Stupid Students

I taught a lab today and thought I’d get some good material for my blog, but alas, the students worked hard and had great attitudes.

Stupid students.

Thinking about school reminded me of my undergraduate vertebrate biology class. One day we were discussing birds. We learned that a ratite is a flightless bird, like an emu, an ostrich and a kiwi. That same day we talked about glide polars, flight curves of birds. While the professor drew a glide polar on the board, one student raised her hand and said, “So then what’s the glide polar of a ratite?”

Like I said, stupid students.

Down Periscope

A couple years after I heard about the guy who fell into a bear den, I found myself doing a lot of winter work in the woods. I was working with two men and we were surveying snags (dead trees) in a recently burned area. Two of us would post-hole through the snow along transects and count the snags. The third person post-holed between us and recorded the numbers we shouted. The two people on the end were approximate fifteen meters from the middle person. We did our best to stay together.

One day, as we counted and recorded snags, I heard one of my coworkers cry out. But when I looked over, I didn't see him.

“Where’s Bob?” I asked.

“Here!” Bob shouted.

I scanned the area until I finally spotted him, or rather, I spotted his head poking out of the snow, a big grin on his face. When I realized what had happened, I laughed. Bob was fine. He had taken a step and fallen through the snow into a burned out stump hole. A perfect place for a bear den. Fortunately, this time there was no bear.

Bootjacked

When I started working in wildlife, I worked with a guy whose name I can’t remember, but he told me a story I will never forget. He was walking through the woods in the winter and fell a couple of feet through the snow. A warm gust of stinky air wafted up from the hole. A second later, the ground under his feet began to move. Then the ground took hold of his leg, and instantly, he realized what had happened:

He’d fallen into a bear den and landed on a hibernating bear.

He doesn't remember how, but he managed to make it to his truck--which was a mile away. Not until he got into the truck did he realize he only had one boot.

Possible CATastrophes Thwarted:

One snow-covered, moonlit night, I hiked up an old logging road. The snow was knee high and crunchy. The kind that supports your weight for a millisecond before you drop through. I hiked about two miles then turned around and began hooting for spotted owls. Not more than ten minutes after I began hooting, I heard something crunching below me in the woods. I stopped, thinking my ears were playing tricks on me. The crunching continued then stopped. I took a couple steps. The crunching followed.

Adrenaline shot through me as my brain ran through the things it could and could not be. Not a bear. They were still hibernating. Not a wolf. They weren’t in the area. Not a deer or elk. They would run away and sound very different in the snow. It had to be big enough to break through the crust. So what could it be?

Cougar.

Not optimal considering I was almost two miles from my truck. I had heard many stories of cougars escorting people out of their territories—I’d also heard stories of cougars attacking people—the cougars simply wanted to see what the people were up to and followed them until the people left their territory. I also knew I couldn’t outrun a cougar…even if I wasn’t knee-high in snow. So I really hoped this was a curious cat, not a hungry one.

I hiked slowly and deliberately, crunching as loud as I could. I put my hands in the air to make myself look as big as I could. Fortunately, I had a backpack on, which helped me look bigger. The cat followed me for a mile or more then left. When I finally made it to the truck, I radioed my partner and told him I was done early because I had a cougar stalking me.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now, get over here and pick me up. I’ve been throwing rocks at a cougar for the past thirty minutes.”

OutFoxed:

When I worked on Cactus Island, I was not only issued a Leatherman, I was given a pair of leather gloves.

“What are these for?” I naively asked.

“You’ll see,” said my boss.

For this job, we live-trapped feral cats. Occasionally, we’d catch an Island fox. When we caught our first fox, our boss put on his gloves, made a fist and stuck his hand in the trap. Though the fox opened his mouth to bite him, the fox’s mouth was too small to get around his fist. My boss grabbed the fox by the scruff of the neck and pulled it out of the trap. Then he set it in his lap on its back. He kept the fox still with one hand pressing lightly around its neck. The fox just laid there and let us check it over before we released it. Easy.

“Don’t worry if it tries to bite you,” he said as I prepared to pull my first fox out of a trap. “Its mouth isn’t big and his teeth aren’t sharp enough to get through the gloves.”

“Okay,” I said, then stuck my fist into the trap. Sure enough the fox snapped at me, but I held steady. I’d watch my boss do it, and he said the gloves would protect me. I had complete faith.

Idiot.

Sure enough, the fox got his mouth around my much smaller fist with no problem. Then it sunk its tiny teeth through the glove into my flesh.

“Ow!” I pulled my hand out of the trap and ripped off my glove. Blood flowed out of several tooth marks. I shot an angry look at my boss.

He simply laughed. “Yeah…I might’ve lied about them not being able to bite through the glove.”

Tucker...the Little You Know What.

I could write a book about my dogs that would make Marley and Me look like a day at the beach. Granted, dogs are not wildlife, but they’re animals, and mine provide an endless supply of stories. Anyone who knows me (and my dogs) will vouch for this.

Tucker is a twelve-year-old Aussie. I hoped by twelve he would’ve calmed down or gained some sense. But no, he still howls every time I leave the house. I can hear him a block away. He’s still petrified of thunder, lightning, fireworks and his shadow. If I’m home during a thunderstorm, he shakes and pants uncontrollably. If I’m not and there’s a loud noise, his only goal is to run. If he’s outside, he jumps the fence or digs under it. If he’s inside, he digs at the windows and the doors, trying to break free. He has dug all the way through the wall of a house…twice. Several weeks ago, he actually opened the back door.

Last week, I came home to a redecorated house. Tucker had taken down the blinds and destroyed them.

Why?

There was no rain, no thunder, no lightning, but I believe there was a cloud in the sky that day.

My Stupid Sense of Humor

Insight into how my brain works…or doesn’t.

Last week, a friend of mine, who is highly intelligent, told me HER BOSS sent an email with a SYNAPSES (his word, not hers) of their meeting.

I laughed so hard then got angry because he is her boss! He shouldn’t be so stupid!

My response?

“He’s such a NEURON.”