I sat in silence listening to the gentle hum of the air conditioner, a splendid luxury in this small trailer I now called home. It was 90 degrees outside, a temperature I could usually handle after spending so much time in the deserts of Arizona and California. But this heat was worse than any desert-heat. The eastern heat is laced with sticky humidity, something that doesn't exist in the southwest. I heaved a sigh and made a weird noise, just to fill the new space with another sound besides the mechanical chattering of the A/C unit. I was in Virginia, adjusting once again.
I arrived here the previous afternoon after 14 hours on the road. I had left my home in Kingston with palpable excitement which soon gave way to nervous anxiety as I rumbled along the congested Pennsylvania Turnpike in my black Oldsmobile Alero. It rained and rained, and traffic piled up at each on-ramp. My wipers swished furiously and I wondered if I'd ever make it to my final destination. Another bird-job awaited me five hundred miles down the road. As I drove, my overactive imagination spun story after story and whipped-up every possible scenario of what life would be like along the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, and I made myself nervous.
I took advantage of my position in the slow-moving lanes and peered into the other cars. People picked their teeth, scratched their necks, talked to their passengers, passengers had their feet up on the dashboard, and everyone looked annoyed. I wondered where they were all going. Most of the vehicles had Pennsylvnia plates, a few New Yorkers, and the odd Delawarian. I was the only Ontario plate among the sea of metal. I saw one man point-out my car to his daughter and I imagined their conversation, "Look honey, a Canadian!" "Wow, dad!" I felt so exposed, so exotic. But in some strange way, I also felt normal again being back in the United States. Canada is my home, yet I have gained a great deal of my birding experience in the USA partly because my own country is lacking in the bird-job department, and partly because several states boast attractive ecozones that Canada doesn't have. So, here I was again, on my way to a new state to work with another wildlife observatory generous enough to give this Cana-alien a job.
The road stretched on and my heart was nostaligic as I made my way through the rest of Pennsylvania. I had worked in an old coal-mining town the previous fall and I was pleasantly haunted by memories of singing katydids and the taste of cigarettes and Suntory. I passed a band of motorcyclists and wondered how they were dealing with the soaking wet weather. Their gear was covered in garbage bags and they rode with stone-cold faces into the sheets of falling water. At least they had each other. At least I had a roof.
I eventually left the 476 behind me but the memories and rain continued to splatter across my mind and my windshield, respectively. The freeway grew more and more complicated as I approached Philadelphia. Large overhanging signs with peeling arrows (somewhat resembling bananas) and numbers and letters told motorists where to go. I was told to follow 95 to 4A to DE-7 to 1 South. Phew. WELCOME TO DELAWARE, the state sign read. A new state for me! I continued on my peeling banana path around Wilmington, through Bear and Odessa, and then onto the Beaches. I was now the only Ontarian among blue and yellow plates but I didn't notice anyone pointing. I crossed the toll bridge near St. Georges into the Delmarva Peninsula. The sun was falling toward the busy earth and the rain tapered off. I began looking for a place to spend the night. Sign after sign promised comfortable hotels and motels with reasonable rates, wi-fi, flat-screen TVs, swimming pools and free hot breakfasts. I briefly entertained the thought of camping out in the parking lot of an abanoned grain elevator, but my busy, creative brain imagined zombies escaping the dark, empty building at nightfall to paw at my windows. I coaxed myelf to search for an overpriced hotel room instead where I could shower and sleep soundly.
I decided to drive another hundred miles before stopping. I meandered along 13 South until I came to the small town of Salisbury, MD. The first hotel I saw was a Comfort Inn. I parked in the half-full lot and went inside to see how much they wanted for a single room. $79.99 for a single? I knew there was cheaper places but I was dog-tired and decided to pay the ridiculous fee. I took my overnight bag into my expensive room and made the most of my stay. After all these years I still felt a stupid sense of excitement when I stayed in a hotel room. As a child I relished the rare night my family stayed in a hotel while on vacation. The emotion stuck with me to this day. I poked about the room and made note of all the amenities: coffee maker, tv, microwave, mini-refrigerator. I jumped from bed to bed and decided on the left as my sleeping place. After a thorough inspection of my room I decided to venture out to find some food. I drove down the Ocean Highway (aka Business 13 South) through town scanning for a grocery store. Nothing was open at 10 PM except for one store. One giant store. And I really, really didn't want to go inside. I slinked into the jam-packed Walmart parking lot, it's enormous glowing sign burning my retinas. Who the hell was shopping this late at night? Was everyone completing a 600 mile day and looking for a frozen meal to warm in their hotel microwave?
I entered and rather than being greeted by the wonderfully depressing old woman at the front door, I was met with the sound of screaming children and squabling couples. I plucked up a basket and scooted through the aisles with as much haste as possible. Large, flabby people floated about in lycra and spandex pants and long t-shirts, pushing carts filled with items they probably didn't need (not at this time of night anyway). I collected some fruit and a frozen chinese entree then waited behind six people at the checkout before dashing toward the exit. The same sad wrinkled old lady at the entrance ignored me and stared straight ahead. I swallowed the smile I had stored in case she acknowledged me, and exited.
Once back in my room I successfully filled the stale air with the smell of wonton soup and vegetable pot-stickers. I put on an old movie and ate to my heart's content. I scraped the bottom of my chinese entree boxes then retired for the night. The next morning I hit snooze on my alarm nearly six times before eventually climbing out of bed. I still had time to eat a free hot breakfast which included Belgian waffles, toast, coffee, and boiled eggs. I wrapped a few pieces of toast with a napkin and grabbed a handful of jam to take with me as I completed my journey south. I didn't have far to go, only another 100 miles to Kiptopeke State Park.
It was an uneventuful drive. Highway 13 frequently plunges through bustling box-store-infested beach-towns, and is lined with pine trees, dotted with abandoned houses and the odd boarded-up gas station. Occassionally it is intersected by a county road leading to a small, uneventful town. I noted all of these relics with mild curiosity. I arrived in Cape Charles, VA at noon and made my way into the small state park situated on Chesapeake Bay.
I pulled up to the main office to announce my arrival. Once an old farmhouse, the quaint building was now painted white with a red tin roof. Inside I found two members of the park staff, both of whom greeted me with warm Virginian hospitality (and warm southern accents). The park manager showed me a map of the park and directed me to the trailer I would be living in with a few quick lines made by his pen. I heeded the blue vectors and made my way over to my new home.
The beige and brown trailer, circa 1992, sat at the eastern edge of the campground. It was framed by two Japonese Maples and a sprawling Prickly Pear, home to two large Argiope aurantias (Black and Yellow Garden Spiders). The assistant park manager soon met me in the driveway and guided me inside to show me around. He pointed out the two bathrooms, bedroom (complete with two dressers and a bunkbed, cool!), kitchen and laundry room. Any maintenance issues I had I was to go to him about. He dropped a few names of people I would eventually meet, gave me the park number in case of emergency, and left me to unpack.
I wandered back into the bedroom. In lieu of a flag to stake my territory, I threw my backpack onto the bottom bunk. My heart yearned for the top bunk, but I had learned that life was much easier on the bottom (and less wobbly). I was to meet my superiors at the banding station in an hour, so in the meantime I attempted to find places for all of my books, clothes, and toiletries. I was still making myself at home when my boss called to let me know it was time to start setting up the mist nets. I left my bags strewn on the floor and headed out the door. I shielded my eyes from the hot, Virginian sun as I closed the half-mile distance between my trailer and the banding station. This was it. Another field season had officially commenced and I couldn't help but wonder what I was in for...
