Seven Bats Strong

The trails, everyone will be relieved to know, have really dried out pretty well and we've enjoyed several sparkling days of sunshine here in the Snug, cheering up our loads of visitors to no end. (Numbers have been high; just yesterday I led a whopping 32 people around the marina in a harbor walk, creating as many hazards as possible for the hapless tractors.)


The Eastern Pipistrelle Bat, being his small little self.



In more exciting news, I've just been informed by Paul Brown, our chief of Natural Resources, that we'll need to change our mammal talk. We've been saying the island is home to eighteen species of mammal, but it has just been definitively confirmed that we have a seventh species of bat here on Isle Royale - the adorable Eastern Pipistrelle; bringing the total number of mammal species to nineteen.



The Eastern Pipistrelle Bat at leisure.



The Eastern Pipistrelle joins the big and little brown bats, the hoary bat, the northern long-eared bat, the red bat, and the silver-haired bat. They're insectivores and extremely tiny (they only weigh about 4-8 grams.)



In honor of the occasion, I have composed an Isle Royale bat poem:



It's an Eptesicus focus, will you focus on that?

He's the big brown one of our seven species of bats.

It hangs with the northern long-eared and eastern pipistrelle -

There's little brown, hoary, and red bats as well.

And the silver-haired bat; let's not forget him!

Lasionycteris noctivagans, out on a limb.

They're tiny and furry and have little bear faces

Out of nineteen mammals, filling seven of the spaces.  

Someone should set that to some banjo music or something. Let me know how it goes. We can have a concert on Bat Island.

extreme weather

Last week, from Windigo up here to Snug Harbor, lake levels climbed multiple feet in just a few minutes. Beaches were covered, canoes were set adrift. Several minutes later, the water dropped away again, taking logs and branches and canoes away with it.

In the Visitor Center, we were flooded with questions. “What was that strange current in Tobin Harbor?” “This giant rock was suddenly underwater, and a few minutes later it was uncovered again! That’s how much the water rose! What was up with that?” A number of people asked about the “tide.” Some people didn’t want to admit how difficult paddling in Tobin had been, but when they heard us start talking about the weird rushes of water, they leaped to chime in.



The basics of what's happening during a seiche.



The explanation, of course, was a giant seiche that rocked across the lake; water essentially tipping, as if in a giant bowl, from one side to another. Major storms in Duluth (and we're talking major; flooding was so extreme that the polar bear escaped from his enclosure at the zoo and had to be re-captured) sent strong winds repeatedly in the same direction, literally pushing water away from Duluth and towards Isle Royale. Windigo experienced the most severe water level changes, as the seiche hit them first. For the next 24-36 hours, seiches of declining strength came and went, like water sloshing back and forth in that proverbial bowl.

Then came the storms - a night of cracking thunder and nearly constant lightning, dumping multiple inches of rain on the island overnight. The following afternoon, everyone's radios leaped into attention simultaneously, with a warning from Houghton of "extreme and severe weather," "winds upward of 60 mph," "frequent lightning." Everyone sprang into a kind of delighted, frenetic activity at the excitement. We battened down the hatches, triple-lined the boats. I pictured angry winds screaming lengthwise up the island from Windigo, where just that morning there'd been reports of a boat sinking at the dock. Visitors were all dispatched indoors. The sky turned slate-gray and the whole harbor began to rumble with constant thunder, sounding remarkably like we were trapped inside the stomach of an extremely hungry giant.

Of course, as these things normally are, the whole storm was a bit of a let-down. It whizzed in with streaks of lightning over the channel and a few minutes of torrential rain, and then whizzed right by again, with nary a down tree in its wake. It wasn't until the next morning that the waves picked up and disappointed visitors had to eschew their canoe trips.

The stormy few days' greatest legacy was the state it left the trails in: having a current, and supporting aquatic life. It's only now, the third day of sun, that you can finally just about go for a hike without your snorkel.

Summer 2012 on the Isle

Although this is the inaugural post of the Snug Harbor Reporter for 2012, the season is long from "just beginning." For more than two months, the island has been warming up, with employees working the trails, opening buildings, repairing boats, beginning their research, fishing and hiking and eating and camping. Now the days are stretching on to their nigh-infinite sunny lengths, the lake is just about swimmable, and the numbers of visitors are creeping upwards. I am delighted as anything to be back on the island.

It's looking like a good year for orchids, weather (and by "good" I mean extremely variable), and potlucks. The orchids are everywhere - look for striped coral-roots in the Rock Harbor Campground and around the auditorium. The coral-roots are our only non-photosynthetic orchids on the island - they receive all of their nutrition from a fungus that lives in and around its roots. There are also a myriad of ladyslippers, both pink and yellow, clustering the Greenstone Ridge and the North Shore. The weather is currently sending a fleet of eager waves into the harbor. And the potlucks are rising up from the green shores of Mott Island to fill our plates with corned beef and coleslaw and potato chip casserole.

As many of you know, the island is rife with newcomers this year, from Windigo to the North Shore to Mott Island - to right here in this blog's own interpretive division. Justin Olson, our new lead interp, is heading up an impressive crew, if I do say so myself, the five of us hailing from five different states. We have Melissa from Minnesota, Alina from Wisconsin/the Keweenaw, Erin from D.C./Miami, and myself, back from the lower peninsula. Justin, somewhat of a nomad, is originally from Colorado, I believe. Introductions will be forthcoming.

Stay tuned as the summer progresses for photos, updates, stories, and jokes from the Snug. As always, send your photos, questions, and comments to snugharborreporter@blogspot.com, and keep it real.

Sincerely,

Liz Dengate

Snug Harbor Reporter  

We Are New-Used Reporters

Hallo again. I am new reporter, Vladimir Verstratski, back for my own second time, making me, how you say? new-used reporter. The Dengate girl say I am last option, which she remind again is good thing.

Last season my government they are pleased with my learnings of American media, so they send me back for new trainings. This year, our government want us to have cultural learnings in American swing dancing.

Now for first headliner.

This week the boating ferry from Copper Harbor, she is cancelled, making for similar distress to last year in visitors. Days after though she is going making relief.

Labor Day is happy for all. Vlad, I am here till text time for news. Take easy.

Passing the Torch

Hello, Isle Royale!

You might have noticed a distinct lack of new SHR posts lately, which has probably left a sizable hole in your life. This is because I, sadly, left the island almost exactly a week ago, on August 27th. It was a sad day; it's so hard to leave the island. Also it is ridiculously hot and humid downstate. Gross.

BUT - you don't have to worry that the SHR days are done! I'm passing the reporter torch off to Vladimir Verstratski, who did a stint with us last summer as well. I know we're all looking forward to his...ahem...well-informed and entertaining posts.

Thanks to all for an amazing summer and live it up this fall for me.

With love from Ann Arbor,
Liz Dengate
Snug Harbor Reporter

Topsy-Turviness

There are always a few topsy-turvy events each week in the Snug to keep us on our toes.

Definition: Topsy-turvy (adj.)
top-sy tur-vy [tòpsee túrvee]
1. upside down: with the bottom at the top and the top at the bottom
2. in or into confusion: in or into a confused or chaotic state, especially one in which the natural order or arrangement of things is inverted
3. disorder or confusion: a state of complete disorder or confusion

Today, for example, the Isle Royale Queen IV, for as-yet unexplained reasons, did not leave Copper Harbor this morning until eleven am. Instead of having arrived two and a half hours ago, they'll be docking in about forty minutes - unloading everyone - loading up again - and promptly heading back to Copper Harbor just as quickly as they can. The V.C. is full of curious people wondering where the boat that's supposed to take them home is, and backpackers will be getting a late start on the trail today.

Just a couple of days ago, in an event that was literally topsy-turvy, a canoe containing an adult and his two teenage daughters flipped right in the middle of Snug Harbor, in the midst of large waves and strong winds. Luckily, interp rangers Justin, Casey, and Andrea were on the scene. Justin directed matters from shore, Andrea brought life rings, and Casey drove the Cisco around to assist from the water. The now-damp canoeists, probably more upset by the new turn the start of their backpacking trip had taken rather than the water seeping into their boots, blew right into shore along with most of their belongings (only one small bag was lost to the depths of the harbor.) A destination of Moskey Basin was amended to Rock Harbor Campground, and Casey and Justin, in a show of manly prowess, kindly carried their canoe back down the trail to the public rack.

On a more personal note, I will probably soon be in "a state of complete disorder or confusion" as I board the Ranger III this Saturday morning and leave the island for the summer. It's a hard place to sail away from. I daresay that after my departure, the Ben East will also find itself in "a confused or chaotic state." Right, guys?

Hope everyone is enjoying their week, topsy-turvy, right-side-up, or however it may be.
Yours,
the Snug Harbor Reporter

We Do Work.

My father, an avid reporter of the Snug Harbor Reporter (but then, who isn't?) made a comment after reading a couple posts that was something like this: "Do you guys ever do any work around there?" He was kidding (I think) but really, it's a justifiable conclusion to reach after reading the SHR, as probably 75% of what I write about involves potlucks, pinatas, or celery sticks with dip. So, I am resolved to write a post about what we actually do while we're working - which yes, does happen.

There are now just five of us interpreters (and yes, I'll use the phrase 'us interpreters' since this blog is a part of the interpretation division) left in the Snug, since Sam left the island nearly two weeks ago. (Which is still very sad.) Our everyday duties include (but are not limited to):

• daily harbor walk programs


• daily evening programs in the auditorium (except for Sundays)


• manning the visitor center from 8 am to 6 pm every day


• greeting and catching the lines for every ferry boat


• giving an orientation to all Queen IV passengers


• writing permits for all Queen, seaplane, and private boat passengers


• leading tours to Passage Island and Lookout Louise aboard the Lodge's M.V. Sandy


• completing customs on anyone coming from Canada


• roving the Snug Harbor area, assisting visitors with trip planning, identification and historical questions, assisting with medicals, etc.

Whew. I apologize for the long and probably boring list. But with full or nearly full Queens every day of the week now that we're well into August, and pretty full Rangers and Voyageurs as well, you can see we have our hands full. The five of us divide the tasks between us every day, according to a scarily complicated schedule that Andrea somehow concocts and makes work every single pay period, which is a feat worthy of being called a superhero, I think. If you hear us talking about "A" or "B" or "C-2" schedules, it has to do with this. Don't ask.

Our days are full of answering questions like, "What is a loon?," "Where do I go to see the moose?," and "Can I please rent a kayak?" (We cannot rent kayaks. The dock attendant rents kayaks. We told you at the orientation.) We kindly point out the difference between blue-bead lily fruits (poisonous) and blueberries (delicious.) We identify flowers and trees and tell stories of shipwrecks and geological time. We call EMTs for blisters, point out the Stoll Trail, and, if you're Leah and Justin, occasionally rescue people from small islands.

It's generally pretty awesome.

Of course, interpretation is not the only division found in the Snug. Robert, in his house on the hill, runs the extremely vital water and power plants and assists us on the many days when the internet suddenly stops working for no apparent reason. He is often seen buzzing around in the golf cart, doing very serious things (I confess to not even knowing what most of them are.) Pete and Marshall, our LE guys, are always bustin' bad guys and checking permits, and very speedily on hand whenever we need an EMT down at the Visitor Center. They're keeping it safe and keepin' it real. We're a good team, I think. We make it happen, here in the Snug.

And so, yes, dad: we do work once in awhile. But what is life without some potlucks and swing dancing thrown in there??