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Wyatt is from Pleasant Lake, Indiana, studying Ecology and Evolutionary Biology with minors in Wildlife Science and Anthropology at Purdue University.

His lifelong curiosity about ecosystems and wildlife drew him to both UW and my project as it resonates with his personal and professional goals, and he's excited about the opportunity to contribute to the conservation of local landscapes while gaining research experience.

Wyatt enjoys hiking, swimming in lakes and observing wildlife in his free time. Through his internship, he hopes to gain hands on experience in conservation research and lab work.

So I recently bought a new (used) car, lovingly referred to as The Prius. It came with exactly one key - a fob with an integrated physical key tucked inside. However, one key is not enough - what if I lose it or lock it in the car?

So Brad looked online to see if we could both order and program a second key fob. If you've nver driven a mid-2000s Prius, there is a critical function of all Prius' of this generation: clucking noises under the dashboard when you start the engine.

The new key fob arrived, and in this model, Toyota allows owners to program the fob themselves. But only if you perform a ritual known as "The Chicken Dance," which I now describe as a ceremonious interaction with the owner and vehicle's operating system.

To sync the fob with the car, Brad had to perform a highly specific sequence of actions: open and shut the door multiple times, insert and remove the keys, press the buttons in a precise order, and more, all within strict time limits.

And..... success! The new fob works perfectly. No chickens were harmed. The clucking continues.

It was a windy day in Laramie, Wyoming — no surprise there. It was late. Brad and I were hungry. We went to the local Mexican food restaurant, Chano's Village, and had a delicious meal once again.

We had enough food leftover to warrant a takeout box, and when the waitress asked me if I wanted a bag, I naively told her that no bag was necessary. She gave me a second look, but this didn’t register for me at the time.

I walked around the corner of the building, leftovers in hand, and an invisible gust of wind locked onto its target — my takeout container. It yanked it from my grasp and swirled it in a vortex.

Then I saw it. A limp item on the ground. My whole enchilada.

Only once I was safely inside the truck did I burst into laughter. Now I know why the waitress asked me if I wanted a bag.