Students across a variety of disciplines (or fields, if you will) have the opportunity to perform fieldwork at Princeton. In contrast to lab work—which involves performing experiments or analyses within a controlled on-campus environment—fieldwork takes place, well, in the field. Researchers venture out into the wide, wild world in pursuit of somehow collecting useful data from the vast webs of chaos that surround them. In my home department of the Geosciences, fieldwork is the norm: students go out to geological field camps or embark on oceanographic cruises to gather data about the raw Earth that surrounds us. However, fieldwork is truly possible in any discipline.
This past summer, I conducted my own fieldwork as part of the Juneau Icefield Research Program (JIRP). For two months, I lived and conducted glaciology research with about 40 other students, staff, and faculty on the glaciers of the Juneau Icefield—an interconnected system of over 140 glaciers spanning 1500 square miles across southern Alaska and northern Canada. It was one of the most incredible—and intellectually rewarding—experiences of my life. Here, I’ll share some stories from my time on the Icefield, contextualizing them within some broader lessons I learned about how field research operates.
- It isn’t all about academics.
At such a serious intellectual institution as Princeton, where independent research is (rightly) prized (just take a look at this very blog), this is perhaps a controversial statement to make. So, to preface, I should clarify that academics are, in fact, a valuable pursuit! However, the point of field research is to combine academics with the field! The entire idea behind field research is that there are some things that can’t be fully understood through purely intellectual ventures from the ivory towers of academia. This idea is exemplified by JIRP’s iconic logo and learning paradigm — the “Emersonian triangle.” Originally conceptualized by essayist and philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson, the Emersonian triangle has three key facets: books, nature, and action. It’s the latter two ideals that put the “field” in “fieldwork,” and I found them to be incredibly conducive to learning.
How was the Emersonian triangle realized in practice? Well, it would be easier to talk about the times it wasn’t—for almost every single day on JIRP was infused with all three Emersonian ideals. The typical day would go like this: we’d ski out from camp at 9 AM, on our way to perform a research task for the day—whether it was drilling an ice core or setting up a radar station. We’d spend the rest of the day in the field, before coming back in the evening—after eating dinner, we’d then settle in for an academic lecture from one of our faculty. The iconic name for this type of full-day glaciology fieldwork was coined by JIRP’s director of academics, Professor Brad Markle—he called it “Ski-ence.” Combining skiing with research, amidst the vast and beautiful glaciers of the Icefield, Ski-ence was a perfect encapsulation of the Emersonian Triangle.
- Keep your expectations flexible.
78 years ago, JIRP was established with the mission of monitoring how the glaciers of the Juneau Icefield changed over time. Glaciers are always either advancing or retreating: today, the glaciers of the Juneau Icefield are uniformly retreating, and the rate of their melt is accelerating. Discussion of this melt was featured in a recent high-profile New York Times article. Indeed, Alaskan glaciers are the single biggest contributor to sea level rise of any region in the world—yes, even more than the far bigger ice sheets of Antarctica and Greenland. If emissions continue to rise throughout the 21st century, the Icefield could be gone by 2200.
But how exactly can we measure whether glaciers are advancing or retreating? While sophisticated methods using satellite observations are considered the best technique, scientists historically used a somewhat less sophisticated method called “mass balance pits.” What this essentially amounts to is digging a big pit in the middle of the glacier, until you reach last year’s snowline. When you do that, you can figure out the difference between how much snow fell over the winter and how much melted away during the summer—if this value is positive, the glacier is advancing; but if it’s negative, the glacier is retreating.
Mass balance pits are the bread-and-butter of JIRP. They were what the program was set up to do in the first place, and every year JIRP keeps its mass balance records going by digging a new round of pits. That’s what a group of us were dispatched to do one rainy summer’s day, when we were sent to an outstation camp (“Camp 9”) to “dig a pit” on the Matthes Glacier. Our plan was to ski ~5 miles to the camp, set ourselves up, and then dig the pit. Then, we could spend the entirety of the next day skiing for fun!
Of course, like all best-laid plans, this one quickly went awry. The weather was pouring rain, freezing, and windy; the visibility was a total whiteout, which meant that we found ourselves going the wrong direction numerous times on our way to the camp. We arrived exhausted, but told ourselves we needed to push through to dig the pit.
When we started digging, it became clear that we were not in shape to spend a strenuous evening of digging. I was off my digging game, barely shoveling up spoonfuls of snow. Progress was slow, as we were continually battered by the howling winds and pouring rains. We all wanted to persist, but eventually we made the tough decision to call it. Based on the conditions (both human and environmental), the best decision was to bail and return the next day. We gratefully but regretfully returned to Camp 9, where we warmed ourselves up with hot cocoa mixed with a mysterious “spice mélange.” The next day, feeling much more energetic and in far better spirits, we returned to the pit with gusto—and soon finished digging the pit!
This wasn’t the only time we had to make a tough decision to bail on that trip. A day later, we were scheduled to traverse another 13 miles to the next camp, and rejoin the rest of the group. Unfortunately, we were hit that day by an atmospheric river (a highly concentrated column of water vapor bringing intense precipitation): it was perhaps the heaviest rain/snowfall I’ve ever seen (indeed, this summer was the rainiest on record for Juneau). We had to make a decision: should we traverse, or should the 8 of us spend the another day cooped up inside the tiny building that was Camp 9? It was a tough choice to make, but we held a vote, and postponing the traverse won by a margin of 6-2. Initially, I was disappointed: I wanted to get going! But eventually I realized that the majority was right: conditions were hazardous and miserable, and bailing was the correct decision.
Ultimately, these stories expose a key facet of fieldwork: it’s not always going to go according to plan, because the real world is a highly variable environment. If you go into the field, you need to be prepared to lower your expectations and accept that you aren’t always going to get what you want. Sometimes, there are greater forces than you at play. My research adviser at the University of Washington, T.J. Fudge, has spent numerous field seasons on the high ice plateaus of Antarctica. He once told me that before a field season, he makes several plans: a “100% plan” that encompasses everything he would like to accomplish, but also a 50% and a 25% plan that represent the stuff he’d most like to do. That way, if real-world constraints prevent him from doing everything he’d like to, he knows what he should prioritize.
- Embrace the independence.
Although some of what I’ve written above might make it sound that fieldwork is a tedious process with plenty of opportunity for stuff to go wrong, I don’t want to leave any reader with that impression at all. I absolutely love being in the field—and the reason I love it most is for the independence it gives me. I’m free of the structured constraints that a more traditional academic environment places upon me—it’s a liberating feeling.
One of my favorite days on JIRP was the time I planned a deployment operation for a series of temperature sensors on a mountain called Taku B. I started the day by “launching” the sensors—activating electronic thermometers and attaching them to bamboo poles that would be planted within rock cairns. Then, I used GPS and topographic maps to plan exactly where we’d deploy the sensors up Taku B. The objective of the study was to study the “lapse rate”—how temperature changes with respect to altitude. So, I picked locations with an even altitude spacing between them. Then, I actually hiked up Taku B, looking at my GPS to determine where to deploy the sensors. I was a part of directing this project from start to finish, and it was extremely rewarding. In my opinion, at least, this level of research independence is something that you can only get while being in the field—and that’s why I’m so glad for my experience.
— Advik Eswaran, Natural Sciences Correspondent
