Underway

(Luke is writing this post at 1900 hrs, Monday May 5, 2014)

Our gear for 5 weeks in the pre-monsoon dusty heat of Nepal: Three large duffels, two backpacks, three tarp-wrapped core tube packages.

Fortunately, we were able to prep most the gear away from the 95-98F heat in the lab and office; duffel bags stored in the warehouse that were lined with desiccated rat feces had to be hosed down, 246cm long core tubes had to hacked in half with a dull hacksaw (found the new blade half way through- thanks garrison!), and we had to determine how to load 10-15lb weights, yes, you heard it right, weights, into our packs. We must stay fit on our trip after all! (Actually, they're for pounding the core tubes into the lake bottom to recover the sediments.)

Speaking of coring tubes, as I currently write on the shuttle to the Phoenix airport, the number of the hour is 64 inches. A good number, unless the number we need is 62 inches, and the number pertains to the total dimension limit of the checked baggage. The cores are taped up in blue tarps, hexagonal sets of 7, and they are about 1 inch longer than we expected. Remember when I said the cores were 246 cm long, then cut in half? Well, turns out the extra 3 cm might matter. We took bets on how stressed and angry the airline check-in personnel are going to be; I bet 70% chance of letting the last 2 inches slide, and 30% chance I get annoyed looks while I frantically hacksaw 3 cm off the end of 20+ core tubes while I angrily lock eyes with the stubborn airline employee. Why the annoyed looks? Well, when the blade gets going, the tube makes an awful screeching noise, much like a donkey hee haw, if the donkey had rusty nails for vocal cords.

That potential hiccup aside, it seems the packing went well. My office mate, Paul, dropped us off at the gas station, and we already had a fun talk with another researcher while waiting at the gas station for our shuttle to arrive. This mohawked gentleman was carrying wilted purple flowers, had his thumb nails painted a nice, deep blue, had a mean silver piercing through his ear, and had a large gap occupying the space where his teeth should have been. He asked garrison what we were doing with all the equipment, and when garrison responded "research", he exclaimed, "I'm a researcher myself" and proceeded to tell us about his window box of corn. He also regaled us with tales about bringing back friends from the brink of overdose beneath an underpass by playing them Amazing Grace on his guitar. I have to say: my research career thus far has apparently been a total failure: very little time in the sun planting at a window box, no saving lives by playing musical instruments, and no makeup or nail painting.

Although, this conversation in front of the Wildcat Mart made me think: what is the definition of research anyway? Taking artisanal, locally sourced meth and planting heirloom varietals of corn? Experimenting with and overdosing on drugs under the highway? Determining which shade of blue on my thumbnail brings out the hazel in my eyes?

I guess for me it's all about discovering new things about the world. Well, here we go...

Location:The Phoenix airport