My life could be a reality TV show:

At least that’s what one of my techs told me. “Just watching you walk through the woods is hilarious!” he said, laughing so hard he was bent over, holding his stomach.

So what had him in stitches and declaring me a reality TV moron?

After hiking all day, and not more than five yards from the truck, I stuck my hands in my pockets. Two steps later, I tripped (on nothing but air) and fell forward.

Hands in pockets.

Face in dirt.

Just Another Day in German Creek:

Anyone who worked on my crew the first year knows and hates German Creek. This canyon almost killed us several times. Every time we entered, we’d try a different (hopefully easier) way. We tried the north side, but it was too steep and rocky, and the downed trees were so big I looked like a dying floppy fish every time I crawled over them. The south side was a combination of sheer rock interspersed with what we referred to as “Willow Hell”—a tangle of willow too thick to break through and guaranteed to dump a few hundred ticks on your back. No, the easiest way to get into German Creek was straight up a steep sandy slope that literally fell out from underneath you every time you took a step. This was exhausting, especially with a 50lb pack on your back. We went to that creek at least thirty times one summer (sometimes twice in one day.) We suffered from heat exhaustion and massive allergy attacks. We also took some serious falls, but miraculously, no one on my crew got hurt.

The second year, we changed our study design and didn’t have to hike into German Creek until the end of the season. At this point it was just me and my lead tech. We knew what we were in for, so we bit the bullet and went in.

“Not too bad,” each of us said on the way out.

We spoke too soon.

I took a step and felt the hillside fall out from underneath me like an avalanche of dirt. Somehow, I managed to dive forward and grab the willows in front of me as my body fell downward. After all was said and done, I was left hanging from two vines with no footing underneath me, screaming at the top of my lungs, “I hate F*@! German Creek!”

My Mother Wishes I Was A Botanist

Although she’s proud of what I do, I know my mother wishes I studied something smaller and a lot less carnivorous. Like bunnies. Or apples. While working, I've often found myself shaking my head, glad my mother wasn't around to see something. One particular day stands out to me because it was the first time I thought it on this project.

I was crashing through a tangle of bushes taller than me. The only time I could see over them was when I stood on a fallen tree or stump. I didn’t think much of it when I heard the brush crack somewhere down the slope and to my left. I figured I’d spooked something. But as the cracking got louder and closer, I thought maybe I should check things out.

Pretty sure it was a deer, I jumped on a stump and stood on my tiptoes. When I caught the undulating movement of a dark brown back, I knew it wasn’t a deer. It was a bear. And it was heading straight for me.

So what did I do?

I yelled, “Hey bear!” and stuck my arms in the air so it could see me. Instantly, the crashing noise stopped. A second later, two brown ears popped up. They weren’t more than ten feet away. Then they disappeared and the crashing started again. But this time in the opposite direction.

I sighed, yelled down the hill at my techs to let them know a bear might be coming their way, then smiled. That was the first bear I’d seen that year. Granted I only saw his back and his ears, but it was pretty cool. Then I laughed, and thought, “Thank God my mother wasn’t here to see this.”

A Colossal Waste of Time, Breath, Energy...You Name it.

The night I encountered the baby deer, I was searching for my missing techs. It had been dark for a couple hours and still no sign of them at camp. Because no one cares about us, but us, we didn’t get radios. We got a buddy system. Because they were not working together, but neither had shown up, I was a little concerned.

As I drove toward their assigned areas, I wondered which way I should go when I got to the intersection. Right would take me toward one tech. Left toward the other. Fortunately, my lead tech was a bright boy. He’d left a camp chair at the intersection with a note attached, letting me know I needed to go left. Left would not normally take me toward him. It would’ve taken me toward my idiot tech—the one who tried to drive my truck off the side of a cliff—which told me my lead tech had somehow crossed paths with the idiot.

I drove up the side of the mountain until I ran into both guys and their trucks. One truck had a flat. And not just a flat. A stick, about an inch and a half in diameter, had speared the tire. I’ve driven a lot on back roads and I know what it takes to do something like this.

STUPID ASS DRIVING!!!!

Maintaining my cool, I asked what had happened.

Idiot Tech, who shall now be referred to as IT, said, “I got a flat.”

“Uh huh,” I said while thinking, duh. “How’d it happen?”

“I don’t know.”

You were driving like an idiot, I thought, but said, “Why didn’t you change it?”

“The truck doesn’t have a spare.”

Okay, not his fault. The state agency that leased us the truck should’ve supplied a spare, but they didn’t. They didn’t give a shit about us. I should’ve checked to make sure it had one, but I didn’t. My bad.

“How much work did you get done?” I asked.

My lead tech cringed and shook his head. Apparently, he too had asked, and knew I wouldn’t like the answer.

“Nothing,” said IT then quickly explained why. “I got the flat first thing this morning. I didn’t want to be stranded so I ran down the mountain and waited at the intersection for Lead Tech to come by.”

“I see,” I said, blinking rapidly while screaming in my head: You truly are an idiot! You’re not more than 500 feet from the station at the top of the mountain. You could’ve checked and set it. Then you could’ve grabbed everything you needed for the day, hiked down the mountain to the three other stations that are within an easy walking distance, and you still would’ve have had plenty of time to sit at the intersection and wait. If you were concerned about getting left behind, you could’ve posted a sign. It worked for the lead tech! Worst case, we would’ve come looking for you…like I just did! But no!! Instead, you chose to sit on your ass at an intersection for twelve, yes TWELVE hours!!!!!!!!!!

Deer in the Headlights:

In the world of young ungulates, there are “Hiders” and “Followers.” Hiders lie down and hide while mom forages. Followers tag along. Too often when someone happens along a baby deer alone in the woods, they bring it to a vet or wildlife rehabilitator, thinking the poor fawn has been abandoned. In reality, they just abducted the baby deer. Poor deer.

One night, while driving down a single lane gravel road bordered by a large river on one side and a steep rocky incline on the other, I happened along a momma and her fawn. The fawn was old enough to follow mom at this point and was doing just that. When I came up behind them, momma deer ran for a bit then darted up the hillside, but it was too steep for baby. So it ran, and ran, and ran and ran. Not wanting to stress the poor thing out anymore, I stopped my truck, turned my headlight off and waited for it to go up the bank. After a couple minutes, I turned on my headlights. And there was deer staring right at me. So I turned them off again and waited...again. This time when I turned my lights back on, the deer had curled into a ball in the middle of the road. It was “hiding.” Only it wasn’t. It was in the middle of the road.

I honked my horn. No response. I honked again. Nothing. I got out of the truck and yelled at it. It was still hiding. I walked toward it, shouting and waving my arms about. Still nothing. Finally, I grabbed it around the waist and shook it until it bawled and its little legs wiggled with the need to escape. Then I put it on the ground, slapped it on the ass and yelled, “Natural Selection is not going to be kind to you!”

People never cease to amaze me:

One of my crew members got a truck stuck in the snow, almost toppling it over the edge of the road into a ravine. He did this by being a complete idiot. I don’t think he’d ever driven in the snow before and thought it would be fun to try. The only thing stopping the truck from rolling down the hill was a two-inch sapling and the fact that the truck was buried in the snow.

We dug for I don’t know how long, trying to get the rig unstuck, but it was no use. By this time, it was about eight in the evening, and did I mention…we were in the middle of nowhere. The closest town was fifteen miles down a twisting mountain road, the population of which was fifty.

To our amazement one of those fifty people was on the road with a Boy Scout troop (There were two kids in the troop). Taking pity on us, he said he’d drop off the boys then go home to get his big diesel truck to pull us out.

Yeah, right.

Well, he proved me wrong. True to his word, he returned with his truck…and his poor wife and baby. And somehow, after I don’t know how long, he managed to pull our truck free.

By the time all was said and done, it was close to midnight. We were tired and cold and had almost no idea where we were. But we were very thankful. As if he and his family hadn’t done enough, they asked if we had a place to camp. When we said no, they took us to their home, allowed us to camp in their yard and use their bathroom. This family lived in a one room house and went completely out of their way to help us. I don’t remember their names, but I will always remember their kindness.

And I will never forget the idiot who almost drove my truck off the side of a cliff.

Another Driving Story:

Last summer, my lead tech, two state employees and I met at a four way intersection, each of us driving separate vehicles. We pulled all four trucks to the side of the dirt road to discuss the game plan for the rest of the day. As we talked, we heard a vehicle speeding up the hill toward us. Because it was making such a loud noise, we turned, knowing whatever was coming was big. When I saw the gargantuan motor home barrel around the corner, I silently wondered if we’d all pulled off the road far enough for it to get by. The road was barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. My concern waned when the driver didn’t hit the brakes. He just crested the hill and bombed downward toward our vehicles. I figured if the driver had that sort of confidence, he must have had plenty of room.

Wrong.

The shriek of tearing metal was deafening. I covered my ears and watched, thinking surely the driver would stop. My truck bounced up and down as the motor home tore a hole through it and ripped off the rear taillight. Then it did the exact same thing to the truck behind mine. And the driver never once touched his brakes.

The four of us stood in a dumbfounded stupor as the driver raced down the hill, leaving the scene. Needless to say, when we caught up with the driver (which took awhile because he was driving his ginormous motor home way too fast on a narrow, twisting, gravel road with potholes and washboards), he wasn’t nearly as apologetic as the man on the four-wheeler.

Us: “Excuse me, sir, did you know you hit two state vehicles back there?”

Him: “I had no idea.”

Us, jaws dropped because how could he not have heard or felt it: “Well, you did.”

Him: “I thought there was plenty of room.”

Us: “There would’ve been if you had slowed down, but you didn’t touch your brakes once.”

Him: “Because I thought there was plenty of room, but obviously there wasn’t, so this is your fault.”

Good thing the insurance companies—all three of them—didn’t see it that way.