Recently, I wrote about my love of running and being active, and shared some of my positive running experiences. There is another aspect of running, and perhaps generally being a woman, that I did not share at that time and would like to talk about briefly here. It is not so positive. That is catcalling (and worse things), cars, and men. Or, more to the point: men shouting from cars. The summer is particularly plagued by this disgusting, entitled behavior.

Even if you don't run, perhaps you can relate -- really, the issue at hand in this case is not so much running, as what one frequently encounters as a woman who happens to be running. If you can't relate, it is probably good information for you to know. I bring it up spurred by a string of recent and particularly frustrating incidents.

Coursework, experiment/research planning, exams, endless scientific papers, numerous meetings with professors, etc. sucked up much of my year. But, I have hoarded away a small amount of time for a few other endeavors. Running, primarily. And a bit of painting/writing. But for now let's talk about the running. As those of you who know me are aware, I am often running. Sometimes, it is out of obligation to stay fit, but sometimes it is for enjoyment or peace. In fact, this started out towards the end of high school because I wanted to get in better shape, and had always been an active person (playing soccer, basketball, and hockey with some skill in the first and relatively little in the latter). I really started to enjoy running, however, in college when I joined track and field and then cross country. Through athletics at St. Olaf, I learned to push myself far beyond what I thought myself capable of. I remember running 8 miles for the first time with cross country (it was hard, at least for me, green and inexperienced as I was). Then, for other workouts, gradually farther. During those first years of cross country, I felt like Samwise Gamgee many times when he remarks that he has taken the farthest steps from home. Each step was a bit farther, and a new limit. However, my true love was always track and field and "long sprinting" (I started out with sprinters) and middle distance (I like to claim that I run everything from the 200m to the 1500m, and while it is hard to choose a favorite, the 600m and 800m are probably them).  I did cross country to improve myself for track, and for the challenge. But it was definitely more difficult for me -- in a different way from the challenges and difficulty of track and field -- since cross country and distance running lacked the enjoyment and love that I had for the track. There are few feelings more dear to me than racing track and field, and a close second would be training for track and field. I love it. I often regret that I only started in college, and that I missed out on four potential years of competing in high school. At the same time, perhaps starting later saved me from injuries as I never did get injured during collegiate track and field (and that is a rare thing). It could also be my ox-like build and blood. I'm not the toughest, or the strongest, or the fastest, or the smartest, but I am pretty stubborn mentally and physically. So, as you might gather, distance was not the most pleasant for me during that time and I certainly would have chosen 800m repeats any day over a long run. And a long run, to me at that time, was probably anything beyond 5 miles. It just didn't feel fun and exhilarating like sprinting/mid-distance. The 800m can be grueling -- just as grueling as a distance race -- but it is of a different sort. It is intense, but brief. You pour everything into it that you can, and have to summon all that you can then and there. There is strategy, but only enough strategy as can fit into less than 2 and 1/2 minutes at the most. It is hard, and it is a challenge, but I always loved it. Distance, on the other hand, seemed to drag on forever. It was a challenge that did not appeal to me.  It seemed less of a "race" to me (personally, not literally) and more of a "I am subjecting myself to an extended period of pain and I don't even get to sprint" experience. I had ample respect for distance runners, but never saw myself as being able to do what they do (and not really wanting to, or imagining that I might enjoy distance running given my sprinting inclinations). 

You may then be surprised to learn that this year I ran my first ultra marathon -- and a trail ultramarathon. The McDonald Forest 50k (31.3 miles) of trail and 7,000 feet in elevation gain (and loss!). You might also remember that towards the end of my time in Japan, I ran the 2013 Hokkaido Marathon. Training for that marathon and that challenge brought with it a change in perspective. I trained for it alone, and without much idea of how to train besides a bit of online reading. Once I got myself to a baseline of decent distance fitness, adding mileage became. . . well, sort of enjoyable. For the Hokkaido marathon, this peaked with the exhilaration of running 20 miles to reach the neighboring town. A thrill! And an adventure. I also found that if I slowed down my pace from middle-distance hare mode to sustainable tortoise mode, I could apparently run forever. Although cross-country was never quite as enjoyable to me as track and field, one aspect I had always loved was the time spent outdoors admiring and feeling and experiencing the land. So at worst, marathon training let me gaze lovingly at the land for hours on end, and to feel it beneath my (sometimes blistered and achy) feet. I was fortunate for that first marathon to be able to find some beautiful roads to run. One, following the Shinkawa river down towards the ocean and then in the case of running to the next town heading upwards along a road near to the ocean with occasional glimpses of the water. I went for a 10 mile run one week, 14 miles next, 18 miles, 20 miles . . . and then did the full 26.2 for the first time in the marathon.The training, of course, was physically challenging and I often had to push myself but it was rewarding and honestly, not really unpleasant at all (with the exception of one run with a very tough head-wind). And the marathon itself was, well. . . pretty easy and smooth. I admit, I did not "race" that marathon or push myself as perhaps I could have, and my time was a mediocre 4 hours. Nothing like the speedy olympians. I did it calmly, and to complete the distance. I did it cautiously. Having little experience with such distance, I was always waiting to hit the wall. But I never did and it was pretty comfortable. I was perplexed. And proud, and pleased, of course. I was most excited, probably, to tell former track-teammates and family that I had done it. It was something that no one would have expected me to do, and possibly something that some did not think I could do. But, because of my stubborness, I tend to assiduously try to do things people think I cannot. I had also, often, remarked during my time as a track athlete that the first person to run a marathon died doing it. This was usually said somewhat sarcastically -- it was meant to say: that's fine if others want to subject themselves to it, but I'm just as well with my 800m or 400m thank you very much. 

Well, after that marathon I began to understand how distance running can be enjoyable. As I mentioned, it came from changing my perspective. Changing my mentality. From embracing the calm of the long run, from pushing myself, from controlling myself, from step by step of exploration, and from taking a few leaps. (Because, after all, it was all uncharted territory and hey, who knew when my engine might quit? A dose of risk and some good leaps of faith in myself were requisite.) I taught myself during and after that first marathon to think with an open mind and fresh eyes to the experience. Not to compare it to sprinting or to track and field, but try it out for what it was. Not to compare any one experience to another, but to embrace each for what it is. That might not work for everyone or every situation, but mentality is a powerful thing and it can be an immense tool. It helped me to grow while I lived abroad, and it has helped me in many challenges to improve myself. It seems that shift was enough to transform a stubbornly devout-"long sprinter" to a distance runner (well, someone who can run a decent distance and usually enjoys it. Maybe not a "distance runner" per say!).

Changing mentality does not only apply to running. When I am in a difficult situation, when I feel tired, frustrated, angry, defeated... sometimes I let myself linger in that negativity and sometimes it is fine and healthy to acknowledge difficulty or other frustrated, tired, sad, or angry emotions. But you must move past them. Otherwise, you will weigh yourself down. Thus, as I have learned, if I can change my mentality and my perspective, things brighten. For example, instead of saying "I'm so tired", I can tell myself that I have worked hard, but I am alive, look what I have done, let's see what I can do. Isn't this a privilege, to push myself! I must embody gratitude. I can tell myself: I am breathing. I am standing. I am living. Embrace breathing. Enjoy the air. Enjoy the sun (or the beauty of the clouds, grey though they may be, or the touch of the wind). Take a deep breath. Admire the ground, the grass, the tree, the insects, the birds. Be grateful for my body, the atoms that I am fortunate to call "me" for the time being. In other situations, instead of saying, "I am so unlucky", reflect on better fortune. Remember that I have a home to live in (not to be taken for granted), that I have access to water (well....sometimes on runs I don't and that's tough! But I mean in general). Water is a precious, precious thing to be respected and to be grateful for. Think of how fortunate it is to get to drink something so nourishing. Or simply, remind myself that at one point something good happened to me and savor it. Tell myself, "Well, I do not like what is happening here, but let's change that for the future. Let's work on that." Anyways, there are many ways to change one's perspective. Sometimes, it works!

Armed with the experience of one marathon, and the surprise that it was not so very hard at least at my pace, I actually felt for a little while that other challenges were not such challenges anymore. Used correctly, this can be empowering. But it could also be, surprisingly, discouraging. "I can run a marathon", I would sometimes think, "so what is the point of running?" That is perhaps an exaggeration, and not really a good mentality at all, but what I mean to say is that I wondered "what next? What do I do now?" I felt that now running was like spinning my wheels, whittling away time, and what was I achieving? That is not so, of course! But in any case, I felt like I was stuck, was looking for something, and not sure what, and running had lost some spark. Having graduated from collegiate athletics, that fount of focus was also gone, and it stung bitterly. I had lost motivation -- not just because running suddenly seemed lacking or boring. It was probably also connected to dissatisfaction with my situation in life at that moment, with stress for family, for my future, and likely connected with depression unrelated to running but certainly affecting my motivation. I needed a change in my mentality, that was for sure!

50 mile or 100 mile races are typical ultra-marathons, and would be the next leap in distance if I wanted to do something longer, I thought. Yet those distances did not seem especially productive for me (and possibly overly ambitious and might lead to injury if done improperly). Alternatively, I supposed, I could do another marathon, and try to get faster. Or maybe try to accomplish something with 5k's or 10k's, despite never having much success against sleeker, slimmer, distance-types.

The answer slipped into my mind when I first visited Oregon State University last spring as I was trying to decide on a program. The graduate student I stayed with is a spectacularly active woman -- biking, running, rafting, skiing, mountain climbing -- she is inspiring. She took me for a short run, and told me about a race she had done last year called the Mac 50k. The trail she took me for the short run on lead up a hill, and I was not in great shape at that time. I had been skimping in my running, out of frustrating laziness, not going more than 5k distance in the chilly Minnesota winter and spring and lacking much of my past dedication. Minnesota is also comparatively flat and I had not run up a hill in some time (and generally had a practice of avoiding them). While trying to hide my gasps for air and to keep up, I listened to her tell me enthusiastically about the 50k. It was in the research forest connected to the very country park trails and woods we were in. 50k, I thought with a hidden roll of my eyes. That's 31.3 miles, I huffed and puffed to myself, that's a long ways on hills! Did I mention that my distaste for hills used to run (pun intended) about as deep as my distaste for distance? Or deeper. Ah, how I would whine about hill workouts. I always disliked that burn, slowness, and hopelessness of an uphill climb! So when I heard about this race, while struggling up a hill, I politely nodded but did not think it was for me.

But the seed was planted. 

When I moved out here to Corvallis OR to start graduate school last fall, I began to keep that race in mind. The apartment that I ended up in, in a spectacularly fortunate twist of fate and with a dash of diligence, is precisely where I am happiest -- close to the forest. A huge, beautiful forest which I have mentioned before, the McDonald-Dunn Research Forest. I was still in not so great running shape, but started to do some trail runs in the forest, seeking solace and exploration in my new surrounds. I still did not think I would be doing an ultramarathon. I learned more trails, and made a loop -- which I later learned was 9 miles --, frustrated with my poor fitness and choosing the toughest climbs to try to whip myself into better shape. The McDonald-Dunn research forest, less than a mile from my doorstep, is very hilly. Any forest out here in western Oregon is likely to be hilly. That is because the bulk of the forests coat the Coast Range of mountains (read: hills. They are definitely hills, not mountains in my book). In any case, the research forest is beautiful. It was always a little bit frightening to try to learn the trails on my own, but I kept pushing myself. Little by little, my running fitness started to improve again. I found many friends in my kind classmates. I started to settle. My mind was starting to work again. In general, I grew happier. And a bit stressed, of course, as graduate school will apparently do to a person.

When Christmas break rolled around, I was not unaware that the opening of registration for the Mac 50k was also around the corner. The race itself would be May 9th, but registration began January 1st. I registered that night. Suspicious behavior for someone previously "not interested" in running an ultra-marathon!  The next months brought some tentative training. I was still unconvinced the whole endeavor would work out. There was always a little risk in my mind (not wholly unfounded) that this might just not work. But little by little, I kept at it. I kept running in the forest. I sought out tougher hills, and longer runs. I burned myself out on a couple of 3 1/2 hour runs up 2,000 ft of elevation in the cold, misty, chilling wet of the Oregon winter. Ah, lots of cold mist and cold rain and soaking, muddy shoes and drenched clothes and pink skin. After a couple of those exhausting runs, I laid off. That was too much, and I was tired. This was going to be hard, I realized. It was late January/early February, and I had probably burnt myself out around that time. So I eased off of those really tough runs, but kept doing my 9 mile hill loop -- my comfort loop, that I could run without sight (and have, when it got dark too fast a couple times on those short winter days!).

Into March, it hit me that I had better as heck start training again. I only had 8 weeks before the race, so use them well and get serious! In somewhat of a panic, the next run I did was 20 miles. I jumped up from a maximum distance of about 10 to 14 miles at most to a 20 mile run, which is never especially wise. It could have been a disaster, but it was one of those leaps. Either I would be able to do it, or it would be a long walk home. Always a little frightening! The loop I ran was also on the roads out to the countryside, not in the forest, and thus considerably flatter. This helped, and the first 14 miles were a pretty smooth and controlled "trot." But I will say that I did not run one step beyond 20 miles that day, no sir. I was parched, and achy, and realized at mile 20 that the loop was actually just over 21.5 miles so I walked that last 1.5 miles which is one of the first times in many years that I have allowed myself to walk during a solo run. From there, my "short" runs became longer and easier,  not bad at all. It stopped raining as incessantly (though I still, more often than not, got rained on). During that first 20 mile run, I felt some resentment that it required 3 hours of time to set aside for running. I sometimes felt, guilty, too. I was busy, I was being pulled every which way by professors and friends and obligations. So 3 hour chunks of time seemed to be snapped up by everyone. Stolen away from me. But once I had decided I would run 20 miles for a certain day, I guarded it doggedly. I hoarded away that time like coveted gems. Especially if I knew the weather would be sunny. I was frustrated by the amount of time I would need to defend for running, even so. Then, another transformation occurred. The next couple times I ran 20 miles on my loop out into the Oregon countryside, in the beautiful, hesitant sun of spring, with growing plants (daffodils at first, and then lilacs) and birds around me. . . I started to savor that time. The ground beneath my feet. The gentle, slowly-warming wind on my skin. I did that 20 mile loop 3 times, and I think fondly back to those runs. I would gladly do them again! I also did them after my morning class, and before my evening class. So I will not soon forget quickly changing, splashing water on my face, and arriving to class with creaky knees to learn about environmental law and policy, and wondering if anyone could guess why I looked sunburnt and salty.

Then, in my last week of training I did a 24 mile road run, followed by a 21 mile trail run in the hills two days later. This was the test. All my distance had been on roads. I had been avoiding such long, long runs on the trails, all the while the knowledge that I must face them nagging at me. It was a misty, but not too chilly when I did that 21 mile run. It was also the first and only training run I ever did with a water bottle. (I will tell you, my limit without water is 22 miles...and I know that with some precision because that's how far I got on my 24 mile run before desperately dragging myself to a precious and hard-to-find drinking fountain). I was a bit achy by the end, and ready to be done, but it was not too bad. And I was done. I was done training. Oh, the relief! I really wasn't too concerned about the race itself anymore. Who cares? I can go 21 miles on trails, can definitely go 31 on the roads. Worst case scenario? I spend a day in the woods.

I knew I could go the distance and just had to make sure I could do it all in 8 hours. Based on my calculations from my training runs, I was on pace to do it in 6 hours. I ended up doing it in 6 hours and 51 minutes because I made sure to be cautious, and because it was tough. There were lots of unexpected climbs, different from the route I had anticipated. The first half was pretty simple. I was a bit nervous, but fresh, and the weather was excellent though very hot. The forest was beautiful, and I was occupied with following the trails and the lead of the people around me. It spread out more and more, and for much of the race I was alone or could just spy a couple people through the trees far ahead. There were a couple times during the second half of the race, while fast-hiking it up after hill after hilly, pointless, narrow trail that I realized the stupidity of the whole event. Then, I would get some water and feel less crabby. (There might have been more than a couple of times when I was crabby, I suppose! The 10 foot slide down a loose dirt, steep slope on my butt among those moments. But usually I was all alone in the woods and so, not hard to calm down, take a deep breath, and acknowledge the beautiful surroundings.)

Overall, however it was not too bad! And really not all that hard, to be honest. Challenging, yes, tedious, yes, but nothing all that arduous. It wasn't really a running race though. The strategy is to fast-hike the tough climbs, and I did a lot of that. So I think if I were to do a trail ultra-marathon again I would just train by doing moderate running distances and hiking my butt off. I would also like to do a 31 mile race that is flatter, just to see the time I would actually take running since on my training run it seems that, without hills, 6 hours is a reasonable goal. I really picked up speed after reaching 26 miles -- I "sped" past a lot of people during that last 5 mile stretch and felt like I still had some decent running in me, since I had done so much hiking. I was, however, ready to be done. All and all, I am very glad and proud of my ultra-marathon. Plus, I got my finishers jacket. Maybe that's all I wanted?

Candidly, I think that, more so than marathons, trail ultramarathons are pretty silly. They seem to have it as a goal to make things needlessly difficult. I think I would rather just try my hand at the distance -- I am, after all, a true trackster and thus like to be able to time things and compare performances accurately -- than a bunch of different, unique obstacle courses. Can't I just run my 31.3 miles in peace without clamoring over fallen trees and steams? That said, obstacle courses are really fun, too. And jumping over fallen trees, I will admit, is a favorite past time.

A few weeks later, I also ran the Run for the Hills 30k (18 miles). That felt like a nice, reasonable distance by comparison and remains among my favorite races I've ever done, through gorgeous woods, and up some lovely, grassy, windswept hills with views of the valley and rolling Coast Range. And did I mention? After all that hill training, I don't mind hills at all anymore. I kind of like them. Sometimes, my legs want them. 

So it has been a rather transformative athletic year, as well as academic year. I have a broader perspective on distance running, and will probably keep doing it. It brings you to beautiful places, and your feet do not forget them. You absorb those places into your bones.

My spectacular distance fitness lasted a bit longer (it felt so good to feel strong and trim and indomitable), allowing me to coast for a couple weeks through some great runs. Now, predictably, it has faded. As with all things, you use it or you lose it and I haven't yet made a habit of 31 mile runs. I have since settled back around 9 or 10 mile distances, and even done a couple of shorter, speedier races. (I can tell you, I was longing for some "short", "fast" 5ks after all that distance training. I can tell you that prior to Ultra-marathon training, I would not have called a 5k a "short" distance race, nor would I have thought of it as speed training.). I remain thankful above all for my health, and for the privilege to roam the woods and grasses, wide places, narrow trails, and many roads of this earth.

It has been quite some time since I've written any of my thoughts down. I've been busy, and when not busy it has been a challenge to sit my brain down and make it work or write. But there have many experiences in the past few months worth mentioning, and worth reflecting upon. In part that is because I have just completed my first year of graduate school working towards my masters degree in forestry. To say forestry is, perhaps, a bit miss-leading because my area of focus is tree (and plant) ecophysiology, physiology, climate change, and ecology. Ecophysiology, to clarify the term, is concerned with the interaction between plants and their environment, and how environmental conditions affect the physiology (biochemistry, growth, and health) of the plant. I have gained considerable research experience since graduating from St. Olaf College in 2012 -- living in Hokkaido (Japan) from 2012-13 studying elevated CO2 and forest science, and then going to Australia for a few more months of ecophysiology research. During those research experiences, I was searching for a graduate program. So forest science, and at a broader scale ecology and ecophysiology, is something that has been of interest and relevance in my life for a while now.

To be completely truthful, much of this interest stems not from "scientific" curiosity, but from a love, reverence, fascination, and respect for life, the earth, and the experience of it all. I have less interest in many of the bi-products of Western-centric science that tend to ignore the integrity of non-human living things, such as non-human animals and plants. I also have less of an interest in greenhouse studies of plants and life, which co-opt those lives for the purposes of research rather than observe free and growing organisms (ironically, my own research is precisely what I dislike -- a greenhouse "drought" study that will ultimately harm and kill my subjects). Admittedly, I have struggled with this during my first year in graduate school. My perspective is rather different from many "scientists." That being said, reflecting on a year in graduate school, it has been immensely refreshing to learn. I can never emphasize enough what a gift it is, to be told "your job is to learn, that is why you are here." Sometimes, it is hard to believe. And for that, I am immensely, profoundly grateful. That is my job -- to learn about forests, and ecosystems, and plants, and to improve myself (and hopefully, from that investment, help to protect and improve the world even if it is only in some small way.)  I have taken a wealth of courses, some of them better than others, but some of them very captivating. Among my favorites was a course in photosynthesis and photobiology (fascinating!), forest health, and soil biology. I also completed two terms of statistics, with high marks. This is an achievement I am proud of. It is a not-so-secret secret of mine that I struggle with mathematics and more quantitative reasoning. At one time, I very much enjoyed them but reached my peak of ability early, and despite a long-lasting curiosity and enjoyment of those fields, math has little love of me. Knowing that I felt uncomfortable with my statistical background, it was one of my most important goals to improve. An understanding of statistics is necessary in scientific fields, in order to explain, present, and communicate results. I have not seen the last of statistics (I am still not great, and plan to take a few more courses) but I am pleased with my hard work and improvement. Likewise, from my other courses, I have learned a huge amount (and look forward to learning more next year).

I also had a chance to present some interdisciplinary work at the OSU Arts and Humanities Graduate Conference in April. The purpose of the conference was to share work by researchers and graduate students in the arts and humanities, and especially those doing interdisciplinary work. The organizer found out about me through my professor. You may know that I am rather interdisciplinary. Sometimes, I feel a little like a chameleon, blending into science despite being a humanities person, and then sneaking back into the humanities. History was my first academic love, and it remains an important part of me. And then there is art, and writing both of which I continue to practice. Ideally, I will one day combine them all. I have been doing some philosophical/historical work on my own on the rare occasions that I had a bit of time to spare it. During the winter, I wrote a brief piece called "The Problem with Nature." This piece summarizes many of my thoughts about the use of the common word "nature" to vaguely describe the earth and life, and why I find this dangerous. My goal is to write more extensively about this topic, and to delve into greater historical research on the development of that mentality. I was actually originally asked if I wanted to participate in this conference, however, because of my art work and because they sought artists to share some of their pieces. I happily agreed, but wanted to work in this other research and so formulated my research around that scholarship, and some of its overlaps with my art work. That is because, most of what I do is connected. Most of my thoughts tie together, and whether they are expressed through scientific inquiry, paintings, history, writing, they are likely to have a similar theme. My art work often focuses on the earth, on plants or landscapes or people in them. I love to depict "beauty", or things that I find "beautiful." But I would be troubled if you said that I paint or depict "nature." (My above-mentioned essay can give you more of that background.) So I used my artwork as a platform to dissect the problems with "nature", and the ideas of my essay and hopeful further research. I have also posted the power point of that presentation here on my website. It was a spectacular experience. I was so glad to dust off my humanities work and step back amongst some like-minded folks. Despite being a shy person, I also paradoxically like presenting and public speaking, so that was also a very enjoyable opportunity.

As an aside, this past year has also brought a number of visitors out to Oregon to see me. Among them, my dear friends Lisa, Maddie, and Stuart. Lisa and Maddie are friends from St. Olaf. It is unbelievable to me that I have such wonderful people in my life, to fly out to spend time with me and explore a bit of Oregon. Prior to my friends' visit, my beloved aunt Diane ("Didi") was the inaugural visitor, which was also wonderful. My college teammate Laurel would be next, visiting for a running race, and eventually my dad and little brother.

Although I now have one year of coursework under my belt and it is summertime, I will unfortunately not be going home to Minnesota for summer "break." And when I say break, I say it somewhat sarcastically. That is because all of my field work will be occurring during the months of June (now passed), July, August, and September. My goal is to finish my "field" work (also being sarcastic, because a greenhouse is a far-cry from "field" work to me) before the start of the academic year on September 24th. This means that while I no longer have coursework, at least for the summer, I have a lot of other work before me. My research involves loblolly pine seedlings and Douglas-fir seedlings, with three provenances of each. Douglas-fir is the dominant timber species, and probably tree species in general, in the Pacific Northwest. Loblolly pine is the dominant timber species in the Southeast. A provenance is essentially a "seed source" -- a geographic location. In this case, those provenances, or locations, are a coastal source of each species, an "inland" source, and a disjunct or extreme source. These sources are correlated with low, moderate, and high drought tolerance, which I will be testing experimentally by subjecting them to two consecutive droughts. The "disjunct" or extreme sources of loblolly and Douglas-fir are locations that exhibit extreme dry conditions. I am interested in whether or not the seedling's source and environmental/evolutionary history is of greatest importance or whether the experienced conditions of the seedling during its (short) lifetime is of greatest importance in determining drought tolerance and drought susceptibility. I am also interested in what physiological characteristics are correlated with drought tolerance and drought susceptibility. This work will be done in the coming weeks and months, in the greenhouses here at Oregon State University where the seedlings are now housed. I say "now" housed because getting them here was an ordeal in itself. Normally, you would probably grow your seedlings in the greenhouse that will be their permanent home. In my case, my seedlings were sown and transplanted by myself and others about 3 hours north in Washington back in April. Up until last week, that is where they were living and being taken care of. So, I had to figure out how to get them to Oregon State University. By the way, there are 4,000 of them. This is approximately 185 square feet of seedlings. In the end, the process involved driving a 26 foot U-Haul -- with the floor packed with seedlings -- and then making a second trip a few days later to retrieve the remainder in a 6-wheel covered truck combined with a trailer. Then unloading them tray by tray into the OSU greenhouses. Phew. I must say, I am pretty darn pleased with myself for figuring out how to perform that logistical feat. And I did it without dropping a single seedling. And with some help from my dad, sister, and little brother. Actually, a great dose of help from my dad. The "Great Move" as I shall dub the ordeal occurred while my dad and little brother were visiting, which helped make things smoother. When I started graduate school, little did I know I would be learning how to operate gigantic trucks on the interstate.

Now, I am in the throes of finalizing the experimental design and perhaps sooner than I would like will be beginning the experiment itself. Yes, all that work of growing and transporting the seedlings was only the prep. I will be spending many, many, many hours this summer in the greenhouse with those seedlings using various scientific equipment to measure soil moisture, photosynthesis, plant water use and hydraulic characteristics, sugar storage, and fluorescence (often an indicator of stress). I dream of field studies -- where I am out in the woods, or prairie, or even some backyard -- observing life instead of torturing it. But my hope is that my research will yield important information about tree health in drought, how trees might survive, and how they might not. Out here in Oregon and all across the West Coast, drought has been a major concern to say the least. In will, likely, continue to increase in intensity and frequency in many parts of the world. This will have serious consequences for plants, and for forests. Still, I feel sorrow with the knowledge that my research will ultimately lead to deaths, to the (all too likely unnecessary) taking of 4,000 lives. This is, truthfully, against my ethics. I love all life, and see no living thing as greater than any other. I dislike the idea of tampering with life, and believe more scientists need to question their research practices and the justifications for their decisions. Greater caution should be met when an experiment will tamper with life (despite my acknowledgement that much has been learned from some such experiments) and for me there is no reason this caution should not extend to plants. Therefore, I remind myself to respect the lives and integrity of each seedling. And I feel gratitude to them, for what I receive. 

I am sure there will be more to tell of my research as time continues. Next, I want to talk about running!