Reds & Knots
Reds & Knots
The story of another wanderer in
the wilderness begins with a camera, and ultimately ends with the memories
captured with it…
…
Somewhere along the lines of “don’t stop believing,” are some words to
live by. Iterations are out there, but the premise of each are similar. And
whether you’re Jonathan Cain and Steve Perry of Journey or anyone from
anywhere, everyone believes in something, right?
While piano chords hummed and rhythmic guitar riffs rattled radios,
Perry sang words that were eventually repeated by millions of believers. Though
the members of Journey most likely know not of the Red Knot, I can’t blame
them—a combination of the words never crossed my mind until seeing turned
believing.
I am from a land where Red is the color the ground turns in the fall
when Maples and Oaks shed their leaves to prepare for the mind-numbing cold,
and Knots are something you tie when you play ball or crimp a crankbait to the
end of your fishing line.
When I left the crankbait covered waters of Northern Wisconsin in
2022, halfway through getting a college degree, it was for one of my first jobs
as a Ducks Unlimited Intern in Cordova, Alaska. My main duties included
assisting Ducks Unlimited, in collaboration with the U.S. Forest Service
(USFS), with the Dusky Canada Goose Artificial Nest Island Program. I had many
other tasks, none more enjoyable than joining the Alaska Department of Fish
& Game (ADF&G) on a Red Knot Abundance and Prey Availability survey in
Controller Bay, Alaska.
For 12 days, Nick Docken, a USFS wildlife technician, and I camped at
the mouth of the Bering River and shot our best shot at surveying Red Knots for
the ADF&G survey. Nick, thankfully, is someone who has the rare combination
of effort, diligence, and patience to make the most of time and subsequent
adventures, especially when mentoring someone who has never experienced that
level of wilderness camping.
Each morning, I would wake to a cold nose from the brisk nights of a
coastal Alaska spring. If I was lucky and the wind was restful, I would be able
to hear the distant surf of the Gulf of Alaska—broken by the islands of Kayak,
Wingham, and Kanak. To unzip my sleeping bag was to open up to, and embrace,
the morning chill. Joints still stiff and sore from the previous days in the
field, I would reach to the end of my tent, touch my toes and stretch my back
to break in my body, like an old ball glove, for the day ahead.
The sun would rise, even if clouded by the insipid clouds, and the
winter hat I slept in would change to a ball cap and my wool-warmed feet would
slip into my rubber boots for the walk to the cook tent where breakfast was to
be had. While breakfast was prepared, I would pack my bag with important items
to use throughout the day. At the top of the list was snacks and lunch, almost
always Jolly Ranchers and sunflower seeds to pass the time in the vastness of
our walks. If I was lucky, rubber boots could be replaced with crocs, and the wadded-up
sweatshirt that served as my pillow had stayed neatly folded overnight.
We had surprisingly pleasant weather my first time in Controller Bay,
with cloudy, windy, and rainy days being outnumbered by sunny and relatively
calm days. Because the weather can swing from serene to severe in the time it
takes a tide to change, it was important to dress in layers. Usually, waders
were the only additional layer other than pants on the bottom half, but the top
half was where it could sometimes get tricky. I usually wore a lightweight
hoodie underneath everything for the days the sun peaked out and the wind
resided enough to heat the body up. Over the base layer was a fleece and vest,
and for the really raining days, a raincoat that was big enough to cover the
works—including a camera with telephoto lens and binocular harness.
Even on the mornings when resolute rain didn’t seem to be in the
forecast, it may be considered somewhat insane to not carry a raincoat in your
backpack. It was a rule I broke only once in my three seasons in the Bay, and
only on a short survey close to camp.
One day is scribbled in my memory more than any others that spring
with Nick. We had some long and frustrating days that produced little survey
results, and, looking back on them now, they were the beginning of even more
mounted frustration. Yet frustration blurs when success becomes clear, and
clearer success this day could not have been.
We were making our way back to camp for dinner when we spotted a flock
of about 500 Red Knots scattered across the tide line. Survey time slots tempted
us to make a beeline back to camp to satisfy our hunger, but the adventure
called us closer. For no other reason than just for the heck of it really, we
looped around the flock to situate the sun at our backs and stand shin-deep in
the outgoing tide. Red Knots are known to feed right along the tide as it ebbs
and flows, but it is often difficult to approach them at a tide-speed pace so
not to flush the whole flock.
As the tide went out, our patience cashed in. Eventually, gravity
grabbed the salty water and set it far enough away that we were standing high
and dry yet again, surrounded by Red Knots.
Nick has been in the Bay each season after, and he had a similar
experience in 2024. They were so close to him he “just started scanning them
with [his] binoculars,” he said. Though I wasn’t there to witness it with him,
I reminisce often about those days when the flocks were so close you felt
invisible.
But those successful days may have been outnumbered by the number of
times Nick and I got the inflatable boat stuck in an outgoing tide. Thankfully
there were only a few occasions that prompted boat trips, but each time we
would venture far enough away from the boat only to come back and find it high
and dry. Impatient enough to not wait for the tide to float it again, we’d
attach the wheels—one of which was held in place by a flathead screwdriver and
a vice grip pliers—and heave and ho until water came to the rescue. Once or
twice we even slumped the outboard motor over our shoulder and found the
nearest slough that would save us.
Much like my first season with Nick, Lyda Rees, who was on the project
for two seasons as a Wildlife Technician III with ADF&G, recalled a rain
pattered tent where she “laughed so hard.” I can’t help but wonder if, through
the gusting winds and relentless rain, the Knots could hear the memories we echoed
from the tent on Okalee Spit.
It’s often those memories that mean nothing to no one that make us
laugh uncontrollably. But the few of us who shared camp at Okalee Spit know the
significance of the memories that were created by playing made up games like
seeing who could crush the most empty bivalve shells with the fewest number of
steps, or who could hit the washed up glass bottle with shells of the same
origin.
I, along with Lyda and the others we camped with, took great joy in
another survey season in 2023, and were able to work out some of the kinks
encountered during the first season in 2022. Many roles and expertise
complimented others, and there is no question the results would’ve not been the
same without the cohesion of the people I worked with.
“The people made that trip what it was,” said Lyda. More accurate she
could not be, and I have since imagined and reimagined many sayings that rewire
me to the people that have said them. One of those imaginings crossed my mind
the other day, when I ran into a bird hunter with a pair of binoculars watching
the birds and trying to pattern them for the weekend hunt.
I worked with some avid birders in Controller Bay; ones that guide
tours and have life lists, report to eBird and travel countries to see birds.
One night I hiked to the tip of Okalee Spit with three of them. Okalee Spit and
Kayak Island formed somewhat of a funnel for birds to fly through. I’ll never
forget admiring my hardcore-birding coworkers calling out Harlequins and
Scoters, Gulls and Songbirds that all looked the same. It was like I was living
in the movie The Big Year. But instead, it was a big spring, and a short
night that ended back in camp where warm meals were in store.
Every week or so, we would get resupplies, and it eventually turned
into a tradition to keep a list of supplies we would need for the time we had
left. Often, a final call would be summoned in the tent before the official
InReach message was sent with our requests. During one of these last calls,
this one during the 2024 field season, I suggested we request Oreos, and I’ll
never forget my coworker Danny looking straight at me and saying, “I would
obliterate some Oreos.” And obliterate we did, after our long bike ride against
the wind paid off and we were able to resight a Knot that had been seen the
year before—6XH. Oreos were just a few of the rewards of successfully
resighting a flagged Knot.
Each spring in Controller Bay was unique, but every year presented
challenges that made our successes that much more triumphant. Jenell Larsen
Tempel, the project lead, is an Endangered Species Biologist for ADF&G. Jenell
described how “it’s now very obvious” why very little research has been done in
Controller Bay. On top of having the tricky weather conditions of anywhere in
coastal Alaska, Controller Bay is difficult to access. Shallow mudflats make
boating in and landing a plane challenging, and helicopter load capacities can
make it complicated to transport all necessary survey gear to camping
locations. Yet thanks to partners of the project, it was made possible.
It's a hard thing to say; that you enjoy every day of work. Like the
tide, good days come and go, but there is a place where good days come and
stay. A place so heart stopping beautiful its horizon heals the mind and serenades
the soul. Somewhere where you can look out at a chasm of Pacific nothingness,
yet still believe in something.
During the 2024 season, I encountered a day darker and gloomier than
any I can recall in the months I’ve spent in Controller Bay. It was a calm
morning; calm enough to hear the surf on the Gulf of Alaska miles away. By the
time we made our way out to survey though, the winds picked up, as they usually
do, and out of the east came a cloud of doom I couldn’t have even imagined. It
was more blue than the deep Pacific, and it had me tucking my camera between my
raincoat before the raindrops even started to fall.
That cloud often reappears in my head whenever a task seems too daunting.
But I soon remember the lives I captured that will forever change mine, and I
soon follow “can” not with “not,” but “try,” because that is where the
believing begins.
