He asked me, “do you want to know what the job is?”

I said, “No need. I’ll be spending the summer in western Alaska doing biological field work. It doesn’t really matter what the job is.”

It turns out a field partner and I would be spending most of the summer living on a beach adjacent to the Bering Sea. The study area was about 14 miles outside the buzzing metropolis of Nome, Alaska, where the Iditarod Dog Sled race ends.

I would be leading the seventh year of a seven year study focused on Western Sandpipers. Beautiful, determined little birds with expressive little eyes, affectionately part of a group called “peeps”. They are an indicator species for the health of the coastal shorebird population.

I would learn that these little birds, no bigger than a fist, and weighing 25 grams on average, annually migrate between northern South America, central America, or Mexico along the Pacific Ocean coastline to their breeding grounds in the Coastal Arctic Tundra. Their migration can be 13,000 kilometres in length each year.

They can fly in large flocks numbering 10,000 or more. When they fly in a group, they seamlessly turn as one. Majestic.

On the ground on the Arctic tundra, they typically lay a clutch of 4 eggs. These eggs blend perfectly with the ground on which they are laid. The eggs are so perfectly mottled that I have been standing, hands on knees, knowing where the nest was, but still taking minutes to find the eggs.

Western Sandpipers use an amazing technique to protect their unhatched young. They use a broken wing dance. When predators, including humans, get close to their nest, they silently hop off the eggs they are incubating and act injured. They show off their broken wing, call meekly, and draw the predator away from the nest and their unhatched eggs. When they are far enough away from their nest, they fly away.

The first time you see the broken wing dance, you’re blown away. Amazed at how something like that could have evolved. But by the 100th time you’ve seen it across the many nests on the tundra, you find yourself telling the birds out loud, “I get it!”, letting them know that you are impressed by their display, but not going to steal their eggs. Yes, talking to birds is normal when living amongst birds for extended periods.

While waiting for the birds to return to their nest after being flushed off, I often sat on the tundra watching the musk oxen eat vegetation on the hillside above me, try to avoid getting trampled by reindeer (caribou), or listening for reports of polar bears making landfall off of the sea ice near our camp.

The sun would set for about 20 minutes a day, dipping behind a mountain. Based on how many hours a day I worked, I think I made $3 an hour that summer.

After spending a couple of months with my peeps, I had a true appreciation for the extraordinary effort they put in to achieve their goal of reaching Alaska to have their young. Mom and dad take shifts sitting on the nest to incubate the eggs. Once hatched, the male parent ultimately stays with the young chicks to teach them to fly.

Their journey isn’t easy. It is filled with challenges. Known and unknown risks. They are determined. I am not a Sandpiper psychologist, but I imagine there are moments of exhaustion and self-doubt, yet many persevere, grinding through their existence to reach their goal. I take inspiration from them.

A few years ago, I started a company. The intent was to help people navigate their early career path, helping them understand that they are capable of so much than they realize. Efforts were taken outside of my regular day job and my night job as a dad. I was going to turn it into my job, but I shifted it into more of a community offering.

I worked with a brand designer friend to develop a logo for my company. When he asked for a concept, I had just the thing.

Thank you my Sandpiper friends for inspiring my logo. I probably owe you royalties for using your likeness, but I’m not sure where to send the cheque. You travel a lot.