Summer afternoons in the Rush Creek bottomlands can be damp and oppressive. My fieldwork partner and I stumble down a dry streambed as mosquitos hum in our ears and birds flit in the blue shadows of the young willows. In the distant west, thunderheads tremble over the dark wall of the Sierra, while rushes sway listlessly in the sullen light. We are soaked, sunburnt, and already lost, and it’s only about an hour into our workday.
Mono Lake’s tributary streams are its lifeblood, and their health and integrity are critical to the success of the entire ecosystem. As the Field Monitoring & Reporting Intern, it’s my responsibility to assist the Restoration Field Technician in collecting data regarding the streams’ condition. For the past three months, I’ve spent several hours each week deploying temperature loggers, monitoring stream heights, and checking groundwater levels. I’ve also fallen into half a dozen frigid mountain creeks, dropped close to a hundred pens, and watched a fellow intern’s shoes float merrily down a river, never to be seen again. (Sorry, Sophie). Nobody ever said fieldwork was easy.
After several minutes, my field work partner and I manage to locate the ground well we have spent our afternoon searching for. Due to the restoration efforts of the Mono Lake Committee, Rush Creek has transformed from a dry streambed to a healthier, vibrant riparian ecosystem. Dense vegetation now dominates the banks of both Rush and Lee Vining creeks, making navigation the occasional challenge. Additionally, summer in the Mono Basin is a season of constant change. When I first arrived in Lee Vining near the end of May, rapidly melting snow from the high Sierra transformed Mono Lake’s tributaries into raging torrents. Crossing Rush Creek became an exercise in trying not to be swept away, and several of our field monitoring sites were inaccessible for days. By August, flows dropped precipitously. Groundwater levels also declined, and once familiar channels dried out or were rerouted entirely.
Despite its difficulties, there is something rewarding about fieldwork that goes beyond locating a ground well after hours of searching. When you return to a place day after day, week after week, you become attuned to its rhythms, its habits. The light that falls between the branches of the Jeffrey pines becomes as warm and familiar as the light of your bedroom. And as summer ends, as you prepare to return to school, to family, to traffic jams and stoplights and the endless concrete expanse, the low thrum of the creek begins to sound suspiciously like the thrum of your own heart.
Top photo by Robbie Di Paolo.