Antlab in Panama

The other day I was hiking along a trail on the island, brushing away leafy branches in my path, ripping away vines attempting to grasp hold of my clothing as if I was a tree, and kicking over logs and rocks on my search for a goldmine of isopods when a thought crossed my mind: If this is work, I wouldn't want it any other way. Dirty fingers, muddy hands, a sweaty brow, overlooking the corrugated waters of the Panama Canal from the balcony in the evenings or on days off, and not having to stare at blank walls, participate in inane office chat, company Hawaiin shirt days or the occasional holiday potlucks in the lunchroom — I feel like I've got it made.

The forest lends itself to creative daydreams where clocks melt like a dripping candle stick, freezing in time until you're left with a moment like a pleasant sigh of gratitude. My daydreams or fantasies about the rain forest, I've noticed, differ with location. When me and the boys were laying transects on Gigante, a plethora of vines and fallen trees, rain pouring through the canopy, sopping wet socks and wrinkled fingers like prolonged bubble baths made me feel like a soldier of war, trampling through enemy territory, heavy gun in hand, heart on America. Here on BCI where greens can be pastel and fungus presents itself like a new color undiscovered by the rainbow, I feel more like I'm Zelda or a royal subject of the 16th century sneaking away from the castle to explore the secrets of the forest — only, the birds and monkeys don't speak to me. At least, they haven't yet. I hope they don't; it'd be very difficult to convince Mike I don't need psychological evaluation and the forest creatures really do converse with solo researchers in quiet moments — if you just … listen.