In Which Daisy Uses Her Ancient Blog to Lifehack University Technology

Wet, Muddy and Saving the World

An Ode to a Natural Superhero

By Daisy Frabell

For Dr. Jay Kaufman

GEOL489r: Geoscience Communications

Messy and Magnificent: the value of the salt marsh is all about mud.

The edge of the sea has long fascinated humanity, as rocky cliffs inspired lyric poems and alluring beaches fed the fire of transportation technology. The salt marsh, however, with its knee-deep sludge and scent of rotten eggs, is hardly a popular favorite. Boggy wetlands are just not as valuable to us as warm sand and breathtaking overlooks.

But they should be.

Yes, salt marshes and other coastal wetlands (like tropical mangroves and shallow sea grasses) are home to rare, beautiful birds; they shield the young fish that will one day feed our economy and our appetites. But, even more incredible are the endless grasses themselves. Coastal wetlands lead global environments in shear amount of living material, or biomass. Rain forests may claim a long list of exotic species, but the living mats of roots and residents underlying a tidal wetland are vastly more full of life.

And here on Earth, life means carbon.

Carbon is the fourth most common element making up our planet, and it is the essential ingredient in all living things. Unique properties of the bonds formed by carbon atoms make it the conductor of the energy that makes our cells work. In fact, carbon is both the frame and the fuel of all plants and animals, and it cycles through air, food chains and organic decay in loops usually measured in decades. This, geologically, is the fast carbon cycle.

The slow carbon cycle is the realm of rocks, and is measured in millions, or hundreds of millions, of years. Common rocks like limestone, thick blankets of innumerable tiny marine shells hardened by time, contain two-thirds of Earth’s buried carbon. Limestone will be familiar to some readers, but it would be difficult to avoid the other major player. When organic, once-living material is layered with mud in a shallow sea or lake and turned to stone, the resulting products take on a familiar name: fossil fuel.

An organic-rich wetland buried deep underground will become a future fossil fuel.

Most fuel that powers modern industry is simply made of very old biomass, heated and compressed underground. Coal is born of ancient algal blooms in stagnant water, while petroleum and natural gas are formed by ancient swamp plants that grew and died more quickly than they could rot. When this dead stuff is drowned in still water, the microbes that would usually decompose it into soil and release its carbon do not have enough oxygen to work, replaced by slow-working specialist bacteria that smell of sulfur. This condition is called hypoxia, literally ‘low oxygen,’ and is the source for both the marsh’s stink and it’s superpower. In a hypoxic environment, carbon is transferred from the fast cycle into the relative dormancy of the slow cycle. This physical burial is called sequestration, because it separates the element from the atmosphere and ocean for many millions of years.

Carbon gathered into wetlands by the 'photosynthesis' and 'plant biomass'
arrows, the fuel and frame of plants, cannot be fully decomposed in 
low oxygen conditions, and does not quickly return to the air.
 It is instead sequestered long-term into fossil fuels.

Booming human societies have thrown a wrench into this balanced molecular dance. We dig up and burn any sequestered carbon found, returning a hundred million years of carbon into the air as carbon dioxide gas in the blink of a geologic eye. Fossil fuels hold 20-30% of the Earth’s buried carbon, so this is a massive change. As carbon dioxide is a greenhouse gas, one that acts as a energy-trapping blanket around the atmosphere, heat mounts as Earth soaks up solar energy but can’t shed it. So, unless the carbon cycle becomes re-balanced, we will continue to experience runaway global climate change, eventually destabilizing every natural system on the planet.

And so, a talent for carbon sequestration becomes a superpower, and smelly marshes could save the world.

Narrow strips of coastal wetland are a tiny part of the planet’s surface: only around 2% by area. And yet, they have always accomplished one third of the downward sweep of the slow carbon cycle. In the historic past, people have filled, drained and built over marshes, an artifact of the unpopularity of damp, odoriferous muck. Only now, when rising ocean water threatens to drown these lowlands, can we finally see that the seashore least inspiring to us may be the most valuable ecosystem of them all. 

There are many necessary adjustments to be made in economy, industry and habitual consumption: perhaps savoring our swamps is a pleasant point to start this perception shift. Society can place the cultural, economic and scientific worth on wetlands that they deserve. If we can protect and restore wetlands to maximize their carbon sequestration potential, we will gain a powerful advantage in bringing our runaway climate back on track.

And if a salt marsh has the power to balance the human species, maybe it deserves some poetry after all.

Read more:
Hopkinson, C. S., W.-J. Cai, et al. (2012). "Carbon sequestration in wetland dominated coastal systems - a global sink of rapidly diminishing magnitude."

Mcleod, E., G. L. Chmura, et al. (2011). "A blueprint for blue carbon: toward an improved understanding of the role of vegetated coastal habitats in sequestering CO2."

Mitsch, W. J., B. Bernal, et al. (2013). "Wetlands, carbon, and climate change."

In which Daisy and Jazzy Discover the Curse of the Island

So, have I mentioned that my car hates Assateague? Jazzy is a pretty ten-year old red civic with NSS bats on her butt. She had to be a J, because that was her first license plate. She's been my only car, and I'm pretty affectionate, especially since we cover a lot of miles together between all my homes dotted up and down the East Coast. And now I'm asking her to take me West. She's game, but wants new windshield wipers first. Driving her is like reading the wind on a sailboat; you can feel her roar when she wants a gear up, and groan when she'd rather go down. After all this time, I'm loath to even touch an automatic - they have no life, no opinions! Jazzy has plenty of opinions, especially when it comes to playing CD's when it's cold out.

She also has strong views on the visitors to Assateague Island National Seashore. Sorry, general public, but you drive like shit when you're on vacation.

I have worked two summers at this park, and been hit twice by clueless visitors reading maps instead of the road (at no fault of my own, I might add. I work here, so I'm not about to drive poorly). Last summer, I was coming to a stop in the center lane in front of the entrance booth, and the woman next to me decided to try pulling a U-turn directly through the side of my stopped car. I'm not sure why exactly that seemed like it might work, but let me assure you, it did not. I had just truly left home permanently on my own to an unknown place for the first time, and I had never been in any kind of car accident before, so I freaked. So, I'm bawling while attempting to remain calm and move the cars out of the road and make sure no one was injured, and then the Ranger, Brittany, needed my registration and I had no idea what piece of paper that is, and the lady gouged open my tire, and I had never changed one before (it's really straight-forward), and I basically felt like a five-year-old trying to live on her own. My sister came to visit from DC to help me sort out the mess of insurance and repairs, and Jazzy was finally back to her shiny, reliable self after much confusion and a ten-mile bike ride to pick her up at the shop. Needless to say, I learned from the experience, but wasn't hoping to repeat it.

But I came back anyway, and this island hates my car.

So, I'm driving back home from a night of camping on the beach, and a raccoon starts crossing the open road two hundred yards ahead of me. As far as I'm concerned, the park belongs to the wildlife, road or no road, and I have no desire to get raccoon guts on my tires, so I slowly start breaking, hit my hazard flashers, and come to a stop over nearly two hundred yards. All my precautions are in vain, however, because the car behind me has four teenage boys in it, and I guess something funny happened or whatever. Anyway, boom. I was pretty peeved for a few seconds, but I'm hardly a combative person, and shit happens (and it's not like they tried to drive through my car from a complete stop, as did the lovely lady from last year). They were nice kids, and came to see if I was alright and what was dripping out of my car, and I called down to the ranger station for help. The irony did not escape me: "hey it's daisy... again. I got hit by a visitor... again." Why am I the only ranger this happens to?

So Walt and Brittany came down to write up a report for me. Brittany came up to my window and asked "wasn't this you last year?" and then "maybe you should get a new job." No kidding.

This time, I didn't cry or fumble with the papers. It may not have been the ideal experience for the morning, but, honestly, I wasn't terribly bothered. I called the insurance company, and they just came today to do the estimate on my gal. She'll go into the shop at John's Auto Body in the next few days if everything goes as planned (I'll have to delay getting her fixed if they need three weeks... I'm leaving Maryland soon), and be good as new. And Walt told me the 17-year-old boy who was driving, clinched his official written testimony with a report that he had seen the raccoon cackling evilly as it walked away. That cracked me up.

I guess Jazz and I have grown up a bit in the past year. Confidence aside, though, she really doesn't want to come back next summer.

I might make her though. And cover her in entire perimeter with bumper buoys.

(Nearly all the Candleberry House cars are red!)

Ps: If you ever need car repairs on the Eastern Shore, John and Jackie at John's Auto Body in Berlin are fantastic and really talented. Go them.

In which Daisy throws a Party on the internet

I'm getting this thing started. Pump up the volume.

Basically I am a twenty-year-old wandering naturalist with a year off of school and a terrible history of communication, so I'm putting a few of the adventures down in the pixels for those that care to read. I don't plan on being a famous travel blogger, so this mainly for my friends to know what I'm up to. Hi, friends!

I'm starting this on September 15, 2009, and I'll fill in the backlog of awesome stuff that's happened recently and then go from here. Sadly, my life is not all drama and intrigue all the time, so you may have to actually like me in order to enjoy this. If I told you about it, that probably means I like you, so there's a complement.

So I'm off to figure out where I belong in this little slice of the world that is my life, and I'll keep you updated!

Love for all,
Daisy

In which Daisy encounters a Vampire Horse

Today I was stationed at the front desk pretty much all day. Turns out it wasn't all that boring though. About 10 o'clock Liz comes downstairs from the craft room with one of the cardboard rolls from the commercial toilet paper rolls (the huge ones) and basically tell me to brainstorm. Maybe you didn't know, but I adore brainstorming. Thank you, PLATO. We have a million of these things, and we need to entertain several hundred kids with crafts for Coast Day coming up this Saturday. Joan, the volunteer, and Renee from Eastern National were at the desk with me, and there were very few visitors in the Center because it's the first sunny day in forever, so everyone's out on the island. So, we got to it. I carried this toilet paper tube around with me for the next hour, turning it over and basically looking like a dork. Tube came along to feed the fish. Tube came along to turn the camping sign to "Vacancy". Tube swept sand from the beach combing room with me. Tube answered questions about surf fishing. Okay, the tube couldn't actually talk, but it was on my hand pretending to be a hermit crab shell while I talked about surf fishing. Here is the list I came up with:

Hermit crab
Sea anemone (Rene deserves credit for this)
Whelk, or shell complete with Feather Blenny poking out.
Whelk egg case (if cut into strips)
Puffer fish
Horse

I then made a field trip up to the craft room and raided everything that might be useful: popsicle sticks, dowels, pipe-cleaners, construction paper, clothes pins, goggly-eyes (you can never have enough googly-eyes in my profession), little foam balls, scissors. An the three of us set about deciding on a prototype. I started thinking about the hermit crab, and it would be pretty awesome as a hand puppet (fingers as claws!) but didn't really work with our craft supplies. The sea anemone would be adorable, but I decided to give the horse a try. After all, what child on Assateague Island wouldn't get excited about a horse? And let me tell you, this horse is the cutest thing to grace the National Park Service in years. It's belly is the infamous tube (which is perfect because of the salt-bloating), it has popsicle sticks for legs, a dowel for a neck, and a clothes pin as a head, complete with ears and a mouth. Joan and Jackie came up with the idea for matching pipe-cleaner manes and tails. This thing is win.


My prototype horse came with a price, though: a blood sacrifice a la the cave of the Slytherin locket (turns out everyone gets Harry Potter references in this generation.) That, or maybe I'm still four years old and can't be trusted with a pair of scissors. The funny thing is I didn't even notice that I managed to cut open the pad of my finger drilling holes in cardboard with a pair scissors until I realized that "my finger feels sticky". By then, there was already a nice blood-spot on the horse. So, I named him Vampire. Joan thinks he's too cute to be a blood-sucker and that I should call him Tubby. Tubby Bloodsworth, perhaps?

Any excuse is a good one to practice my First Responder certification, though. So, I wrapped that thing up in gauze and tape. Yeah, take that.

Anyway, Jess and I decided that if the Ranger had already annihilated a finger on this project, we had better do some prep work for the innocent children. So, she acquired a power drill and a box cutter from the maintenance crew, and we went to work. I know, right? I guess I didn't draw enough blood with the common scissors, so they gave me the power tools. Surprisingly, though, I am actually very good at using power tools, thanks to a year in the Brown Engineering lab, so no need to worry. Jess took care of that for you, anyway. Especially when, for lack of a clamp or a work table, I had to hold the tubes with my knees in order to drill them. I managed to drill ten small holes in each of 70 tubes without planting an 1/8th inch drill bit in my thigh. Yuck, talk about an unclean puncture wound. Oh well, what's a job without a little perilous adventure?

Tubby Bloodspot the Vampire Horse is a cutie, though, so the day was a certain success. Plus, I had a great time at the desk.

In which Daisy watches wind in the flag

We flew the flag at half-staff today. I can't believe it's been eight years when it still feels like last week.

I drove down the New Jersey Turnpike six days ago, and I remembered the last time I saw the towers. It was August, 2001, and I was coming home from Rhode Island to go back to school. After crossing the George Washington Bridge with my mom, I kept my eyes glued to the skyline for at least ten minutes. I remember thinking how amazing, how majestic, how cool they looked against the sky. To a twelve year old, downtown Manhattan was the center of the whole world, and I felt so lucky to be a part of it. So I looked, and I thought "so cool".

The next summer, driving home, they weren't there anymore.

I'm so glad my twelve-year-old self thought to look out the window. I still do it every time.

Never forget to take it all in. The world belongs to you, mountain cliffs and city skylines, so don't miss seeing it. We are all so lucky to be here.

In which Daisy inherits Violet Beauregarde's appendages

I got my slackline today! I've been wanting one for a very long time, ever since some nice guy let me try his out for an hour on a beautiful day on the main green last spring. I sucked, obviously, as everyone does at first, but I got to the point of standing still on the line for a few seconds, and have been itching to get on one again on every sunny day since. Other gear took precedence once I started getting a salary though: things like a backpack, a sleeping bag, and a small tent. Luckily, I'm a pretty intense pinch-penny, as it makes this wandering lifestyle much easier. Unluckily, it means I don't get every cool thing I want when I decide I want it. (That, clearly, is not the part that relates to Violet Beauregarde.) But I saved up, and now I have it!

So, obviously, the first thing I did after work today was find two workable trees and wrestle the thing up. Somehow, I have enough old towels in my possession to act as tree sling padding, which is weird because I usually don't keep stuff I don't need. I guess old towels can be universally useful.

Once I had a line, a full Brown Outing Club nalgene, and Readyville booming from the porch (can music without bass be boomed?), I hopped on that thing! And fell off. A lot. Hopping and falling once every ten seconds for forty minutes is a lot more tiring than it looks (ok, I took breaks). And, then, after time, I hopped up, stayed up, and took three steps! And then I fell off and landed with my toes curled under. A broken big toe put an end that slacking session.

I rolled around on the ground for fifteen seconds, then got up and hobbled inside to "walk it off". After some ice, some David Bowie, and a plate of Amy's chana masala with rice, I was pretty sure the pain would be gone soon and it was no big deal. And then, slowly, over the next hour, my toe swelled and turned a fetching shade of deep purple. It's a good thing I don't chew gum, experimental Wonka's or otherwise, or I would be worrying for the eventual safety of the rest of my limbs.

I hobbled over to Hudsonia House later because I saw a puppy, and found out it was the last day for the Veg crew seasonals, Jess and Andrew, (that's Vegetation Specialists) and everyone was going to a bonfire on the beach, so I tried my foot at driving. Thankfully, I'm ok to drive stick, even with a blueberry for a left big toe, because I'm supposed to drive all the way up to New Hampshire for BOLT base camp the day after tomorrow. I'm still a little worried about my hiking abilities, though.

The fire was awesome, although watching biologists light a fire with a gallon of lighter fluid is pretty hilarious to start with, and the puppy added exponentially to the experience. He was a tiny black lab with huge soft puppy paws and a tendency to flop over and nap against anything. Kurt, Katie, and I talked superheroes and sword fighting, graphic novels and ren fairs. I can remember how I used to wish that sword fighting was still the way of the world when I was young: combat based on skill, rather than on money and fatal explosions. Apparently I wasn't the only one; Kurt still practices weekly with his custom-made long sword. I live with the most eclectic people, everywhere I go. I love that.

Anyway, work should be interesting tomorrow. I am supposed to lead two kayak trips with Chris, and I'm not even sure I can walk. I guess I don't need to be able to walk, I just need to be able to paddle and sweet talk someone into carrying the boats for me. Then I get to spend four hours on the water, and I love the water!

And Violet? You can have your toe back.