and the cold war was hot. If you were against the nuclear testing, you were for a communist regime.”

My father and many of the people who were born and raised in small, rural communities of southern Utah in the fifties and sixties are what are called ‘Downwinders’.

Devon Rees is an old farmer, a wizard with any tool, and he can fix anything. I owe most of what I know about hard work, loyalty, self-sufficiency, and a sensitivity of nature to him. I spent a great deal of my childhood living on a 1000 acre ranch in south central Utah; following him around, hauling hay, learning the effects of the changing seasons, being assistant flashlight holder, feeding animals, and watching him to see what it meant to contribute to the bigger picture. A hammer is a hammer, a nail is a nail and the horse corral is not going to fix itself. All experiences that have molded me and my values as an adult. Now that I have queries and a path of my own, we do not agree on many things.  He is a vestige of a different age. Born in Richfield, Utah on March 6th 1950, he was raised to see the world and the cosmos in a certain way. Not the wrong way, as I’ve learned, just a certain way. I myself believe in science and the power of the human potential where he believes in a magnificent and benevolent god that created the universe; he is a loyal soldier of God and has taught me how and whom I choose to owe my allegiance to with care. I am a loyal barnacle.

Given the circumstances, I didn’t know how to share this life experience with my JIRP compatriots, but this seemed like a good way to express my gratitude for the support and love I’ve received from my community here at Camp 10. It has been a constant learning experience and I’m grateful for the lessons I learn from everyone. I thought I’d be coming up here to the Icefield to collect the stories of others and here I am, sharing mine with them instead. There is a saying ‘show me your friends and I will show you your future.’ Being a part of JIRP, I’ve seen many beautiful reflections of humanity and different ways of being alive. We cannot as individuals, experience all the same life paths, our time here isn’t long enough. But that’s what friends are for: sharing our lives with others makes our own and each other’s far richer and more valuable.

". . . beneath all the ice, all nunataks are connected." A team of JIRPers crosses Taku Glacier. Photo by M. Beedle.

". . . beneath all the ice, all nunataks are connected." A team of JIRPers crosses Taku Glacier. Photo by M. Beedle.

My favorite wall quote is in the Red Dog(outhouse), “No man is a Nunatak.” Nunataks are rocky islands that dot the frozen landscapes of icefields and icesheets. They are the sharp, lonely mountain tops that poke out above the thousands of meters of snow and ice that separate them. It is important to remember that beneath all the ice, all nunataks are connected. We are all the same continent separated by socially constructed illusions of differences between us, the world over. As we learn more about the reality we share and broaden our sense of place in our environment, remember we are all in part of the same whole.  We are united under a shared vulnerability. There is no ‘Us vs Them’. The problems we face on one side of the planet aren’t THEIR problems, they’re OUR problems. As we advance our scientific knowledge and technology, we must work to develop the connections between us as a species and as friends.

Dendrochronology - Stories Told By Tree

Dendrochronology – Stories Told By trees

Alexandra Kessler, University of Zurich

 

Trees are everywhere, in our backyards, framing streets, and in forests all over the world. Most of them outlive us by many years and then some, remembering environmental events much more accurately then we could remember a meal from last week. Through the science of dendrochronology, we can access the huge archive of information stored in each and every tree. We start with an introduction into a tree’s life:

The life of a tree starts by fighting against huge odds to be able to survive the first couple of years. They get eaten by animals, attacked by fungi and have to fight against the environment on top of that: a roasting sun, the cold in the winter or the wind (with razor sharp snow in cold climate) pressing them to the ground.

A stem-layered spruce with dead "vertical leaders" (places it tried to become an upright tree and lost) along the (comparatively) very old stem. Back at Camp 17, the JIRP team worked on samples from dead sections like these. Photo courtesy of Jeremy…

A stem-layered spruce with dead "vertical leaders" (places it tried to become an upright tree and lost) along the (comparatively) very old stem. Back at Camp 17, the JIRP team worked on samples from dead sections like these. Photo courtesy of Jeremy Littell.

The year of a seasonally growing tree is very busy: Trees grow every spring as fast as they can to repair seasonal winter damage, regenerate, grow taller and, if they still have some energy left, they grow in width. All of their energy for this must be made from photosynthesis (using sunlight to produce sugar). Just below the bark they grow long cells with thin walls, creating a light brown ring. Trees try to make the most of summer months when they get the most energy from the sun, hoping not to run out of water or get too hot. During autumn, darker and shorter cells with more lignum (the material making wood) grow denser than the spring cells.  Then the tree shuts down, preparing for the cold by reducing the amount of water in the cells and adding sugar to lower the freezing temperature of their cells.

One of these pairs of light and dark cells is called a tree ring, representing one year of growth. If the tree has a good year, it may use the increased energy to produce broader rings. If the tree has a bad year, it may produce either narrow rings or no rings at all, as most or all its energy goes into repair and regeneration.  The amount of energy a tree has to use depends on regional effects, like changes in temperature and precipitation, and local effects that only impact a few trees, such as water or mineral shortage, longer snow cover in concave slopes and competition between nearby trees. Counting these rings tells us how old the tree is, and measuring their width tells us how it has fared over the years. The tree ring succession acts like a barcode and can be extended by looking at older trees or trees which have been preserved in swamps or in lateral moraines of glaciers (see figure 1). Using tree rings like this, we can reconstruct a very long record of tree rings going back 11,000 years. If you find a tree in a swamp for example you could find out its age by going into the international database of tree ring records and compare its barcode to the record.

Drs. Catharine White and Jeremy Littell hike back to Camp 17 along Blackerby Ridge during the 'Blackerby Ridge Botany Bonanza'. Photo courtesy of Matt Beedle.

Drs. Catharine White and Jeremy Littell hike back to Camp 17 along Blackerby Ridge during the 'Blackerby Ridge Botany Bonanza'. Photo courtesy of Matt Beedle.

Dendrochronology puts these barcodes of life into context. During bad years, trees can be limited by water, temperature, snow cover, or other variables. Thus, the ups and downs can be correlated with events like temperature fluctuations. The trees can therefore give us valuable information about the climate of the past. By comparing trees from all over the world, we are able to find a common climate signal, telling the story of global climate fluctuations through time. We can observe large-scale events like atmospheric warming, as the trees have this information imprinted in their cell tissue. Even the tree in your backyard can tell you how the weather has been of every year it has survived, its memory written into the tree rings.

On the way up to Camp 17, Jeremy Littell (USGS Research Scientist and JIRP Faculty) and other JIRPers collected samples from trees near tree line. Jeremy would drill a tube into the tree, which was about half a centimeter in diameter (quarter an inch). These core samples from living and dead trees were then treated with sand paper to make the tree rings more visible. Under the microscope we could then count the number of tree rings. One tree with the thickness of a lower arm was 100 years old, that made it quite hard to tell the rings apart because they were that near to each other. The oldest one of the collected samples was about 200 years old.

So why do people working on a glacier care about trees? Trees and glaciers do actually respond similarly to the climate. When there is a year with a lot of snow and is cold, a glacier is happy. A tree however will be freezing and sad, creating only a small ring. Therefore, a glacier’s mass balance and the tree’s growth patterns, represented in the thickness of the tree ring, correspond. This means, that we can reconstruct a glacier’s mass balance in a time when there was no JIRP around to measure it.

Eric Kittilsby, Kellie Schaefer, Catharine White, Alexandra Kessler and Jeremy Littell work with their samples and field notes after returning from Blackerby Ridge. Photo courtesy of Matt Beedle.

Eric Kittilsby, Kellie Schaefer, Catharine White, Alexandra Kessler and Jeremy Littell work with their samples and field notes after returning from Blackerby Ridge. Photo courtesy of Matt Beedle.

-Kessler Alexandra with the help of Jeremy Littell, thanks for Molly this is now in actual English, and thanks to Annie... it did not get too long!

The Moment It Hit Me

The Moment It Hit Me

DJ Jarrin, Colorado Mesa University

 

    Throughout all our lives we are always anticipating things. We are always planning, hoping, and preparing so when a big moment finally comes, we might find ourselves absolutely ready.

    When it came to JIRP I found myself anticipating and planning unlike ever before because this journey is unlike anything I have ever done. I found myself with a huge laundry list of supplies, most of which I had never used before in my life. The excitement for the unknown, supported by the pile of mysterious equipment, heightened my anticipation for what was to come out on the icefield this summer. For the months leading up to my departure, I could only imagine how life would be out on the icefield, how would everyone get along, and, most importantly, what would we eat. Every day I could feel my anticipation intensify and my wonder grow.

    The day was finally here. It was June 24th, and I was beginning the long four-hour drive from my home to the Denver International Airport with my girlfriend. Between driving and thinking about the amazing adventure that was about to take place, I couldn’t help but memorize the outline of my girlfriend’s face. I couldn’t escape the realization that while I’m out here following a dream, she will be at home bearing the emotions of an all too brief good-bye. She drove off and as I watched her disappear on the lonely airport road, a realization hit me.

    This dream, the uncertainty of what lies ahead, was all real now. There was no turning back as I made my way through the airport. I felt ever so close to the wild unknown we know today as JIRP. For in a few short hours I would be landing in Juneau, Alaska, and my eight week journey would officially begin.

    The wheels touched down and the brakes compressed. The hatch opened, and as I stepped off the plane, I took a moment to collect my thoughts and take in a deep breathe. I’m here, I made it, let the adventure begin.

The mighty Taku Towers. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photograohy

The mighty Taku Towers. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photograohy

Outhouse on the Icefield

Outhouse on the Icefield

Tae Hamm, Lawrence University

 

    As one who has volunteered for outhouse cleaning more than any 2016 JIRP participants thus far, I am quite keen on the politics behind outhouses; you MUST flip the sign to “occupied”, “Het”(Russian for “No”) or simply “No” and you MUST lock the door once you are done with the business. Inside, you MUST remember that we are not technically in a restroom, but rather an outhouse, which means that the toilet you are sitting on is a non-flushing, drop toilet that requires tender love and care. This means throwing toilet paper in the plastic bag sitting next to you, not in the toilet itself. Lastly, hand-sanitizer is not an option, but an obligation, for the sake of the entire camp’s health.

Outhouses on the icefield have history and characters, providing a window into the history of JIRP. Outhouses, among all the facilities in the camps, stand out the most with their extravagant names and omnipresent aroma. Camp 17 has two outhouses, one with a divider (the “Doublewide”) and one without (the “Venus Fly Trap”, a two-seater). Camp 10 hosts a total of four outhouses, all varying in size: Petunia, Red Dog, Dream Land, and the Bomb Shelter (once a storage for explosives as implied by its name). Some of these outhouses were among the first built edifices on the Icefield, at the advent of camp construction; in fact, the oldest building on the Icefield, Petunia, was built in 1949 by R.A. Milan. Although the stories behind many outhouses now remain as urban (or icefield) legend, they are integral parts of the JIRP camp history. Outhouses are shelters for those seeking for a little break from all the group works, but they also bring people together—sometimes quite literally.

The Dreamland outhouse at Camp 10. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

The Dreamland outhouse at Camp 10. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

Outhouses at Camp 17 specifically have been a topic of debate for many JIRPers: the exponential relationship between the camp population and the intensity of aroma in the outhouses, favorite quotes in the Doublewide, and so on.  Most people could only imagine two people casually having a conversation in a two-seater bathroom without a divider, but JIRPers at Camp 17 can experience this first-hand in the Venus Flytrap. The Venus Flytrap offers an awkward experience with its two toilet seats located next to one another. It gives you an illusion that there is privacy, but there really is none once you enter; it may be just a matter of time before a familiar face rushes into the Flytrap. Surprisingly, not many JIRPers are uncomfortable with such encounters; spending every minute together in a small camp community naturally allows one to be—simply put—low maintenance.

The Doublewide, located in front of the library at Camp 17, presents us with wall quotes dating back to 2001 It also presents us with a magnificent view of Lemon Creek Glacier, where JIRPers have their safety training for a week and a half. Here, we can take a peek at Matt Beedle’s (academic director of JIRP) past: “no, no, no, less cool, more scientific”. Dr. Beedle wrote this quote he remembers hearing as a JIRPer. Legend has it that the quote was an instruction from Jeff Barbee, a photographer and staff at the time, to then high-school student Beedle. Barbee was taking a picture of Matt at the Southwest Branch of the Taku Glacier and yelled this quote, requesting a more “scientific pose”, with his hand on top of his head as if he were looking out across the glacier. Like Dr. Beedle who may have been digging a mass balance snow pit on Taku Glacier, I, after a day of digging the same pits on the same glacier, am reminded of a quote written on the Doublewide: “’It’s better to go skiing and think of God, then to go to church and think of sport’- Fridtjof Nansen”.

Camp 10 with the Taku Range in the mist beyond. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

Camp 10 with the Taku Range in the mist beyond. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

In Camp 17, I would often take a moment in the Doublewide to read the quotes on the wall and appreciate the view outside. When you are exhausted from the day’s work, it’s sometimes hard to recognize the astonishing view surroundings us every second. Outhouses are shelters for me to take a break and absorb the magnificent beauty of the Icefield. It shows the history of JIRP, and the course of JIRPers coming together as a group. Being a deadhead (a diehard fan of Grateful Dead), I try to revive myself at the end of an exhausting day with yet another Doublewide quote: “Nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile”. And after all, “not all who wander are lost, some are JIRPers”.

Skiing from Scratch

Skiing from Scratch

Louise Borthwick, Edinburgh University

 

I’ve chosen a slightly misleading title here because I have actually skied before. I learned on downhill skis on the dry ski slope near my home in Edinburgh, Scotland. This slope was made of a mat which was sprayed with water and my parents used to say if you could ski there you could ski anywhere. Coming into JIRP I hadn’t skied for about 10 years but I thought it’s just like riding a bike right, it’ll all come back to me, it’ll be fine.

So when we headed out from Camp 17 for our first ski lesson on Lemon Creek Glacier I didn’t raise my hand as a novice skier and soon found myself a little out of my depth and I was beginning to think maybe I couldn’t ski quite as well as I imagined I could. This made me realize how long it had been since I had learned a new skill from scratch and how it felt to be so hopelessly bad at something despite trying my best. Over the next few days I chose groups better suited to my ability and focused on improving my basic technique in the hope it would make me more confident. It did help and I felt good going down the shallower slope on Lemon Creek with pizza turns.

Tools of the trade resting on the flanks of the Staff Shack at Camp 17. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

Tools of the trade resting on the flanks of the Staff Shack at Camp 17. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

 

The next step in our skiing progression was to move to the slope on the other side of Camp 17 on the Ptarmigan Glacier. This was significantly steeper and as we put our skis on at the top I could feel my heart rate increasing before we’d even moved. The plan was to side hill down, which means going across the slope and so reducing the gradient. When we’d gone as far as we could one way we made a kick turn (or switchback) which involved standing on one ski while rotating the other one 180 degrees (or as close as possible) then transferring the weight to that ski and bringing the first ski round so we were facing the opposite direction. We’d then head in that direction till we had to do another kick turn. It sounds simple but I was always very conscious of the steep slope dropping away on my downhill side and standing on one ski didn’t feel the most stable. It was unnerving to say the least and I was soon falling over, even when I was only trying to stand still. It was a frustrating experience and I felt like I wasn’t getting any better. Catherine suggested leaning into the slope and Ibai had us lifting up and down our uphill ski to emphasize we should have our weight on our downhill ski. With these tips I made it down, with a few more falls, we then used our skins to go back up.

Louise and her trail party skiing the traverse from Camp 17 to Camp 10. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

Louise and her trail party skiing the traverse from Camp 17 to Camp 10. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

 

After a few more days practice the morning came for the traverse to Camp 10, and with it a chance to put my newly learned skiing skills to test. I went with the option of walking down the steepest bit of slope on the side of the Lemon and felt things were going pretty well once I got on my skis. The snow was very hard because it was so early and cold, and it was full of sun cups so it was very bumpy, but I stayed upright. When we got to the steeper bottom part I had a series of fall down/get up moments and Kirsten took my backpack down to the blue ice (thanks Kirsten!). I was feeling pretty despondent but I’d been told Lemon Creek was one of the hardest bits of skiing of the day and that kept me going.

The author, third from left (standing), ready to depart Camp 17 with her trail party...the first team to head out on the traverse this season! Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography

The author, third from left (standing), ready to depart Camp 17 with her trail party...the first team to head out on the traverse this season! Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography

 

We covered a lot of different terrain on the traverse, it seemed mainly uphill, and on the next bit of descent on skis down into Death Valley Ibai suggested I keep my skins on to aid control. I did and it was great; harder work but I didn’t fall. Once we got down to the flat bottom of Death Valley I took my skins off and it was honestly the most amazing feeling to be able to glide again. I was kicking and gliding along and Kirsten and Mo had their music playing on speakers and it was a very surreal experience to be skiing across a glacier in the middle of nowhere signing along to music. Finally all the practice had come together and I felt the freedom of skiing for the first time.

Louise enjoying a hard-won rest with fellow JIRPers at the Norris Cache, halfway through the ski traverse from Camp 17 to Camp 10. Photo courtesy PBJ Photography.

Louise enjoying a hard-won rest with fellow JIRPers at the Norris Cache, halfway through the ski traverse from Camp 17 to Camp 10. Photo courtesy PBJ Photography.

JIRPers: From Different to Dynamic, Thanks to a Glacier

JIRPers: From Different to Dynamic, Thanks to a Glacier

Molly Peek, Smith College

 

As JIRP students, we come to Juneau with a few heavy bags and maybe a bit of nervousness. We were thrown into a group of 32 students from all over the world, all hoping that the gaps between us weren’t large enough to fall through. While fresh off the plane, my nervousness could be understood; as I sit at Camp 10 today, surrounded by people from Juneau to North Carolina to Switzerland, common ground seems less important than ever before. We are all sharing a glacier, after all, and isn’t that enough? JIRP draws students from all walks of life and from all over the world, and that expansive group, concentrated into tiny camps on islands of rock in fields of snow, matters in the science we do, enriching the questions we ask.

Surrounded by such individuals, I have found myself in the middle of a group with such varied backgrounds and interests that I wonder how it is we all found our way here. Many would consider this place to be the middle of nowhere, but somehow we have all decided that this piece of nowhere is scientifically significant enough to explore and to investigate.

JIRP Field Staff, Matt Pickart, Allie Strel, and Annie Boucher share a laugh at Camp 17. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography

JIRP Field Staff, Matt Pickart, Allie Strel, and Annie Boucher share a laugh at Camp 17. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography

So here we are, two weeks in, excited about glacier travel and sunshine. As we transition to the part of the season that focuses on science, however, it becomes clear that JIRP isn’t just about skiing with your friends and talking about your favorite types of cheese.  After Juneau Week, Safety Week at Camp 17, and a long traverse to Camp 10, it is time to focus on what we all came here to do, and leave cheese conversations to long traverses as field work takes precedence.  

Outside of lectures and research proposals, however, I find myself learning about much more than glaciers. On the long (and incredibly, stupefying beautiful) slog from Camp 17 to Camp 10, we discussed geophysics and research in Antarctica in between favorite books and widespread dislike of Twizzlers (personally, I stand by them). I have talked about the struggles of chemistry and academia at colleges around the country, trail etiquette on East and West Coasts, and how the natural world is amazingly interconnected with every aspect of our lives, linking us to each other in more ways than seem possible. Admittedly, most of these conversations were sandwiched between more poop stories than I have ever heard in my life. However, conversations always come back to the glacier, and how it connects us as humans from different cultures and interests.

The glacier links us as students to staff and faculty, and every way in between as we learn together about the new surprises of the changing landscape. The trail conversations we strike up connect us JIRPers as humans outside of the Juneau Icefield (which, although it is hard to believe right now, does still exist) as we discuss our homes and schools, how we ended up here and where we came from, and where we want to go. These stories also connect us as scientists, as we come out of our own small worlds to see how our own relationships to glaciers are completely different from those of others. These realizations are becoming increasingly important as our world changes rapidly, with the environment driving upheaval in all disciplines. Changes in climate on the east coast cannot be divorced from events happening to glaciers here in Alaska. If we are to investigate changes in the environment with an aim to make society better, we must work with people from a variety of locations and experiences and integrate the struggles and opportunities from all parts of the world.

Tiny camps on islands of rock in fields of snow. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

Tiny camps on islands of rock in fields of snow. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

In my view, the key here is people. People ask the questions, do the research, and take the hit from changes in climate and miscommunication. But as we learned in elementary school, every person is different. We are all prone to different thoughts and actions based on our unique experiences. It is important that JIRP brings people together from different backgrounds and experiences, but there is still more to be done, both at JIRP and elsewhere. Differences are important and useful, and the questions that come from those differences meeting in a common space, scientific and otherwise, must be honored and cultivated for lasting change. Learning about your research partner’s background is important to the work we do, because it brings context to the study. Why do we ask the questions we ask? Why are they different from our neighbor’s? The long trail conversations count, even those involving poop stories.

The author, in yellow with cup in hand, sharing stories in camp with fellow JIRPers. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

The author, in yellow with cup in hand, sharing stories in camp with fellow JIRPers. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography.

Plant Succession Along the Lemon Creek Trail

Plant Succession Along the Lemon Creek Trail

Mo Michels, University of Alaska Southeast

 

In our first daylong hike of the summer traverse, we JIRPers experience a transition of plant succession that in other places may spread across entire regions. What may take days to traverse in other parts of the world we hike through in a matter of hours, traveling from where coastal estuaries meet the ocean through mature forests, on through young forest, up into the wet vertical swampy stands that in turn bring us to tree line, and on and on into alpine meadows and only recently vegetated landscape of lichen and mosses. The uniqueness of this journey through time is due in part to the landscape of Southeast Alaska. Magnificent moving masses of ice excavated the landscape not long ago in the geologic past. Moving away from the coastline fjords and channels that harbor coastal towns, the ice crept back into the mountains leaving in its wake a succession of plant life. With the hike that JIRPers take up the Lemon Creek Trail to approach Camp 17 we were fortunate enough to see an abbreviated history of this process within a span of mere hours.

Driving to the trailhead was truly the beginning of this journey. Looking out the windows of the van, we saw a tidal estuary full of ducks, tideland plants, and grasses.

Having arrived at the trailhead, we marched through older and established coastal temperate rainforest. The over story of Sitka Spruce and Hemlock loomed above us, their towering trunks reaching over a hundred feet into the sky. The canopy filtered out the majority of the light, but Devil’s Club and other mid layer plants intermingled with the giants. In the gaps left by the fallen trees, the underbrush prospered, reaching up from mother logs to take advantage of these small breaks in the otherwise shading canopy. Passing through the mature forest, we made our way along a section of the riparian zone next to Lemon Creek. Here we went through a stand of alders, much younger and more uniform in diameter and spacing, their branches ending all around the same height and a layer of moss coating the smooth bark of their trunks. The only other obvious foliage were hemlock seedlings interspersed among the alders. In time, as this forest matures, the hemlocks may grow and dominate the upper canopy, shading out the alders.

As we left the riverbank, we skirted the edges of an active gravel quarry. The alien presence of trucks and heavy equipment was unavoidable and the anthropogenic influences on the morphology of the river were apparent where we walked. The edges of the stream were barren, recently excavated and flattened, and there was a manufactured hillside that was green with some recently sprayed fertilizing agent.

Crossing back out of the riparian zone, we passed through the mature forest before our journey took us into an area of wet soil pockets and swampy ground. Here the sedges, orchids and skunk cabbage prospered. This part of the trail went up for a couple kilometers before flattening briefly into meadows spotted with muskeg ponds and mud pits. All kinds of blueberry bushes flourished along the edges of the trail, heavy with fat juicy berries. Only after picking a few hundred did we began to notice the subtle differences between the two species, the blue and red huckleberries.

We traveled onward, delayed by berry picking only long enough to wish we had a bucket to save them. Each bush we passed taunted us with its burden, until we finally found ourselves leaving tree line to enter an alpine meadow. The tall trunks of spruce and hemlock and the trill of birds were replaced by the buzzing of fat bumblebees as they flitted between grasses to wild geranium, to alpine lupine, to dwarf fireweed.

As we hiked ever higher, the greenery changed once more. This time the darker green of mosses and lichens replaced the lighter green alpine grasses. These mosses and lichens mark the first succession of plant life onto a glacially carved landscape. Small primary successional plants break down rock, adding limiting nutrients like nitrogen to the ecologic system and allowing for later successional plants like the ones in the alpine meadow to come in and take root.

Eventually, as we climbed even higher, this low lying, hardy, vegetation gave way in some places to exposed, barren rock, and then to actual ice. At this point Camp 17 emerged from the clouds and the Lemon Creek and Ptarmigan Glaciers marked the end of successional vegetation changes. As the glaciers continue their retreat and the ice melts away to expose more bare rock,  the lichens and mosses will begin to take hold and continue the upward march of plant life towards the ridge line.

Author Mo Michels on the ski traverse from Camp 17 to Camp 10. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography

Author Mo Michels on the ski traverse from Camp 17 to Camp 10. Photo courtesy of PBJ Photography