“Here is your country. Cherish these natural wonders, cherish the natural resources, cherish the history and romance as a sacred heritage, for your children and your children’s children. Do not let selfish men or greedy interests skin your country of its beauty, its riches, or its romance.”

-Theodore Roosevelt

Theodore Roosevelt, 26th president and conservationist, was credited with playing a momentous role in establishing and supporting numerous National Parks. He was also a strong advocate for Yellowstone National Park, the first and oldest National Park in the United States. Now, over 150 years later, I finish up my internship and also my 100th dive in this same park. Yet, none of this would be possible without the foresight of Roosevelt and numerous others for our nation’s wilderness to be conserved for the enjoyment of the public and future generations.

This week I join Brett Seymour and Jim Nimz with the Submerged Resources Center (SRC) for their work in Yellowstone. Since the 1990’s Yellowstone park biologists like Drew MacDonald have been managing invasive lake trout species. Biologists realized that introduced lake trout weren’t just growing and reproducing at much faster rates than native cutthroats, but they were also voraciously eating the native cutthroats. Since 1994, over 4.5 million lake trout have been removed from Yellowstone Lake using gill netting (NPS). Brett and Jim are diving Yellowstone Lake to install dissolved oxygen monitors where the lake trout lay their eggs. The park drops over 40,000 pounds of specialized plant-based pellets each year over lake trout spawning grounds. These pellets only target lake trout and smother their eggs, preventing the next generation of rampant predators from wreaking havoc on the Yellowstone ecosystem.

While the native cutthroat may seem like just a single species residing within the boundaries of a massive park, they too have a special role that is intertwined with the rest of the ecosystem. Invasive lake trout mostly exist in the deeper parts of lakes, out of reach of predators, and cutthroats spend much more of their life in shallower areas, eventually swimming up streams as part of their life cycle. This distinction between the two species is important, because it means cutthroat are an integral park of nutrient cycling within Yellowstone, while lake trout are not. Many other animals suffered from the decline in cutthroat, and this fish now serves as a story of hope within Yellowstone as grizzly bears, bald eagles, and numerous other species have been spotted in greater numbers feeding on recovering cutthroat.

Jim and Brett bury the dissolved oxygen censors in anticipation of lake trout spawning, where they will later be removed after the pellets have been dropped, and then we move on to the next dive site. While Yellowstone sits over a super volcano and many geothermal sites, this lake is not a wetsuit diving temperature. While I’d used a drysuit before, it was only for checkout dives, and had been a long time ago. My first dive in Yellowstone will be off the shore of West Thumb, where I can get my buoyancy and trim dialed in with the added bonus of getting to look at amazing geothermal vents at the same time.

This underwater ecosystem is different than all diving I’ve done with this internship, with neon green filamentous algae carpeting the bottom of the lake. At first, the somewhat limited visibility seems a result of particulate matter in the water column, but upon closer inspection, it is actually thick clouds of shrimp-like isopods swimming around. Even bigger ones munch on the bright green algae, and when I hand one to Jim, he (pretends?) to eat it. As Jim keeps a very watchful eye on his new drysuit diver, Brett directs me over a geothermal vent for a photo… and I am quickly distracted by a large isopod that shoots by me. Sorry Brett!

After proving I’m not a liability in a drysuit (somewhat to my surprise), we head over to our final dive spot of the day, and also of my internship. The night before, as I was catching up on logging my dives, I had the rather unbelievable discovery that my 100th dive would be the next day. I can’t think of a more fitting place for my 100th and last dive of the NPS internship and than the ancient dormant geothermal spires rising up from the bottom of Yellowstone Lake. While coincidences might happen all the time, I’d like to think this was meant to be.

We descend into the green water of the lake, visibility limited because of the algae diatoms crowding the water column. I’m still acutely aware of my drysuit, and how I’m not used to it, focusing on adding the right amount of air as we slowly sink down. Then, all of the sudden, I look to my left at an incredible formation of rocks rising from the bottom of the lake. Some are jagged as they shoot up, while others seem to have a more gentle, looping flow as they rise towards the surface, more reminiscent of their given name “spires”.

It is such a privilege to have the opportunity to see these incredible formations that much of the world doesn’t even know about. Yellowstone is a magnificent park, and I realize that it has as many hidden wonders as it does famous sites. The spires are dotted with unique looking yellow sponges, and I notice little snails with pretty spotted shells alongside this surprise burst of life. The biologist in me forgets about the ancient spire I’m staring at and instead starts wondering if the snails eat the sponges, if they have coevolved in this unique micro ecosystem, and if they have even been studied at such a remote location.

Once again, as Brett is trying to line me up for the perfect shot, I probably look like I am kissing rocks as I have my mask glued to an odd looking sponge in front of me. Thankfully Jim gives me a good natured shove and I turn to see Brett patiently waiting with his camera. As we end our dive floating at our 20 foot safety stop, I have fun waving my hands in front of my face, grabbing handfuls of isopods as a time. Too soon, we are back at the surface, and as I start blabbering about the sponges and snails, someone asks “did you even look at the spires?!”. Well of course I did! Even if I got a little distracted.

The rest of the park is spectacular to behold, and even in our short time there, we see elk, bison, bighorns, mule deer, black bears, coyotes, and even a grizzly and her cub. It is no wonder that generations have continued to be drawn to the immense grandeur, diverse terrain, and wildlife found within its borders. However, there is a narrative that parks are doing better than ever because more and more people visit each year. While it is wonderful that the public continues to grow and show interest in Yellowstone and other parks, this isn’t the most accurate representation of what our parks really look like.

What they currently look like is understaffed, underfunded, and under-appreciated. My previous blogs might have been lighthearted approaches to the day-to-day of park diving operations, but there has also been a bleaker underlying narrative. While parks have struggled with staffing and funding cuts across numerous administrations and political parties, it is no secret that they are struggling now more than ever. Reduction in Force (RIFs), illegal probationary firings, and massive funding cuts have stripped parks of resources required to function for their basic missions. But it isn’t just these large actions that have seriously undermined the parks. Even smaller actions such as reducing purchasing capacities within parks means that parks have the money to carry out operations, but no way of actually spending it. It seems to me that this isn’t saving our country any money, it just means our tax dollars are sitting in some nebulous federal vacuum while our parks struggle to serve the public in they way they were designed to be.

While all of the firings and funding freezes were enacted by the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) in an effort to make the federal government more efficient, from my observations, they have only served to disrupt and destroy years of hard work. The current state of understaffing and underfunding is so debilitating, employees can barely complete everyday tasks, let alone big projects, because so much time is spent justifying every action to the current administration. An office wounded to such a degree that they don’t have the capability, resources, or personnel to perform at a high standard seems to be the opposite of efficiency. Many of the people I interacted with would be the first to recognize that there are inefficiencies within the federal government and parks. However, it seems a lot of these inefficiencies could be solved by listening to the input of those on the ground doing the job (and trust me, they all have plenty of brilliant solutions and ideas on how to do their jobs better). The reality seems to be that many decisions often come down to pressures and whims from current administrations, not input from those doing their jobs every day.

Imagine working at a park for 30 years, dedicating your career and your life, because you believe in the mission of your park, only to have to justify your day-to-day existence to an administration that accuses you of being useless and a drain on the American people. This is the current reality for many inside the parks service. I was most exposed to park diving operations, which I feel could have many misperceptions for those outside of the job. After all, many think of diving as a recreational activity, not the physically and mentally intense operating environment within parks that requires yearly fitness tests, emergency trainings, and more.

While my blogs might have portrayed diving for the park service as fun, I hope they did not portray it as easy. These people brave rough conditions, strong currents, tough weather, potentially dangerous animals, and the inherent risk of diving, all because they are so passionate about surveying and protecting the underwater resources at their park. While they love their jobs, that is not to say these are easy jobs, or fun all the time. From what I’ve seen, the joy in their jobs comes from the passion they have for these ecosystems and species, and is in spite of the grueling work from a day of diving or field work.

The reality that so many chose to stay at parks under the threat of being fired, when they could have retired with 6 months of continued pay, shows the dedication and passion park employees have for their jobs. These are incredibly talented people who could easily go work for private industries with higher salaries. It’d be hard to blame someone for choosing a stable income for 6 months and the ability to make more money, rather than stay at a park they are passionate about, but where they are constantly flooded with unsubstantiated criticism from an acting administration. Not to mention, all with the overhanging dread that they could be fired at any moment.

For many of the people I worked with, to leave their park is the equivalent of the death of decades of work and essential programs that have protected and provided for our parks. Because it isn’t just loosing the talent of these incredible scientists and essential employees that will weaken our parks, it is also the ongoing hiring freezes that mean these positions can’t be refilled. Essentially, we are looking at our last line of defense between the stewardship of this country’s wilderness, and dysfunctional parks with empty offices.

There has been an amazing movement of bipartisan and public outcry in response to threats to our National Parks, to the extent that some illegal firings have been rescinded. However, I would warn that these in-your-face, dramatic administrative actions are not the biggest long-term threats to our parks. They are simply distractions, suctioning in people’s rage and outcry, while less obvious infractions to our public lands are trying to get pushed through.

I don’t think our parks will be bulldozed overnight. They will slip away silently. Chipped away bit by bit by permitting loopholes, lobbyists, and the slow disappearance of essential employees who are unduly fired, coerced into retirement, or recognized for their talent by the private industry. It will start with quiet, out-of-sight privatization and extraction until all we are left with are fragments of our magnificent parks and normalized environmental degradation.

While interacting with local, state, and federal representatives is great, it can be intimidating, and not an achievable goal for everyone. Sometimes something as simple as sharing your love for and favorite experiences in parks is just as powerful. Throughout my internship, I met a lot of strangers, whether in an Uber or airport terminal. I absolutely know that we didn’t all have the same political beliefs or vote for the same representatives, but at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. I would often describe my internship, all the wonderful places I saw and the hardworking people I met. These complete strangers would then tell me about their favorite park as a kid, or ones they hope to visit one day. One man even said he recently went to Yellowstone and his young daughter wants to be a ranger now.

I never blatantly mentioned how I think the recent firings or slashed budgets are wrong because I didn’t have to. Just hearing what a day of field work is like is more than enough for people to draw their own conclusions about who works for the parks service. They can decide for themselves that inefficient, incompetent employees don’t brave clouds of mosquitoes or withering heat. Only dedicated, passionate, hard-working civil servants deserving of jobs and public support do.

There is a lot going on in the world right now, and it can be hard not to feel sad or hopeless about the divide in our country. I would argue that our National Parks have long been a uniting force and will continue to be if we can keep them in the hands of the public to experience and enjoy. Even in the middle of writing this blog, our parks have been thrown another obstacle in the form of a government shutdown. Employees have been put on furlough, basically forced time off without pay, while many more are simply working with no pay. I don’t believe it should take much empathy to imagine the frustration and stress of not knowing when you will have a stable income again. Furthermore, parks have suffered in the past from vandalism, environmental degradation, and sanitation problems as they remain open during a government shutdown, but with only a skeleton workforce to take care of them.

It fills me with sadness to see these events unfold as I finish up my internship. What I have written has been from my perspective, from my observations within parks. I don’t expect everyone to believe all of it or agree with all of it. I haven’t included sources, and it’s not peer reviewed. But I hope if anything, you can relate to the wonder and excitement I’ve felt in these blogs as I’ve had the privilege of experiencing some of our nation’s marvels. They are pretty incredible places to see, and feelings to experience, ones that I hope everyone gets to share when they think about National Parks.

What I am scared about, is not the disappearance of our National Parks, but what they will look like in the future. How will our children experience them? Only through our stories? The question is not if our parks will be here in the future as the land and water will to some extent, always exist. Instead, it is how we will experience our parks. What will they look like? Wild, healthy, and free? Or remnants of a past country, lacking advocates and stewardship, exploited beyond recognition? It is up to us to decide, and there isn’t a better time to advocate for them than now. National Parks belong to all of us, let’s show that we care about them.

When the Submerged Resources Center (SRC) first started reaching out to parks for my internship, they asked me if I had a top choice. Immediately, I said Channel Islands National Park. Most of my previous diving experience was in the cold water around the San Juan Islands of Puget Sound. Even though the conditions were tough, I loved all of the marine life and kelp. The only thing was… visibility was never good enough to see the bull kelp as a “forest”. Ever since, the idea of lush kelp forests in good visibility has been alluring. I also had spent some time outplanting hatchery-raised pinto abalone, but had never experienced seeing an adult abalone in the wild, and was excited for the chance. Ironically, Scotty Gabara, Marine Ecologist at Channel Islands, was the first to respond to SRC that the park could host me this summer.

Ever since, I have been eagerly awaiting getting to dive alongside the Kelp Forest Monitoring (KFM) team. Now, two days in, the only water I’m in is spray from some choppy conditions. I’ll spare the horrific photos, but the nastiest ear infection of my life has been plaguing me for the past week. The night after I finished my cave course, I woke up to pain in my right ear, and proceeded to lose my hearing and bleed from my ear for the next five days, even on multiple antibiotics. I’d like to think I’m no baby, but the pain was pretty intense. Even more intense was my worry for what was going to happen if my ear wasn’t healed for the KFM trip.

I found out soon enough. Probably my fifth sentence after being picked up at the airport shuttle by Kenan Chan, Biological Science Technician and Lead Fisheries Diver, went something like “soooo, I also have a super gnarly ear infection, nice to meet you.” He assures me the KFM team is used to dealing with petulant ears, and I’m in good hands. The team has an “ear camera” on board, and while my ears were feeling much better, a quick check revealed they were far from normal. I’ll leave out the details, but everyone on board agreed my ears were by far the grossest they’d seen. Marvelous.

That’s not to say I don’t have a great time my first few days. The seasonal workers for KFM, Lizzie Mceligot, Laney White, Ryan Hallisey, Katie Riley, and Arnel Lorenzo-Orig, are all super welcoming, even though I’m about to take up more of their precious space on board. Throughout the trip, I have a lot of fun with these folks, and it’s possible we trauma bond over some technical issues discussed later. I have free range to an abundance of snacks, which is basically my dream come true after two months of careful food budgeting. Spending all day snacking and diving would be ideal, but I’m still thrilled. I try to make myself as useful as possible, helping divers in and out of the water and assisting with data topside, but to be fair, this team is so self-efficient, I’m hardly any use. I still enjoy getting to see how their diving operations work, and all the little goodies they bring up to measure, like white urchins and abalone shells. Brian Cunningham, our boat Captain, entertains me by showing me the compressor room and has an impressive sixth sense for where our divers are at all times. 

The next day, I still avoid eye contact with my dive gear, but I justify a good surface snorkel. Not even five minutes in, I fall head over heels for the kelp forests. They are everything I imagined and more. With the sunlight streaming in, I have the perfect view down to the bottom. To my delight, a few garibaldi come say hello, and I am somewhat surprised by how unfazed many of the fish are by my presence. The sheepshead are especially curious and approach pretty close to see what I’m up to. At one point, a cormorant even swims below me, chasing some fish, and I can’t help but laugh through my snorkel at the bizarre sight of a bird torpedoing through the water.

Around this time, I’m starting to get a little too toasty in my wetsuit. This is my first time wearing a seal skin wet suit (and also my first introduction into wiggling into them – if you know, you know), and I am shocked by how warm I am. I head back to the boat to take off a layer and then jump back in, already missing the swaying kelp. As the sun hangs lower in the sky, the kelp turns gold, and I can’t help but think of this beautiful ecosystem as a chest bursting with treasure. Bright urchins and shards of iridescent abalone shell litter the floor like jewels, and it’s easy to see why many of these species have dwindled in number because of high demand. Just as I’m sneaking up under a seagull to see how close I can get, a large triangular shape glides under me.

Pretending to forget about my particular ear issue, I dive down to say hi to the adorable bat ray who is calmly swimming along the bottom. Ignoring the pain as I equalize, I manage to snap a few shots. Realizing that I may have pushed a little too far today, I make my way back to the boat feeling very content with my kelp frolicking.

Unfortunately, later that evening, we ran into some toilet troubles that were going to disrupt the entire trip. Bryan, Scotty, and Kenan valiantly try their best to fix the head, and all I will say is that a fair amount of buckets were involved. Sadly, our heroes remained defeated, even if the rest of us were cheering them on (from the sidelines, as far away as possible). If the world is your oyster, then the ocean became our bathroom for the night.

We headed back to the mainland the next morning, hopes high that our issues could be quickly resolved and we could get back to the monitoring sites. After some horrific troubleshooting that involved pulling apart various parts of the plumbing, our dejected heroes finally located their suspect… a sink drain strainer? While we all remain dumbfounded on how it made itself into the toilet, as obviously, no one put it in there. A leading hypothesis involves it rolling off the sink counter because of some rough conditions we had earlier in the week. I still think there might have been aliens involved, but that one was no easier to prove.

Thanks to the dedication of these three, we were able to get back out in the afternoon so the team could work. By the time Thursday rolled around, nothing was going to get between me and a dive. While my ear didn’t look particularly better, it didn’t look worse, and that was good enough for me. The kelp was calling me! Since I don’t have the species identification background to help with KFM protocols, I get to use a camera while everyone is diligently working.

If snorkeling was amazing, my dive was an out-of-body experience. I was gliding through a dreamland of swaying kelp and brilliant red algae carpeting the floor. Bright orange giribaldi flashed in and out of the kelp stipes, and the water was unbelievably clear, revealing complex rocky reef and gorgonians rolling in time to the surge. An octopus peered at me from a crevice, and little horned sharks hid among the red algae. Towards the end of the dive, I get bombed by a sea lion who charges straight at me and blows bubbles in my face before disappearing. Everywhere I look, there is an astounding amount of lush, healthy life. Kenan points out an abalone, and bubbles rush around my face as I squeal in excitement. I’m convinced that I’ve had the most perfect dive ever, and nothing will top it.

Then, at our next site, a massive fish sideswipes me. I almost lose my regulator from my mouth as my jaw drops at the giant black sea bass that is checking me and my buddy Ryan out. After swimming right by me, it cruises on towards Ryan, who is being mimicked by a curious sea lion. Just when I think fish and sea lion are going the collide, they both shoot off in a jumble of motion. At this point, I’m yelling through my regulator at Ryan in disbelief and excitement. The sea bass is easily larger than the sea lion, and this is the point where I finally start to comprehend what a huge creature it is. Later on our transect, it glides in front of us, and I turn around to see Scotty pointing at another one that was checking out my fin right behind me. I would have never known!

Even though I’ve had the privilege to see some beautiful and awe-inspiring sights, nothing has evoked this sense of prehistoric wonder like these sea bass. I felt like I swam through a time portal and caught a glimpse of the past through this majestic fish that used to roam around these islands in even bigger proportions and numbers.

It’s only because of protections from California Department of Fish & Game as well as the park and marine sanctuaries of Channel Islands that these creatures are still around. In a similar story to many other species in the area, like abalone, this fish was over-harvested to the brink of collapse. Without the careful intervention of regulations and protective policies, there is a very real possibility I would have never been able to experience them (NPS). Laney tells me about a sea bass at another site whose mouth is mangled from fishing gear, and I am filled with immense sadness imagining the peaceful beasts I had encountered meeting the same fate. While frighteningly big, there was something compelling in the way they slowly stared at me with their huge eyes. These fish have a lifespan similar to humans, and I wonder at all they have experienced and survived over the years to make it where they are today, watching a gaggle of divers measuring urchins.

Friday, my last day with KFM, we dive the lighthouse at Anacapa again. I descend this time with Laney as my buddy, and while I never get a visit from the sea bass again, the sea lions don’t disappoint. As Laney is focused on completing her surveying, sea lions and the odd harbor seal cruise by to take a peek at us. Soon enough, I’m distracted by the beauty of the small. Spanish shawl nudibranchs cling to rocks, and I laugh as the raised structures on their backs stream behind them as they are whipped back and forth in the strong surge, like some underwater roller coaster ride. A shy octopus braves my camera to leave its hidey hole and meander between some boulders, giving me a somewhat accusing eye as I follow it.

Towards the end of the dive, I run into Kenan finishing his band survey with an inquisitive sea lion hanging nearby. Of course, the sea lion was more interested in harassing the person working, not holding the camera, but it eventually came over to investigate. I spent the end of the dive playing hide and seek with it. It would watch me from the kelp until I’d pretend to ignore it, and then all of a sudden it would come zooming by, doing somersaults in my face. I noticed if I leaned to one side or the other, it would sometimes mimic me, which was adorable! This experience filled me with so much joy and was an awesome way to end my diving with Channel Islands.

I spend my last hour out of my gear, holding onto the tagline and drifting in the current. Dozens of sea lions play beneath me, and then they burst out of the water as they move on to their next source of entertainment. Brown pelicans fill the busy sky around the lighthouse, and the odd peregrine falcon soars by the cliffs. From sea to sky, the Channel Islands are truly a paradise, brimming with unique life, all benefitting from the park and marine protection areas, and the incredible long-term surveying efforts of KFM teams.

If there is one place in the world I absolutely don’t want to be, it’s in a cave. Specifically, an underwater cave. So how is it that I find myself winding my way through a system called Devil’s Eye, trying to have perfect buoyancy and convince myself that I’m not a complete idiot with a death wish? I’m still not sure, but three months earlier, when Brett Seymour of the SRC asked me if I wanted to participate in this Cavern, Intro to Cave, and Full Cave diving course, the words “thanks, but absolutely not” were on the tip of my tongue. Somehow, I ended up asking if I could have more information instead.

The rest is history. Upon learning that the course would be very comprehensive, with other NPS divers, and led by a highly recommended instructor, I realized this opportunity was too good to pass up. Even though I find no intrinsic motivation to enter a cave whatsoever, I want to become a better diver which this course absolutely facilitates. With that, I tell my family that I will be diving in “springs” in Florida and start to nervously count down the days until I start the course.

I meet our instructor, Josh Thornton – a well-known diver, cave instructor, and co-founder and President of Subgravity – who has worked with the SRC in the past. I also meet the two NPS divers. Regional Diver Officer for the Pacific West Region, as well as Fisheries Biologist for Crater Lake is also named Josh (Sprague), which might make this blog a little confusing. Amelia Lynch is the new Park Dive Officer for Devil’s Hole in Death Valley National Park. Devil’s Hole is a very unique cave system that is home to one of the world’s rarest species of fish: the endemic Devil’s Hole Pupfish.

Devil’s Hole is interesting in that it fluctuates with tides and is impacted by earthquakes that occur thousands of miles away. This isn’t the best news for the pupfish, who rely on a very delicate ecosystem for sustenance like algae, and have recently struggled in the wake of some earthquake disruptions. It’s critical for park divers, like Amelia, to conduct regular counts to monitor changes in their populations. The only thing is, they live at the entrance of a cave system that extends thousands of feet down. This means Amelia needs her Intro to Cave and Full Cave Certification before the next pupfish count (spoiler: both she and Josh S. absolutely crush the course).

My feelings about caves aside, I was already set up for a challenge with all the new equipment configurations we’d be using, especially the extraordinarily heavy steel doubles. The first day of diving, my fins are too light, my trim is off, and I spend most of our three-hour dive face-planting into the sand. With a different pair of fins on the next day, I had a much easier time with my buoyancy, but that is not to say it wasn’t a struggle. Pair this with a blindfold over my mask, and that’s how I ended up crashing into my buddies and every single dang rock within range of our line.

Slightly too buoyant and surrounded by pitch black, I am enveloped in an overwhelming sense of vertigo. At first, I manage to breathe calmly and try to regain my buoyancy after swimming in circles and rolling with my tanks, all with the line clenched in my hand so our instructor can’t bat it out of any loose “ok” grasps. Then, I grab a rock to steady myself, and I realize I’m not swimming in circles. Instead, it’s just the sensation of my head going round and round on a merry-go-round, with the feeling of the heavy centrifugal pressure pushing against my skull. I keep my breathing as steady as I can, but head pounding, I feel ready to get rid of my lunch. Finally, I rip the blindfold off, signal I am stopping the drill to our instructor … and stand up in…five feet of water. 

At this point, I haven’t even entered an overhead environment and am no closer to wanting to. Our first journey into a cave is in Orange Grove at Peacock Springs. After the crystal clear water of Ginnie, I was mentally prepared to be able to see straight through the springs to the cave entrance. To my utter delight, Orange Grove was absolutely covered in duckweed, to the point that anyone passing by would assume it’s a shallow pond if not for the “warning, people have died here” signs. Less than thrilled, I descend with the group into murky green water, trying to spit the duckweed in my mouth out through my regulator. Even though the visibility was astounding inside the cave, I was pretty miserable unless it was my turn to practice laying the line. With nothing to focus my mind on, I spent the agonizing minutes imagining catastrophic scenarios inside the cave. I have a pretty good imagination.

Once all three of us had practiced laying the reel, Instructor Josh took us on a short little jaunt into the actual cave. I hated every single second of it, and even though my body wasn’t telling me something was wrong, my mind was. Every single thing I’d previously heard about how dangerous caves were, even to experienced divers, crowded the front of my mind, and I kept asking myself, why am I here? When we surfaced, the first thing I said to Instructor Josh was “I don’t think I can go in a cave again.” In his usual way, he smiled reassuringly and gave me a neutral “okay,’’ leaving the decision up to me. 

I got out of my gear and sat on a ledge above the cave, letting fish nibble on my toes and watching a rat snake hunt lizards. Bathed in warm sunlight, surrounded by the lush foliage of the springs, I felt so much joy in watching these simple things. I could barely sit still as I watched the snake nab an anole and then oscillate its body to digest it. At this moment, an even bigger question began to form in my mind. If such small, simple things bring me so much happiness and wonder, then what the hell was I doing in a cave when it didn’t stir the slightest excitement in me?

The next few days are a roller coaster of me forcing myself into caves and then calling it quits in the middle of dives. At least two or three times a day, I’m convinced that I’m absolutely done, and I can’t push myself further. The thought that I’d make myself go back in a cave is an impossibility within my mind during these moments.

To the credit of Instructor Josh, Amelia, and Josh S., no one pushed me into doing anything I didn’t want to, and everyone was incredibly supportive and positive with me throughout the class, which I believe speaks to the caliber of people I was with. Amelia needed to complete this course for her job at Devil’s Hole, and even though I constantly worried I would slow down the group, and therefore her progress, she always made me feel better after I brought it up. Both she and Josh S. were very supportive team members and were kind enough to figuratively hold my hand through some of the course (though at that point, I wouldn’t have minded it literally).

So many voices were competing in my head during these dives – my family, my friends, and my own, all saying various things like “cave diving isn’t worth it,” and “don’t push yourself to do things that feel wrong.” Even though my mind was telling me no, I had no butterflies, no nerves or high heart rate, just a deep feeling that I’m not supposed to be in a cave. My biggest fear about being in caves is not about my equipment, team, or instructor failing; it has been that I will freak, rip my regulator out, hit my head on the cave, and thrash about as I vainly claw towards the exit, only to die as I choke on the cold water flooding my lungs.

At the end of each day, defeat hangs around me like a somber cloud. I try to stay positive, and grateful for the opportunity, but the repeated failures chip away at me, and I am left mentally and physically exhausted. One night, I decided I was done. I had pushed myself farther than I ever thought I would go. I tried it out, and I couldn’t justify it in my mind. But someone else could justify it, and that someone was waiting for me back at the lodging. Brett Seymour knows me too well for the little time we have spent together, and he knew that I had it within me to push even further. 

We spent a few hours talking about my experience with the class so far, and his very similar experience when he originally took the class. We talked through which parts of cave diving were scary to me, and what mitigations were in place. Even though it felt like I was super unsafe, if I could change my mindset, I would realize that all the situations I was imagining were very unlikely. What is the only true emergency in cave diving? Running out of air. How is this mitigated? I can share air with three other very competent divers, and we are all diving conservatively with the rule of thirds. We all run through or lose our three lights? We can hold the line and follow directional arrows out, and Instructor Josh knows every inch of these cave systems. I freak out, rip my reg and mask off, and try to bolt for the exit? Instructor Josh has the skills and experience to manhandle me to the surface alive. We went through many more scenarios, and Amelia and Josh S. were also incredibly helpful in pointing out the things I had done well within the class, which was encouraging because I was only focusing on what I did wrong.

I realized that whether or not I could continue had nothing to do with my diving skills and everything to do with my mind. If I wanted to try to push through, I needed to consciously choose to switch my mindset. Otherwise, keeping the same questions and doubts was only hindering me. I’ve never been a quitter, and I didn’t want to start now. That night, as I lay in bed, I started practicing turning off the fears that had been ruling me. It didn’t mean they weren’t valid or real risks, but I couldn’t keep over-analyzing them. I showed up to Ginnie the next morning with a positive attitude and ready to try again (both novel feelings for the week).

We started the day with a dry drill on how to find a lost line in a zero visibility situation. For some odd reason, I found this drill kind of fun, probably because I found the line and partly because I got to root around in the dirt and trees looking for a good place to tie off my safety spool. I also had amazing luck, clamping my hand down right on the directional arrow when I found the line. I gave myself a good pep talk and we descended into the roaring flow of Ginnie Springs, ready to practice a blind exit. But this time, we were in the catacombs, much smaller and more confined spaces than before. It was almost like the negative thoughts pressed into my mind as the walls pressed closer to my body.  

You might be hoping to hear that this was my big turning point, and I succeeded in pushing through and finishing the dive. I didn’t, and I called the dive once again. Amelia and Josh S. needed to complete this skill for their jobs, and I had potentially wasted their air so that they wouldn’t be able to go back and complete the drill. Thankfully, this wasn’t the case, but I felt like it was selfish to keep trying to go on dives, but then calling them halfway through. I realized that if I was to go on another dive, it had to be all or nothing. No more tepid, “I’ll turn around when I’m uncomfortable” mentality.

I dejectedly ate my peanut butter sandwich and considered texting Brett to tell him, “thanks for the pep talk, but I failed anyway, and I’m done.” A mixture of being too lazy to walk to the car and not wanting to let him down had me put off the text until later. As the team talked through the plan for the next dive, the stakes were slightly lower in my head (an example of how my mind is biased because they were basically the same). We wouldn’t be in such confined spaces again, and the drill would be at the beginning of the dive. I knew if I had a task to focus on immediately, I would spend much less time psyching myself out. The task at hand was finding a lost line blindfolded, and the fact that this didn’t faze me half as much as just having to swim through a cave with nothing to do should tell you a lot about how my mind functions. 

This was my all or nothing moment, and I entered that cave ready to give it everything I had. It’s amazing how this changed my perception of the dive. Even just swimming to the drill room was a better experience because I could focus on prepping myself for the task. I took note of the flow direction, the shape of rocks, and the height of the line as we swam. When Instructor Josh handed me the blindfold, I calmly slipped it on and began the drill after he had disoriented me.

I actually felt more at peace than I had all day as I searched for a place to tie off my safety spool and begin my search in complete darkness. I focused on keeping my breathing steady and methodically sweeping my arm as I headed out in the direction I thought the line was. Because the room wasn’t too big, I figured I could head straight out and then in the opposite direction if I didn’t find it. An expanding circle search would have been time-consuming because of the variety of large boulders within the room. With a combination of good instinct and a lot of luck, I found the line within a few minutes, once again right at the directional arrow, which we all had a good laugh about later. 

Looking back, I think this was my defining moment. I didn’t lose my cool, followed my instinct, and completed a tough skill. I even had my primary light go out a few minutes after the drill ended, but was able to deploy one of my backups unfazed. I had successfully shut off the unhelpful parts of my mind which had been the biggest challenge of all. It never got any easier for me to convince myself to go into a cave each dive after (I still absolutely did not want to), but I had much better experiences during the dives. I might dare to go as far as to say that I just-possibly-almost-slightly enjoyed my last few. This might be my longest blog, and I don’t even think I came close to describing how difficult this experience was for me, and how hard it was for me to push through. While I hope to never use this certification (although I would change that stance if I was ever fortunate enough to dive Devil’s Hole), I absolutely will use the skills I developed in the course on every dive from now on. As for shutting the unhelpful parts of my mind off… that might still be limited to the caves, but at least I know I’m capable of it.

I’ll end this blog by once again reiterating my thanks to the people who helped get me through some pretty tough mental blocks. Josh Thorton was the most considerate, encouraging, and positive instructor, even when I said to his face I hoped to never use his certification. I am a much better diver because he was willing to put up with all my agonizing about how horrible caves are. Josh S. and Amelia are really awesome divers and such great role models to look up to, not just in terms of their skills underwater, but the environment they foster within a team. And Brett and Jim… well, I guess they also helped me out. I realized if they could survive each other in a cave, then surely I had a good chance of making it out alive too.

My first splash into the coast off of Kalaupapa is disorienting. I am unable to put my finger on what feels different as I snorkel through beautiful coral heads and ancient volcanic flows. When I surface to check back on the shore, the wind echoing in my snorkel is the only sound to be heard. Eventually, I come to realize that the odd silence at the surface is because the ocean here is loud. 

I dunk my head back under the water, and sure enough, a cacophony of popping, crackling, and creaks meets me. For such a slow realization, it is a pleasant surprise. I often find the ocean to be soothing because of its relative silence. Compared to the bustle of life on land, it’s a haven where everything quiets and slows (and people can’t talk to you!). Listening to the chorus of snapping shrimp, whistling dolphins, and crunching parrotfish is a gentle reminder that the ocean is also full of bustle and noise, and the silence is often a consequence of humans. Kalaupapa is renowned for its abundance of fish and marine life because of the careful stewardship of those enforcing its designation and protection as a National Historic Park.  

While Kalaupapa is a refuge for marine life, it hasn’t always been for people. In the late 1800s, those with Hansen’s disease, also known as leprosy, were exiled to Kalaupapa and forbidden from leaving (NPS). Thousands of people suffered in this remote place, separated from their families and struggling to survive with little assistance before a cure was found. People like Mother Marianne from the Sisters of St. Francis and Father Damien (both now Saints), along with the support of Queen Kapiʻolani, are credited with taking care of the patients and improving their quality of life when no one else would. The story of Kalaupapa is complex, so while its designation as a National Historic Park has had tremendous benefits for its marine ecosystems, it is important not to forget why it was established in the first place, and the stories of the people who suffered and persevered here. 

Those who currently reside in Kalaupapa do an amazing job of keeping the history alive. My first day, Biological Sciences Technician Glauco Antonio Puig-Santana introduces me to a group from Sustainable Coastlines Hawaii (SCH), and we visit the current Sisters to learn more about the history of Kalaupapa and the roles past Sisters and Mother Marianne played in taking care of patients. Glauco and Sisters Alicia and Barbara-Jean give me a warm welcome, answering my questions and ensuring I am informed and respectful about Kalaupapa, past and present. I only spend a short amount of time with SCH, but enjoy getting to meet such wonderful people. Even after they leave, evidence of their hard work stays in Kalaupapa. The coastline looks pristine after the countless hours they’ve spent removing marine debris, and helicopters are needed to fly out the massive bags they’ve filled with thousands of pounds of trash. 

I start out the week tagging along with Glauco on some Hawaiian Monk Seal surveys. It is a real treat to get to see these endangered mammals, with a population less than 1600, happily relaxing on the beach. We identify the individuals and record their locations, staying a safe distance and noting mom and pup pairs and any obvious changes in health. They completely ignore us, preferring to sunbathe on the sand, occasionally rolling into the ocean to cool off. The thought occurs to me during surveys that I’d make an excellent monk seal.

One of the unique things about Kalaupapa’s geography is that it is entirely isolated from the “topside” of Molokai except for one very steep 3-mile trail that has an elevation gain of 1600 feet. Many in Kalaupapa opt for this butt-kicking hike to reach family or friends rather than a costlier flight that is the only motorized transportation to topside. I can confirm that you feel every foot in elevation change as you ascend, and your knees definitely feel it on the descent. What is mind-blowing to me is that almost the entire 26 switchbacks of the trail are made up of cinderblock like steps that would have had to been carried down and placed by hand. Thanks to this astonishing work, I have a great hike along the trail with amazing views of the island and the settlement of Kalaupapa.

Later in the week, we head out for some diving to finish up benthic surveys sites for the park. Petrisha Alvarez from Division(s) of Land & Natural Resources (DLNR) and Aquatic Resources (DAR), joins us from topside Molokai to be our very awesome boat operator for the day (via the steep trail, thanks Trisha!). I was warned earlier in the week that the beguiling calm seas of the West side of Kalaupapa turn into the not-so-fondly named Barf Boulevard around to the East end. Even in the relatively good conditions of our low-wind day, the swells are large, and the shoreline cliffs are continuously being swallowed by white froth. I have a newfound respect for the dedication of the people who do marine operations in Kalaupapa. The East side is no walk in the park, and it takes some serious determination and boating skills to get work done. 

We hit four sites off the coastline that still need benthic surveys, and make the call to wait for safer conditions to dive the fifth, which is closest to the rocky shoreline and still getting pounded with surf. We also take water samples to be sent off for analysis. I only mess up one compass heading and break a sample syringe at depth so all in all it’s a pretty good working day if you know me.

Finishing up a day on the water in Kalaupapa is not as simple as docking the boat, unloading, and rinsing off. All I will say is that the Blue Card swim tests and skills are a piece of cake compared to the shenanigans (safe, of course) required to unload gear, rinse the boat, and secure it to a mooring buoy. I’m now convinced there should be a Kalaupapa Card swim test.

Later, we pull out backpacking gear and start running through checklists to make sure things are ready for stream surveys. In case I hadn’t already proven my adept skills during water sampling, I spill a fair amount of camp stove fuel, and we end up testing them all on the ground so I can safely get some practice before people actually need me to cook dinner.

After a week that flies by at Kaloko-Honokōhau, I’m back at Kalaupapa to join their annual stream surveying trip. I have a little free time in the office Monday, and I get to practice conducting a monk seal survey on my own. This works out great for me because I can sit and watch them as long as I want. To add to my ineffective time management, I spend half an hour watching a group of blacktip sharks cruising around the shoreline. I also quickly learn that the seals must know who Glauco is. My previous survey with him, they completely ignored us, and we could get close enough to read the tags on their flippers. Surveying by myself, well over twice the distance away than I was the last time, I quickly learn that I’m an outsider.

While I stay far enough away to not disturb them into moving, every single seal I encounter watches me with interest, very different than the laid back beach bums of the previous survey. Needless to say, getting the tag ID without bothering them was next to impossible, and I was only able to ID a few. Still, I thought it was pretty cool that they were so in tune with their surroundings to be able to differentiate between people (even if they appear to mostly be snoozing).

At one point, I encounter a very small weaned pup enjoying playing in some tide pools. I spend another thirty minutes watching it splash around and blow bubbles in the water for what appears to be its own entertainment. I can’t find the red tags on either of its flippers, but I do notice it has a unique bleach spot around its left hip area. Glauco gets very excited when I show him a picture later, and he identifies the pup as PM11 from the bleach spot. This seal pup hadn’t been spotted for a couple of weeks, which was worrisome, so it was a great feeling to know it was still alive and in the area.

Soon, it is time for the much-anticipated stream survey. Getting to hike, camp, and survey streams in the lush valley of Waikolu is a dream come true for me. It is also a surprisingly full-circle experience that I definitely did not get emotional about. I spent my childhood snorkeling in streams in Western NC, looking for crawdads, salamanders, and the elusive hellbender (fly fishers absolutely hated to see me coming). While I loved my freshwater critters, I was always dreaming of getting to see marine life and eventually “have a job outside”. The realization that I now get to do both is surreal, and it’s possible I tear up more than a few times thinking about it. I feel so privileged to have this experience, and I know that younger me would be so thrilled and proud to learn that she still gets to enjoy her favorite pastime as work!

To get to our base camp, our team has a short but slow going hike across a stretch of rocky shoreline. It’s paramount that every step on a boulder is carefully executed because it’s not the time or place to be nursing a sprained ankle, or worse. Our leads, Glauco and Anne Farahi, Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park Biological Sciences Technician, casually mention that besides the rocks, goats and other wildlife can also fall off the cliffs we walk under. For a while, I thought they were just trying to scare us into diligently wearing our hard hats for the whole hike, but upon our return hike, we stumble across two deer that had met this fate. I don’t think my hard hat would have been much help, but I’m glad we have them.

Waikolu, like the rest of the park, is stunning. Our base camp sits at the mouth of the stream, under the watchful gaze of steep mountains. I can’t even express how excited I am to unzip my tent each morning and look at the view outside, often decorated with a rainbow or two. We start each day with a safety review and briefing, and then fight Anne to make sure she doesn’t sneak all the heavy equipment in her backpack before heading out.

Our team also includes Trisha and Maria Angst from DAR, and Olivia Ponchin and Searrah Bierker, who are Scientists in Parks Interns from Volcanoes National Park. I feel a little useless when we arrive at our first site because I don’t have much field experience in any type of stream survey. However, the team is super competent, and everyone is incredibly helpful in teaching me the protocols as we work. I’m so grateful for everyone’s patience while I get to learn hīhīwai (freshwater snails) surveying protocol, water quality measurements and sampling, pebble surveying, and flow tracking. The hīhīwai surveys are easily my favorite because they are basically a treasure hunt for adorable snails within randomized 1/4 meter quadrats. I was especially enamored with them because they remind me of abalone, a marine snail I’ve spent some time with in a past internship.

I&M protocols are different and focus on collecting data in a way that can be combined into a better understanding of the big picture of an ecosystem. For Pacific Island Inventory & Monitoring Network (PACN) stream surveys, one overall survey site in Waikolu includes multiples smaller surveys from fish ID to water flow. The culmination of these “mini” surveys can be informative about that specific location or combined with the rest of the sites to tell a story about the stream as a whole. Then, entire stream systems across Hawai’i can be compared to each other because all were surveyed using these protocols. Furthermore, each protocol (fish, water quality, etc.) fits smoothly in the overall site survey, which is evident in the way different surveys can be split among teams and carried out simultaneously without getting in the way of each other. Even better, because they are all completed within the same timeframe, they are relevant to each other and have less variability.

While this may not sound the most exciting to people not interested in data collection and management, what is exciting is how it can be used. Waikolu stream has been surveyed since 2007 with these excellent, in depth protocols, and this data has been pivotal in monitoring long term stream health, providing a benchmark for other Hawaiian Streams, and justifying policy implementations to benefit the streams (DLNR). Call me a nerd, but that should be exciting to anyone.

When I say it was too soon that I had to leave, I mean it was wayyyy too soon. I had such a blast surveying with this awesome team of ladies (plus Glauco), and learned so much. Like how hīhīwai are adorable and FlowTrackers are really easy to mess up. I’m proud that I didn’t cry in front of everyone when it was time for me to hike out early with Maria, but I sure felt like it. Maria was an awesome and fun hiking buddy, and minus the dead deer and a few feral pigs we spooked off, we had an uneventful hike back to the settlement.

If anything, this internship has shown me what kind, welcoming, and extremely dedicated people work for the Park Service. After spending two days measuring pebbles in icy water, they will also spend the next five days measuring more pebbles, sleeping on the ground, and eating tamales out of pouches, all with a smile and positive attitude. I feel so privileged for the time I had with these wonderful people in such a special place. Kalaupapa definitely won me over.