I got to do a little interview for my department's webpage as a featured story. How exciting! If you don't know, I am a graduate student in the College of Forestry at Oregon State University, in the department of Forest Ecosystems and Society. Very happy for the chance to talk a little bit about science and art. Please go check it out, here! Thank you!

In my most recent posts, I have spoken mostly in a candid tone of frustration, hurt, sadness, and disappointment. As I said in my previous post, please: forgive me my gloom. Those are some of the most primary feelings on my mind at present. I hope that changes. I am working hard to change it. It is not what I like to be known for. But it will take time, and my own pace. I feel that, in the past, I have been able to move through things in a way that I cannot do right now. This is partly because things have built up for me, my bitterness and frustration and jealously even. And anger.

Now, because of that, I wanted to take a few moments to share some thoughts on these feelings, and explore them.

Some updates (May, 2016): Fear not, I am improving and my pluck is slowly returning. But, because I believe expressions of frustration have great value, I will leave the original post intact to reflect upon. . .

I have long considered a PhD. In fact, as I was searching for a graduate program prior to my Master's (a process that in and of itself was difficult), you may be aware that I considered the possibility of going directly into my PhD instead of doing a Master's. Ultimately, due to the combination of the funding situation and much thought and uncertainty, benefits and disadvantages either way, I decided to start with my Master's. I wonder often if this was the right choice, as I realized shortly into my Master's that I did feel well-prepared and ready to have been working at a PhD level. Nonetheless, I mostly feel good about the option of choosing my Master's, and that it has been useful. At the very least it has shown me beyond any doubt that I feel and likely am very prepared for my PhD. Though I do think, wistfully sometimes, how I would be half way through my PhD at this point had I chosen that route from the start here at OSU...... This summer, I thought a number of times about the caliber of my research, for example. Well, hopefully it was of a high caliber. Who knows. I have my doubts, of course, but the fact that I had designed most aspects of it, taught myself most of the plant physiology techniques, and managed things alone is certainly encouraging. Contemplating this in and of itself made me realize that, yes, I had likely been ready for my PhD already. But, my Master's degree has allowed me to sharpen myself, and has also allowed me to take some useful (and some not-so-useful) courses, and to work on my skills. That is all valuable. So it is.

In any case, my point is that a PhD has been a goal of mine for a long time, always just on the horizon. Something I've been chasing. In December, my applications were very precious to me even if they were few. I very deeply regret not being able to apply to a broader range of programs -- a regret you will perhaps understand more pointedly as you read -- but had so little time that I really do find it miraculous that I got anything organized at all. Regardless, I chose carefully. I knew there was much risk in building up my aspirations so, for each time I have done so in the past I have inevitably faced painful, stinging road-blocks or rejections. Yet, I have been told by many of my high-level of qualification, the depth of my experiences, and my value as a student. (All very kind words, to be sure, for which I am very honored! Yet, these accolades rarely seem to bear fruit, regrettably, and I am also very hesitant to believe them at this point). So I knew it would be a gamble of how much disappointment I could handle, against the chance of achieving my aspirations. Regardless, I felt some level of value in myself and my worth and my skill. I have worked very hard, and tried to do my best in all that I can. Likewise, I felt some level of confidence that I could be accepted, and I applied to an ambitious program with this confidence. A confidence, which, I truly do not feel is inaccurate or misplaced in myself. Even if I prefer humbleness, I will not deny at this point that I think I am very highly-qualified in my field, and I am proud of the hard work and diligence that has contributed to this. (One would think that confidence is a good thing. In reality, I have found, it mostly just makes things feel more disappointing. Again and again.)

Well, as I have learned, I might have guarded myself a little better against such predictable disappointment.

It has been some time since I have written or posted of my thoughts. In truth, graduate school has been very consuming these past months, perhaps no surprise. My research over the summer took quite a bit out of me, as I pushed myself very hard, and in many respects I am still seeking ways to recover. The summer was filled with learning and growth, to be sure, but often of the form that comes from pulling yourself doggedly, persistently, exhaustingly through a difficult situation. In the end, I think, I was able to complete some very in depth, very interesting research -- and in many ways, certainly, that has been very rewarding. I am not un-proud of my accomplishments, nor would I diminish that growth and opportunity. See, for example, how happy I look (to the left) measuring "fluorescence" after teaching myself how to assemble the machine, and teaching myself how to take said measurements. Certainly, there were exciting aspects of my summer. Perhaps, as I continue the daunting task of sifting through my results, I will write more on what I learned, what I found, and explain more of the tree physiology and science aspects of it. In fact, I am sure I will write such a post, because despite the rather down-beat tone of what I will express in this post, there are many exciting things to share about the summer and my beautiful, darling seedlings, and what they taught me. (And, as I realize now, I have not yet fully explained my research and my experiment, and just what I was doing. So I shall save the long story for another time, because in my plant-loving opinion, it is very interesting! Short story: I was researching drought tolerance and drought acclimation of Douglas-fir and loblolly pine in my experiment, as described in my post from back in June. I used plant physiology techniques, many of which I taught myself or which I, thankfully, had used in past experiences and was able to brush up on my own. Which came in handy, because I was pretty darn independent for my experiment.)

      However, I often cannot fully mask my grimace when I think over the past months. I found that I faced frustration, perceived unfairness, and often faced what, to me, seemed to a string of entirely needless challenges, (but also due to the somewhat self-induced scope of my research experiment). I sometimes questioned whether I was being a little misused. That sounds rather harsh, and I do not mean it to be quite so. On the spectrum of unfairness, certainly, I have been spared graduate school situations that could be far worse and I have no illusions about that. I have grown greatly from my time in graduate school, and value many of my experiences, truly and deeply. This past summer was a part of that growth. Nonetheless, I began to increasingly question the lack of support I encountered this summer (which occurred for a number of reasons, most of them totally unintentionally). As I noted, it was all very independent: from designing the experiment, to carrying it out, I feel rather confident in saying it was a lot of my own ambitions. In fact, that is perhaps a double-edged sword: despite whatever frustrations I mean to express, I do genuinely feel pride in the fact that, as a Master's student, I was given the chance to carry out my own predominantly self-directed research, and I do feel huge gratitude for that opportunity, to be in charge of myself and so much of my investigation. My advisor puts a lot of confidence in my abilities, and I value that immensely (she is often very encouraging). However, my research escalated during July, August, and September into endless 80 to 90 hour work weeks, during which I had quite literally not a single day fully off from my experiment and was never away from the greenhouse where my experiment was housed. I felt, a number of times, to be mistreated. I felt guilty if I did not work constantly, and guilted as well on multiple occasions. I became exhausted. I felt a tiredness seep into my bones stronger then almost ever before. I was drained to an extent that I have rarely, if ever, experienced both physically and mentally. Now, I would say right here that I never expected my research to be easy, nor for graduate school to be easy. The stories I hear from other graduate students past and present indicate that I am not at all alone in feeling stretched and overworked. And I would say that I put in my time, that I worked hard. Very hard. I have always worked hard. Yet this was something beyond what even I could, truly, handle without the loss of my happiness and health. Not so much because of the work, but because of the endlessness, the stress, the anxiety, the uncertainty, the needless disappointments, the lack of any moment to catch my breath, the sometimes strained relationship with my professor because of both of our stress, how other experiments seemed (to me,  in my biased state) to cause such unnecessary added stress, and the number of times I had to figure things out so entirely on my own, relying on my limited though diligent wit and my deep capacity for gritting my teeth and striding onward. The number of times I had to pretend everything was okay, that I was doing fine, and to carry on without respite, because the alternative was giving up. The alternative was to make moot all of what I had already worked so hard for to that point. It felt very much like an endless losing battle, with no real hope for victory, but darn it, I was going to try for a draw at least.

But the truth ran often through my mind: my experiment required far more (wo)manpower than myself alone, and if it were not for the help and sympathy of my sister (who volunteered quite a few times when I reached desperate straits) I would not have been able to accomplish very much in depth, even despite some help from a few student workers who were largely shared with a different experiment. To make up for that lack of (wo)manpower, I strained myself -- to take multiple measurements at once, staying late into the evening until there was no more light to work, and then going home and taking more measurements. I slept very little, and when I did it was never restful and always plagued by thoughts of measurements, my mind cycling through my anxieties and seemingly endless list of "to do's." I felt anger, also, because I knew well what was being sacrificed in terms of the quality of what my experiment could have been in better situations, anger at myself for not being able to do more, anger at others, anger at the situation. I felt jaded, resentful, uncertain. I felt trapped too, and though my advisor is in many respects very kind, nonetheless it felt to me that they often alternated between hard-to-read, sparse, and guilting, and then (when my exhaustion became clear) sporadically sympathetic but generally un-alleviating. Moreover, some of the complexity that was causing me such duress was my own, and I knew it, though I knew also that it should be feasible. And my advisor was grappling with many stresses herself. (Perhaps the seedlings were having their revenge upon us, for stressing them out with our studies!) Finally and nearly too late I gained at least one student worker to help me specifically, but the endlessness did not seem to diminish. And such tiredness I felt. In that exhaustion, I am sure, my thoughts regarding the situation and that time were and perhaps are still often biased by these feelings. I also dislike to complain, or to sound ungrateful, and I do not mean to be so in sharing these thoughts. I recognize that these are, largely, perhaps, trivial issues and I deeply value the opportunities I have had, but I also recognize the effect these past months have had on me, which has not been wholly trivial. I have tried hard, in the past, to remain positive and cheerful and to hide my discontent. To make the best of things, if I can. This time, it got the better of me, and I can hear it in my words even when I try to hide it. So, better to be honest about it, I think.   

      The work for my experiment continued on into the fall, and this, in the end, was in greatest part due to my own stubbornness to do things well and to do things right and to honor the experiment, and the work, as well as my own high expectations and the expectations I perceived of me. I wanted to do the best I could. The greenhouse portion of my experiment, thankfully, blessedly, ended in mid-October, at which point I was finally able to learn a new technique with clear instruction, and I proceeded with measurements in the lab. Yet, I had stepped from full-throttle, 80-90 hour weeks directly into classes, continuing still with measurements and long days. I had never had a chance to catch my breath, as though the finish to a marathon had been moved beyond sight into the distance, and all water with it. There was no denying the way this drained me. Unlike in the past, where I have been able to pick myself up and stride onward with some resilience after facing difficulty, I found that I could barely pull myself forward. I did not have the energy anymore, nor, perhaps, the will. I had not had chance to recover, and now I felt damaged. Like a tire, punctured too many times and now un-patchable, such that any movement whatsoever came at great (sometimes insurmountable) physical and mental effort. As the summer and fall had progressed, I had also gotten to run less and less, rarely got to be outdoors, rarely got to do anything that was not research or stress. It came to the point that I was lucky to run once a week, an opportunity that was no longer enjoyable but exhausting and anxious and discouraging, as my body was worn down, and losing fitness. If you know me, I am someone who generally runs at least a handful of days a week, so running once or not at all in a week is always a clear sign that I am not doing well. So that certainly affected me. I felt so worn, and disappointed, and unhealthy, and torn between obligations and work and stress -- all the while wanting nothing more than to disappear. I wanted everyone and everything to leave. me. alone., but of course that never seemed to happen, and I continued to be worn away until I felt a despondent shell of myself.

 At the same time, I was able to take a class that, possibly more than anything else, saved me. It may sound silly, but as someone outdoorsy, and someone who loves (and studies!) trees, the chance to take a course in tree-climbing as part of my graduate education was something absolutely joyous for me. Courses such as this remind me of some of the benefits of a forestry program. When I had learned about this course shortly after beginning my Master's, I had made it a goal to take it. As it is only offered in fall terms, this was my chance, and tiredness and lack of time aside, I was not going to lose that chance. It was challenging, to be sure, given my limited remaining mental and physical capacities, combined with a memory that has really never been especially strong (making knot memorization for the class tricky!). Some of the gear and set up did not come naturally to me, but my stubbornness aided me again, and my unrelenting stubbornness alone seems to have stayed with me in great force and more intact than my other capacities. I took a particular liking to the climbing techniques that used minimal technology, and though these techniques were slower and required more muscling than grace on my part, they were rewarding. If you are not familiar with tree-climbing, it is often used by arborists, and often involves ropes (similar to rock-climbing set ups) and depending on the technique usually uses some form of "ascender" which allows the climber to ascend with minimal physical effort. (And there are also spur climbing techniques) Even so, I found myself drawn most of the time towards the traditional techniques techniques, using foot locks or body thrusts to move up the rope and up the trunk of the tree. Although I was very un-confident in myself, and frequently felt embarrassed for the slowness of my learning abilities (slow to begin with in most cases, but absolutely hampered during that time out of my consuming stress). Yet, I made it a strategy to be amusing and persistent, if I could not be talented. I greatly appreciated the enthusiastic spirit of the instructors, and their willingness to provide climbing opportunities. I got to join them for a tree-job on a weekend, creating snags out of very tall Douglas-fir trees, during which time I learned how to use a chainsaw and a hand saw. Snags are trees that are left standing, usually with limbs removed to some degree, in order to encourage birds and wildlife to inhabit it. They are sometimes created for this purpose by landowners or left in plantation stands, but also occur naturally after fires, storms, or the natural death of a tree that remains upright. Myself and one of my friends/fellow students got to spur climb and limb one of these large trees with handsaws. It was almost comical, because I suspect we were sent up the tree to keep us occupied and largely forgotten about as we climbed ever higher, limbing the tree, quite far up! It is a good memory, perched by our boots with my friend, looking out into the expansive view of the forest and valley below and joking (with some nervousness, of course) about our spurs kicking out (i.e. slipping) and how we had inadvertently created many perfect, spear-like cut branches upon which we should try our best not to impale ourselves. Spur climbing, by the way, is not commonly done anymore except in cases where the tree is to be removed or is dead. This is because the spurs, attached to the heals of your boots, stab into the trunk of the tree an inch or so and this can cause wounds in the tree that could result in infection or disease. It was more prevalent in the past, especially for felling and timber operations. That said, it is pretty fun, and I was glad for the chance to practice it. It was one of the techniques that I really enjoyed, because it is relatively simple, and muscle helps you out.

      This course was very liberating, in so many ways, despite the challenge and frequent uncertainty or lack of confidence that came with it. I had been trapped inside a greenhouse all summer. I had not gotten to be outdoors at all, where my heart is. This had been so draining for me, so disheartening, so frustrating. I had even grown a sickly pale as the summer had passed, since I was rarely in natural sunlight. (My greenhouse was very dim, as I realized pointedly, since I was measuring light levels all summer! So I know exactly how dim it was, at intervals of 5 minutes everyday through the duration  of the summer!) If you know me, you will know how important it is for me to be outdoors. So through this course, I got to be outdoors. Indeed, I had to be outdoors! We got to climb a 90 or so meter Doug-fir, all the way to the tip-top on one particular day. I have, of course, never in my life gotten to be held by such high-up branches of a tree. Looking out upon the forest, clinging to the crown of this old tree, up above the canopy. As one of my fellow graduate students, who climbs such trees for her research, has told me before: through climbing you must get to know the tree, to form a relationship with it, to trust it, to learn its form. I will admit, I held very tightly to that tree! I am not too frightened by heights, except when I am responsible for keeping myself from falling or when switching ropes, but I was not about to let go of that branch. On the climb up, I had to slip and scramble in between tight gaps between branches, and so it was scrambling and weaving my way down, covered in resin and needles. Although the course ended with the start of winter, I am very much hoping to, at some point, get my own tree-climbing ropes and gear and perfect at least one of the techniques. The course has given me a good base, and if I keep working, maybe one day I can get certified. Or, perhaps even better, incorporate tree climbing into my future work or research. Oh, you need a measurement from the top of the tree? No problem! I'll just climb up there!

     With December and the winter came "winter break." During this time, I was fortunate to be able to come home to Minnesota, to see my family and my little brother, my aunt Didi, celebrate my 26th birthday, and to see some very good friends. Also during December, I would like to note, I was finally able to visit one of my oldest friends, Sara, who is living in New York City. She has lived out there for a number of years now, and although we have been friends since elementary school, I had not seen her in possibly a couple years! I had begun to feel this separation increasingly, and to worry, and to miss her. I decided, spuriously and perhaps financially irresponsibly, that to heck with it I would go to New York and visit her. Sara came to visit me back when I was in Japan, and that was one of the last times we had spent much time together. I had never yet been to visit her in New York in return, and I felt it was time. I am no fan of big cities, and have never had a desire to see one of the world's largest and busiest. But if Sara was out there, and staying out there so long, then gosh-darn-it I would go there to see her. Deciding to make such a trip definitely, definitely did not help alleviate my stress levels or to help me in my endeavor to catch up on seemingly endless work, but I a deeply glad that I did it. There are reasons, I think, Sara and I have been friends for so long and I value that friendship very profoundly. Old friends seem to slip into old ways very easily and naturally, and it feels so comfortable to be around a dear friend. I have missed her, and we have both probably changed, but my fears that we had wholly drifted were abated. I very much cherished the handful of days I got to spend with her, and was also very grateful to her for showing me patiently around New York. I was just happy to get to see her. And, as it turns out, New York City isn't so intimidating. (Central Park is very nice, and has some very lovely trees, especially the sycamores.) I also felt very fortunate to spend time during December with another of my oldest friends, Carolyn, who I have known since middle school, and her beautiful family. To pay my respects to Wendy, her mom. And to sled (and smack into a tree) with two fellow St. Olaf alums, Maddie and Lisa, to have lunch with Lisa and her wonderful boyfriend Stuart, and to visit a dear track team mate, Gina. So these were all experiences I was very grateful for.

     However, I never seemed to find "rest" during December, and although it was allegedly "winter break" it never felt like a "break" from anything. Just rushing from one thing to another. This is, partly, because December is the time that graduate school applications are due. I had a lot of work to catch up on, and the first part of December was a whirlwind of anxiousness and application writing. Throughout the fall, in addition to my remaining measurements, my courses, and a grant proposal application, I had been trying hard to sort out the possibilities for my future -- for my PhD. I had wanted to consider more programs than I was able to, but could only muster time to research a few, and to prepare those applications. I feel, looking back, that it is somewhat of a miracle I was able to summon this energy at all, and to submit anything anywhere. Nonetheless, I feel the regret keenly, that I was not able to look into more programs -- programs that, as I continue to learn more about options (which takes time),  seem as though they might have been great fits for me.  Even so, I summoned all the energy I could, I gathered all the focus I could muster, all the persistence and hard work I could, into sculpting these applications. I poured my hopes, my aspirations, my ambition, all of this into my applications. Recently, I faced some rather significant discouragement in this regard, which I will perhaps write about in the next post.

       At the moment, I am reminding myself to take a deep breath, and be grateful. It is becoming, sometimes, easier and my mind and body are becoming, sometimes, happier which hopefully will continue to be the case. That mentality, of taking deep breaths, of seeking gratitude, has oftentimes helped to sustain me in the past, when I have encountered difficulty or struggled with myself. A form of centering myself. These days, the combination of many forces, present and over the years -- my fatigue and tiredness from the summer and graduate school, long-pent up issues related to my family and their various situations, as well as family relationships in general, emotional struggles, sadnesses, regrets, grief, guilts, anxiety, depression -- finally got the better of me. Finally, likely due to my research frustrations and anxieties and ceaseless grind wearing me down at last, it became such that I could not re-center myself for a time with any methods. I felt, towards the end of the fall and into the winter, feelings of such strong depression and anxiety that I, nearly, could not overcome. For one of the first times, I was fully swept away, and grappled to regain control. I generally keep such things very secret, because I never wish to worry or burden others. Yet, if I am honest, what I imagine must be some form of depression, and likely some form of anxiety, has haunted me for some time, likely since high school, and probably stemming from a number of sources. I remember being asked this question by a classmate once in high school, to which I responded that no, I just have a sad looking face but I'm fine! In college, my coach once asked me if I had considered that I may be depressed. I always denied it, to myself as well as to others. I also imagine that the truth has been more apparent to others than I might wish, but it may also be a surprise to some. I try very, very hard to mask things, to mask struggle or unhappiness or discontent. I suppose I probably fail at that fairly often.

     Generally, however,  I have been able to keep myself under control, or to keep such feelings at bay and keep going. To move forward, and often to find genuine happiness. Usually, such unhappiness or discontent or sadness, whatever feeling it is, is rather small, and only a minor hamperment.  Something that is there, in the back of my mind due to any combination of past and/or present issues, but, if I am in a good situation or kept motivated, it shrinks or is pushed away and is less troublesome or almost forgotten. Sometimes in my life, it has been rather strong, and sometimes I did not recognize what it likely is. During some periods of my life, maybe, it has even abated altogether. It is only in the past couple years that I ever let myself consider that it might be the case, that maybe that would explain things. It almost felt to be a relief, to make that admission to myself.  But over the past 6 months it has been especially strong, those feelings depression and anxiety, and I have little doubt my graduate school situation played a part. I found that I lacked all will, that I wanted desperately to disappear. To be gone. In the past, when I have become especially overwhelmed with these feelings, I have been able to move forward with deep breaths. To remember the immense gift of being alive, of breathing, of a beating heart, the feel of the wind, or earth, or the wonder of the stars, and the trees, and the birds. Reasons for sticking around and reasons to smile or to be happy are many, and I could encourage myself in these small ways. That was generally enough. So, I have usually been able to find focus, and move forwards, to summon a passion for things that are good in this world, or to dedicate myself to some goal or ambition. This time, it seemed to hurt, which has only ever happened once or twice before and never to such a prolonged degree. To hang on me heavily and unrelentingly. I could not pull myself out of it. I found that my brain was very affected as well -- I could hardly think, many days, and could not accomplish very much without great effort. I worked hard to hide this, but it more often than not felt as though I was drifting about, and fumbling to grasp what I could.

     It has taken quite a bit more work than usual, this time, but somehow, things seem to be improving. Some of that weight has lifted. I think that, as the days grow longer, this has helped. I am also quite affected by the sun and by daylight, and the winter in the Pacific Northwest becomes very grey and rainy. Beautiful, in many ways (especially the lichens this year, which were breathtaking). But it can be oppressive sometimes, too. Especially when sunshine is something that helps to center you, and you aren't especially fond of cold raindrops, and are worn out. Deep focus and thought and quiet perseverance have also helped, as well as moving on from disappointments and letting go of some expectations. Additionally, I am a very introverted person, and I have allowed myself to protect my solitude more so than I might have in the past, growing to recognize how vital solitude is to help me recharge myself. Time alone, in peace and calm, is often most restful and healing to me. I yearn for it, throughout the week. Yearn for the chance to be on my own, for my thoughts to be, briefly, my own, and to be relieved of the stress of functioning among others. Active things like running or hiking are also generally healing for me, though they take quite a bit of motivation to do sometimes. And these activities can sometimes be more healing with a friend, and sometimes more healing on my own. At present, my brain still feels as though it is working on empty, or that it has turned off and I'm searching for the right switch to get it functioning again. Even so, it is improving. With the spring arriving quickly here in Oregon, and the daffodils and crocuses poking up, the buds bursting like emeralds on spindly branches, and the rain breaking more and more with occasional sun, I am also finding encouragement and energy. Oregon, as I am experiencing more and more, is a spectacularly beautiful place. It has made its way into my heart, the scent of its air, the fascinating complexities of its forests. It is incredible, and I feel very fortunate to be here.

     Beyond the stress of my research and academic life, I am also very closely involved in social justice issues here in my department and College of Forestry. After taking on many of these duties during the Fall term, at a time when perhaps I was too stretched, I had been especially pulled between obligations. I felt as though there was no time at all for myself, for my own healing, and that is not a wise thing to neglect. It will get you, in the end. At some point, I had to admit to at least one other that I was feeling broken and I could not be relied upon as I might wish. This admission hurt. I do not like letting others down. But it had to be. Since then, I have been working to build myself up again. I have found immense drive through some of my recent activities, coordinating meetings with the college regarding cultural inclusion and the tribes of Oregon in regards to the design of the future forestry building here at Oregon State. This is something profoundly important to me, and an opportunity that I am deeply grateful to be involved in, and a topic about which I have many thoughts. Those thoughts may be for a later date to share. Needless to say, however, the will to do what is right is something that often helps to push me onward. I am also hoping to coordinate, possibly, a speaker series for the next term as well, and feel great excitement over those possibilities.

     So, overall, during the past few months, I have certainly felt challenged (not necessarily in ways that I would like) but continue to grow. I am looking forward to the summer, and hoping to graduate at the end of spring. Wish me luck, in that! I will need it. I have lots and lots of data to sort through and analyze, and a thesis to write. I also await the time when I decide what to do next, regarding my education. That decision is fast approaching. We shall see.

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!

As some know, I spent February, March, and April as a research fellow at the Hawkesbury Institute for the Environment in Richmond, Australia. At this point, I have to admit that I am woefully and hopelessly behind in writing about my experiences, and unfortunately doubt that I will be able to encapsulate much in the limited time I have. But I'll do my best! During the first month, I was getting settled in and used to the surroundings. I spent my first full weekend in Australia very ambitiously. While I frequently feel that I can be lazy and desire to have calm days painting, writing, etc. I also feel a very strong sense that I must use time to its fullest. (That being said, I still slip into wasting obscene amounts of time accomplishing little to nothing, but oh well). Therefore, faced with two "work free" days,  I headed to the Blue Mountains on the first Saturday to a popular little town called Katoomba. There was even a ukelele festival going on when I arrived! So a very curious experience from the start! My goal was to do a hike to the Three Sisters rock formations (which turned out to look nothing like I had imagined from the pictures, as is usually the case). This was my very first experience hiking in Australian "bush." It was immediately vastly different from any experience I had heretofore with forests. The predominant trees (and sometimes the only trees!) and eucalypts. These can very considerably between genotypes, but are nonetheless very different from the broadleaves of my home. Even the leaf color, and the sway of the forest with the wind felt different. I felt foreign in a way I had not felt anywhere else. I felt more foreign in the forests and lands of Australia than I had anytime in Japan, because I did not have an immediate connection to the land in Australia. I fumbled with establishing such a connection during much of my three months there. I often found myself saying to others that even the colors did not resonate with me. I did not know this land. I did not know its ways or its stories. I believe strongly that culture and land are intertwined, and I was painfully aware that I knew next to nothing about the diverse indigenous cultures of Australia. So much of that culture, like in the United States, is "covered up" by western culture through the process of colonization, and I initially felt lost. Nonetheless, the Blue Mountains are quite incredible. They are different from what I know, but they are so beautiful in their own right. Now, as I think back on them, I miss them in ways I would not have guessed. I think this is because, at the last moment and unexpectedly, the connection was suddenly there. Ironically, this came from traveling to the "outback" at the very end of my three months. As someone who loves deep green, who loves streams and lakes, and rich forest, I thought that I would probably not especially enjoy the outback. It turns out, I loved it. So I wish that I could have spent more than a couple days there. Anyways, I am jumping ahead of myself already. After going to Katoomba on Saturday, hiked the Three Sisters rock formation and through the gullies, then back alllll the way back up. I was quite exhausted, and feeling especially out of shape, after being particularly lazy and and not at all diligent about my running in the previous wintry months. I was also unedge because I was still hyper-sensitive to the many warnings of deadly snakes and spiders, ubiquitous throughout Australia. If it's in Australia, it's probably deadly. So all tall grass and low vegetation was embarrassingly suspicious to me at the start of my time there. While hiking, I did hear a rustle on the forest floor, and looked to see a beautiful lyre bird (of course, I did not know this is what it was at the time). They are about the size of peacocks, with a tale that curves like a lyre but to me at the time was strikingly like a feathery fox tail . It continued peacefully on its way. All manner of small colorful birds can be found flitting around in Australia, and of course the croaking flocks of white crested cockatoos. I spent the night in their wonderful hostel (it had taken me 4 hours to reach Katoomba from Richmond by train, even though it is a mere 45 minute drive. This is because the line for Richmond must back-track to reach the Blue Mountains line. Then someone got hit by a train and we were transferred to buses, then back to trains. An ordeal, in my typical style, for my first time on Australian trains. My housemates had also encouraged me that the hostel was very nice and I would probably enjoy my time more if I spent the night). The next day, I came back to the house in the morning by train, dropped off my bag, and then hopped back on the train this time in to Sydney. I was quite intimidated after reaching Central station and trying to navigate towards the Opera House area. I became a bit lost, but after getting a free pocket map from a tourist shop, I was actually quite proud of myself for navigating all day by myself. I stumbled into the "chinatown" area completely by accident, and serendipitously found a genuine Japanese bakery!! How long it had been since I had eaten my favorite, an-pan (red bean bun). I was so astounded and so happy and so nostalgic all at once. Sydney is a really interesting city to me. Very international, and very diverse, with a lot to offer. I walked to Darling Harbor, and was really in awe by the beauty of the area. A really great place. Then I walked along towards the Opera House, took an obligatory picture, and then went to the Botanical Gardens. Now these are simply amazing. Just so incredibly beautiful. I've never seen a "european" style botanical garden before, so I was very much in awe. It is so huge, there are so many plants, statues, flowers, lovely buildings, etc. Sydney is the closest experience I have to anything "european", oddly enough. I was really intrigued by the british style buildings and architecture. I had finally reached the botanical gardens by the late afternoon, and by that time I was admittedly tired (both from the heat, the sun and impending sun burn, the walking, and the not-being-able-to-afford-food -- an issue I will perhaps broach later). When I got back to Richmond, my housemates were impressed by how much I had packed into one weekend.

For the first month (February), I did most of my work with measuring gas exchange, specifically respiration and dark respiration, in the cotton plants that were being grown in the glass house under elevated and ambient temperatures. This was an intense learning process, coming to master the Li-Cors. I am very grateful to the visiting researcher that I was helping, for all that she did to teach me! So needless to say, I spent a ridiculous amount of time in the glasshouses, and then in the evenings did what I could to figure out data analysis for the respiration data, creating temperature curves. Data analysis is one of my definite weaknesses, so although it was challenging to do, it was an amazing learning opportunity and so rewarding. I tried to really make the best contribution I could, and work my hardest. I have no doubt that, at least during my first month, I probably spent about 60 hours during the work week on the cotton drought experiment (some 40 hours on gas exchange measurements with the Li-Cors, and then the rest on data analysis at home). Like I said, this might have been challenging, but it was absolutely worth it in the amount that I learned. As I said in my previous post, I wanted to express my extreme gratitude for the opportunity I was given, and not to squander the faith that my host professor had generously given me. Then, on the weekends when possible I tried to see what I could and travel around. I think that I accomplished a huge amount in both research and experiencing Australia, in a relatively short time! I helped to wrap up three different experiments on drought and temperature stress (in cotton, peanuts, and eucalypts) and collect quite a lot of data. I very much hope that I was a help-- and my host professor was really diligent about making sure I knew I was appreciated, so this was truly wonderful. Ah, I learned so much and gained so much confidence. I feel so lucky for the in-depth research I was allowed to participate in and the great community of researchers and technicians I was able to meet at the Hawkesbury Institute. And I couldn't believe it, but in March my dear Professor Koike from Hokkaido University came to visit the Hawkesbury Institute for a whirlwind couple of days to try to arrange a bilateral agreement between the universities. Although the visit itself was for business, I cannot begin to express how joyful I was to have such an unexpected chance to meet Koike-sensei. I very much miss him and Hokkaido University. Approximately one year ago to that date, I had helped to escort my host professor (Professor Tissue) from the Hawkesbury Institute around Hokkaido University -- now, in a a surreal twist, I was escorting Koike-sensei around the Hawkesbury Institute

I hope that someday I can write more about my time in Australia, but for now I will keep things more brief except to describe a few additional highlights that I should not neglect. The major highlight was that I made it to the Great Barrier Reef!!!! It was quite an ordeal to reach, involving two 6AM flights, a traumatizing 2AM night bus from Richmond to Sydney with drunkards and reaching Sydney alone in the dead of night to hail a taxi,  and only being able to be in the Cairns area for literally two days. I would do it all over again to see the reef. I knew that this was something that I could not let myself miss, so I brushed aside all the other difficulties. It sure is tough to be poor and to travel though! I'm only able to accomplish it because of my willingness to sacrifice all reason (meaning that I don't eat, don't really sleep, and walk everywhere in order to pay for it. Still worth it.) I think that, had the research institute been in Cairns, I might have had a vastly smoother transition to Australia, just because of the richness of the environment there. But I'm just glad I got there. Cairns itself is a town fueled and made purely for tourists. There were wealthy people everywhere. I was equal parts appalled and amused by them, and my rag-tag self felt out of place as usual. After arriving early in the morning, I checked in at a hostel, then walked quite a few miles in the hot sun to reach the only hiking loop within foot-distance (a.k.a "all I can afford"). These are the Red Arrow and Blue Arrow loops, ironically near to the airport so I was actually backtracking. The loops themselves are perhaps a mile, and 8 miles respectively (perhaps shorter or longer, can't remember.) I completed both, was exhausted from not eating or sleeping but proud to cover so much ground. The forests there did begin to intrigue me, which gave me hope. I also met my first goanna! These are giant monitor lizards -- like Joanna from the Rescuers Down Under. It was entirely unexpected. As I was nearing the last stretch of the Blue Arrow trail, which is a dirt trail as opposed to paved, I looked ahead and there he (or she) was across the path. We both stared at each other in surprise, perhaps wondering who would move, and then off he went into the underbrush. This gave me a smile. I hiked around the botantical gardens area, through some of the older growth forest boardwalks, and very much enjoyed the area. After completing the more remote hiking loops during the early morning, and then emerging towards the afternoon, there were increasingly more people in the gardens. I continued to push myself to see everything and all that I could. It was in the 90s, and sunny, and by the end I was definitely feeling tired as I made my seemingly endless trek over hot sidewalks and passed by cars and buses, back towards the hostel. In total, I know I covered at least 18 miles in that days and likely more, with no sleep and not much sustenance to speak of. When I reached the shopping center near the hostel, I was parched and probably pretty ridiculous looking. I ate three mcdonalds icecream cones, which at 30 cents each were just about all I could afford for dinner anyways. The next morning, I woke up early for snorkeling. It is a couple hours boat-ride out to the outer reef. We went to Michaelmas Cay and Hastings Reef. I had been initially overwhelmed to chose a snorkeling tour company, because there are so many companies, but I was very satisfied with the smaller, family-owned SeaStar company. I'm also glad that I chose snorkeling over scuba diving (I couldn't really afford scuba diving either, but I had been sorely tempted). Snorkeling gave me the freedom to swim and dive all over the place. Whereas when I had snorkeled in Okinawa and had not really been allowed to go off on my own (and everyone even had to wear life vests!), this time I was free to dive as deep as I wished and explore all I wanted! I especially enjoyed diving down to where the scuba divers were and circling around, reaffirming that snorkeling is more for me than scuba diving would have been. At both sites we had about 2 hours of swimming time, and I used every single second. Others went back to the boat after getting tired, but I floated and swam around and admired for as long as they would let me stay in the water, even though by the end I was very tired and probably senseless from continuously diving down as deep as I could. I was the very last one back to the boat. The reef itself was not as bright and colorful as I might have expected, but there were so many fish and coral and other creatures. I kept diving down as far as I could to the wall's edges and other overhangs, in search of reef sharks who apparently can sometimes be found there, but no luck. I was absolutely enthralled, even so, to meet sea turtles! And to be able to swim right up to them. (They just continued about their business, putting up with me as I ogled them). In the afternoon, I explored the esplanade area, stumbled into an amazing indigenous/aboriginal art gallery (I cannot begin to express how amazing these paintings were, some of them as large as walls), and as the sunset went for a little jog . The sunset and moonrise (a full moon! Bright and silvery and shining above the shadowed hills and ocean) were breathtaking -- yet again I found myself in a situation I could not believe I was living. Flying foxes swooped in the sky above me. I ate another ice cream cone, went to bed, woke up around 4AM to get to the airport, and then I was back to Sydney.

During my last month (April), I was also very lucky to go to Wentworth Falls in the Blue Mountains, to the Port Stephens area and sand dunes,  and to do the Royal National Park Coastal walk which is near Sydney. This is about 15 miles or so, which I was invited to tag along for with a group of lovely researchers. We walked the first day through forest, camped in a beautiful grassy valley near the ocean (in an afternoon rainstorm, of course, but you know), then did about 12 miles of it the second day: across beaches, up steep cliffs climbs, then along the ridge itself. I wish I would have had more time to go at a slower pace and enjoy the incredible variety of ecosystems along this whole stretch. The change throughout is a marvel itself, and a good way to throw a whole bunch of environments into one experience. Even saw some bounding wallabies in the forested section! Another major highlight for me was to go to Muru Mittigar, the aboriginal (and especially Darug) cultural center about ten miles from where I was in Richmond. I biked there, through back-country roads, and spent the day with some of their staff as they lead me through their set of activities. Their staff member, Paul, gave me a great talk about some of the history of colonization-- brief, but informative even if I had by this point managed to learn more about the history -- but even more meaningful to me was to hear some of his own opinions and experiences. He also showed me through their gardens, and taught me about some of the amazing uses for so many plants. Then during the second half of the day, their resident artist Uncle John Boney gave me painting instructions, and painted with me. (Uncle is a polite term for an older man or elder, and Aunty for women) I was sheepish about admitting that I actually do a lot of painting myself, so what he showed me was a very basic introduction tailored to the huge groups of people he typically has come in. Usually, groups of around 50 or 100 people come in! Somehow, I was there on a day where it was JUST me! AH, I felt so immensely happy and fortunate. This was perhaps my best experience in my whole time there. I think that he was interested by my attention to his paintings and (maybe I'm just being facetious) my ability to follow his painting instructions, and he even offered to teach me to paint! He said I could keep coming back and he would teach me! When I showed him one of my business cards with watercolor work, he really liked it, and said that he wanted to learn watercolor and we could teach each other what we know. Goodness, few people know how touched I was by this and how dearly I wished to accept his incredible offer. A dream come true for me, really -- to do art and to learn from such a talented artist. Alas that it was my last few days in Australia (for now) and I would be leaving the next week. I heave a heavy sigh whenever I think about this. But I do hope to return. And I've painted him a watercolor piece, in his style, which I hope to send to him. Maybe he will like it and remember me.

My final hurrah was traveling to the outback during my very last week in Australia. In fact, I told Uncle John (the painter I had met at Muru Mittigar) of this plan when he asked if I intended to do any traveling before I left. He was surprised when I said I would be going to visit Bourke (literally the middle of nowhere), and I was just as surprised to learn that he grew up in that area. A group of seven of Phd students, technicians, and myself rented a big car, sardined ourselves in, then drove 9 hours to arrive at 1AM in the desolate town of Bourke -- known as the unofficial "start" of the outback, hence the Australian colloquialism "back of Bourke." Bourke on its own was an experience. A very tiny town, with at least ten closed down and boarded up hotels, in the north west of New South Wales. It is rather isolated, and has a bit of a rough feel around the edges. It is also in the midst of an 8 year long drought, I believe. There is, apparently, a reputation for the area and the outback for crime. Part of this may be true, but part of it I do not doubt is stereotype -- in particular, stereotypes about aboriginal people, many of whom live in the outback (for a host of reasons, many of them socio-economic and which is another topic in itself that I will not go into here, but will write more about perhaps). We did a hike in Gundabooka National Park, red and hot and dry, but also surprising in the amount of vegetation there was. Here I saw the greatest variety of well-known Australian animals during my whole trip, tons of emus and kangaroos and even a bearded lizard. It was as if everything clicked -- suddenly, the connection was there, and I loved this land, different as it was.

Oh yes, and I also managed to hop over to the south island of New Zealand with my sister in April. How could I forget. ; ) How could I possibly come so close to New Zealand and NOT fanangle my way there. I'll share some thoughts about that next.

Well, there are many things I am forgetting or have left out for lack of time, but I hope that gives some idea of what I did over three months and with luck I will add more. I had my share of disagreements with Australia, but also a whole lot of incredible experiences as well. During this whole time, I was struggling immensely with decisions over graduate school. In the end, I was choosing between a PhD at the Hawkesbury Institute and a masters at Oregon State University. They were both very different offers, with advantages and disadvantages of their own which in the end balanced them evenly. I wavered back and forth for months, feeling so overwhelmed. In the end, I have decided on Oregon State, because I felt I could not sacrifice being so far from family. In doing so, as my head began to clear once back in Minnesota for a time, I realized that I should have been brave and chosen Australia. But I will make the most of it, and it is certainly not a bad place to be, and it will still work out.

Here is a quick summary of my first few days in Australia. I left Minnesota on Saturday, Feb 1st for my long, long journey by air:

It has been very busy immediately since arriving here. I landed at the airport (after what felt like a very long journey--mostly as a result of having to change planes twice in seattle/los angeles) at 6:20am and went through customs. (I'll note that my characteristic streak of luck did not spare me on the flight...the plane had some malfunction with the emergency lights so all 13 hours of the overnight flight were as bright as day. I wore my hat over my face.). Customs used sniffer dogs, a cute little beagle in this case. Then I had to figure out how to contact the driver who was supposed to be picking me up. I ended up purchasing a cheap track phone at the airport with a couple hours worth of minutes (which the worker installed incorrectly resulting in my not actually being able to use the phone for two days and defeating the purpose of having a phone, ugh). I had to borrow a phone, but contacted the driver. A rather gruff and odd man, who asked me multiple times if I was sure I was Jamie Mosel. Maybe he was expecting a guy? Anyways, I had no real idea of how far the drive would be, only a rough idea of where the university is outside of Sydney. The drive must have been about 45 minutes to an hour. I was really nervous during the drive and perhaps a bit stunned by the whole process that it had taken to reach Australia.

When we reached the campus (in what I would describe and others have described as a "redneckish" town), the driver pulled up to the administrative building and said "here you go" and pointed to a back door which ended up being locked. He left, and I was standing outside of the building confused. Luckily, a grad student walked past outside and unlocked the door for me--although in a pinch I could have gone around the front once I figured it out. I literally stepped through the elevator doors and there was my host professor walking up the stairs. So that was a very fortuitous meeting. Literally five minutes later (after dumping all my luggage in the professor's office) I was pulled into the meeting of visiting international researchers. This was at 8am or so, which felt much later to me than to everyone else! I was still wearing my Olaf sweatshirt, jeans, and boots and it was 91 degrees. Ha. I told them I wanted to appear as Minnesotan as possible. We were all supposed to introduce ourselves and I had to go first. I felt intimidated by the end and uncertain of how to describe myself. There are perhaps ten visiting researchers, a mix of primarily established professors, as well as some post-docs. Boy do I feel inexperienced!! I tried to piece together "how exactly to I fit in here? I'm no professor, and no post-doc...I barely even know what research I'll be helping with!"

Afterwards, I was shown to the offices for bit, signed a few papers, then my host professor gave me a quick tour of the immense research sites they have here. Extremely sophisticated, extremely complex, extremely expensive. Then he offered all the visiting researchers to go out to lunch. Apparently Thai food is really popular here, so even though we are in a tiny town there was a Thai restaurant. After lunch (around 1:30) my professor handed me off to the Canadian married couple who I am staying with. It turns out that the room in the grad student house was given to an international student from England and so plans were re-arranged--this I learned in a whirlwind upon arrival.

The Canadians are very Canadian. And so extremely kind. They must be in their thirties. Ironically, they are both vegetarians and both run. So I am lucky, as I am both a vegetarian and a runner! And hopefully, maybe, one day I can go running with them. The woman, named Jen, apparently likes to trail run over hiking routes and has run a 50 mile race before!! She is also a fungi researcher at the Hawkesbury Institute for the Environment where I am. Here husband, Corey, is an airplane engineer. They live in a house that is in town and about a 20 minute walk from campus. Surprisingly, I was able to navigate my way back from campus without getting lost. Now THAT is an accomplishment. They have been very helpful!

The next day I came to campus for a 9am meeting and then to hear brief presentations by the researchers at 10am. After the presentations, my host professor originally said that I could head home to settle in a bit more--I think he is very busy this week and stretched for time, so I was glad for a chance not to bother him. But I told him that I am happy to help with any and all projects, and I had gathered during the meetings that all the visiting professors might need help. I also wanted to make sure that he knew that I wanted to work hard and didn't want to seem as though he needed to hesitate about putting me to work. Just at that moment a visiting professor from Texas wanted to install some infrared heat sensors (well, really, to put AA batteries in them and hang them from bungee cords tied to sticks over some potted peanuts...but that doesn't sound as sophisticated). I got to tag along instead of going home to settle in immediately. After it was done, I admitted that I have some experience with Li-Cors (photosynthetic gas exchange measuring machines...beasts, expensive, and complicated). The visiting professor saw this as an opportunity to sign me up for taking some measurements for him, and asked my host professor later about it. So I might be helping with that. Word spread quickly that I can run those machines, and so today from 9am to 5pm I helped another visiting prof from toronto/duke university to collect data. Light curves, specifically. I could pretend to explain to you what they are but...I'm not entirely certain myself. They are photosynthesis as a product of light over time, in a sense. Towards the end she asked me if I could also do the analysis~! I said of course (glad for a chance to learn), but informed her that she would have to show me how. So this evening I didn't get back to the house until after dark, about 8:30PM. So an 11 hour day? That's pretty good. I've made some 48 graphs in one day. I have no clear idea of how to describe them, other than that they show light and dark respiration in plants, so don't ask for now! We were doing the measurements on potted cotton plants grown in a greenhouse under elevated and ambient co2 and high/ambient temps.

On another interesting note, there are white cockatoos flocking in trees and in the skies like crows. And there are crows as well, but they sound ridiculous and nothing like normal crows. There are apparently deadly snakes everywhere to be found, as well as poisonous spiders. I have yet to see any, although apparently there is a lethal spider that lives under a bench in the backyard of the house and there was a giant snakeskin near the entrance to the greenhouse. Terrifying. The first day, as I mentioned, it was 91 degrees. But yesterday it rained and misted (of course), so the weather has cooled to the mind 60s and 70s. Not as cold as home, but a surprise.

Well, there you go. There's a bit of what's been going on here. I pretty much jumped straight into things! From the moment I stepped foot on campus! People kept asking me when I arrived if I was tired. Nope! I'm pretty resilient, I would say! I've been going to bed around 10pm and waking up around 7am. It still feels a little bit intimidating for me to know how under-qualified I am compared to all these experienced and established researchers. But I keep telling them: "I have the least experience, but the most time available! So ask me to help!" Unlike in Japan, that offer has been accepted wholeheartedly and I've so far been put to work with the short-term visiting profs. It will be interesting to see when and if and what sort of other work I will be given on the projects that I was originally proposed to work on (elevated co2 and eucalypts). The professor is extremely nice, though. Although so busy, constantly running here and there. So I hope eventually he will have more time for me but until then, or at least for a few days, I have been given lots to do.

As some of you know, I am now back in Minnesota. On September 16th, I met the day that I dreaded--my last day in Sapporo. I had spent the past week trying and failing many times to pack all of my belongings and take apart the room that had become my home. After the first attempt, I panicked, found a night bus to the peninsula of Shiretoko (the most uninhabited part of Japan) on the eastern side of Hokkaido, and fled. It left at 12:30AM, drove through the night, and I arrived with a vague plan to climb the mountain known as Rausu dake. I arrived at about 6AM, to learn--as I had roughly anticipated--that there were scant buses into the Shiretoko national park. To my great fortune, two French travelers had also disembarked with me, and after asking them if they knew of any buses and learning that they were simply going to hoof it (about 3 miles), they invited me along! I spent the rest of the day hiking along the roadside, seeing a bear within the first few hours, reaching the mountain hut, helping the two French travelers translate, climbing Rausu with them, spending the night with them, and hiking part of the next morning with them. Although I had planned on traveling alone, it was really a welcome and wonderful experience to hike with them. They were so friendly! I hope that our paths will cross again. My mind was often clouded by my dread about my upcoming departure from Japan, but for a time in Shiretoko I found calm. I swell with gratitude every time I think of the beautiful land of Ainu Mosir (Hokkaido). I was only in Shiretoko for one night and two days, so I could not do the entire traverse of the mountains. Coming back into the town of Rausu in the afternoon, I managed to catch the last boat tour. I was left in awe. I had not realized how high and incredible the cliffs around the coast were, or the deep admiration I held for the ocean as we glided through the waves. I was honored to see another bear and her cub eating salmon. I could have cried, gazing out at the rocks and trees--dwarfed by the the magnitude of the cliffs--and the seabirds swirling in the skies above each precipice. I thought to myself, what need have we of fantasy? This world is more fantastical than even the most creative human imagination could ever conjure. I am so grateful to live in this world, on this earth.

In my last days, I bid farewell to my lab and Koike-sensei. Saying goodbye to Koike-sensei was perhaps the most difficult thing I had to do. Afterwards, when I was alone and biking back, I immediately broke into tears. Koike-sensei has acted with such generosity towards me. I think of him much like a father! He has taught me, helped me, and supported me selflessly. I have learned so much from him and his dedication and hard work will always inspire me. I desperately hope that I will have the chance to meet him and the many lovely lab members and post-doc students who helped me.  I hope in some way I can return his kindness in the future. I also said goodbye to the wonderful professor Jeff Gayman, whose trust, kindness, and continued assistance opened so many doors for me to meet and learn from Ainu communities. I owe him greatly for this gift. The last few months that I was in Hokkaido were absolutely brightened by these experiences. I will always send my strength to the many Ainu people working hard to find ways to revive and protect their culture. Iyairaykere. Iyairaykere. Iyairaykere. ('Thank you'). Lastly, over my last few days the Hokkaido University track and field members gave me so much joy and so many smiles. The middle distance/distance girls took me out to a desserts buffet for lunch, and then a couple days later a group of sprinters took me to a cake buffet! Needless to say, I had quite a few sweets over my last week. I was absolutely touched. I appreciate it so much. I am generally a shy and quiet person, and so I am often surprised by such warm acts of friendship. On my very last day in Sapporo, it poured all day. I frantically wrapped up my last bits of packing, mailed my last packages, tied up my last ends. My fellow Fulbrighter Becca and my friend Kotaro ate Hara (tofu flour) donuts with me one last time, and then I went to the train gates at 6:30PM...where half of the track and field team was waiting for me!!! I laughed and smiled talking with them all, then they all bought 100yen tickets and came out to the platform with me!!!!! I was shocked! Before the train arrived, we all circled up, arms interlaced over shoulders, and they sang the school song to me. When they finished, eyes turned to me, and I did my best to string together the heartfelt thank you, friendship, and deep gratitude I felt for them all without breaking into tears. A few tears slipped out, and my voice wavered, but I was surprised by my own ability over my last days to hold together. I will never ever forget their kindness. They turned the day I had dreaded most into one of my dearest memories.

Once the train doors closed, the tears began, but they were tears of both happiness and sorrow. At the airport as I sat waiting for my (2 hour delayed) flight, tears fell unabashedly down my face. Because of a typhoon, my flight was extremely late and I finally reached Tokyo around 1AM. Then waited in a literal 2 hour line for a taxi (since it was so late that there was no other form of transportation) to a hotel were I slept a few hours (from 3:30 AM~6:30AM). On the morning of September 17th, I ate my last Japanese breakfast, ran for my last time in Japan in the same place I had run for the first time 1 year before, went to the Fulbright office to say goodbye and thank you, then to Meiji Jingu shrine to give thanks once more. Although my last day in Sapporo had been grey and a downpour--of course brightened by the kindness of others but wet nonetheless!--my very last day in Japan, in Tokyo, was beautiful sunshine. I am grateful to whatever forces conspired to grant that gift. I closed my phone account, and then caught a train to Narita airport. I gazed lovingly out the window at the landscape and cityscape of Japan. I tried to soak in every minute, like the last rays of warm sunshine. At Narita, I picked up my bags, checked them, and went through security with my banjo and backpack, with a deep, deep breath. I was saying goodbye to my home all over again. And it was more painful than before.

On the flight, I was very lucky (thanks to the help of the Japanese airport worker who checked me in for my flight at the kiosk) to have a window seat AND no one sitting next to me! My luck ran out when there was an announcement that there were mechanical problems with the plane's navigation system and after more than an hour of sitting and waiting on the plan as they tried to correct it, we all had to disembark, wait for a NEW plan for another hour or so, and then re-board. At least I still had two seats to myself. My flight had been scheduled to leave at 3:50PM but it was about 7PM by the time we finally started towards the runway. I remember that the sun was setting. I took another deep breath. And then I was in the sky. I watched the lights of Japan's coast until they disappeared. Then steeled myself against my sadness and tried to keep my head held high. I will be happy forever, for that one year in Japan.

While flying, I became more and more encouraged by the thoughts of seeing my family and friends. 12 hours later, gliding over the familiar cityscape of Minneapolis, it felt as if I had hardly left. It felt as if I was waking from a long dream. My family met me at the airport, and I was genuinely happy to see them. But I think I will never be the same, and my heart will always feel torn in two when I think of Japan, and Hokkaido. And it is always on my mind. There is not a day that my thoughts do not wander through the mountains and forests of Hokkaido, the streets of my neighborhood, the Shinkawa river widening out towards the ocean, the climb up Teine and Moiwa mountain , the agriculture building and mainstreet of the university, the shrines and temples of Honshuu, the bright, beautiful sidewalks of Tokyo, the hills of Nara, the cedars of Koya, the trains and stations, and many other places I was fortunate to see. There is not a day that I do not remember.

Now, I am in Minnesota again. And I am certainly glad to see the familiar fields and the city of Minneapolis, to run again around the lakes and to see family and friends. In particular, I am happy to see my dad again. I am struggling to course my future from here. I am planning to reapply to graduate school for forest sciences, but I continue to feel naive and lost when it comes to choosing a program. I also need desperately to find work here in Minnesota, as my student loan payments are a constant worry. BUT, there may be some hope for some excitement and a new chance to learn this year even after the disappointment of not being able to start my graduate school plans at Yale. It is still not certain, but I may be written into a grant by an amazingly generous and kind professor in Australia, where I will be able to help with a climate change research experiment for a few months! I am so indebted to the professor for working with me to create this opportunity. Even if it does not come to fruition, I am so grateful to him!

     I find it impossible to express the full depth of my gratitude for the year I have experienced. As I look back at the person I was at the beginning of my adventure, and now consider myself again, I am overwhelmed by the growth I have made. I think that perhaps the clearest evidence of this transformation is in the very fact that, when I first arrived, I counted the days until I would return home. Now, I wish they were beyond count, for I have found a home in Japan that I do not wish to leave. This is something shocking to me--not because I did not expect to enjoy Japan, but because I have always been in love with Minnesota. It was unfathomable to me that any place could match my own birthplace in my heart. Yet I have been proven wrong. Now faced with returning to the United States, I find myself undergoing the same painful parting as when I first stepped onto the airplane all those months ago waving goodbye to my family. To quote Shakespeare, parting is indeed “such sweet sorrow.”

    I will take some time to look back at all that has occurred for me over these 12 months. When I landed in Japan, it was the first time I had ever left the United States. It was the first time I would ever live more than an hours drive from my family. It was my first international flight. It was my first time traveling alone, period.  It was the first time using my passport and my first time crossing an ocean. It was a host of firsts. I can so clearly remember my fear as I sat, nearly unmoving, for 13 hours on my flight. I joke that I never succumbed to jet lag (which is true!) primarily because I was so petrified. Arriving at Narita, I had little idea of how to even take a bus or train by myself let alone navigate one of the largest cities in the world. I was overwhelmed, and secretly terrified--and likely outwardly more than I wished to show. Yet I found comfort in deep breaths. In the assurance that new experiences are good experiences, and that I should welcome the incredible opportunity to find my own strength. I often compared myself to characters in my favorite Tolkien novels, in the Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit. By and large, I was a hobbit out of my element. Like the character Sam in the Lord of the Rings, I was the farthest I’d ever been from home and in my naivety was bound for all sorts of mishaps. Like the character Bilbo in the Hobbit, I had been quite unexpectedly swept onto the road from my doorstep--questioning my own strength, stumbling along, longing for the comforts of my home, yet all the while harboring a spirit waiting to be awakened. A spirit that craved adventure. And now it has been so powerfully awakened! As with any adventure, no character emerges unchanged. I, too, have been profoundly changed.

My first months remained defined by my uncertainty and adjustment to the newness of being on my own and across the world. I absorbed everything with fresh, wide eyes. I remember becoming lost daily, being caught in downpours, and being pushed and pulled and frustrated by all sorts of complicated processes of settling in. Yet I was lucky to be welcomed into my lab, and I could never have asked for a better advisor than Professor Takayoshi Koike. I had feared I would have trouble finding a chance to visit the forests outside of Sapporo, and I need not have worried so. Professor Koike almost always found opportunities to take me along, or to involve me. Still, finding my footing as far as my own research took a lot of time and patience. As is the experience for many Fulbright Fellows, the course of my research proposal transformed over the year. It is subject to change, and alteration, and requires flexibility. I had originally intended to study the decline of mountain birch. However, I gradually discovered that there would be little contribution I could make to this research. It was well underway in the hands of a graduate student, and while I may study and assist as need be, if I wished to conduct more independent investigation it would need to be different than planned. Yet again I am grateful for Professor Koike, as he recognized my enthusiasm and promptly decided I should research elevated CO2 and seedling regeneration in shade conditions. In the end, this project turns out to be far more fitting to my larger goal of studying successional patterns due to global warming. The decline of mountain birch appears to be most closely related to anthropogenic industrial emissions of ozone, whereas seedling regeneration in this context involves multiple layers with regard to forest sustainability and succession and CO2. However, soon after seeing this glimmer of hope--this much-desired sense of direction--, the snows began. The beech, oak, and maple seedlings I had tenderly planted were soon buried beneath literal meters of snow. Thus began the long winter, and the long wait. Of course, I had Japanese language courses, HUSTEP science courses, and lectures from Professor Koike, and a host of incredible cultural experiences to productively occupy my time. Still, I felt anxious and that I was not accomplishing my research. Looking back, I do wish that I could have done more research during this time.

     On the other hand, I also realize that over the winter I learned an incredible amount. The opportunity to prepare myself before jumping head first into my experiment has probably been what has kept me to date from drowning in the complexity of that same research. It also gave me a chance to expand myself, and to participate in activities like the Hokkaido University track and field club. Among the decisions I am most grateful for during this year, joining the track club I hold very dear. Not only did it give me a way to continue running, to keep me mentally and physically healthy, but I met some truly wonderful people and found myself gradually integrated into the everyday life of Japanese students. The observations and interactions I made during this time--the chance to compare sports, teamwork, hierarchy, friendships in the U.S. and Japan--have been invaluable. They have made me more flexible, and more open and accepting to different strategies. They have reminded me again of the need for patience, and that there are many ways of achieving goals, many methods, many philosophies. They have shown me passion and dedication towards these goals transcend cultures. And of course, how could I ever forget the group of middle-aged men and women urban bee keepers who have adopted me? The members of the Sappachi Sapporo urban honey bee keepers, and their hives of honey bees on top of a tall pachinko building downtown, have brought me so many smiles and so much kindness. In particular one older lady, Takushima-san, who single handedly organized the entire group to come cheer for me at the Hokkaido marathon waving signs with my name surrounded by hearts.

     Slowly, as the grip of winter lessened and the ice began to melt, so too did my research pick up pace. Now, at the end of the summer and the growing season, it is at a furious, almost unstoppable race! I find I have no time for anything but research, in fact. After my week long boot camp with the Li-Cors machines measuring photosynthesis, I had the profound realization of just how complex my research had become. I took a step back and looked at myself, carrying around an expensive infrared gas analysis machine and realized, “my goodness, I look like I know what I’m doing.” Of course, I still have little idea of what I’m doing! But the confidence I received from even attempting these measurements, and from being trusted to do so, hit me like a welcome if intimidating, wave. I feel as though I will have such a huge head start over masters students when I pursue my degree in forest sciences. Not only have I been introduced to the processes, I have done them, and done them independently.

I believe comparisons to the faces of the seasons here in Hokkaido rather accurately reflect the progression of my own experiences. The winter was long, cold, and hard but also perilously beautiful. The spring was messy and slow to start. Then, suddenly, the land overflowed with splendor. In the past three months alone I have seen everything coalesce. I have been graced by more incredible experiences than I could have asked for in a lifetime, and no small amount of serendipity.

A long-harbored frustration concerning a lack of opportunities to become involved with Ainu communities was at last eased by meeting a Hokkaido University education professor originally from the United States. Because of his initial introduction, I have now had the chance of a lifetime to visit the Ainu-led Chikoronai reforestation project in Nibutani. I was overjoyed to find out about this project, and I am still unbelieving that I was able to visit not just once but twice. If only I had more time, there is so much to learn from this project. I find that my “scientific” research is only of any use if it is in a broad conversation with communities, with culture, and with history. There is little point in toiling away studying leaves or photosynthetic rates--compiling reams of data and numbers--if that “science” is kept so sequestered from the overlapping, connecting, cris-crossing web that is the world. It is a failure of many scientists and scientific institutions that they believe “science” can be made to stand alone outside of this web. The information, perhaps, can stand but there will never be “knowledge” without broader communication and recognition of the beautiful and varied expressions of the earth. This has been made all the more clear to me over the course of this year. For I have witnessed, on occasion, this very same self-centered, arrogant science and wish to have no part in it. I have also witnessed passionate researchers and environmentalists, who I wish to join. I wish to help change the way research is conducted--indeed, to abandon the concept of “research” in favor of the wonderful humility of “conversation” and “learning.” My chances to visit the Ainu community of Nibutani, to meet individuals and receive their endless kindness, and to learn has absolutely defined this last part of my Fulbright year. I shudder at the image that exchange students form of Ainu communities and the history of colonization of this land based solely on the museum displays and perfunctory, cursory introductions provided in lectures or tourism advertisements. This image is hollow and ingenuine compared to the actuality of present day Ainu.

Lastly, I should speak of my experiences directly with the land. For in this growing love, I have also found the most drive and dedication. When I first arrived in Japan, I was not connected in an ecological sense to the land, the plants, the creatures, the soil that make up these islands. They were unfamiliar to me, and I regarded them with curiosity. I had yet to take root. As the year passed, this land became as dear to me as my birthplace. The overflowing green of Hokkaido’s growing season has ensnared me, never to let go. It is always on my mind. As I study, as I perform measurements for my experiment, when I fall asleep at night, and when I wake in the morning, my first thoughts fall to the land. To gaze upon the mountains and varied landscape of Hokkaido is to walk in waking dream. It is far from pristine--no land on earth is “pristine” and we should rejoice in the interconnectedness of human beings and other organisms and the stuff of this earth. It tells an unfortunate story of destruction in the name of mindless development. There are many scars. Yet despite these scars of development and industry, Hokkaido appears so incredibly strong and verdant. There is much to be done to heal the land. But curiously, it is in the negligence of the land that I find some hope. Perhaps, left to its own devices, and vary delicate, tentative human responses, it can recover immensely. As a result of the profound love I have found for Hokkaido and for Japan as a whole, I am now devoted to the protection of this earth with such passion that I will never give up. Because of the experience that Fulbright have given me, I am a great leap closer to doing so. I will never, ever forget the grace that has been this year. This year, for perhaps the first time in my life, I have found true happiness, wonder, and strength in myself. That is a gift beyond all riches. 

My most recent July15th-August 15th report for Fulbright (but quite extensive in some parts, which you might all appreciate more or less than the Fulbright commission):

As with last month, this month's report also picks up just where the other left off. In fact, the morning after I submitted my report last month I took off on bike again. This time, however, my goal was to finally visit the Chikoronai reforestation project I mentioned previously. The project was started by an Ainu man, Koichi Kaizawa, with the goal of restoring the original temperate deciduous forest that had been replaced by pine plantations. Of particular importance is an elm species (Ulmnus laciniata) called “ohyou.” As explained before, I had met Kaizawa-san's son at an Ainu music concert in the town of Nibutani, and asked about coming to visit the reforestation project. I wanted, if possible, to come help in whatever way would be useful, in return for the opportunity to learn more about the project. Since that time, I had communicated with his son through the rather tenuous method of facebook, which he had informed me was his preferred method of contact. The weekend before, it had been vague whether or not he had received his father's permission for me to come help. In fact, scarce minutes before I had been about to set out on bike from Sapporo to the forest—after hearing neither a confirmation or a decline—I at last heard back. It turned out that he had not had a chance to ask his father (though the story I was initially told was that they wouldn't be doing any weeding that weekend and would contact me when they planned to.) Kaizawa's son, Taichi, is a very cheerful, friendly man but tends to take his time in responding to messages. Looking at a calendar, I realized that my weekends were quickly running out. If I was going to go visit, it would need to be soon or never. I am very fortunate and happy to say that since then, I have indeed been able to visit. It is one of the more ridiculous and entertaining adventures I have had—as well as one of the most meaningful--and so while a few of you have heard pieces of the story, I think it worthwhile to share. Not wanting to bother Taichi-san, but also feeling that it was something very important to me to visit if there was any possibility whatsoever, I asked later that week if the coming weekend might not be too much trouble. I did this in the guise of a “bike trip”, stating that I would be passing through Nibutani (instead of the truth, that I was specifically biking TO Nibutani). Although Taichi had generally seemed optimistic about my visiting when I met him in person, his lack of concrete communication with me made arranging such a visit complicated and fraught with uncertainty. I was constantly unsure if I was causing inconvenience with my request. I figured there may be less pressure if I construed my request in terms of something less specific, such as a bike trip—it gave plenty of leeway for the Kaizawas to decline if they were too busy, or to accept without having to keep me around very long. Having sent my question, thanks to facebook's technology I was aware that it had been read, but awaited a response. By Sunday morning, I still had not been told yes or no. Since I had construed the request in terms of a bike trip, I decided to go anyways. This was a nerve-wracking step, knowing the potential inconvenience and intrusion I could cause if unwelcome, and also the fact that it is an approximate 110km bike ride. I did not even know if anyone would be home, much less happy to see me. Koichi Kaizawa, the founder, was initially described to me as gruff and somewhat unfriendly (at least to those who are not on his good side). This made me all the more apprehensive. Nonetheless, I packed a small daypack and, as I said it would be a bike trip, I decided I should tie my sleeping bag to my bike. Not just to stick with the story, but also in case I was turned away and had to sleep outside that night. I set out, and it was a blustery, harsh headwind from the start. Combined with my apprehension, the first part of the bike was not particularly enjoyable. It is an irksome tangle of streets, unaware pedestrians, dangerously inept bikers, and busy traffic to escape the frustrating net that is the city of Sapporo, and during this part I contemplated many times if I should turn back. Finally, reaching the city limits, I decided stubbornly (and probably foolishly) to continue even though I now felt a heavy pull to turn back. But I had found the road, and I stuck to it. If nothing else, good exercise, I decided! The farther I biked from the city, the more open the land became. Nonetheless, I was biking into complete mystery as far as how things would work out. In Minnesota, I would consider it extremely rude to show up (mostly unannounced) to someone's home. I had no way of knowing if Taichi-san had said anything to his father. I had no way of knowing my reception. I focused on the fields and farms around me, the trees and skyline, the battle against the wind, and the transformations of the road. The skies were grey, but finally about 2/3 of the way the atmosphere started to feel more cheerful. The sun peaked out, and the land became more green with tumbling forests, little homes, streams, and fences tucked into the countryside. I checked once more to see if I had received any response to my message. Nothing. It was now about 11:30AM, and I estimated when I might arrive. I sent one last-ditch message saying that I had left Sapporo on my bike trip and would be passing through Nibutani in a couple hours. The land became rolling, covered with green tumbles of forest. I saw road signs that I was nearing Nibutani, I was also not certain of the precise location of the reforestation site. Pedaling along, I passed a tiny sign that I thought said 'chikoronai.' I saw a fenced field, with a few people out pulling weeds. I continued on, feeling that perhaps this had been it, but too nervous to stop. I came into Nibutani proper and asked an older lady in a shop if she knew of the forest or Kaizawa-san. She confirmed that I had passed it. Back-tracking, I hopped off my bike and walked nervously up the drive. No one had seen me or heard me and I paused, standing next to my bike in worry. After a few moments, and still no one had looked up from their work, I figured it would be better for me to announce myself than for someone to turn and be shocked to find a bedraggled foreigner watching them. Timidly, I called 'sumimasen,' my mind racing to think what my next step should be. Koichi Kaizawa stood up and turned around, giving me what I can only describe as the clearest angry, exasperated expression of “Oh jeez.” I gulped as he approached. His glare was harsh and I fumbled to think of some way to explain my presence. “I was just wondering...I was just biking through...I was hoping I could see the forest?” I stuttered. He scoffed. “No. We are working until 5pm. I can't show you the forest until then,” followed by a blunt. “Dou suru?” I floundered. “Oh, I see, ah...Well, can I work?” I asked a little shakily. Luckily, shortly after Koichi Kaizawa had come over to talk to me, the others in the field had gradually made their way over. Coming down from the dirt path was Koichi-san's wife with a bag of snacks. It seemed that I had arrived only minutes before they were going to take a break from working. Koichi-san walked aggitatedly over to his car and sat down. I could hear him mumble something about being a “meiwaku.” I cringed. Just at that moment, his son Taichi-san had approached and said lightheartedly, “Oh! Hi Jamie! You came! Sorry I didn't respond to your message.” He turned to his father and said with a laugh “what do you mean 'meiwaku.' That's not true.” The other workers were Koichi-san's daughters and family members. We began to talk, and I explained that I had biked there. Everyone was impressed—even, I think, Koichi-san. Gradually, the air became less tense. I even caught a smile or two on Koichi-san's face, and got him to laugh. His wife had brought icecream cones and insisted that if I was going to help work, I had to eat an icecream cone. They asked curiously about where I'm from, how long it had taken to bike, if I was tired, etc. Although I was tired, I didn't want to be turned away from helping work. I said oh no, I'm just fine. They asked where I had planned to stay. I gestured to my sleeping bag, “someplace along the road, a bus stop, in the forest,” I explained bashfully. “I like sleeping outdoors.” Everyone balked. Koichi-san's wife said offhandedly, “well, if she works, what about the log house?” The Kaizawas have a log house on their land, that guests sometimes stay in. Secretly, I had know this, and had hoped very much that things would go smoothly enough that I would be invited to stay. Although Taichi-san had said they would not be doing any weeding or such work, it was clear that was precisely what they had been working on. So for the next few hours I crouched in the dust and dirt and pulled weeds, then collected rocks to remove from the field. My legs were not too happy, I was sunburned, and now my legs were covered in dirt. But I was in a state of disbelief at the incredible turn of events. I had not been chased away. Here I was, weeding just as I had hoped. What was more, there was an Ainu language lesson that night, and Taichi-san had asked me if I was interested in attending. Both he and his mother were going. I was shocked, of course I would like to attend! At last, 5pm rolled around and the field work was finished. I climbed into the back of the truck with one of the daughters and we went back to their house. When I took of my shoes to come inside to wash up, my socks and feet were black with dirt. The daughter literally hosed of my legs in the bathroom! Then, Koichi-san himself pulled up outside the house in his truck. He was waiting to give me a tour of the forest! Taichi-san loaned me a pair of his shoes (many times too large) since mine were muddy and soggy. I couldn't believe it! I got into the truck with Koichi-san and he drove along the bumpy, dirt road. “You see,” he said. “It would be impossible to bike through here.” I agreed, still unbelieving at the situation. We passed through many fences, some of them electric. “The deer,” said Koichi-san. The deer eat the seedlings and strip the trees. He was in a light mood, and although I'm rather shy, I tried to keep a conversation. Reaching the peak of the path, Koichi-san parked and pointed across the forest showing me the boundaries. Shika deer yelped in the trees, and Koichi-san in good humor would shout “urusai” back at them. I spoke of my own hopes to help with reforestation projects, and my hopes to protect the earth. I explained that in Minnesota, the forests are beautiful, but nothing like here. In Hokkaido, everything is so lush. There is so much biodiversity, I said. When we got back to the house and he parked the car I said “if I were to live in such a place, I would be happy for the rest of my life!” Koichi-san especially laughed at this. I think, maybe, I got on his good side. A much better place to be. He asked me jokingly if I was going to learn to speak Ainu at the class. I said I would do my best! I was rushed into the next car, and Koichi-san's wife handed a homemade bento to me and told me to eat up! We had to hurry to make it by 6pm. Although the language lesson was far more advanced than what I could understand, and quite linguistically technical, I was still in awe at the situation. I listened attentively to the language recordings, tried to follow along to the text of songs, to follow the grammar questions. I was very touched to be welcomed into the small group of adults that had gathered. The songs and reading were punctuated by light conversation and tangents—including a discussion on Ainu name meanings and some current names, followed by questions about the origin of my own name, etc. I was somewhat dazed by the end, the many hours of biking and hot sun catching up to me. Afterward, returning to their house, Koichi-san asked me if I could now speak Ainu. I said not yet! Koichi-san's wife invited me to take a bath. Of course, I wanted to, but I knew that it was a Japanese bathroom and that everyone would be sharing the bath in turn. I had already caused such an intrusion, I didn't want to make everyone wait to take their baths. I said if I could just shower off quickly that would be more than enough. After showering, Taichi-san showed me to the log cabin down the ways from the house. Inside it was quite spacious, with many futons and blankets and an open fire pit in the center. He said I could sleep any where I liked and use the futons and blankets. I had told everyone, upon arrival, that I would be continuing on to Furano the next day as part of my “route” for the “bike trip.” I was not sure if I would follow through with that initially made-up plan, but in any case had said I would be getting an early start. And to my own surprise, waking up the next day at 4AM as I had said I would, instead of taking the logical route and heading towards the Tomakomai station in hopes of catching the train or bus back to Sapporo, I set out upon the long road to Furano—through the Hidaka mountain pass. The beautiful colors of the sunrise and the empty, open road before me were too tempting. Koichi-san had warned me that it was all up hill, and I would learn that was no understatement. The upward climbs were long and grinding, but the soaring flight down the mountain roads was exhilarating. I kept pace with the cars as I zoomed down. The land of Japan and of Hokkaido is so lush and beautiful to me that despite the difficulty of the bike ride, it was heavenly. I saw volcanos and blue, misty mountains hovering in the distance as the morning mists broke. I saw great jagged rocks tumbling into rivers, small farm houses and boarded homes that somehow survived the winter snows. When I arrived in Furano around 11AM, I was tired, but headed to see the lavender and flower fields. Whether it is the sheer beauty of the fields, the Daisetsuzan mountains on the horizon, or my general exhaustion I am not sure, but I found the scenery absolutely mesmerizing.  There have been many moments in Japan where I have had to double check to see if I am not dreaming. After wandering around the flowers, eating lavender icecream, I was lucky to convince a bus driver to let me take my bike along and I was on my way back to Sapporo after my 200+ km (slightly unexpected) “bike trip.” Needless to say, I promptly fell asleep on the bus. I could not believe the good fortune I had. I could not believe how absolutely kind the Kaizawas had been to me, despite my sudden arrival by bike. I'm sure they thought I was insane! But, I think just maybe, I made an okay impression despite my general ridiculousness. I will never forget the kindness that was shown me. In any case, I hope you will excuse the length of the story, but for a number of reasons I felt it a necessary story to share--it highlights so many of the aspects of Japan that I love and that have defined my year and growth. There is a freedom in Hokkaido’s countryside (and perhaps throughout Japan’s countryside) that I have not felt before. It is a freedom both in the land and in the relative safety and kindness of the people. Of course there are risks, but it is only here in Hokkaido that I have met no trouble sleeping outside under the stars. I have been met by curiosity, but not harassment. And while the freedom of the land of which I speak is not lacking in great disturbance and a history of ecological destruction by human hands, it is a freedom in that now the land has been largely ignored. It is a freedom born of negligence. Many of the forests are marked by scars of plantation, building, or abandoned plantations. The original species and compositions of the forests and rivers and mountains are largely disrupted. Whatever “pristine nature” tourists come to Hokkaido in search of is non-existent. But unlike in the United States, where national parks isolate and divide up the land--placing fences and boundaries and limitations, tinkering ceaselessly--the forests here seem comparatively left alone. This is a result of lack of young foresters, lack of domestic timber market, and general abandonment. And while there are disadvantages to such abandonment, at the same time it causes a natural flow between houses, farmlands, and cities and less developed (or abandoned) spaces left to their own forces. Such a fluidity as I have not seen in the United States. As I have been told numerous times in my lectures, rural areas of Hokkaido are losing population quickly as people concentrate themselves in large cities like Sapporo and Obihiro. One professor gave an entire lecture mourning this “terrible” turn of events--his reason being that without small towns and farms, we would lose the managed picturesque, comfortable beauty of agriculture and farmland. He compared the superiority of this tidiness and comfort to the disdainful inferiority of the patch of  “weeds”, shrubs, and trees left unkempt outside the window of our classroom. However, to me, I harbor a secret hope. A hope that, as small towns continue to shrink, as land prices plummet, thus will the land be allowed to recover and perhaps, slowly, return to the hands of people like Kaizawa-san.

Therefore, not only was I incredibly fortunate to visit the Chikoronai reforestation project and meet with Kaizawa-san, who I respect greatly, but I also had yet another chance to fall in love with the land here. I have learned more from my adventures climbing mountains, wandering, and observing the flow of the land than I have from any text book. I have become so familiar with the plants and ecosystems from this gift of adventure. Besides this knowledge, it has instilled in me a determination to protect these lands. When I first arrived, I had such a goal. But now it is tempered by love, and therefore all the more powerful. I feel physical pain in my heart to think of leaving this land, and for that I am so grateful. It means I will not give up until I have seen the environmental changes that must take place. It means that I will work that much harder to see the spread of reforestation projects like Chikoronai. In fact, I have given some thought to studying for my masters at Hokkaido University. My advisor, Koike-sensei, has enthusiastically been providing me information. There is nothing certain, and I know that I must return home to Minnesota to sort out the chaos of my family (and of course to see them!), to sort out my financial situation, and to reconsider universities in the United States, I feel a distinct pull to stay. Indeed, more than a pull, but a surge in my chest to remain in Hokkaido.

The next week, I casually mentioned the topic of gas exchange measurements to one of the post-doc students—wondering when, if, and how I should do begin them since Koike-sensei had brought it up a few times regarding my experiment. The post-doc student pulled out a calendar, and it happened that the Li-Cors gas exchange equipment would only be available that immediate week! I was suddenly looking at starting said measurements the very next day! It was shocking and a little overwhelming, but secretly exciting since these would be some of my most complex measurements. And a very complex machine, but one that is ubiquitous through ecological research. Therefore, it was a priceless (if harrowing) experience to learn the process. Another post-doc student helped me assemble two of the four machines early the next morning. There were many cords, buttons, desiccant tubes, etc. I felt immediately that I was in over my head. I carried my small notebook with me, furiously writing down notes from Mao-san’s explanation. In total, there were four Li-Cors available to use. Even for those experienced with using them, running four machines at once is very difficult. But I said I’d give it a try. I also only had one week to use them, and if I had any hope of finishing, I would need to use all four. Using the Li-Cors, I needed to take three different measurements (Aci curves, light curves, and photosynthetic induction). These are all related to photosynthetic processes and light use efficiency. Each measurement required approximately one hour. I needed to perform each measurement for each seedling species for each treatment plot. This came to a total of 36 leaves. With 1 hour per measurement, 3 measurements per leaf, and 36 leaves…my head spun. That meant 108 hours worth of measurements crammed into one week. More troubling still, the machines each needed about 2 hours to warm up and calibrate. So for about a week, I woke up between 5 and 6am, threw on some light work clothes to withstand the heat, and lugged the heavy Li-Cors machines out from the storage sheds. Following the complex set of instructions I had scribbled in my notes, I sometimes successfully and sometimes very unsuccessfully calibrated the machines and began measurements until the sun set. Then, chased by mosquitos, I would turn off all the switches, empty the high-pressure CO2 capsules, and tidy everything up. I had to repeat numerous measurements--losing many hours of work-- encountering just about every issue or trouble with the machines that the post-grad students had encountered in all their years. The only advantage to this, as Mao-san noted, was that now I know how to deal with just as many technical problems as she does. But I steadily grew more comfortable with the machines. The chance to become familiar with the Li-Cors machines, and to be trusted (unwisely!) to use all four of them independently was incredible. I have no doubt it will help me immensely in the future--the ability to use these machines has given me a huge leg up even over those already in masters or PhD programs. I joked with others that the result of being unable to take measurements during the winter was that all my measurements were condensed into the shortest amount of time possible. Such is the nature of my life, however--from one extreme to another, it feels. Some days, in order to still manage to go running, I would press start on the machine, zoom out of the nursery and around campus in a race against the measurements. However, the my regret is that, since I had no choice of scheduling when to do the measurements and since it was decided so suddenly, it interfered with the plans I had with Jim and Becca. Jim had come to Hokkaido to visit, and I could scarcely see him or leave the experimental nursery! They even came to visit me briefly in the experimental nursery, to witness my frazzled state as I tried to follow along Mao-san’s instructions. I felt so disappointed even as I recognized the importance of focusing on my measurements. I was lucky to have a chance to eat soup curry at my favorite restaurant with them one evening. I arrived still in my work clothes after coming straight from the nursery. However, I had a wonderful time speaking with Jim and Becca. I was also lucky to escape one morning to bike with Jim to the nearby Mt. Teine, in order to show him the route. It was a pleasure to get to chat with him as we struggled up the long uphill of the road in the early morning. Since completing the gas exchange measurements, I have also collected samples for xanthophyll (sun protection molecules) content testing and the arduous process of using the ancient nitrogen/carbon analysis machine. As my luck always has it, the machine broke many times--something that I was assured “rarely” happens much less multiple times. But now I have a ridiculous amount of data.

At the same time as the chaos of my gas exchange measurements, I was also meant to be studying for my Japanese final exam. Pacing through the nursery, I often carried a sheet of vocabulary in my hand that I scarcely had a chance to look at. I woke up the morning of my 8:30AM final covered in vocabulary sheets, the day after finally finishing my measurements. Not hopeful, I arrived at the classroom. My dear friend and classmate and I shared a glance of commiseration. But to my surprise, when I looked down at the long exam, I realized I knew almost all the vocabulary. There were some kanji and words I was forced to skip, and a few sentences I could not remember, but in the end it went very smoothly! I was pleasantly surprised, and it boosted my confidence. Thus marked the end of my classes. Scarce minutes after finishing the exam, my professor and a few of my lab mates picked me up in a van outside of the International Student Center. My professor was bringing us on a two day trip to see the northern limit of beech forests in Hokkaido. The area around Kuromatsunai, south of Sapporo, experiences mist, fog, and frequent precipitation. As a result, there are expansive beech forests, which cannot survive farther north. I never know what exactly to expect with my advisor, since he has a tendency not to divulge details (any details at all). After a few hours of driving, we arrived at a beech forest that had been conserved even during the wars, when the government wanted to use the valuable beech wood for building planes. After that, we stopped at a famous tofu shop, where you can sample more than 30 types of tofu for free. It was delicious. That night, we stayed at a ryokan called “Shizen no Ie.” I had to laugh at the name--quite typical. Each room was named after a tree species. That evening, before dinner, I was lucky to have time to run through the short trails around the inn. They were only a few kilometers long, but went through small patches of forest, garden, and cross country ski trails. For one of the first times, I ran around as a child. It was misty, grey, and raining lightly and I was the only one out on the trails. I sprinted here, zoomed down a hill there, hopped along rocks here, skipped up stairs there. I surprised a group of foxes who barked angrily at me. The next day, we went to visit the “Beech Forest Museum.”

The next week was more somber, as I learned that a dear professor had suddenly and unexpectedly passed away from complications due to leukemia. This was the very first thing I learned when I awoke that morning. I was shocked. The professor was loved by all his students and colleagues at my college. We all knew of his illness, but he seemed so resilient and cheerful at all times. He taught courses on environmental history, and had a great impact on my own development as a historian, as a researcher, and as a person. I still do not know what my college will do without him. It is an immense loss. I had collected so many stories to share with him about Japan. In fact, he was one of the professors who wrote my recommendations for Yale and masters programs. I wanted to see him in person when I returned. I floundered with what to do. In the end, I took off from my dorm on my bike in the direction of a mountain called Hakkenzan, about an hour and a half away. Feeling that I must do something, I climbed the small mountain purposely and placed white cranes along the way. It will still be a shock to return to St. Olaf College to visit, and to meet the reality of his passing. But I found comfort and peace in imagining how much my professor would have enjoyed the beautiful landscape of Hokkaido, as I watched it in the wind and mist atop the jagged Hakkenzan peaks.

The following week, I was lucky to tag along on a pre-conference tour for “Indigenous Geography.” As the name suggests, these are researchers (some indigenous and some not) who focus on the incorporate of indigenous knowledge and worldview in some way involved with geography, environmentalism, resource use, education, etc. Needless to say, an incredible opportunity for me. I realized, hearing the conversations around me, how amazing it felt to be surrounded by people who thought similarly to myself--who were, indeed, far more experienced than myself, and who had been working for many, many years. I was officially brought along as an assistant (and translator when I could manage it) thanks to the professor, Jeff Gayman, who had brought me to Nibutani the month before and also a tip from Becca. While the tour unfortunately only traveled around the area of Noboribetsu and Shinsapporo, the goal was to introduce the researchers to a number of important Ainu sites. And among them was Chikoronai! I surprised Kaizawa-san with a hello, as I peaked out from under the brim of my hat when he walked by. He blinked, recognized me, and gave a humorous greeting. I had also brought a painting for him and his wife--of the forests--as thank you for their previous hospitality. While the tour primarily involved getting on and off a large bus, it was highlighted by numerous lessons in Ainu language by Kiku-san, an Ainu woman and singer who accompanied the tour and who I have met on a number of previous occasions. Another highlight was watching the absolute magnetic pull of the ocean on the three Maori researchers on the tour--before I could untie one shoe, they were stripped to their boxers in the waves. I have often contemplated the ocean while here in Japan. Growing up smack in the middle of a continent, I have very limited experience with the ocean. I am accustomed to lakes--and when I stare out across the ocean, I fully expect the opposite shore to be nearby. The waves seem intimidating to me, and its expanse equally incomprehensible. But for those raised along the coast, such as these researchers, I can only imagine the welcoming sight of the ocean. Recently, my curiosity for the ocean has begun to grow and I have felt tentative tugs--from the cries of gulls, to the scent in the air--to seek it out. On the last day, a handful of the researchers gave short presentations. This was extremely influential for me. To hear these researchers speak of methods such as Maori ecological health meters, of native forestry practices, of land rights advocacy, and the legitimacy of indigenous knowledge (indeed, indigenous science!) was both refreshing and hugely encouraging. And throughout, there was a surprise guest. An elderly Ainu man, Ogawa-san, sat smiling in the back as Professor Gayman translated the presentations to Japanese. Ogawa-san is one of the most respected leaders. He is leading a lawsuit against Hokkaido University for the return of Ainu remains and other objects dug up from hundreds of graves and sites. He gave a powerful and emotional speech, carrying a large banner proclaiming that he would never quit in his demand. His eyes glittered when , upon asking the group of researchers to raise their hands if they believed these stolen bones and objects must be returned following international regulations for repatriation of remains, everyone immediately raised their hands. Afterwards, I stayed behind with Professor Gayman to help him to the train station and eat onigiri together as we waited.

 The next week, after being cooped up in a bus for so long, I made an ambitious decision. Last fall I had hoped to bike from Sapporo to the nearby town of Otaru (just about 22 miles or ~40km away). But, for reasons you will soon understand, I decided I should try my hand at running there. I mapped out a run, took a deep breath, and set out at a slow and conservation pace. The first half of the route was all flat, and no trouble. However, after about two hours of running, the road began to climb and did not stop climbing for the next hour. That was unexpected, and combined with not bringing any water with me, left me feeling tired by the end. But I made it, in about 3 hours and 50 minutes, a little bit shocked that I had done it. I'm a sprinter/middle distance runner, if you remember. In the past, I grumbled greatly over long distances. I suspect some of my bike trips have assisted me. Or the seaweed. Eating seaweed everyday is bound to do something to you. Who knows. A slow pace to be sure, but a huge confidence boost. And why, you might ask, would I do such a thing (besides my general stubbornness and foolishness)?  It is top secret! You will know soon enough. Don't try guessing yet.

This past week has been defined by an unbelievable amount of data from my experiment and measurements. Most of it is so dense and complex, I have little hope of fully understanding it. In fact, I have been feeling so overwhelmed and intimidated by the prospect of analyzing it. I know that I am not experienced enough, and lack the analytical brain that would be so useful in such a situation. For you see, I am no scientist by nature. My brain is not wired for math or formulas, as hard as I might try. It is always a battle. So far it has been an absolute slog through long scrolls of numbers, complicated acronyms, and lengthy scientific explanations in Japanese. But I will do my best! I have been trying to write up my research paper, but so far cannot proceed beyond the introduction due to the fact that I do not have all of my results, and that I must wait for when the post-grad students have time to spare from their own research. I will not give up, though! And it has been such a valuable experience despite the frustration.  My advisor also praised my introduction, which has given me great encouragement.

Lastly, this week I was finally able to climb Mt. Youtei. Mt. Youtei is known as the “Fuji of Hokkaido,” although it stands only 1,898m. It emerges abruptly from the flat agricultural fields at its feet, and is surrounded by the ski area of Niseko. It has been cloudy and rainy for the past few weeks, but I did not wish to waste a free day, and despite a thunderstorm I attempted to hop a train to the nearest station to the mountain. What should have been a simple 2 ½ hour train commute turned into a 5 ½ hour mess. Within 30 minutes of boarding the train, it came to a stop and did not move for nearly an hour. There were intermittent announces about a delay from the lightning of the storm. Indeed, it had begun to pour just as I reached the station. There were small flashes of lightning outside the window, and while I would consider it a weak storm, it was the first I’ve seen with any lightning this summer. Japan does not appear to have many thunderstorms like in the United States. After nearly an hour wait, we were shuttled onto a bus. The train stop lights had been taken out by lightning! The news arrived. Finally, after all the delay, I ended up in Kutchan. Then caught a bus to a stop in the middle of nowhere, and walked for about 30 minutes on the country roads with Youtei looming before me. The very second I reached the trailhead, it began to pour. Pour, in fact, would be an understatement. It was a torrential downpour. Water flowed like a river down the narrow mountain trail. I proceeded nonetheless, becoming absolutely drenched. A cloud had settled on the mountain, and everything was grey, cold, and misty. All the descending hikers attempted to dissuade me, since it was noon when I had finally started my hike, and they said there would be no way for me to make it up and down the mountain. I ignored them, for which I am thankful. When I made it to the top, I was still soaking and quite cold from the wind. But that same wind cut small gaps in the clouds so I could glimpse the landscape far below. Ah, it was beautiful. I felt proud and accomplished, and hopped happily along the volcanic rocks, skirting around the crater--it is an active stratovolcano. It was only 3:30pm when I reached the summit. All those other hikers had said it would take me at least 5 hours! It took me barely 3 1/2. There was plenty of time to climb down. But I decided to sleep in the hut on the mountain anyways, in order to watch the sunrise. That night, although I had no idea while climbing, was actually the peak night of the perseid meteor shower. Because I was still damp, the night was cold and hard. I shivered and slept little--there was frost on the window in the morning, and although I had brought a light jacket against the chill, I had no sleeping bag. With the other hikers who were sleeping at the hut, I watched shooting stars flash across the sky. In the morning, I woke up around 4AM to start my hike down, graced by the sunrise across the clouds and mountains below. I strolled happily along, whistling back and forth with the birds, and walking light-footed among the painted clouds of dawn--laid as they were like a mantle across the surrounding mountains. The struggles of the day before were well worth it.

Now, I am back to Sapporo, and back to the grind of my experiment. It will take a lot of work for me to finish--and some of my measurements cannot be completed until perhaps the week before I leave Japan--but I will try my best. I do not wish to leave Japan. I do not wish to go home, but now that my flights are arranged, there is nothing that can be done. Resignation has set in--it is bitter at times, but always joyful knowing how much I have come to love my time here in Japan. The gift that has been this year has changed my life. Although it must end for now, how can I not be content in that incredible gift? It has been a dream for me. There have been struggles, but they have been sweetened at every turn. I look at the person I have become, I close my eyes and picture all that I have seen, all that I have learned, and I cannot contain my gratitude. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you to everyone who has helped me to this point.