In 1984, I worked a summer job as research assistant for my brother-in-law, Richard, a forestry professor at Boise State University. The job, conducting pine bark beetle surveys, took me into the wilderness four days each week, and during my time off, I stayed with Rich, my sister Abbey, and their young children, Chloe, 3, and Luke, newborn.
June 4
th
was my first workday. In the forestry lab on campus, Rich walked me through the job. The western pine bark beetle, native to western North America, is an integral component of the forest ecosystem, attacking and killing weakened and diseased pines. In their absence, seedlings gain water and sunlight, regenerating forest growth. However, under certain conditions, beetles reproduce out of control and threaten entire mountainsides of healthy trees.
Aerial photographic surveys were conducted over tens of thousands of square miles of public forest to locate areas with unusually high incidence of tree mortality which could be the result of many different natural forces. But only boots on the ground could verify whether beetles were the cause. And my boots would be the ones doing the walking. My job was to venture into remote forests all over Idaho and inspect dead and dying pines to ascertain whether the beetle population was normal or epidemic. And those inspections weren't based on subjectivity; a field manual I was issued outlined precise methods for making observations and recording data.
Richard spread a large-scale topographic map of Idaho on a work table and showed me the regions where abnormally high rates of tree mortality were occurring. At the same time, I was overlaying mental maps of where I knew hot springs were located. No matter where my job took me in the 'Gem State,' there was a hot spring within easy driving distance. And many of those springs had a long tradition of nude use. Being an ardent outdoor adventurist and naturist, that was right up my alley. It was shaping up to be an awesome season in the wilderness.
To access the rugged back country, the university supplied a white four-wheel drive Chevy Blazer. And they even paid for gas! Sweet! Armed with maps, aerial photos, field manual, camping gear, and boundless enthusiasm, I set off for my first day on the job. I was given a computer printout with my assignment for the week: up Black Warrior Creek, a tributary of the Boise River.
After turning off the gravel Forest Service road, I was able to drive only short distance along a rutted jeep trail before a fallen pine blocked my path. Backpack slung over my shoulders, up the valley I hiked amid the aromatic evergreen forest. Five miles from the Blazer, I smelled sulfur. Without question, a hot spring had to be nearby. I sloughed my backpack. Following my nose, a short time of searching turned up a tiny hot seep in shallow gully. Its flow rate was so slow it might have taken a minute to fill a coffee cup. Discovering the seep was a pleasant surprise because it wasn't shown on my U.S. Geological Survey geothermal map.
Below the seep was a tiny pool, bathtub size, and the temperature was perfect, 106 degrees Fahrenheit according to my small camping thermometer. Right then, I wanted to strip naked and soak, but with the day already half-gone, I had to get some work done.
From the valley, dozens of brown pines were visible on the western flank of East Warrior Peak, my target destination. After pitching my tent, I tossed on my daypack and began climbing upslope. Way out there in the wilderness, clothing was superfluous. Standing beside a dead pine, I stripped off every stitch and went about my work as wild and free as the golden eagles soaring overhead.
Following the procedure in the field manual, I counted the number of bore holes oozing sap between ground level and six feet, a gauge indicating the severity of the beetle attack. Next, I peeled off slabs of loose bark amounting to four square feet and counted the number of live beetles clinging underneath. Other required observations, measuring trunk circumference at four feet, estimating height of the tree and percentage of live growth in the crown, I performed and entered in the logbook. I finished by snapping photos of the inside layer of the bark, including beetles, and the entire tree from several angles. Using the collected data, Richard and others back in the lab would determine whether the beetle activity was epidemic or normal. And based on their assessment, the Forest Service could either remediate the beetle outbreak, or let nature take its course.
My assignment was to inspect as many dead and dying pines as possible during four days in the field. No specific number was mandated, so I worked leisurely, but steadily. At intervals, I took breaks to perform other vitally important observations such as lying on my back, watching puffy clouds drift across the high country.
That evening back at camp in the valley, I lowered my bare body into the tiny hot pool created by the benevolence of nature. Some organic matter swirled and clouded the water, but otherwise the pool was perfect. With a long, satisfied sigh, I gave thanks for my good fortune: I was getting paid for hiking, camping and hot springing way out in the wilderness and, as a bonus, was able perform my job duties in the nude. What a gig!
With each sunrise I returned to the mountainside to inspect more dead and dying pines. And each evening in the valley, I soaked in the tiny hot pool. On Thursday, I was already so far up the mountain, I climbed the remaining distance to the summit of East Warrior Peak and took my lunch of trail mix and dried apricots with only the sun and the wind for company. Splendid solitude.
* * * *
Friday morning in the forestry lab on campus, Richard assigned one of his summer school students to help me enter the data I had collected into the IBM mainframe. Megan,19, had worked with the university's computer system during her freshman year and was familiar with the programs used by forestry department. Her assistance was greatly appreciated.
Wearing leather sandals, denim shorts and an orange & blue Boise State Broncos T-shirt, under which her bounteous breasts bulged against the cotton fabric, this red-haired freckle-faced sophomore-to-be sat at the computer terminal beside mine, tap, tap, tapping away. Her slender fingers flew over the keyboard while mine struggled along, hunting and pecking.
"How can you type so fast?" I asked.
A few seconds passed before it registered I was addressing her but finally she stopped and looked up. "I dunno. I don't even think about it. I just do it."
"Kinda like riding a bicycle?"
"Uh . . . sorta."
Megan smiled, then quickly clamped her lips together as if feeling self-conscious about her braces. She looked away and went back to work:
tap, tap, tappety tap.
At the rate she was typing she would accomplish most of the data entering, which, as it turned out an hour later, was the case. But she wasn't finished; she navigated through the program and found my assignment for the following week and printed it. I thanked Megan for her assistance whereupon she replied, "You're welcome!" She flashed another brief metallic smile then rose to her feet, turned away, and sashayed her shapely backside out the door.
Richard didn't conduct class on Fridays. That was time for his students to pursue independent study in the lab and/or work on projects in the greenhouse. His teaching materials included an exhaustive map collection, maps of every type: geologic, topographic, hydrologic, geothermal and more. Since Fridays were informal time in the lab, he invited me to browse maps, and whatever else I fancied, at my leisure. And browsing Megan had certainly been pleasant.
Ever since my youth, I enjoyed studying maps for a variety of reasons but the one reason surpassing all others is the male instinct to master his surroundings. Our Neanderthal brothers needed only to understand their immediate geographical region to find their way back to the cave after a day of hunting and gathering. But modern man ranges over vast domains reaching to the stars. Maps are windows to infinity.
On a large work table I spread the U.S. Geological Survey geothermal map which was a newer version of the one I had acquired in Denver. On this map, the hot seep along Black Warrior Creek was shown, as were other seeps along creeks elsewhere. Rare was the creek valley in central Idaho that
didn't
have minor hot seeps.
"Hey!" Megan's voice startled me. I was concentrating so intently on the map, she had approached undetected from behind. I turned and met her gaze.
Eyes bluer than a summer sky . . . .
