Time Slips

I do not like to discuss my age.  I like to let people perceive my age based on my actions.  This makes my age yo-yo in unusual ways based on the person I am with.  It also seems to eliminate a good deal of discrimination.

If people do not know one's age, they listen to opinions and give responsibility based on their assessment of one's ability to perform.  Once a person's age is known, I find that it clouds judgement.  I seem to be judged both too young and too old to do various tasks when my age is known.  When it is not, I seem to be given tasks, contracts, responsibility, respect, and friendship commensurate with my experience.  It just seems a lot more reasonable to be "timeless."

Age though, affects what people have experienced.  In order to be timeless, I have to strip details about my life that would define my age.  Having an older brother, growing up in rural Alaska, being a divorcee, and being something of a fuddy-duddy have all helped me appear older than I am.  Being energetic, enthusiastic, and without a fixed address have helped me seem younger.  Whichever aspect of my life someone wants to key into, they assign me an age that fits their model.

While I like many of the benefits of this, it has peculiar effects on how I see myself.  Today, for example, I went from something of a peer, to "whoa, you must be old."  I was not aiming for either role, but "old"?

The other day my graying beard was observed.  While I am not particularly thrilled to have gray hairs (which seem to prefer my right side), I am not particularly bummed about it either.  I am more bummed by my receding hairline, but, with a good stylist, I mostly forget about having "plenty of forehead."  I do not mind them, but when they betray where I am in life, I find a desire to escape them.

I continue to hide behind my timeless mask as much as possible, and while this does separate me from others, it also allows me to make friendships I have been the wrong age for.  Overall, not acknowledging an age, whether aging me or preserving my youth, has been positive.

Other masks, I resent.  Like age, I hate being judged for my personal life by others, particularly when it affects how I am treated.  In the IT Crowd, Moss has a website that tells him how to talk about sport with jocks (and enthusiasts).  I cannot begin to care enough about any sport to discuss it with people.  Maybe running, but only my personal experiences.  I cannot muster the energy to care how fast Olympians run.  This is mostly acceptable, because I wear being a nerd on my sleeve.

That said, I grow weary of even my nerd mask!  No, I do not like football, but I have also never been all that into Star Trek.  I think The Presidents of the United States of America said something like, "when you're a rock star, people expect you to hang out with rock stars," when they disbanded.  Oh, how I feel their pain.

When you're a geologist, geologists expect you to drink to excess.  When you're a vegan, people expect you to be insufferable. (How do you tell if someone is a vegan?  Don't worry, they'll tell you.)  When you work in the mining industry, people expect you to not be environmental.  At some point, we form our lives around fitting into, or defying, the expectations of others.

To fit these stereotypes (or defy them), I have developed a quiver of masks that I hide behind.  Behind them, I feel safe.  Safe, but often lonely.  Behind my masks, I avoid unwanted trouble and attention, and it makes the days pass with less trouble and attention.  Unfortunately, the days still pass.  A four month contract comes to a close.  A winter taken to reflect melts into spring.  My timelessness gets wrinkles, and one day, I will be old, and when that happens, who will it be?  Will I have grown comfortable in the harsh light of who I am, or will there be a mask there, worn from years of overuse?

Microcosm Societies

Before I had ever lived in a camp, I read Microserfs by Douglas Coupland. The title is far more clever than I ever gave it credit for while reading it. It is a play on Microsoft, on feudal social structures, and general computer nerd-dom, which, I suppose, is as far as I took it while reading the book. Living in camps though, the idea of microserfs, the peasants of the smallest microcosms of a society, becomes fascinating, far from the confines of computerized LEGO programming in Silicon Valley.

Like Coupland's imaginary startup, a camp has its visionaries, its leaders, its middle class and its serfs. The social structure is a rigid caste, and the only thing that keeps the society functioning is that there is the promise of life after camp. People come to a camp to pay for what they do when they go home. To pay for lives that do not include the people they spend most of their time with. It is a weird dynamic. Imagine a water cooler conversation where no one will ever know anything about anyone else, where no one did anything over the weekend, and where there are not plans for the coming weekend. One functions in this environment because they have to.

In all camps, there is a hierarchy. It is essential that people have a leader, as anarchism simply does not get a job done. These duchesses and feudal lords can be brutal or kind, just as any others. They may plan for the winter, or their fiefdoms may starve. It is impossible to know before one has been in the camp what the leadership is like. Leadership though, is strange. In the Medieval period, these microcosms worked because an army backed the leader, and the leader backed the army. A symbiosis occurred at all levels of the chain, where the over- and underlying social strata agreed where everyone was. In a camp there is no army, instead, there is the upcoming Visa bill.

We are all Visa's indentured servants in these microcosms. Maybe a person has no debt, maybe a person always pays cash, but in the end, we owe now or in the future, and we know that we must fill our role in order to make that payment. It is the army of creditors that keeps a camp in check, there is no symbiosis.

This, makes something of a leadership vacuum. The camp leaders lead only by directing the work, yet s/he who directs the work does have power. If the leader is a fan of a football team, days when that team plays may end early, the basketball enthusiasts lose out. If the leader likes to run in the mornings, the morning meeting will be later. If they like an early dinner, workers will be early to their jobs, but back at the mess when the food is served. The power comes from the little things.

Who gets the power? How do they keep it? Like in any political struggle, the key players start to show their hand, and the knights, rooks, and pawns move into position. The power positions in a camp are the same as chess, and society. The king is all powerful, but crippled by the burdens of leadership. Their second, the queen is more powerful, s/he faces the conundrum of Lady Galadriel, to be pure and good, a champion of the pawns, or to become all powerful dark sorceresses. In either case, the queen may, intentionally or not, seek to usurp the king. Lastly, are the bishops. These are the hidden players, they control the conscience of the serfs, and thus, wield power that the king and queen can only demand. Pawns are the first to choose sides.

In minerals exploration, the pawns are usually the locals. They are infinitely replaceable, yet impossible to control. They see the whole camp establishment as outsiders. Often, race or ethnicity complicate relations between the monarchy and the serfs. They have nothing to lose in their meager existence, and so they are eager to choose sides with the person who gives the most present, and often petty rewards. If the bishop offers a workday that is 10 minutes shorter, the bishop will win the pawns. Yet, the pawns are the downfall of s/he who controls them. For the locals want things that are often contrary to the desires of the more loyal, more skilled knights, who will triumph against the pawns every time.

Knights in the camp society get the work done. They have a platoon of serfs behind them, but they get samples submitted, they log core, they run the computers, they collect the data, and deliver the goods. In the camp power struggle, the knights will win the battle. Yet, an exploration campaign, like a war, is not about a battle, but the compound effect of many battles. In order for one to win the war, a strong position must be held through many skirmishes. For these, one looks to the rooks.

Rooks, in the camp society are consultants and technical experts. The knights can win the battles fought today, but the rooks win the battles that will be fought tomorrow. The rooks are motivated by entirely different things. Rooks are motivated by professional reputation, by what happens outside of camp, more than within. From the top of their battlements, a rook can see what tomorrow will bring beyond the confines of the short field campaign.

From my tower, for I fancy myself a rook, I can watch the battles ebb, and the tides turn. I see racial and ethnic tensions flare, and the knights rally around their banner. I have time to sit, and ponder, in this microcosm society, who are the allies I want to maintain when I leave this camp? Who will bring me the most benefit when I deliver my fealty? It will never be the bishop, s/he lacks the wherewithal in my networks. It may be the king or queen, or with enough ambition, I can usurp even these leaders. So I, and the other fortresses watch, listen, and wait.

All of this, requires that outside force. The creditors, whether they be from the Bank of America, or the Society of Economic Geologists, we all seek the value placed on us by those outside camp. In this way alone, we are truly a microcosm of society. The technicians are microserfs, not only because we are a microcosm, but because they are more insignificant than the feudal serf. They are nameless, and ephemeral, they are but leaves on a tree, inconsequential today, and forgotten by fall. The brave knights, who fight for the banner of their fancy, they are no more influential in society. They are not minuscule because this is a camp of 50, but because this is a country of 300,000,000. This microcosm functions not independent of society, but dependent upon society.

While I wile away hours with an iPod, and an endless cylinder of rock, I contemplate why people work. Why people live in these camps the way they do. I watch the power struggles, and I come back to the same idea again and again, they do this because they will leave here. I wonder then, what would a truly micro-society look like? What will be the dynamics of the Mars One team, when they land with no intention of returning? What will keep them going? There is no creditor, there is no army, there is no future, just today, for the rest of their lives. In this strange world, I wonder, will there be microserfs?

Larder Lake

I moved from New Zealand, but have not really moved to anywhere.  I am currently working in Larder Lake, Ontario.  In many ways, this is the most isolated place I have ever been, which I often find is true of the remote places on the road system.  Villages are physically more remote, but somehow when flying is a luxury because you can drive, it makes the place very lonely and remote.

Faux Social has suffered, with the move, and now with work, but be patient, it will be back.  It will probably be slow and sporadic at first, as I am currently spending 11-14 hours a day at a computer, and only sneaking away to check something that I have to report back to the computer about.  Once that madness ends, and I start spending my time in the field, or logging core, I will probably have motivation to sit at a computer, and write in the evenings.  After writing a workplace violence policy today, more hours at the computer is a low priority in my time off.  When I do start writing again, I may be tempted to reinvent the blog (again).  Faux Social turns one soon (or may already have), and I still have not figured out exactly what I want out of this experience.

I have been thinking a lot about how employers exploit workers.  I started thinking about it in New Zealand, because I was contractually obligated to take an unpaid lunch.  In the end, no matter how strong the union, or how long the unions have been fighting for the employee, the employer always seems to find a way to exploit them.  There is probably a post in there somewhere.

Tomorrow is supposed to be about 90 degrees and raining, so I am sure the bugs will come inside to my desk.  They always do, but they don't call it Onterrible for nothing.

The Final Straw, and Moving Out

*Note*  The following post was written in Honolulu on the 24th.  After writing this post, I have made it into Taupo without incident, and have been running errands, and doing just a bit of socializing.  On the docket this morning is foraging for food, then cell phone, then some time for exploring my new surroundings.

I am sitting in the Honolulu airport, it is hot, muggy and crowded, and the internet is not free. Thus, this may not be posted until Auckland. It all depends on how cheap and bored I feel (ah, the scales of frugality vs. boredom).

I left Chicken early. The story is interesting, but I do not know if changing names is enough for me to feel comfortable posting it publicly. The skinny of it is that after a summer of my complacency putting myself at greater and greater risk in the field, I had a false sense of security working with a partner. The second day after I had a bear encounter (previous post), working in the same area, there was another bear encounter. It was between one of the employees who was working alone and a bear, and he took a shot at it. I will never know what actually happened. A radio call came through, then a shot rang out a moment later. What little procedures we had were not followed, were not sufficient and people clearly had insufficient training to be working in bear country (“we were trying to be quiet so the bears wouldn't hear us”). After the shot was fired, my field partner spotted a bear running straight at us at high speed. The bear ran at us for 20-30 seconds before being deterred by our noise making. It is not clear if the bear that was shot at was hit, but it was definitely not killed in a responsible manner if it was hit.

In the aftermath of this incident it was clear that the other employees and the company were not interested in working safely, following industry standards for field work, or taking the appropriate actions. Further, the fieldwork was set to continue in the same area the next day. One other employee and I declined to continue working under such conditions, and left for home, rather than for the field the next morning. Allowing me to spend a week and a half in Delta.

The extra time in Delta allowed me to say good bye to the Delta “family,” and my parents, made making final arrangements a bit easier, afforded me some great runs, a hike and bike rides with my parents, and easy to neglect Faux Social. I am at what can best be described as halfway, here in Honolulu, and it still seems, not unreal, but unfathomable, I suppose. I have never had a contract this long, I have never moved to a place I knew no one, and I have not ever sat in an airport this hot typing about what I have never done before.

I posit that the surreal feeling about this is that I am so accustomed to the “temporary” attitude towards everything, that even a long period, like two years, has been temporary for me for the last six years or so. It seems like I have always been preparing to leave, and this last year has been defined by preparing to leave wherever I just arrived. I think this has made me feel stuck in between moving somewhere, and heading off to another temporary life, with temporary people in temporary accommodations. Hopefully I will be able to snap out of this, and settle into a life that looks like what I want my life to be.

It is time to stretch, refill water, and figure out what time it is.

Bears

Yesterday, I had my second bear encounter of the summer.  The first encounter was at the last property I was working.  In that encounter, the bear was spotted approximately 1/4 mile away.  It then walked up hill directly at my field partner and I until it was 50 feet away.  At that point, the helicopter picked us up.  My field partner fired one warning shot, which did nothing to dissuade the bear.  The second bear encounter was one of the more stressful hours of my life.

Bear encounters are highly stressful events.  However, statistically speaking, bears are not that great of a risk.  At the last property, someone pointed out that a bear attack might be a one in a million event for the average person, but geologists working in bear country are not really average.  Thus, I propose a new statistical analysis.  I will assume that everywhere in Alaska represents "bear country."  Thus, in the last ten years (according to Wikipedia:    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_fatal_bear_attacks_in_North_America) there have been 5 people killed by bears in Alaska, or about 0.5 per year.  According to the State of Alaska (http://www.hss.state.ak.us/dph/bvs/death_statistics/Leading_Causes_Census/frame.html), bear attacks, at 0.5/year are not in the top ten causes of death.  Malignant neoplasms are number one, number two are diseases of the heart, yet the food served in mining camps is not generally heart friendly.  Unintentional injuries come in at number three (with 339 deaths per year, if you deduct bears, 338.5 people are killed by other unintentional injuries in Alaska per year).  Intentional self-harm (suicide) is number six, with 140 deaths in Alaska per yer.  This means, that a randomly selected person in Alaska is 280 times more likely to kill themselves, than to be killed by a bear.  Given this, should people carry firearms to prevent bear attacks?

From an easy, back of the envelope statistical analysis, it is very evident that bears are not the biggest risk.  However, bears are scary.  It, for some reason, is not scary to ride in a truck on a gravel road to the field.  It is not scary to ride a quad for half an hour into the field.  It is not scary to walk over uneven ground.  Nor is it scary to ride in a helicopter.  However, when you are confronted with a bear, it is scary.  From this fear, people start making decisions based on emotion, rather than logic.  This is an undesirable situation that can only be dealt with through discussion, and training.

I have been through several bear trainings.  Some have been funny to me ("While there is no proof bears are attracted to menstruation, menstruating women should wear tampons rather than pads while in bear country"), and others have been quite good.  It is generally agreed upon that bears have vision approximately equal to our own with excellent senses of smelling and hearing.  If a bear can only see you when you see it, that does not help keep bears away.  Since scent is controlled by wind direction, which is unpredictable sound becomes the best warning tool.  All training advises you to take advantage of this.  They say that to warn an animal with an excellent sense of hearing it is advisable to make lots of noise.

I usually sing to make noise.  My go to song is Greg Brown's "If I Had Known," but I have a few other partial songs in my catalog.  "If I Had Known" is 3:25 with music.  I can pause for a bit between stanzas, but the goal is to make noise, not be artistic.  Thus, I rip through that song in about 2:20, I might stretch it to 3 minutes, but either way, I have to sing that song a lot to make it through a full day in the field.  So, sometimes I take a break from singing.

When I am not singing, I am not really a geo-ninja.  When in the thick of black spruce, moss, willows, tundra, tussocks and alders, I break branches pushing through them, I rustle trees trying to move them out of the way, I hit my shins and fall resulting in me turning the air blue, and if I get really angry with something I break the branches or what have you with my shovel.  This, apparently, is not enough noise to warn a creature with excellent hearing of my imminent arrival.  Bears, apparently, hear me rolling in on them like a gaggle of drunken sailors on shore leave in a fine china factory, and think to themselves, "what is that noise?  It must be a sparrow."  Given this line of reasoning, that seems to be common to all bears that will attack you, does singing actually help?  Would carting out a rock band help?  I am skeptical that if these creatures cannot associate my slow, steady progress through the brush with stick breaking and expletive eruptions as a human coming towards them, that folk music will make them turn and run.

What seems to work with bears is not noise (I am not suggesting that travel should be done with stealth, but rather the noise working in the brush combined with the normal amount of talking and singing should be sufficient), but working in pairs.  The buddy system does not eliminate the bear threat, but rather mitigates the risk in the most effective manner.  That is why one should never be working hundreds of meters away from anyone else, in an area of high bear sign, swimming through alders, singing, swearing and releasing frustration through fits of blind rage on dead trees.

This brings me to my second bear encounter of the summer.  I was hundreds of meters away from anyone else, in an area of high bear sign, having just passed through a bear latrine with fresh scat, swimming through alders, singing, swearing and releasing frustration through fits of blind rage on dead trees.

I exited the alders into a burned area (from a forest fire).  I was relieved to be out of the alders, but looking straight into another thick zone of alders between me and my first sample points.  I took out my HTC (absolute rubbish for field work) to assess whether I should move farther off my line to avoid the alders, or continue through the alders when I heard a branch break behind me.  I turned around to see a bear's ass leap back into the alders at the precise point I exited the brush twenty feet before.  I drew my bear spray, easily removed the safety I improvised when my was torn off in alders (a concern of the pistoleros), and called to the team that I had just spooked a bear and it was headed southeast towards Olmos and Stewart.  Fillion, who was attacked by a bear a year ago, quickly realized that he was between Olmos and Stewart, he thought through this, and realized that if a bear is headed towards Olmos and Stewart, it is actually headed directly for him!  Shatner began to orchestrate a response on the radio, and the chatter began.  At this point I realized that the bear had not moved southeast towards the other three crew members, but was glowering at me from the bushes, and all I can see are two eyes and a snout.

They teach you how to recognize bear moods to predict their actions in bear training, and they teach you what to do when you are interacting with a bear.  A bear with perky ears and its head up is curious, much like a dog.  A bear with its ears back and head down is angry or aggressive.  I could not see the bears ears, but its nose was very near the ground, so I leaned towards angry/aggressive, and called on the radio that the bear was not moving, but staring at me.  Shatner wanted to know who was closest to me to offer aid.  Stewart then radioed to ask what point I was nearest to.  In order to answer that question, I had to look at my HTC.

In bear training, they also teach you how to interact with a bear.  The best method seems to speak calmly, "hey bear, whoa bear," with your hands above your head to "look big."  I had one hand on my pepper spray, taking an aggressive stance, ready to hose the bear down.  My other hand was at my radio to key the mic when I had to need to give updates.  The only logical thing to do to look big, was to raise my elbows.  I was then standing with elbows up, one hand in front, ready to spray, one hand on my radio, and I had to let go of my radio to get my HTC.  HTC3, as mine is designated, is slow to connect to the satellites to get GPS points, and is prone to not reliably updating my location on the screen.  I turn on the HTC, unlock the screen and wait for the screen to update, with elbows raised, a constant stream of "hey bear, whoa bear" coming out of my mouth.  I radioed my location, and the radio chatter began again.  I was also thinking the whole time that one should back away slowly from a bear.  These burned areas resemble logging slash, and I was quite convinced that backing away would result in me falling backwards, thus, I decided to stand my ground, elbows held high, thumb on the trigger.

Shatner, in an attempt to figure out where Stewart was, had Stewart fire a shot into the air.  I heard this request, and realized that Stewart is on the other side of the bear.  I braced for the possibility that the shot would frighten the bear into me.  Bang, the shot was fired, and it became clear that Stewart, Olmos and Fillion were a long way off.  Shatner had obtained visual on me by this point, and was 300 meters away.  The bear eventually disappeared out of view, and Shatner gave watch as I moved away from the point of first contact.

When I got approximately twenty meters away from the point of first contact, and Shatner radioed that a small bear emerged from the brush and was moving behind me.  I turned around, pepper spray still ready, and could not see anything despite being in the relative clear of the burned area.  Eventually I saw a yearling cub bound by, and I continued moving away.  The next call I got on the radio was that the cub was changing direction, then coming parallel to me, then overtaking me.  This forced me to head more directly towards Shatner.  As I began to cross between the cub and the point of first contact, Shatner radioed that he saw a larger bear emerging from the brush at the point of first contact, it was bigger than the cub, and was following my trail.

Shatner continued to navigate me away from the bears, but it required me to move into a thicker area that was difficult to walk through, where I had no visibility.  Trusting his guidance, I proceeded.  Olmos, Fillion and Stewart were within sight of each other, listening to the radio and organizing themselves when the bad news came.

"brian, I know it is thick in there, but you need to hurry up," then a pause on the radio.  I kept walking, singing Greg Brown, and try to think how I was going to walk faster, through brush and fallen trees, with a can of bear spray that did not have a safety tab.  I figured if I fell, Shatner would see a puff of orange spray, and could do something to help me.  I resolved to speed up, and then call came through, mere seconds after the hurry up call, "I am going to fire a couple of warning shots."

While I do not recall making this transmission, reports are unanimous, I responded, "Okay.  I am not happy," in a stern, grumpy, monotone.  While I do not recall reporting my unhappiness, I do recall thinking that while I did not know what Shatner could see, I probably did not want to.  I motored, as best I could, bear spray sans safety, stumbling through brush and fallen trees.

Eventually I got to Shatner, and then we walked to a nearby cabin.  Fillion and Stewart met up with Olmos in view, and we waited for thirty minutes, without the bears following.  Fillion, Stewart and Olmos sampled the top of the lines, away from the bears.  Shatner and I walked over to points east of the bears, and sampled.

The day was significantly stressful, and after working the adrenaline out of my system, I started to think about what led to the situation.  Working this summer, I have been making small compromises on my personal work safety standards in order to get the job done.  There were issues at the last project I was working, there were issues with the truck driving here, and there have been issues working here.  After yesterday, I requested that I not work without a partner again.  Thus, I have made progress back towards safety.  Other crew members have made safer choices, and fixed some of the problems that existed here as well.  Meaning others are making progress back towards safety as well.  As stressful as the day was, and as bad as the day could have gone, it is the occasional serious incident that reminds us the reasons that we have safety standards that are always followed.

Note:  I am not working with a crew of actors who have played spaceship captains, but changed names to protect the identity of people and entities that were portrayed in this post.

Out of the Frying Pan

I have transferred to Chicken. I thought the change of scenery might be good for my attitude, but I am not sure this was the right change of scenery. The environmental hazards are slightly diminished, so in some ways, there is less risk to the work. However, we work alone here, which I am not crazy about. I am willing to work alone because we are within a couple hundred meters of each other. In a major emergency, I think this means that one would have people there to watch you die.

As for the scenery itself, I am more fond of glaciated mountains than rolling hills. However, after being married to a girl who loved the Appalachians, I can certainly appreciate the rolling mountains for their beauty. In contrast to the western Alaska Range, I do tend to scoff at the hills, but I am trying. Tromping around black spruce forest will just make Taupo all the better.

My final problem with the Chicken transfer (that I will complain about on the internet, anyway), is that it seems that the state of Alaska, the United States, and probably the world in general, would be better off if this place disappeared (a la the island in Lost) taking these people with them. I have overheard more griping about the raising of the debt ceiling than I thought stupid people could form into words. The US “borrowing” is not like a credit card, America, you cannot just stop using the card! Further, under Clinton, there was a budget surplus. It was after eight years of reckless tax cuts and deregulation to benefit the wealthy under W. that has brought this country to financial ruin. Anyone who has forgotten such things (including every person but me, it seems, in Chicken) can disappear with this horrible little place.

The good news about this transfer? I have been able to eat more veg. At Estelle, the cooks (who were accommodating and wonderful to me) tried to cook veganized meals. I am in charge of my diet here, and I am eating vegan foods. I am looking forward to moving into the “apartment” out of the cabin though, because a hot meal would be pretty nice. Hell, electricity will be nice in general, but the be able to cook a little something to have with my spinach will be a big plus. (5 lbs of blueberries, 15 cups of spinach, 25 oz of hummus, 1 lb of cherries, 12 clementines, 6 muffins, 6 cookies, 2 apples, 2 sandwiches and 1 tomato, if you were wondering what I have been eating to deal with my heaps of perishables and no refrigeration or cooking).

Being here all boils down to 18 more days to get back (closer) to zero. I do not like to start counting this early, but in a place like this, knocking down days is all I can think about.

Transferred

It seems like I am being transferred to a couple of projects near Chicken on 30 July.  I am not sure for how long I will be there, but estimates range from two to three weeks.  I initially found out about this through scuttlebutt.  Even with all of the confusion, I am looking forward to the change of scenery, and a break in the monotony of a long hitch in a camp.

Camp Living

It seems like there are two types of people in camp, those who look forward to time away from the world, and those who cannot wait to get back to it.  I am of the second group.  I like the idea of a camp.  I like the idea of camaraderie, of being away from the distractions and problems, and of working in the wilderness.  Unfortunately, that idea is not how it usually works out for me.

Camaraderie in camps does not usually seem to work out.  Some people make close friends, and treat the crew like their family.  This is not my way, if I am going to adopt people into my family, I am going to choose them well.  I look for certain aspects and characteristics that are rare in the world, and even more rare in a camp.  I have made very close friends in camps, so I can experience the camaraderie that I imagine having in camp, but most of the time, I just feel annoyed with those around me.

After having been out of a camp for a couple of months, I start imagining camp as an escape from the world.  It is not.  The world keeps going.  I still have all of the problems, chores and errands that I do when I am in civilization, but I have less ability to deal with them.  For me, this compounds the stress these things cause me.  For example, my visa was being held up because the immigration officer needed one further document for my medical examination (an unexpected certification from a physician).  When I called from civilization, the clinic estimated that it would take two weeks, putting me in camp when I could expect to have them fax the document.  They did not fax it after two weeks.  It took two weeks of daily calling from camp to get them to fax the document.  In civilization, that would cause me to be grumpy.  In camp, that caused me a great deal of stress trying to imagine a contingency.  The world keeps going, the fires keep starting, but I am without my usual tools to address them.

As for working in the wilderness, I am, but I am not.  I am miles from anywhere, at times without communication to anyone, tromping about in amazing scenery.  By most definitions, that is wilderness.  However, I commute by helicopter, so every morning I am confronted by a machine that can be taken as a symbol of man's domination of wilderness.  There are two camps on this landing strip, so at times it is deafeningly loud (this morning I was dispatching a telephone, and two radios, with four helicopters, two quads, an airplane, and a skid steer operating outside the office tent).  Beyond the noise of work, the only thing that this camp has more than bear-anoia are small arms.  They use firearms to haze bears, they target practice, and the camp next door does the same.  I reckon there are areas of Baghdad that have fewer gunshots than this patch of nowhere.  While out on traverse the trickle of water through boulders can take me to a place of zen, this camp, and my life however, are not in the wilderness.

As whiny as that all sounds, the point of this post is not to whimper to the web.  Instead, I want to focus on the interesting ways in which people operate out here.  I think it is a reflection of how they would operate in the world at large, but this is a microcosm of society, so everything that happens out there, happens in here.

Beginning with the attitude people bring into camp.  I, for example, can overreact to things.  It is, in some ways, a character flaw.  Maybe in most ways it is a character flaw.  Regardless, it is the way I work in the world.  In the pilot episode of 30 Rock, Tina Fey's character battles this same issue when she "buys all the hot dogs," then is later ready to quit her job over issues that eventually work out.  I have been on the brink of washing out nearly daily.  It seems one of the pilots is too.  Another geo has come close too, for him, it seems, especially the first week.  Previously, in my life, I have bought all the hot dogs, and during many stages of my life, I have been on the brink.  I am hanging in here just to get back to zero (a topic for a later post if I ever start posting regularly again).

Other people seem to relish the camp life, but I imagine that they would be happy (probably not the right word, content?) in most environments too.  They become close to one another, and throw themselves at their work (not generally in a competent manner).  Camp may actually be better for these people, because they would probably only work if they were not in a camp (essentially being in camp is being a workaholic, but you socialize at chow).  A few people resign themselves to serving out their sentence without happiness or gloom.  To me, these people are the worst, just as they are the worst in the world.  Workaholics and quitters have passion, those who are just serving their sentences seem only to have fear.

In this camp, there are 24 people living in close proximity with one another, all bringing in their own attitudes and problems, working in psuedo-wilderness to accomplish a job.  The interactions are great people watching if you could do it from your couch, but exhausting to be in.  The camp manager and one of the pilots do not get along.  The drillers (not here yet) and pad builders will faction into a group that are entertained at a different level.  Permanent geologists live to work, and want to control every aspect of the project.  Consulting geologists, like me, either have a clear mission, or are lost in the woods of a group of people (the permanent geos) who do not fully understand what they are doing, or how to delegate work load.

Inevitably, without strong leadership, the camp falls into factions.  Little microstates in the world of camp.  As of yet, it seems that this camp has only one superpower, but with time, all that will change (or people will leave).  I will try to stay out of it because most of it does not affect me, and I have already done my best to be hands off after the first five days.  My bet though is that the Millrock geologists will be/are the first nation.  A second state will emerge that will be a loose alignment of grumpy folk.  In response to them will be the camp manager with the drillers, pad builders, etc.  A fourth state of soil samplers is forming around nightly card games with the cook, though this group will be mostly loyal to the Millrock geos.  The remaining crew will be free agents who will eventually be claimed, or rejected, by factions until everyone is accounted for.

This microcosm is fascinating because it seems as though it is human nature in a power vacuum.  I am reading a book about international law right now.  It seems like the interactions of nations through international law is much the same as the people in camp.  Allies, rules (that are frequently broken) and private interests dominate interactions.  It must be innately human to want to behave this way.  Until I am claimed, or buy the hot dogs, I will do my best to enjoy the wilderness, escape/deal with the outside world, and watch the show from the comfort of my tent, counting the days until I am back in civilization.

Losing Time

Living in camp has advantages. I get to engage in activities that most people pay thousands of dollars for. My living expenses are paid, and life is, in many ways, quite simple. This camp is nice too, because the chef has been very kind to me in preparing lots of vegan meals! She has been making me a vegan breakfast and dinner every day, and seems to plan to continue to do that for her entire hitch. This will slow the loss of my excess weight, but should help with my mood.

As with anything that has advantages, camp life has disadvantages. Disadvantages in camp often correspond closely to the advantages of living in a camp. I do not really "get" to engage in great activities, but rather have to engage in them. I have to go out, and tromp around the bush regardless of weather, and how I feel. My life must be simple, my choices are made for me so I cannot complicate it. My meals are made for me, so I do not even get a choice in my day's meals. The biggest disadvantage of living in a camp for me is losing time.

When I leave this camp, I will have given it two months of my life. For everyone I know, two months of experiences shared with friends, family and the world will have progressed. For me, I will have spent 60 days doing the same thing, with the same people, most of whom, I will never see, or speak to, again. I will have memories from this time, but it will be as if they all happened over the course of one very long day. This day will not even have the sun for me to estimate the time of day, after all, the sun never sets in the Alaskan Summer.