Hunched over an icy hole, the soles of my shoes have frozen to the ground. As I lean forward to squat on my toes my boot heels pop free of the ice. With an auger and a heavy-metal chipping pole we’ve chiseled a cylindrical opening through 16 inches of ice and broken through to the murky waters. Sudden and persistent gusts cut across my nose and brow - my only exposed skin. Each breath freezes into icicles on my moustache.
In my hand shakes a confounding computer interface named for an acronym I cannot recall (turns out, it’s a YSI). It connects to a wire which we lower into the dark depths below the ice. Its display screen describes the water’s invisible traits through flashing numbers and static symbols. Instant knowledge of qualities that we could not otherwise observe. For me, the machine might as well run on supernatural divination.
“Oxygen percent, is uh, one-hundred fourteen point…”
“What’s it saying after the decimal?”
“Umm, one-hundred twelve, uhhh… No wait. It’s still dropping.”
We hold formation and wait for the shifting digits to settle. Two skilled water-quality technicians sit criss-cross beside me. My AmeriCorps compatriots. With backs turned to the biting wind and chins lowered into coat collars like turtle people. A white expanse surrounds us, ending at tree-lined shores. Generations of miniature snow tornados birth and die in rounded coves.
Sydney brandishes a clipboarded chart - our document of record. She tracks variables ranging from general weather conditions to the “specific conductivity” of the water. Annalicea feeds the wire into the lake from an industrial-looking coil. The line is notched with duct tape at each meter. She works the line down, stopping at the markers to conjure our readings. She twitches the wire to jig the sensor, which is now far below us, in blind faith that it will expedite our measurement. Like a prayer or ritual to coax the correct numbers onto my screen. It feels like we’re pilgrims holding a ceremony on holy ground. Tracing the protocols of long-held traditions, transcribed by our elders on 8.5 x 11 printer paper.
“It’s still going down… still dropping…”
“It might be since the battery is so low.”
My AmeriCorps title is Volunteer Program Assistant. In time I’ll be tasked with training volunteers on these very procedures so that they can return data and samples to the Squam Lakes Association for water-quality monitoring. I joined today’s icy expedition to further prepare myself for this assignment, but I learned something unexpected about how to best serve my role. My frozen boots were the shoes of a new volunteer.
For someone who isn’t a trained limnologist - like myself - the greater meaning behind these misadventures seem shrouded in mystery. While I’m training volunteers, I can’t only be a director for the step-by-step specifics. I must also provide context of why we go out and probe the far reaches of Squam Lake. What do these figures mean? Why should we care about them? How does this data get used? And by who?
If I can’t help a volunteer make sense of these science-heavy tasks, then they too might face a religious experience out on the lake, and not in a good way. What will a volunteer do when they run into a problem in the field? If the extent of their knowledge is “move on to the next step,” then they’ll have no other recourse, no understanding of what's happening and how to troubleshoot it. Or, worse yet, if I can’t articulate the significance of these programs, then who would care to participate?
There is rhyme and reason to what the water tells us and how we go about finding those messages. SLA’s water-quality readings give a long-term understanding of the lake’s former and current status, and can provide insight into its trajectory. With this information we can take concrete steps to mitigate threats to the lake’s water quality. Without this information we’d be kneeling on the shores, hands together and fingers threaded, holding out hope that this precious resource never strays from its pristine state. It’s a watershed that an uncountable number of residents, visitors, plants, and animals depend on every day, and so its condition ought not to be left up to faith.
Hunter Hine an AmeriCorps member serving as a Volunteer Program Assistant with the SLA. He grew up in Baltimore County and attended the University of Maryland's journalism school. After writing for a newspaper on the states' Eastern Shore, he moved back to Baltimore and began commuting to D.C. for a Public Affairs Fellowship. He loves wading into streams and waving around a fly fishing rod for hours. Sometimes he catches a fish that way. Learn more about Hunter here.