6:32 am: Bar Harbor, ME

The patter of rain slows long enough for me to emerge from my soggy tent, where I am greeted by my latest single-serving friend. I met Don yesterday while we were standing in line for the last remaining campsite in Blackwoods Campground, Acadia National Park. With only three tent sites remaining and a line of anxious faces behind us, we decided to share a site. We remain standing while we eat Honey Bunches of Oats; the picnic table is too wet even to lean on.

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Rattle my bones

Dripping with cultural history and utterly unique, the objects cradled in Connor Stedman’s excited hands burned with sentimental value. Their glow reflected in Connor’s eyes and didn’t flicker for an instant upon the delivery of my first question.

“So, what are they?”

To the untrained eye, they were two pieces of wood roughly the size and shape of tongue depressors, but slightly heftier and square at the ends. Connor explained it was a set of bones: A historically Irish one-handed musical instrument that is played by holding one bone stationary while rattling the other bone against it.

While the traditional instrument was made from sheep’s bones, Connor’s version originated as the South American tree palo santo, or “holy wood” in Spanish. Palo santo’s use as a good luck charm and a cleanser of bad energy dates back to the Inca era. Connor says that he’s never heard of another pair of bones made from palo santo.

Connor carved his bones in anticipation of a local visit by Irish bard Gerry Brady, who described bones as “the only instrument you can play with a pint in the other hand”. Gerry blessed this set of bones himself.

Dripping with cultural history and utterly unique, Connor had produced an item that was quintessentially Connor. I was pleased to find that I was not the only Field Naturalist with a very special item in my backpack.

Lovin’ spoonfuls

The “What’s in your Backpack?” project began with an orange spoonfork. No, not a spork. “Spork” implies tiny tongs on the end of a spoon. My beloved spoonfork has a spoon on one end of the handle and a fork on the other.

The spoonfork lives in my backpack for the obvious reason: It is saving the ocean.  Continue reading →

I’m not actually required to wear a lab coat.

“OH! It’s called a ligule, not a sheath!” I was huddled over a microscope while mentally scolding myself for years of misunderstanding a plant term. These “D’OH!” moments were frequent during my botany class, but on this Wednesday morning, my surprise was particularly acute. I examined a blade of grass as my mind drifted back to the last time that I had encountered the finer anatomy of this plant family; it was during my first science illustration job, four years ago, in Yosemite.

One afternoon, I was toiling over the kitchen table that served as my drawing desk when I was approached by a student researcher bearing a fistful of tall, feathery grass. He explained that velvet grass was among 190 invasive plant species in Yosemite, and that it was endangering the tiny population of endemic plants within the park. He advocated a simple idea: to use park visitors as a tool for locating and mapping invasive species for potential removal by The Park Service.

First, he needed an illustration of velvet grass that visitors could use for identification. We agreed that we needed an image of the grass when it was flowering, one image after the grass had gone to seed, and an image depicting the sheath of the grass. The sheath was the most important part – its presence separated velvet grass from other grasses… or so, I thought.

Suddenly, I awoke from my daydream. I was back in Wednesday morning botany class, and I had just learned that my illustration was wrong! What I had believed was a sheath was actually a ligule, or a tiny, papery membrane where the leaf blade joins the stem. All grasses have sheaths and ligules, but some grasses can be identified by the shape and color of their ligule.

My friends and family sometimes wonder why I’ve abandoned a life of glamorous, self-employed illustration work in favor of apparent mental anguish over a botany microscope. To me, the answer is simple. The “AH-HA!” moments, or times when I learn something new or realize I was completely wrong, are frequent in the Field Naturalist Program. Each one reminds me of why I chose this path: I want to become a better illustrator and a better science communicator.

Some days, I feel like I’m in over my head. I have a 20 hour/week teaching commitment on top of my schoolwork, and this semester I illustrated a book, too. I teach “Biology for Biology Majors II” lab… and guess what… I was never a biology major! (Some of my students found one of my websites the other day… I wonder when they’ll realize I’m an imposter! Or when they’ll find this blog. Uh oh.)

It’s all worth it.