Jobs I want: bison tranquilizer-er

Here's another job inspired by television. I'm watching a show on Animal Planet about the bison of Yellowstone National Park. The program follows a crack team of National Park Service biology commandos as they study bison migration in and around the park. I couldn't find a photo of an NPS warrior-biologist in action, so I stole the image at left from Parks Canada¹. Part of the study involves attaching tracking collars on the animals. This requires the following five-part plan:

1. Locate bison.
2. Shoot bison in ass with tranquilizer dart.
3. Take blood samples and attach collar, all while watching for curious four-legged passers-by.
4. Inject bison with wake-up juice.
5. Run.

I'm pretty sure that the person who pulls the tranquilizer dart gun trigger is called a tranquilizer-er. As best I can tell, the appeal of being a bison tranquilizer-er is fivefold:

• Self-reliance. Ain't nobody going to help you in the case of mechanical failure or repeated gorings. It's just you and your hand-picked team of stone-cold, hard-core, devil-may-care wildlife biologists against 1500 pounds of groggy bovine.


• Development of dart gun sniper skills. Now that I think about it, the combination of cross-country skiing and precision shooting might appeal to Lisa's Finnish heritage.
  Note to self: book non-refundable winter travel tickets and investigate dart gun license requirements.
  


• Having The Handbook of Wildlife Chemical Immobilization on your bookshelf and not having to explain it. I love obscure how-to literature.
  


• SCIENCE! Come on, what is biology if not poking and prodding large wild animals? Put your microscopes away, kids; we're going to learn something even if it kills us by goring and trampling.
  


• Clarity of purpose: shoot bison in ass, do science, run away. That's the best reason to get out of bed this side of averting alligator attacks.
  

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¹ Stolen from this article on a Parks Canada wildlife veterinarian. Read it in French if you prefer.

Caption contest: Mr. Toad

Mr. Toad (Bufo americanus) invites you post a caption for this photograph in the comments.

Capea

Remember that time that Alex and I totally fought a bull?





Salamanca province, Spain - June 26, 1998.

Mr. Hogan

When I was a sophomore in college, I went on my first overnight field trip with the engineers from the lab where I worked (and still work, though fortunately my job description has changed since then). I traveled to far northern California with two engineers, both named Dan, to repair and update instruments on two scour-endangered bridges. We flew to San Francisco, where we were to catch a turboprop commuter plane to Medford, Oregon, where we would rent a car and drive back across the California line to the bridge, which was outside the city of Yreka (pronounced "why-reekah"). I write "would" because things didn't quite happen as planned.

We arrived at SFO without incident. After the Dans and I enjoyed a lunch of the airport's finest clam chowder, we took the shuttle bus to the commuter terminal to await our flight to Medford. About five minutes before the flight was to begin boarding, Dan Hogan announced he was going to go to the bathroom. Dan M. and I looked up from our books and nodded. Five minutes passed, and boarding began. We began to wonder where Hogan was - was he ok? Jumping to the worst likely conclusion, we wondered if he had a horrible allergic reaction to something and passed out in the bathroom, so Dan M. went to check the bathroom while I waited by the gate to see if Hogan came out to board the plane. When the final boarding call came, there was still no sign of Hogan anywhere. We asked the airline gate agent if Hogan had boarded the plane, but she was apparently prohibited by law from telling us who did or did not board. At that point, the plane pulled away from the gate.

We were now zero-for-two, having both lost an engineer and missed our flight. Since there was no sign of Hogan anywhere in the terminal, we concluded that he somehow sneaked past us and boarded the plane for Medford. Dan M. and I decided to take the next available flight to any point north and proceed from there. We flew to Chico, California, rented a car, and drove north to Yreka. Eventually, we were able to make contact with Hogan by relaying calls through University Travel Services (back in the dark ages, cell phones didn't travel all that well - remember roaming?). He had in fact boarded the flight to Medford, exactly as planned, and while we had cursed Hogan for ditching us, it became apparent that it was we who had screwed up by not getting on the plane. In the end, the three of us converged on Yreka and the rest of the trip was generally successful.

The remarkable thing about all this is that Hogan had managed to sneak past Dan M., who had gone to check on him, and then past me as I was watching the gate area. Mr. Hogan was not a man who moved quickly, ever. To this day, I don't know how this was possible.

The final outcome of this episode was the establishment of our lab's Permanent Rule Number 1: if there's a plane, get on it. Every man for himself. While it applies everywhere, and to modes of transportation other than commercial aviation, it applies doubly at San Francisco International.

Mr. Hogan passed away on Friday after a short illness. He was 66 years old. His last official activity with our lab was leading a student group on a tour of some major transportation infrastructure projects...in San Francisco.

May God bless Mr. Hogan's memory, and give us all the wisdom to get on the plane.

De-motivational thought for the day: June 17

Dwight:	I can't do this.
Michael:	That's because you're incapable of doing it, because you don't know how, because you have no skills.

"Dwight's Speech," The Office, season 2, episode 17

Dare to dream: banjo

I wish I could play the banjo. I can't, so here's a bunch of banjo-related stuff instead.

The BBC just ran a story on the banjo's west African roots. In less enlightened times, the origins of the instrument were deliberately obscured for racially-motivated reasons; finally, the nameless folks who brought this angels' instrument into the world are getting some credit.

Dilbert (September 27, 1994) postulated that one can determine one's rank in an organization by what the boss does while making you wait.



This has happened to me; though, to be fair, it should be pointed out that my boss at the time was already an accomplished banjo player.

I love the sound of clawhammer banjo found in bluegrass music. I wondered, though, how some of Bach's works for unaccompanied string instruments would sound on the banjo. Now I know. Thanks, Internet!

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Prelude: moderato from Suite #1 in G major for solo cello

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Prelude from Partita #3 in E major for solo violin (starts in earnest at 1:20)

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Double: presto from Partita #1 in b minor for solo violin

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Badinerie from Suite #2 for flute & orchestra

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Good advice

Seen in Boulder, Colorado, February 2009.