The arrival of our helicopter on Seal Rock, a naked pile of stones off the southern entrance to Prince William Sound, scattered the adult sea lions like dandelion seeds in a gust of wind. It was the early 1970s and we were on a mission to brand their new-born pups, innocents born far from the presence of man -- until we showed up. This Steller’s sea lion natal rookery lays along the route the Exon Valdez would have taken had it not encountered Blye Reef. The research project goal -- to learn about the movements of these Sea Lions. After they matured, branded sea lions could be tracked as they roamed about the Gulf of Alaska. No one knew if populations from different rookeries moved about or remained faithful to their “rock of birth.” Armored with hip boots and heavy rain gear, we would wade into tide pools where the temporarily abandoned pups congregated. With the brands each one received it’s personal identity - kind of like it’s own social security number.
If you’re envisioning clear pools of sea water, the substrate covered with flowing strands of green kelp, red and green sea stars decorating outcroppings and sea anemones waving their tentacles hoping to snare a passing bit of plankton, you haven’t been to a tide pool on Seal Rock. Sea lions are not house broken. When the mother gives birth, no mid wife cleans up the remnants. When a pup dies, there is no funeral procession to remove the last remains. These pools are opaque brown, the surrounding air fouled with their stench. Our job -- to wade into these septic messes and grab the pups in a frenzy of splashes in their attempt to get away.
In the early 1970s the Alaska Department of Fish and Game was an undemocratic organization. Female biologists were not welcome beyond the office. Statements like “could you imagine how wives would feel if their husbands went into the field with a woman,” prevailed. Eventually a few courageous women braved that prejudice to be hired by the Division to work in the lab. Frances was the first woman in the Anchorage office to finally break the ultimate shatter-proof glass ceiling and go into the field. Her first trip -- a helicopter ride to Seal Rock.
The project coordinator assigned Frances what seemed like a somewhat benign task. At the head of a large elongated tide pool, where most of our quarry congregated, a rock ridge separated the “pond” from the swells rolling in from the Gulf of Alaska. At low tide, the restless surface of the Gulf waters lay many feet below the level of the tide pool, but incoming swells swept high up the ridge. On the Gulf side a bull sea lion weighing as much as a Volkswagen Beetle seemed particularly intent with reclaiming his territory. Frances’ job -- Persuade him it was now hers. While she had a gun, the idea was that just by standing on the narrow rock outcrop, perhaps 10-feet above the pool and twice as far above the open ocean, he would agree. Wrong. As each swell surged up the rock face, the bull would rise with it, lunging towards Frances in an effort to show her who really owned that slab of real estate.
With each surge the bull became more and more brazen until on one huge ocean wave he rose almost eye to eye with Francis. Reflexively she stepped backwards, lost her footing and plunged into the tide pool’s primordial soup. I can still envision the brown geyser that gushed out of her mouth as she emerged from beneath that “goo.” Frances did not enjoy the remainder of the field excursion. I wonder if she regretted her "good fortune" at the becoming the first woman to be a Game Division field biologist that day.
Of course I packed my camera during these tagging operations and exposed more than a few rolls of 35 mm film. One head shot of a pup caught Karen’s attention. She wanted to paint it. It is Karen’s only oil painting, but demonstrates the versatility of this watercolorist recently turned acrylic artist.
Waiting for Mama 16 x 20 inches Oil on Canvas
If you’re envisioning clear pools of sea water, the substrate covered with flowing strands of green kelp, red and green sea stars decorating outcroppings and sea anemones waving their tentacles hoping to snare a passing bit of plankton, you haven’t been to a tide pool on Seal Rock. Sea lions are not house broken. When the mother gives birth, no mid wife cleans up the remnants. When a pup dies, there is no funeral procession to remove the last remains. These pools are opaque brown, the surrounding air fouled with their stench. Our job -- to wade into these septic messes and grab the pups in a frenzy of splashes in their attempt to get away.
In the early 1970s the Alaska Department of Fish and Game was an undemocratic organization. Female biologists were not welcome beyond the office. Statements like “could you imagine how wives would feel if their husbands went into the field with a woman,” prevailed. Eventually a few courageous women braved that prejudice to be hired by the Division to work in the lab. Frances was the first woman in the Anchorage office to finally break the ultimate shatter-proof glass ceiling and go into the field. Her first trip -- a helicopter ride to Seal Rock.
The project coordinator assigned Frances what seemed like a somewhat benign task. At the head of a large elongated tide pool, where most of our quarry congregated, a rock ridge separated the “pond” from the swells rolling in from the Gulf of Alaska. At low tide, the restless surface of the Gulf waters lay many feet below the level of the tide pool, but incoming swells swept high up the ridge. On the Gulf side a bull sea lion weighing as much as a Volkswagen Beetle seemed particularly intent with reclaiming his territory. Frances’ job -- Persuade him it was now hers. While she had a gun, the idea was that just by standing on the narrow rock outcrop, perhaps 10-feet above the pool and twice as far above the open ocean, he would agree. Wrong. As each swell surged up the rock face, the bull would rise with it, lunging towards Frances in an effort to show her who really owned that slab of real estate.
With each surge the bull became more and more brazen until on one huge ocean wave he rose almost eye to eye with Francis. Reflexively she stepped backwards, lost her footing and plunged into the tide pool’s primordial soup. I can still envision the brown geyser that gushed out of her mouth as she emerged from beneath that “goo.” Frances did not enjoy the remainder of the field excursion. I wonder if she regretted her "good fortune" at the becoming the first woman to be a Game Division field biologist that day.
Of course I packed my camera during these tagging operations and exposed more than a few rolls of 35 mm film. One head shot of a pup caught Karen’s attention. She wanted to paint it. It is Karen’s only oil painting, but demonstrates the versatility of this watercolorist recently turned acrylic artist.
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