field technician; one secretary, three clerks, two computer programmers, and a statistician under her command. Based upon supervisory duties alone, she could have easily spent the vast majority of her work hours in her spacious and comfortable Yellowstone Park headquarters office, churning out reams of data from this crucial first-phase survey site to keep dozens of Washington office statisticians and bureaucrats happy for years to come.
But Dr. Kimberly Wildman had been aggressively fighting the sexist attitude that "women can't pee in the woods" for the better part of her professional career. So when one of her biologists called in sick at eight o'clock that Tuesday morning, she didn't even hesitate.
Reaching under her desk, she pulled out the field kit that she kept packed for exactly this sort of opportunity, notified the deputy team leader that she could be reached by radio, if absolutely necessary, and then walked outside where the stranded field technician and the truck were waiting.
They were checking live traps, and searching for trap WYNWLT-1332 that had been torn loose from its mooring, when Dr. Wildman's metal-tipped hiking stick struck metal.
It took the two of them almost five minutes to clear away the brush, and there it was: a green camouflaged metal plate, attached to the base of a huge Douglas fir with a pair of large steel bolts.
"What is it?" the field technician asked.
"I have no idea," Dr. Kimberly Wildman replied.
"Think it's one of ours?"
"No, I can't imagine that it would be." Wildman shook her head as she ran her gloved hand across the smooth camouflaged surface, searching in vain for some kind of identification markings. Then she examined the oddly notched bolt heads. "But I can tell you one thing, whoever mounted it here certainly didn't want some hiker taking it away as a souvenir."
"The Park Service?"
"I suppose." The survey group leader nodded. "At least I can't think of anyone else in this area who would go to this much effort to attach a blank metal plate to a tree."
Although Dr. Kimberly Wildman had no way of knowing it—because in spite of being sister agencies within the Department of Interior, communications between the National Park Service and the National Biological Survey were not that comprehensive or efficient—the metal looked very much like the etched metal signs that park rangers had been finding bolted to big redwood trees all over Sequoia National Park. But there were two significant differences:
Instead of being prominently displayed, like the ones in Sequoia, this metal plate was hidden. It was obvious that someone had gone to a lot of work to conceal it. And instead of bearing a deeply engraved message of questionable religious impact, this one—aside from its chemically etched green camouflage surface—was absolutely blank and smooth.
"Wait a minute," Dr. Kimberly Wildman said, looking skyward, "I think I see what's going on here."
"What's that?"
"There's an eagle nest in this tree."
"Really, where?"
"Step back over here and you can see it—a snag up at the top," the team leader said.
"Okay, got it," the field technician said. "So this must be some kind of Fish and Wildlife Service marker then."
"Looks like it."
"Too bad it doesn't have some kind of location identifier," he commented. "It would make a great reference point."
"Oh, I think it still can," Dr. Kimberly Wildman said as she reached into her pack and pulled out her portable computer. After calling up the appropriate program, she began to type:
METAL PLATE, BLANK, GREEN CAMOUFLAGE COATING,
She looked up at her assistant. "What do you have for dimensions?"
The field technician quickly moved in with a measuring tape. "Uh, make it eighteen by thirty by—uh—three-quarters."
Dr. Wildman went back to her typing:
METAL PLATE, BLANK, GREEN CAMOUFLAGE COATING, 18"x30"x3/4", ATTACHED TO DOUG FIR WITH TWO STEEL BOLTS WITH SECURITY CONFIGURED HEADS. IDENTIFIES BALD EAGLE NESTING
But Dr. Kimberly Wildman had been aggressively fighting the sexist attitude that "women can't pee in the woods" for the better part of her professional career. So when one of her biologists called in sick at eight o'clock that Tuesday morning, she didn't even hesitate.
Reaching under her desk, she pulled out the field kit that she kept packed for exactly this sort of opportunity, notified the deputy team leader that she could be reached by radio, if absolutely necessary, and then walked outside where the stranded field technician and the truck were waiting.
They were checking live traps, and searching for trap WYNWLT-1332 that had been torn loose from its mooring, when Dr. Wildman's metal-tipped hiking stick struck metal.
It took the two of them almost five minutes to clear away the brush, and there it was: a green camouflaged metal plate, attached to the base of a huge Douglas fir with a pair of large steel bolts.
"What is it?" the field technician asked.
"I have no idea," Dr. Kimberly Wildman replied.
"Think it's one of ours?"
"No, I can't imagine that it would be." Wildman shook her head as she ran her gloved hand across the smooth camouflaged surface, searching in vain for some kind of identification markings. Then she examined the oddly notched bolt heads. "But I can tell you one thing, whoever mounted it here certainly didn't want some hiker taking it away as a souvenir."
"The Park Service?"
"I suppose." The survey group leader nodded. "At least I can't think of anyone else in this area who would go to this much effort to attach a blank metal plate to a tree."
Although Dr. Kimberly Wildman had no way of knowing it—because in spite of being sister agencies within the Department of Interior, communications between the National Park Service and the National Biological Survey were not that comprehensive or efficient—the metal looked very much like the etched metal signs that park rangers had been finding bolted to big redwood trees all over Sequoia National Park. But there were two significant differences:
Instead of being prominently displayed, like the ones in Sequoia, this metal plate was hidden. It was obvious that someone had gone to a lot of work to conceal it. And instead of bearing a deeply engraved message of questionable religious impact, this one—aside from its chemically etched green camouflage surface—was absolutely blank and smooth.
"Wait a minute," Dr. Kimberly Wildman said, looking skyward, "I think I see what's going on here."
"What's that?"
"There's an eagle nest in this tree."
"Really, where?"
"Step back over here and you can see it—a snag up at the top," the team leader said.
"Okay, got it," the field technician said. "So this must be some kind of Fish and Wildlife Service marker then."
"Looks like it."
"Too bad it doesn't have some kind of location identifier," he commented. "It would make a great reference point."
"Oh, I think it still can," Dr. Kimberly Wildman said as she reached into her pack and pulled out her portable computer. After calling up the appropriate program, she began to type:
METAL PLATE, BLANK, GREEN CAMOUFLAGE COATING,
She looked up at her assistant. "What do you have for dimensions?"
The field technician quickly moved in with a measuring tape. "Uh, make it eighteen by thirty by—uh—three-quarters."
Dr. Wildman went back to her typing:
METAL PLATE, BLANK, GREEN CAMOUFLAGE COATING, 18"x30"x3/4", ATTACHED TO DOUG FIR WITH TWO STEEL BOLTS WITH SECURITY CONFIGURED HEADS. IDENTIFIES BALD EAGLE NESTING
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