#uoclimate2015

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Science is art. Art is communication. Communication is key to understanding. Understanding science is key to valuing our world and our place in it. 

Miró Merrill 11.1.15

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What About Here?

For the past two years, the Science and Memory team has gone to Cordova, Alaska, to study, watch, and report on climate change. We know that in the Pacific Northwest we are all connected and intertwined, and our actions ripple out as far as Alaska. But what about here?

We have been to where the great Columbia River flows into the Pacific Ocean; Timpanogas Lake, the start of the Willamette River; and Bonneville Dam, the dam that uses the force of the mighty Columbia to produce power.

But what about the Willamette River and her history with Lewis and Clark, the Oregon Trail, and her winding course before settlers made her more straight and narrow? What about where the Willamette greets the Columbia? What about Dynamite Hole on the Umpqua River where a man stands guard to protect the fish? What about Oregon’s coast?

If the rumors about the impending Super El Nino are true, and Oregon does have a wet and rainy winter this year, how will that affect Oregon? Yes, it will be a nicely needed and necessary drink from Mother Nature, but what damages will we see? Will the stream beds used by fish to spawn and rest be flooded and washed down stream? Will landslides disrupt spawning beds? As an Oregonian I look forward to a wet winter, but I can’t help think about what else the fish will have to endure after a summer of drought.

We know there’s a connection between Oregon and Alaska. So, lets bring it back to here. Lets see what discoveries we can uncover here in Oregon, our home.

Photos: Taken from Skinners Butte where you can see Autzen Stadium and the Sisters Mountains in Bend, Oregon. 

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Time to act

In the short time that I have returned from Cordova, I keep running into reminders why we made the trip. News of the hottest year in recorded history, salmon dying due to warm temperatures, and seeing first hand evidence the low snowpack has had on Oregon.

With political season gearing up, it still shocks me how many politicians believe climate change is a hoax. I only can hope that the efforts from Science & Memory and other groups like us can start showing people how climate change impacts everyday people. 

Nicolas Walcott 08.07.2015

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3 Degrees of (Physical) Separation Between Me and Cordova

Flight 1: Cordova >> Anchorage

I boarded the plane at the Merle K (Mudhole) Smith airport in Cordova, Alaska. The whole operation was tiny and set so close to the forest that it’s primary security threat was animals finding a way onto the runway. As our plane took off, we flew over the delta and saw the vast open plains built from glacial runoff. A 30-minute flight graced my eyes with views of ancient glaciers and the vast expanse of the Prince William Sound. Upon landing at the Anchorage airport, the familiar smell of overpriced burgers and fries danced into my nostrils. Giant cargo planes flying supplies around the world sat on the runway with the quaint three building skyline of Anchorage in the distance behind them. I had officially said goodbye to the small fishing town and lifestyle I had grown to love so much.

Flight 2: Anchorage >> Seattle 

Exhausted from the week, I drifted off to sleep minutes into the flight. Waking up a few hours later, I looked out the window to witness a sight I hadn’t seen since departing the lower 48. The sun had slipped behind the horizon slowing pulling all the Washington sunshine away with it. Below me, the light of metropolitan Seattle dotted the landscape. When landing, my phone buzzed with dozens of notifications I had missed since my departure beginning the process of returning me to reality. I searched the flight board for the gate information of my journey’s final leg. The airport was so big I had to take a shuttle to a different terminal to catch my next plane. On my way, I passed an Asian fast food restaurant at which I got a meal so big I almost couldn’t finish for 8 bucks. Alaska’s $15 meals was about the only thing I wasn’t missing.

Flight 3: Seattle >> Eugene

The last flight was only a short hop back to Eugene. The familiar summertime temperatures greeted me as I walked off the plane. On the drive home, I saw the familiar landscape that holds the small piece of Oregon I have grown to call home. In the dark I could barley make out the mountains that I imagined were carved by glaciers so many years ago. I could picture the flooding from the mighty Willamette River shaping the valley we were driving along. I felt like I was seeing Cordova’s older brother, a picture of what the future will look like if they follow in our footsteps. I came inside my house to find my roommates still awake unwinding from a long week with some Xbox and beer. They asked me how my trip was, I said incredible. They asked me if I missed Alaska, I said yes. Then they asked me if the project was done, I smiled and said it’s only getting started.

Despite being gone, I’m not separated. I’m merely beginning to tell the story from somewhere else.

Spencer Orofino 7.24.15

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A New Home

While in the Anchorage airport there was an announcement for the four o’clock Cordova flight. Our group of remaining people all looked at each other and we joked about getting back on the returning trip. I don’t know about anyone else, but it took every ounce of impulse control to not quickly saunter over to the gate and buy a ticket.

I boast a lot about how PNW I am. Especially in the last couple of years, recognizing myself as a 4th generation Oregonian has become a huge defining factor of my personal identity. The Pacific Northwest Lifestyle is a real thing and I wholeheartedly accept it (minus the kombucha). I am all about local shops, Birkenstock & Smart Wool sock combinations, amazing artisan coffee, knowledge on how to deal with Vitamin D deficiencies, and smiling & waving to strangers. I spent copious hours going through many a State Park’s Junior Ranger programs and had family vacations in yurts. My soul is composed of wilderness & weirdness and no matter where I go, no matter how exciting a place may be, Oregon calls me back home every time.

But not this time. I think this time I set my anchor in a small fishing town on the southern coast of Alaska.

Leading up to the trip, everyone said Alaska was VERY different from Oregon. Bears for neighbors, mosquito repellant so strong it melts plastic, grumbling fishermen lining the streets, and ungodly amounts of rain. It felt like I was going to be placed in a fable, an epic novel of rugged individualism and self-reliance. When we first landed 16 days ago, I very much felt like I had just landed in an extension of my Oregonian home. There were the same evergreen trees & indecisive rainy/sunny weather & mountains lightly capped with snow.

While Cordova was not exactly so uncivilized that it was the place of Paul Bunyan or Chris McCandless, I started to notice the wild things. There were very few visible clear cuts. Streams were bright turquoise and stuffed with salmon. The mountains were all-encompassing, aggressively shaped by erosion. There were kaleidoscope glaciers and intricately braided water systems. The town looked like the nature around it was allowing it to be there, as if within in an instant, the outdoors could take it all away. The long bouts of rain were forgiving, cleansing and caring for this land that was still so untamed. What an experience it is to be put to sleep by chirping eagles or watching the silhouettes of otters play in the sound. How incredible it was to feast on local fish and berries from right near the lodge. When will I again be able to talk about the amount of silt covering my shoes or wear flannels in July? It was indeed "The Last Frontier.”

I think part of the reason I now want to be in Alaska forever is because it is my home. It is the Oregon from my childhood of roaring rivers and towering trees. Today, despite what people will tell you (or still think is true) Oregon is now muggy and brown and sparse and trickling. Road trips where I used to stare out the window at the wall of forest have turned into wondering when the clearcuts will end. Traveling to bodies of water are no longer carefree getaways, but riddled with constantly checking for algae blooms. Years of being able to enjoy the magnificence of spring flowers have dwindled since now my allergies don’t allow me to go outside from February-May. Our Willamette River that used to flood the bike path in the winter barely reaches the top of the banks during high season. Those evenings I used to love of reading while it rained are far and few between because those intense bouts of downpour are an uncommon occurrence.

That thing we went to report on and share with people, that thing called climate change, I read about it, talked about it, and researched it. I thought I understood its damage and consequences. I also believed it had not had that big of a toll on my lifelong home. Before this trip, I still was thinking the state I lived in now was the same way it was 15 years ago with a few minor changes. The last 24 hours of transition back to Eugene have made me realize otherwise. 

I remember in my first meeting for Science & Memory, Dan said something about how climate change was going to make Southern California look like even more of a desert than it already is, Northern California look like the Southern California we know now, and Oregon look like Northern California. I thought, not possible, we won’t let it get to that point. My home will never be like the goddamn Bay. I was wrong. Climate change has done damage to the Northwest from temperature to trees to rivers to ranges.

I didn’t think I was going to get this attached to this small town and experience. I thought Cordova was going to be a wonderful moment, something to cherish for a long time. It was going to be my thing I brought up in the future when one talks about “the good old days” of college. Our time in Cordova became a part of me more and more as we ate, slept, and worked in our ancient house by the sound while enveloped in nature. The fact I will not be in that same space for a long time did not hit me completely until that call came over the intercom. It hurt to think about that, not having that space which was so much more than a fleeting moment: our place of learning, growth, discovery, and love. Leaving made me want to work even harder on this project, fueling my need to make amazing final products. I owed it to the place, the feelings, the people to do these stories justice and show what is going on in our world in regards to environmental change.

Maybe someday in the future I’ll move to the 49th State. I’ll trade in my Hunter wellies for Extra Tuffs and my Patagonia fleeces for Carhartts. Yet, for now, I have to finish up school. I have big aspirations and goals for working in advertising and I don’t think a small Alaskan town can support them. For now, Cordova is my precious frozen moment, one that I will keep tucked in special places of my heart and head. Cordova gave me lots of gifts, but the one that means the most to me is that it solidified my want to fearlessly pursue knowledge and use my future place in the ad world as one aimed towards making a difference rather than making a mark.

Cordova, you may not have a road leading out into the world, but you have made it so I can go be a part of it with purpose.

Emma Pindell, 07.16.2015

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Memory

My little room at the hostel in Anchorage smells like my feet and the apple I left out as a snack for later. Last night, I tossed and turned on the thin mattress and figured out the plot to Inception that my neighbors were watching so loud I could hear specific lines of dialogue as if I were there with them-- a far cry from passing out in my shared room back at the Little White House, laughter and light chatter seeping through the crack under the door. 

Anchorage is still Alaska but, having only ever known Cordova as Alaska, Anchorage feels deceptive. There are still Alaska Mountains here, still the near-constant squawking of seagulls, still a near identical dress code of rain boots and long coats. But there are large streets that stretch all four lanes down to the water, bus lines that loop through Native and Muslim neighborhoods, a campus the size of a small city itself filled with industrial looking buildings, and a hospital with the requisite terrible coffee and paper-like bagels. 

And this is still the Alaska that I’ve flown to once a summer two years in a row to dive face first into history, science, context, discovery. But this is a different facet of the Science and Memory work that I am used to. This is those quiet afternoons in the Little White House when everyone is working but tangible. My face is shoved into my project but I still know that I’m apart of something good and wonderful. 

I sent “home” a few reference photos from my afternoon in the archives at the University of Alaska Anchorage so that our photographers could go and find the same places. Emma messaged me on Facebook and made me laugh in the empty third floor research room when she said “SEND MORE WE’RE GOING CRAZY IN THE HOUSE.”

I got giddy sifting through photo albums--an integral part of people’s lives and memories--and seeing parts of the Cordova that we have come to know.  The red church from town, no trees blocking its view, the Chugach looming up behind it. The construction, then utilization, of the air field near Eyak lake (I don’t think that float planes have aged in the last 80 years). Soldiers laugh with young women behind a microphone and a man named Russ hunches in the back of a float plane, clutching an antique camera the size of his torso. I watched the harbor grow and change and shift as I flipped through the last pages of one album and picked up another. 1908 gave way to 1942 melded into 1960 and then I holed up in a far corner of the Archives for March 27th, 1964. 

I listened to a man named Doyle tell me where and his wife were and what they were doing in-between urgent commands from the AM radio broadcast in Anchorage that night.  

“We don’t have power or heat.” “Stay off the roads and as close to your homes as is safe.” “It’s Friday evening and--” “The national guard is calling for 100 men to come to the hospital and help in STATIC.” 

There’s hours of this and it’s powerful and surreal. Voices and sounds of chatter in the background mixed with the adjusting of the recorder and, almost constantly, the announcer’s even and unhurried words. He says they won’t forget tonight, that it is important to remain calm, that they can repair and rebuild.

I handed my list of reference photos I had taken to Gwen, the archivist with short cropped hair and a quick smile, and thanked her for all her help. She’d pulled an entire cart full of boxes out of the back for me that morning and by 330 I had sifted through all of them. 

Tomorrow I go back for an hour or two before my flight to make sure I haven’t left any albums un-flipped or any slides un-checked. I’m excited and tired and a little nervous but mostly calm and focused--just like when I do an interview. And that’s kind of what digging through the archives is for me except that my subjects are frozen in time. If I wanted to be whimsical about it, I’d describe it like interviewing a still-life--you ask questions and gain information, but instead of spoken answers you get tricks of light, captured expression, small signatures in bottom corners.

I love it.

Mel Burke. 7.13.15