Early Career Researchers Talk #365papers

I’ve written before about my aspirational, if mercurial, commitment to #365papers — the social media challenge to read one peer-reviewed paper a day. I first attempted the #365papers reading habit three years ago, when I was a new mom returning to my PhD after maternity leave. All of the blogs that I read about #365papers in that new-parent-haze were written by more established folks — professors, who maybe didn’t have tenure yet, but were clearly farther along in their careers. In the years since, I’ve noticed that I was not alone as a grad student wading into #365papers. There are many of us, early (or earlier) career ecologists attempting to read more deeply and more broadly through a paper-a-day. And while I often use this space to blog about some of my favorite papers from my #365papers readings, I rarely reflect on the actual reading part of the equation. So, I reached out to another early career #365papers enthusiast to talk about reading as a grad student, the “luxuries” of being early career, and the daily grind of our #365papers habits.

This is a conversation between myself and Dr. Chelsea Little — Chelsea is a community and ecosystems ecologist, who recently defended her PhD at University of Zurich. She's offered her expert opinion for PLoS Ecology before and she wrote about her year of #365papers on her personal blog in December 2018. Our emails have been edited and reordered for clarity. 

Caitlin McDonough MacKenzie: How did you first get into #365papers?

Chelsea J. Little: I think I generally saw the tag on Twitter, and kind of wondered what it was all about. Eventually I found some of the earlier blog posts from you, Jacquelyn Gill, Meghan Duffy & Anne Jefferson. So I guess the idea just slowly permeated my academic Twitter world until I wanted to try it. At some point I knew, with a sinking feeling, that a lot of people were much better-read than I was. I never had a journal club to be part of in either my bachelors or masters (or maybe there's one I could have joined but I just didn't realize it.... there's a lot of things that we don't figure out as students), and I never had a course reading classic papers, for example. So when colleagues or supervisors would refer to papers offhand by the authors' names in conversation, I felt bad because just couldn't do that. I didn't have a deep well of reading to draw on, and even things that I read, I usually didn't remember who had written them. So I think part of the reason the #365papers idea intrigued me was I saw it as a way I could remedy that.

CMM: I get the same in-over-my-depth feeling when authors' last names are tossed around as stand-ins for papers or concepts or experiments. Even now, I can recognize a name from reading, and know that I know who it is, but not immediately be able to connect it to a specific paper. I don't know if #365papers is making this better or worse, because it's definitely exposed me to A LOT MORE NAMES! It has, however, made me feel less imposter-y — because if I don't know a name, it's not because I'm not well read.

CJL: Yes! I love your comment about "imposter-y" ness. That is so right on.

CMM: When and where do you read your paper a day? What does your reading routine look like — or sound or smell or taste or feel like? (Mine usually tastes like chai.)

CJL: I actually don't really have a reading routine in terms of time. I tried to institute one, but I find that it depends a lot on what else I'm doing. Sometimes it's a nice way to start the day; sometimes it's a nice thing to do after lunch. Over the year of doing it, I have learned that it's a good thing to slot into my intermediate-quality time. I don't want to use my most productive/creative time for reading, I want to use it for writing or stats usually. But it's also not a good thing to do when you are really tired, because if you can't focus or retain anything, then there's no point! So I leave the time when I'm dragging for smaller administrative tasks. Sometimes I read on the train or bus, which helps me leave the office relatively early without feeling too guilty.

CMM: I don't have a designated reading time either. I like moving from my desk to a couch or comfy chair for reading time and settling in with a mug of tea and a nice snack. Reading breaks definitely help during long coding/analysis/figure-making days!

CJL: I usually have a tea or coffee while I'm reading too. I prefer to read on paper (printed out), and use a highlighter to mark interesting or relevant parts of the paper, or places where I have questions or am confused.

CMM: I read on my laptop in Papers, and mark up/highlight on the screen.

CJL: I have a little after-reading routine: I post the paper on Twitter, tagging the authors if they have accounts; I fill out the info in my tracking spreadsheet and I copy my notes into Evernote, writing a little summary of what I found interesting or relevant, and then going through the places that I had highlighted and deciding whether they merit a note that I will be able to refer back to.

CMM: I so am impressed with your routine of summarizing and tracking! I often let #365papers tweets pile up for a week or two at a time before I go back and enter them into my spreadsheet in chunks. I kind of like that my laziness allows me to return to these tweets days/weeks later — it's weirdly fun to revisit my reading patterns this way. Sometimes I find out that I've been on an alpine plant jag, or gone down a paleo deep dive (almost a pun?), or just been all over the place.

CJL: Not having a set routine probably does make it less likely that I fit it in, but I try to really prioritize it. One thing is that I have definitely gotten faster at reading papers. I still try to read them deeply, but I have gotten a little more efficient at doing so, so it's easier to find the time. The other thing I've found is that it's great to mix up what you are doing in a day, so if you really need to write, for example, taking a break to read a paper probably won't hold you back - it will give your brain a rest from what it was focusing on, and then you can get back to it. Noticing that has made me more confident about being able to take that hour, or whatever, and not feel like it is coming at the cost of something else I'm doing. Maybe that's a luxury you only have as an ECR (Early Career Researcher) though :)

CMM: Yes, our ability to take a reading hour without sacrificing something else is a funny “luxury” unique to ECR. As our careers progress, do you think #365papers is sustainable?

CJL: I'm not sure it’s sustainable, but I hope so. It feels different to read a little bit every day, compared to having a period where you are reading a lot, all day. When I think back to the start of my PhD, I was new to this discipline and topic so I felt like I had to read a lot. And I hated it! I had this huge stack of papers that felt like a chore, and to be honest I didn't have enough background yet to really get a lot out of them. Now I'm re-reading some of the same papers and I get so much more the second time through. Part of that is because I now have four years of relevant research under my belt, but I really think that part of it is the mental approach. As I think of moving on to a postdoc soon, I will definitely have to do a lot of reading to get up to speed on a new project. But I will try to do that with one or two papers a day, not sitting down with a mountain of literature and feeling like I can't start the fun, creative part of research until I get through it all! So I think this approach *could* be more sustainable than the alternative, but it will take some deliberate willpower to keep up as I get busier and busier, I guess.

CMM: Yes! Your feeling about reading a little each day resonates with me! My postdoc is in a totally new field from my PhD, but I think #365papers made that transition feel a lot less daunting. I'm 18 months in and I still sometimes read a paper and think, “How have I missed this? I should have read that before I started my postdoc — or before I wrote my postdoc proposal!” But, I think that's probably true even for people who didn't switch sub-disciplines.

CJL: A question for you: how have your bosses and colleagues reacted to you doing all this reading? Do they wish you'd spend the time on something else, or see it as good, or a mix? Do they express jealousy that you can find the time to read?

CMM: Well, since Jacquelyn Gill is my postdoc advisor, sometimes I feel like #365papers is a little performative — I know she's reading my tweets! It’s funny, the hashtag is a way for us to check in when I'm working remotely. It's almost a secret handshake — she probably knows that I'm getting a lit review or a certain grant proposal together just based on the papers that I'm tweeting. I think that my other colleagues who aren't as familiar with #365papers are obliviously supportive — I'm not sure if my PhD advisor noticed the difference when I started reading daily. I do think it made me a better writer — both in terms of the syntax and style, but also because I can call up citations so much more easily. Have you seen the impact of daily reading in your writing?

CJL: Hmmm, how has it impacted my writing. I do think it's easier to find sources, but it does not remove that part of writing when you say something, feeling instinctively that it's proven and true, and then go citation- searching and end up spending three hours trying to find a paper about this thing, and half the time delete the sentence later anyway... :) I think one thing is that it's great to be exposed to different formats and writing styles. You definitely read some papers and think, wow, that is really well written. It has given me some ideas to try, in terms of things like how to really clearly present hypotheses, or how to synthesize. I think it has also given me confidence that there are many ways to write and you don't have to stress so much that your manuscript fits some single standard of academic writing. When I started writing papers, I thought I had to be much more formal and cram tons of information in. Now I focus more on just trying to tell the story in a way that is easy to follow - which can vary a lot from paper to paper depending on what that story is - and I realize that academic writing doesn't have to be boring, sanitized, and overly formal. You of course see examples of poor writing too, but those are also instructive! In that sense, reading a lot probably makes me a much better reviewer, too.

CMM: How do you find the papers that you read? Are you methodical or opportunistic? Do you have favorite journals? Google scholar alerts?

CJL: Most of the papers I find right now are through table of contents alerts, but I also see thing on Twitter and I have a couple of Google Scholar alerts. I'd love to learn how to use those better; I think it's a challenge because you want to pick a term that is not too specific (otherwise you might miss something) but also not too general (otherwise it will bring back too much stuff). I have one for my study taxa, and since it's not a super common research animal that works pretty well and picks up things in smaller journals that I might not find. When I'm working intensely on a paper or project, I of course find things by searching or by following reference trails, or by colleagues/co-authors recommending them. So it kind of depends what phase I'm in. But I think in a lot of ways the most exciting is to get a great journal table of contents and see exciting papers, that may or may not be related to my work at all, and add them to the to- read pile! (My to-read tag in Evernote has 394 papers in it and grows almost every day, so yeah, I guess I better keep reading...)

CMM: I find so many papers through twitter — but I am doing a horrible job of tracking where I first hear about a paper. I started using IFTTT so that if I retweet a paper with #ToReadPile it will automatically get put into my ToDoist Reading List. My google scholar alerts are just my field site (Acadia National Park) and a couple authors. I used to have one for 'phenology' but that was out of control! My To Read Pile sounds like yours — I have eight #ToReadPile tweets in my ToDoist (I try to organize & pull these into Papers about every week); my Papers '#365papers 2019' collection is at 84 unread (and there many more to roll over from '#365papers 2018').

CJL: Do you have many conversations on Twitter based on your posting of these papers? For me it's not so much, but there have been a few times when an author has replied or someone else has commented about reading the same paper, and this has been a neat way to virtually meet new people that I might not have connected to otherwise. I think that could also be a big benefit to ECR's; even if it doesn't happen so often, just a few solid instances like that can make you feel like part of a community.

CMM: I've had a couple twitter conversations with authors. I think more frequently other people have asked me about a paper or asked for a link to it. I'm not great at remembering to add authors' twitter handles to my #365papers (and sometimes I just don't know the authors are on twitter), but I've found that when I do it almost always sparks a nice interaction. I love reading papers that are outside of my field but written by my friends or fellow grad students in my department. It's a nice break from my own work, and it's such a simple way of supporting the people around you.

CJL: I also love reading outside my research area, and this is one of my favorite things about the challenge. If I am reading five papers a week, it's totally reasonable that one or two are kind of far-flung, unless I'm working really intensely on a project. I have pretty broad interests. I am an ecologist, but I got my masters in evolutionary biology; after a gruleing insect-rearing experiment in my second semester, I decided that the lab aspect of evolution wasn't for me for day-to- day work, but I completely love reading evolutionary research. I'm also really interested in conservation even though none of my coursework or research is explicitly about conservation biology, and I like learning and thinking about how the ecology and conservation biology fields do or do not interface well with the social and strategic aspects of different conservation priorities.

CMM: What is your advice for other ECR folks interested in #365papers?

CJL: I'd really suggest the challenge to people starting a PhD. So many people I talk to have similar feelings about that stage where you are just absorbing background and reading and reading and reading: in some ways it's boring. Even if the science you are reading about isn't boring, the monotony is really tough and you don't get that feeling of DOING something. Maybe the #365papers approach could make it a little more fun and provide some structure. If you check off that one paper a day, you then have permission to do something else with some of the rest of your time, but you know you're still reading a lot of papers and not slacking off.

CMM: Thanks for this super-thoughtful reflection on #365papers — I’ve really enjoyed writing about reading with you!

Follow Chelsea on twitter: @ChelskiLittle 

For Love of Ecology

Happy Valentine's Day! A shortlist of loves.

  • I loved this episode of Major Revisions podcast— PLoS Ecology Community Editor Jeff Atkins interviews Rob Nowicki. Their conversation covers Nowicki's analysis of keywords in ecology papers over the past three decades which finds that ecologists today are centering management, and thinking about predictions to a greater degree than their 90s predecessors. Jeff & Rob also compare their fears of bears (the marine ecologist's fear) and sharks (the forest ecologist's fear) and talk about the decline of taxonomists and their own personal failings as naturalists in their study systems. (This honesty is so refreshing! I feel like I am a pretty good naturalist in a very narrow study system, and my skills drop off dramatically as I hike away from the alpine zone, or into southern New England.) Great episode of a fun podcast.

  • And #ValentineASpecies has been a super fun twitter hashtag.

Sex ≠ Gender

A guest post from Talia Young, Ph.D., David H. Smith Conservation Postdoctoral Fellow, Princeton University & Director of Fishadelphia

I recently saw another ecology talk refer to “gender ratios” of fish. I’d like to talk about the difference between sex and gender, and why ecologists should care about this topic.  

DefinitionsThe words “sex” and “gender” are often used interchangeably in colloquial contexts, but they have different meanings that are relevant to our work in ecology.

Sex” refers to categories based on a combination of biological and physical characteristics, such as body organs, chromosomes, and hormones (WHO 2011, APA 2015). Sex is commonly assigned on the basis of external genitalia at birth and is often assumed to be only male or female, but scientists have identified at least five different groupings of human sex chromosomes, anatomy, and hormone physiology (Fausto-Sterling 1993).  Other terms that relate to sex include intersex, freemartin, and hermaphrodite. (Note that hermaphrodite is a term currently used for animals but considered outdated and rude when used to describe humans; the preferred contemporary term for humans is intersex.)  (“Sex” can also refer to activity among one or more individuals that may or may not result in sexual arousal and/or genetic recombination. I’m not addressing this meaning of the word in this piece.)

Gender” refers to identities and categories based on social or cultural characteristics (WHO 2011, APA 2015). Gender is both internal (gender identity, which is each person’s innate sense of their own gender), and external (gender expression, which is how each person expresses their gender identity). Woman, man, masculine, and feminine are all terms that can refer to gender. Transgender is a term used to describe a person whose gender identity is different from the sex they were assigned at birth. Gender is primarily a human and social term, and it is not usually relevant for non-human animals or plants.

When we observe biological and physical aspects of our study organisms, those observations tell us about the sex of those individuals, not the gender. When we interact with other humans, we usually know more about their gender rather than their sex: for example, we often know about their clothing and hairstyles but not very much about their body organs, chromosomes, or hormones.  (Furthermore, and this fact may be obvious, but clothing and hairstyles are not necessarily signifiers of any particular gender identity.)  Among humans, sex and gender may be related, but they are not equivalent. In other words, female and woman are often thought to be synonymous, but in reality, female refers to different characteristics than woman does. It also seems worth noting that both of these sets of categories (sex and gender) are imperfect systems that we have developed in an attempt to describe the world we live in.  As with all categorization systems (such as species, or developmental stages), the world is more complicated than our words can capture.

Usage

  1. If (a) you work with plants or animals, and (b) you are interested in categories such as female and male, and (c) those categories are determined by biological or physical criteria (such as presence of sexual organs or gonads, sexually dimorphic coloring, or hormone levels), the accurate term to use is “sex,” not “gender.” See examples in Table 1.

  1. If you (a) are talking about scientists and (b) interested in categories such as “women” and “men,” it’s more polite to use gender rather than sex categories. Why? In professional contexts, we may think we know what gender our colleagues present themselves as (e.g., women, men), but probably don’t know very much about the biological sex of our colleagues (e.g., chromosomes, body organs, hormones). It’s odd and inappropriate to make assumptions about other people’s bodies, especially in a professional context. See examples in Table 2. It’s also worth noting that it’s polite to ask people how they prefer to be described. For example, you might ask, “What are the best pronouns to use for you?”

Why is this language important?

  1. Accuracy. As ecologists, we are a profession dedicated to describing our beautiful but chaotic and messy world with the best accuracy we can muster. Using language correctly and appropriately is one important part of that work. If you have ever made a distinction between a substantial and significant difference, or taught a student that a single data point is singular while data are collectively plural, the difference between “sex” and “gender” is just one more way to increase the accuracy of our language and our work.

  2. Respect. Using gender rather than sex categories when talking about humans means that we do not make intrusive assumptions about other people’s bodies.

Take-homes

  • Language matters. Using accurate language is important both in our work and in our community. Being careful with our language helps us improve the quality of our science and allows us to describe our world with greater accuracy. It also helps us build a considerate and thoughtful community of scientists.

  • Improving the accuracy of our language is a lifelong process. None of us started out understanding the difference between a substantial and a significant change, or an individual’s sex and gender. But one of the gifts of being scientists is that we are constantly learning new things about our world. Doing so helps us become both better scientists and better people.

Questions?  Comments? I’d love to hear them. Email me at talia.young@princeton.edu. #sexvsgenderinecology

Acknowledgments

Thanks to K. Baker, H. Batson, S. Borrelle, N. EtShalom, Y. EtShalom, S. Fox, S. Kassabian, E. Kaufman, and C. McDonough MacKenzie for suggestions and improvements to this piece.  All errors are mine.

References

Other resources

  • Krieger, N. 2003. Genders, sexes, and health: what are the connections—and why does it matter? International Journal of Epidemiology, 32(4), 652–7, https://doi.org/10.1093/ije/dyg156

  • Fausto-Sterling A. 2000. Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality. New York, NY: Basic Books.

Banner image photo credits: Mimi Kessler and Don Young

Bumble and Bumble: what’s black and yellow and maybe more than one species?

During the dark afternoons of December in New England, I like to scroll through my old field photos and think of all the green, growing things I’ve measured in beautiful places during those long-ago long-lit seasons. Yesterday I flipped through a couple field photos from a friend — “Photos of younger Jon! :)” he wrote in the email — and the same sunny feelings flooded in.

As a master’s student*, Dr. Jon Koch and his insect net chased bumble bees all over the western United States. He was studying bumble bee decline, but hit weird hurdle: a messy species boundary between two bumble bees. Taxonomists and field guides were torn on whether Bombus fervidus was or was not Bombus californicus. These two “species” in the Bombus fervidus species complex were nearly morphologically identical, except for their color patterns: B. fervidus is noted as usually mostly yellow with a little black, while B. californicus sports mostly black with some yellow in variable detail. They were maybe different species, maybe hybridizing, or maybe the same thing with different color morphs. As Jon explained to me, “If we don’t know what the species are, how will we manage them? Bumble bees are differentially sensitive to land use change, disease, etc. The bumble bees in the Bombus fervidus species complex are found to be impacted by one disease, Nosema bombi, but perhaps differently. Therefore, it is important to recognize what the species boundaries are because estimates of infection prevalence might be not be done correctly due to the inability to tell the species apart.” 

Jon wanted to bring some clarity to the species complex by providing some new molecular evidence with broader taxa sampling. His new PLoS ONE paper, “Phylogeny and population genetic analyses reveals cryptic speciation in the Bombus fervidus species complex (Hymenoptera: Apidae)” delivers on the broader taxa sampling — 320 specimens from 53 sites — but the clarity is a bit of a cliff hanger. During the fieldwork, Jon and his coauthors keyed out identifications for their bees based on the setal color, and also took a tarsal clipping from the mid-leg for DNA extraction and microsatellite genotyping. When they compared field identification to the genotypes, they had an ID rate of just under 94%. Jon and I agree that that’s a pretty good record for fieldwork with cryptic species** but he adds, “it’s also cool to think that 6.2% of the time we were wrong! These bees are great at fooling us.” 

The bees that were fooling Jon were B. fervidus dressed as B californicus and vice versa. In Pinnacles and Yosemite National Parks there were ten mostly black bees (the typical B. californicus look) that turned out to belong to the genetic cluster that usually wears mostly yellow. The rest of the bees with black setal coloration belonged to another clade based on genotype, though this clade also included some bees in yellow. I asked Jon, “What is going on with the bee costume parties in Pinnacles and Yosemite?” His wild speculation is that little black dress is the dominant phenotype for bees in these parks, and the typically-yellow-genotype wears black here because everyone else is doing it: “bumble bees are notorious for converging on a local phenotype, which can even make it very hard to tell distantly related species apart.” However, in the sites where both genetic clusters of the B. fervidus species complex overlap, they usually do not look alike, so they aren’t mimicking each other. 

Ultimately, Jon’s team determined that the species complex comprised two lineages, but that both lineages exhibit the yellow and black phenotypes depending on geography. So while the B. fervidus species complex is not a single species, B. fervidus and B. californicus are not NOT conspecifics. Jon explains, “those names [B. fervidus and B. californicus] might not even be valid! The holotype of B. californicus happens to be where the genotype assigned to the “B. fervidus” was collected in the Sierra Nevada.” In short, the original bee that taxonomists knew as B. californicus may actually be genetically on the B. fervidus side of the lineage, and eventually one or both names might need to be thrown out.

This “it’s complicated” conclusion might be depressing news for someone who dedicated so much time and energy towards disentangling the species complex, but Jon closes his email to me with a happy emoji “nature has so many surprises, and science is an ongoing process :)” In the meantime, this paper points out that even if we don’t have the right names in place, we know enough to recommend that managers use Jon’s non-lethal method of clipping a bit of mid-leg for genotyping, and monitor the two clades of the B. fervidus complex separately. This is a great reminder for all of us in conservation research: we need to keep the ongoing process in perspective, while also delivering our findings, however not-quite-as-clear-as-we-hoped or maybe-unnamed as they may be, to our partners in management and policy. 

References:Koch JB, Rodriguez J, Pitts JP, Strange JP (2018) Phylogeny and population genetic analyses reveals cryptic speciation in the Bombus fervidus species complex (Hymenoptera: Apidae). PLoS ONE 13(11): e0207080. 

*Now, old Jon and old Caitlin are David H. Smith postdoctoral fellows together :)

**see McDonough MacKenzie et al. 2017 — When I was a master’s student working with volunteer-collected data I would have killed for a 93.8% identification rate. One my species, Labrador tea, was correctly identified 27.3% of the time. This is not a cryptic species; it doesn't sometimes dress up as Diapensia. 

Up All Night

 As a parent to a newborn, I was drawn to the recent PLoS ONE paper ‘Creeping in the Night.’ I’m creeping in the night all the time — but I don’t get the excitement of working with mongoose, full moons, and unexpected den visits.

Drs. Carol Anne Nichols and Kathleen Alexander documented nocturnal behavior in a diurnal species when their camera traps captured some surprising late-night activity. Their paper, Creeping in the night: What might ecologists be missing? is part natural-history-note and part call-to-action for ecologists to shake off our perceptions of how animals partition their days and nights. As a reader, I came for the sleepwalking mongoose, but I stayed for the existential questions of how we structure our research activities and when binary traits might actually be blinders. 

Nichols and Alexander have been studying banded mongoose behavior in Northern Botswana for years. The project began in 2000, Alexander joined as a field ecologist in 2014, and in 2016 they began camera trap research as a means to study behavior without observer presence. I asked if the den site selection for the camera traps, which spanned urban areas and natural habitats, was serendipitous or it they had intentionally radio-collared urban and country mongooses. They told me that they studied mongoose troops in “town” (ie urban areas of Kasane and Kazungula) and “park” (Chobe National Park) habitats to “understand how different landscapes influence wildlife behavior and potential impacts that could impose on pathogen transmission dynamics.” Within a month of deploying the camera traps, they caught a mongoose outside of a den at night on film.

“It was certainly an amusing discovery to find so early in the project,” says Nichols. “We were excited to see if more nocturnal detection were to come, or if, as we joked, that first mongoose was just sleepwalking.” After 215 trap days, they had photographs of mongooses at night from 7 trap days. Among these photographs, there was no pattern of more night-activity among town (vs. park) habitats or moonlit (vs. dark) nights. In at least two photos, a mongoose appears to be sneaking around a den of another troop. In a scene that could be the trailer for a mongoose-version of COPS, a series of photos captures one mongoose approaching a den at night, another mongoose emerging from the den, the ensuing chase, and hours later, a single mongoose returns.

Nichols and Alexander say they are now deploying more cameras in hopes of understanding ringed mongoose nighttime behvavior. “This discovery has changed the way we thinking about mongoose,” they write. “There is much more happening! This discovery has made us question all our assumptions. The mystery continues!”

In the same month that Nichols and Alexander published Creeping in the Night, Dr. Kaitlyn Gaynor and colleagues published the meta-analysis The influence of human disturbance on wildlife nocturnality in Science. Gaynor compiled 76 studies comprising 62 mammal species from across the globe to explore how daily patterns of wildlife activity responded to different types of human disturbance, including vehicles, resource harvesting, development, and recreation. Each study in the meta-analysis included data on animal nocturnality under conditions of low and high human disturbance. They found that across all the different types of human impacts, the mammals showed a significant increase in nocturnal activity compared to mammals in low-impact habitats.

This contrasts with the ringed mongoose — Nichols and Alexander’s data were not included in the meta-analysis, but they found no difference between the human-impacted town den sits and the park sites in mongoose night time activity. Nevertheless, at least in habitats marked by human disturbance, mongoose might not be the only so-called diurnal mammals creeping in night. This pattern of nocturnal behavior among mammals that we thought were diurnal calls into question the traditional dichotomy between day-time animals and night-time animals. In their Discussion, Nichols and Alexander write that this “limited approach [only looking at day time behavior] may fail to capture data critical to understanding the ecology, biology of a species, and the temporal nature of space use.” As she reviewed their photos, Alexander recalled Samuel Sneiders’ “The theory of ecology” — “specifically that heterogeneity was an underlying phenomenon of ecology. In our writing, we wanted to emphasize that these unexpected events are really the interesting nuggets of new discovery!”

The Discussion encourages ecologists to be open to temporal heterogeneity with references to classic ecological work in spatial heterogeneity. This connection made me think of a recent essay in Current Biology: Are the ghosts of nature’s past haunting ecology today? Here, Dr. Brian Silliman and coauthors explore trends of rebounding populations of large-bodied consumers. These species —for example, sea otters and alligators — seem to be expanding into habitats that ecologists thought were beyond their niche space. Often this is beause we decimated their populations before thoroughly studying their original ranges, and we’re working with incomplete baseline data. In both cases — spatially with rebounding sea otters and alligators and temporally with ringed mongoose — this limits our ability to provide recommendations for management and conservation. As Nichols and Alexander write, “This work emphasizes the idea that you don’t know what you don’t know.” They encourage researchers to:

Push the envelope and see what you find. It might make all the difference in your approach to management and effective conservation of a species. With mongoose, we realize that between group dynamics and contacts are more complicated than we thought with these nighttime excursions and we need to understand the drivers of this behavior to understand disease transmission in this population — a critically important management objective.

For me, during those rough 4 am feedings, it's weirdly comforting to think, maybe there's a mongoose out there who is also awake right now. But, as I look forward to returning to my own research next semester, I will be thinking about Nichols and Alexander's big question What might ecologists be missing? and working to better define the edge of my assumptions around my study system, species, and methods. 

References:

Nichols, C. A., & Alexander, K. (2018). Creeping in the night: What might ecologists be missing? PloS One, 13(6), e0198277–7. http://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0198277

Gaynor, K.M., Hojnowski, C.E., Carter, N.H. and Brashares, J.S. (2018). The influence of human disturbance on wildlife nocturnality. Science, 360(6394), pp.1232-1235.

Silliman, B. R., Hughes, B. B., Gaskins, L. C., He, Q., Tinker, M. T., Read, A., et al. (2018). Are the ghosts of nature’s past haunting ecology today? Current Biology, 28(9), R532–R537. http://doi.org/10.1016/j.cub.2018.04.002

Family and the Field

 Over the weekend I submitted a grant proposal, wrote a quippy tweet, and read a paper. The paper was Dr. Christopher Lynn’s ‘Family and the field: Expectations of a field- based research career affect researcher family planning decisions’, published last month in PLoS ONE. The tweet was:

At bedtime I told my three-year-old I had to stay up to submit a grant proposal.

Her: Just do it in the morning.

Me: I can’t, it’s due at midnight.

Her: Oh. I’m gonna do mine in the morning.

I bet she gets funded over me.

The grant was a proposal to do more field work away from my family. 

Though Dr. Lynn and his coauthors were focused on anthropology fieldwork, I found myself nodding along emphatically at each response to their survey of anthropologists. Ecology, like anthropology, has a long tradition of field-based careers, and high proportions of women in undergraduate and graduate programs which are not reflected in the gender breakdown of later career stages (though see this Dynamic Ecology post on recent tenure track hires).

Even as I’ve openly tweeted and blogged about it — you know my older kid is funny, you know I have a new baby — I’ve been reluctant to share much of my deeper experience as a parent in ecology. The gritty details are full of the tensions that Lynn captures in his paper. I’m nervous about how parenthood will impact my quest for a tenure track job, but I want to normalize academic parenthood for the students behind me. I want credit for the hard work that I’ve put into carving out this balance, but I know my experience is grounded in the intersections of incredible privilege.

At breakfast on Friday, while I enjoyed a latte served in a beer stein and my baby napped in the stroller and my partner covered our toddler’s preschool drop off, I told a friend that I didn’t know how to write this post. “So you want to have a baby in grad school? Just get an NSF grant that doesn’t exist anymore, then have a healthy infant who sleeps through the night, and have your partner use their paid parental leave to uproot their life and come into the field with you.” It’s disingenuous to package my experience as pithy advice. But Lynn’s paper provides a framework for talking about parenthood and fieldwork in an honest and meaningful way. 

The prominence of fieldwork in careers like anthropology and ecology reinforces stereotypes of lone practitioners who can afford to drop everything at home to spend weeks at a remote site totally immersed in gathering data. Lynn and his coauthors explain that this expectation “systematically overlooks the significant social and financial responsibilities experienced by many professionals and trainees, including dependent family members (children, elderly parents, etc.), and household expenses (rent, car payments, student loan bills, tuition, credit card bills), and may act to systematically privilege those without these pressures.

Lynn surveyed nearly one thousand anthropologists to explore the relationships between fieldwork and family. My own experiences as an ecologist and mom mirrored so much of the results reported in this paper. Lynn’s work clearly identifies the privileges that enable parents like me to balance fieldwork and family — here, I reflect on how the anecdotes of my life align with the survey of anthropologists. The responses to Lynn’s survey were nearly evenly split between professionals and students; most identified as women (80%), and white (82%). Aside from my field, my background fits the profile of the typical anthropologist who filled out Lynn’s online survey. I’m a white woman, I’m married (like 72.5% of professional respondents) with 1+ children (67%), I was raised in and I live in North America (82.6%; 80.9%). I’m from an educationally privileged, high-status family; in other words, my parents both went to graduate school and I married a lawyer. 

“Regardless of gender or career stage, the majority of those with children (56%) indicated that parenthood did not impact their decision to pursue a career in anthropology.”

I think I fall into the 44%; I realized early on in parental leave that I was not cut out to be a stay-at-home parent. This was not a surprise — I had very much planned on finishing my PhD — but, I did not expect to miss science so much. The weeks that I spent at home with my first child — those long, monotonous, and lonely weeks — solidly reinforced my decision to pursue a career in ecology. Having kids also made me more hopeful, and more committed to applied conservation research so that I might contribute something towards improving the state of the world they would inherit. 

“Women were less likely to have conducted field-based research since having a child. When they did, women were dependent on support from their parents more than their male peers were…who were more dependent on spousal support…Support from family and academic peers has a significant impact on individual abilities to conduct extended stretches of fieldwork, the places where fieldwork can be conducted (safety, distance, etc.), and possibly the quality of the work that can be conducted, which echoes findings on family-career balance in academia in general.”

 As a PhD student, I spent six field seasons in Acadia National Park; I was pregnant during my fifth and my daughter joined me for my sixth. The next year, when she was almost two and no longer nursing, I left her behind for a two-week field course and then a two-month trip to my postdoc home campus, which included a week of fieldwork. When she was two and a half, I left her again for a week of fieldwork; her sister came with me though, because I was 11 weeks pregnant. Except for my most recent week of field work (Baxter), my postpartum fieldwork is based in a cushy tourist town (Bar Harbor). I’ve had decent cell phone service and ice cream shops with bougie flavors like blueberry sour cream crumble and Maine sea salt caramel. I started working in Acadia before I had kids — in fact compared to the rest of my lab, my field site was wild and remote — but the location of my dissertation work definitely made it easier to consider having kids while I was in graduate school. 

“Women and men used a variety of resources for childcare while in the field, though men tended to rely exclusively on a co-parent or combination of childcare options, whereas women more often utilized grandparents and non-relatives (p = .01). The majority of those who had taken their kids to the field reported it as a good experience for the children (87%), though half (51%) also reported that it made fieldwork more difficult.”

 My childcare while in the field spanned the gamut — my mom, my husband, a college kid that once upon a time had been my camper at summer camp when I was soccer counselor. We pieced together twelve weeks of childcare for my last dissertation field season in an effort that felt both shoestring and super-privileged. I think it was a good experience for my eight-month-old, mostly because it extended her breastfeeding and she loved eating. Among the challenges that I faced during my dissertation fieldwork, having my kid with me ranked well below a government shutdown closing my National Park, a government sequester closing access roads to my field site, and a controlled burn burning my control plots. I found being pregnant in the field more difficult than being a mom in the field: the heartburn, the achy ligaments, and the visibility were tough. As a mom in the field I carried my kid in a backpack a few times, but mostly I was out there on my own and it was refreshing to get away from the unfamiliar challenges of parenthood (where I often felt totally inept) and jump into the familiar challenges of fieldwork (where I often felt like my most capable self). When you are pregnant, it is much harder to compartmentalize fieldwork and family — you can’t leave the pregnancy symptoms at home. 

“Having a partner who is also in academia significantly increases stress, as do negative employment status and, curiously, planning not or being unsure about future children. Among students, being white was significantly associated with a positive sense of family-career balance, as was positive employment status. There was a significant relationship between a low career impact on family planning and a positive sense of family-career balance.”

 I don’t know if have a partner outside of academia has significantly decreased my stress. However, I do not find it curious that uncertainty about future children increases stress; in retrospect, I think I was more stressed in the years that we were thinking about kids, or trying to have a kid, than I am now with two children. It’s a huge decision to grow your family — and once you decide, you have so little control over the process. Trying to conceive while attending endless women-in-science panels full of audience questions about disapproving advisors and maternity gaps in CVs is a very unsettling experience. Finally, if I were confident that my decision to have children “early” had a low impact on my career, then I think I would have an extremely positive view of my family-career balance. The truth is, as a postdoc, I don’t yet know the impact on my career trajectory though I think that it’s worth noting the irony in my experience this summer when I was considered both early career and just months shy of being a geriatric prenatal patient. My self-assessed family-career balance is this: I’m too tired to think that I’m doing a bad job. If I am this tired, I must be getting sh*t done. 

“Family planning decisions of women were significantly more likely to be affected by concerns with conducting fieldwork, getting tenure, impacts on promotion, preconceived notions of peers, and disappointing their advisors than in men.”

 Step One: Paid parental leave for everyone.

I started thinking about this post after my tweet about post-bedtime grant writing went science-twitter-viral. A Syracuse PhD candidate replied “Your ‘Dr. Mom’ tweets keep me going.” The forward-facing social media projection of my ‘Dr. Mom’ life is built on a scaffolding of duct tape, socioeconomic privilege, and falling asleep as soon as the toddler is at preschool. There’s also the luck of landing at the right university (with paid parental leave for graduate students) and the right postdoc fellowship (the orientation featured a powerpoint of all the babies born to fellows during their time in the fellowship). I wasn’t specifically looking for family-friendly programs during my applications, but the visible examples of successful parents in my field allayed (most of) my fears about having one child, and then having a second.

The ‘Dr. Mom’ tweets are a part of this visibility, but they also obscure the daily grind of parenthood and the many, many toddler conversations that are way more frustrating and way less quotable. I’ve had every advantage in this game from socioeconomic status to health to living near extended family and it’s still scrape-me-off-the-floor-at-the-end-of-the-day hard. Lynn’s research on expectations of a field-based career provides this framework for parents like me to contextualize our experiences, recognize our privileges, and then work to make our fields more inclusive for all parents, professionals, and trainees. 

One last note: this is only the first paper from Lynn’s survey. I’m excited to see where this research goes as they “explore the role of ethnicity, status of first-generation college students in accessing an anthropological career, and how anthropology fares in supporting breastfeeding and maternal and paternal leave, among other workplace issues.”

Take Your Social Media to Work Day

Last July, my social media feeds were flooded with grey “I heart Science” tshirts — they were posed with coffee mugs, lab coats, field notebooks, computer monitors, standing alone with a dog or huddled around other science tshirts.

We were all sharing our #DayOfScience, posting twelve pictures over twelve hours as part of the Earth Science Women’s Network Science-a-thon

Recently I flipped back through my own tweets from that day, photos of me setting off on a run with my 20 lbs toddler in the jogging stroller, a stack of field guides arranged on a coffee shop table in preparation for an exploratory field site visit, a shot of myself and my PhD advisor at Henry David Thoreau’s 200th birthday party in Concord, Massachusetts. 

It’s been 14 months since the first Science-a-thon and it’s hard not to imagine the montage of where my career has taken me set to Green Day's ‘Good Riddance (Time of Your Life).’ I did the exploratory field site visit, and then, in March 2018, the grueling and amazingly awesome winter coring fieldwork in Baxter State Park. Since Thoreau’s 200th birthday, I — the prodigal grad student from our lab who eschewed Concord for Maine throughout my entire PhD career — coauthored a manuscript centered on some Thoreau data.

I miss pushing a 20-pounder in that jogging stroller, and not just because that kid is bigger now and demands to get out and run stretches of the Charles River with me. My running is on hiatus because that kid just became a big sister. I hung up my trailrunners before Labor Day weekend, and by mid-September my running tights had become my defacto uniform, though the sportsbras and race tshirts were replaced by nursing bras and burp cloths. The montage ends with me on the phone with the Science-a-thon founder Dr. Tracey Holloway.

“Think about what you’d do if you were taking your cousin, or teenager, or parent to work” this is her advice for Science-a-thon 2018. “You’d show them a normal day, but with a little extra fun, you’d give them a tour of the lab. If you think your day is boring, or not interesting, or if you are in meetings all day — not everyone imagines that a scientist’s day involves lots of meetings!”

Science-a-thon is next week — and the Day of Science has become the whole week of October 15-19 to celebrate the many faces of science. Science-a-thon hopes to counter the one-dimensional caricatures of scientists as white guys with white hair wearing lab coats in ivory towers. The visible faces of science in popular culture are pretty limited: over 80% of Americans can’t name a single living scientist. Holloway wants to highlight the diversity of scientists and showcase our excitement in science. She noted that she herself has good friends who have no idea what she does in the course of her day. When scientists are featured in the media, often the glossy, big picture issues overshadow the day-in-the-life experience of being a scientist. Science-a-thon is a chance to peel back the curtain on the mundane, to document the daily grind of science across a range of disciplines and career stages in what Holloway calls an “avalanche of experiences.”

The format of scientists posting 12 photos over 12 hours is meant to capture the humanity of scientists — our full day at the office, or lab, or research station, and what we do before and after work. One of the perks of blogging for PLOS is the ability to cold-call a scientist and ask, hey what is this thing that you’re doing? I asked Holloway about the origin story of the Science-a-thon, and how it supports the Earth Science Women’s Network (ESWN). First, she stresses the important point that Science-a-thon is not just for women and not just for earth scientists — everyone is encouraged to participate! In 2002, Holloway and some colleagues founded ESWN as a peer-mentoring network. They had zero budget — they couldn’t order pizza or reserve a room, which made it difficult to plan for the future. In 2014 ESWN became a nonprofit, which meant that now they needed to think about fundraising while also pursuing the mission of supporting scientists. When Holloway’s friend did a bike-a-thon for charity, a light bulb went off — we support our friends who bike and run and dance for non-profits not because we have ties to the organization, but because if they are willing to push themselves outside of their comfort zones, we trust that they are doing it for a worthy cause. So it follows that if your best friend or family member says, “ESWN is great! Help them support women in science!” you will trust their endorsement. Science-a-thon blends the watch-me-do-something-new-and-challenging and the help-me-support-a-cause-I-believe-in aspects of a bike-a-thon, no spandex required.

The scientists who participate in Science-a-thon can set up fundraising pages through crowdrise to support ESWN. This is the same platform that I used when I ran the Mount Desert Island Marathon as part of the Mount Desert Island Historical Society team. Except instead of shredding my quads on the hills outside Acadia National Park, I’m trying to train my outreach muscles. My alarmingly bright yellow MDI Historical Society race shirt matches (thematically, if not sartorially) my soft grey Science-a-thon tshirts. Last year, there was no registration fee, but all participants had to set up a crowdrise page. This year, fundraising is not required, though there’s a small registration fee to cover the cost of the event. I’m looking forward to next week’s Science-a-thon: it’s coinciding with a trip to Maine where I’ll visit my postdoc home institution, watch a labmate’s PhD defense, and attend a conference at a National Park. These will be my first big, postpartum “days of science” and I’m looking forward to seeing my community of scientists in person — and watching the wider community of science share their days through social media. I already love the daily grind of science, but I have some worries — will my day of science reach an audience beyond “science twitter”? and will my current days of science (I’m right now typing and rocking from a glider, my infant is napping, my tea is cold, my “office” is my messy living room) be of interest to anyone who is not my mom? 

Over the summer, FACETS published Scientists on Twitter: Preaching to the choir or singing from the rooftops? Dr. Isabelle M. Côtéa and Dr. Emily S. Darling analyzed the Twitter followers of faculty members in ecology and evolutionary biology. They wanted to know if twitter was providing real opportunities for science outreach — were scientists engaging with nonscientists? Or are scientists on twitter just tweeting to other scientists? The answer is both: on average, scientists comprise over 50% of the followers for scientists on twitter. But, there seems to be a tipping point — around 1000 followers — where the range of followers diversifies to include “research and educational organizations, media, members of the public with no stated association with science, and a small number of decision-makers.”

Science-a-thon covers both preaching to the choir and singing from the rooftops. The Day Of Science features social media heavy hitters and folks who only tweet for the day. It’s more formal and more contained than a hashtag movement, which can be more accessible for scientists who aren’t all in on twitter. Holloway's advice to be honest and show the "boring" parts of our days means that we get to see process of science reflected in our social media feeds: the false starts, the quirky equipment, the waiting, and maybe even the baby spit up. This representation matters both within our scientific community — I know that seeing other academic parents was hugely important for me as grad student — and across a broader audience — many of us are funded by taxpayers, and this transparency pushes back on the barriers between scientists and the public. Last year about 200 people participated; ESWN is expecting around 300 scientists to sign up through their website in 2018. These “tshirt-official” scientists will receive the ESWN goodie bag, though as the Science-a-thon rolls on over the week, Holloway expects many others to spontaneously join in the hashtag and share their day. And that is her favorite part — watching her twitter feed fill with science, “the diversity of experiences woven together like a tapestry” as the movement expands outside of the “official” event.

Summer Reading (Part 2)

Last week I wrote about my favorite new papers on mountains and phenology after a summer of scientific reading. In the second half of my top ten list, I’m highlighting some plant mysteries and best practices of 2018. 

“Plant mysteries” is a label that I’m using to lump together three plant papers that I can’t stop thinking about. They cover some of my favorite methodological quirks — historical field notes, herbarium digitization, citizen science — and two genera that I think are cool — Sibbaldia and Erythronium. The mysteries range from: Is this still here? to Why is this here in two colors?  to Can I get this specimen to tell me what else grew here? without much thematic overlap, but all three papers tell gripping stories. If nothing else, they share a strong natural history foundation and well-executed scientific writing that made for lovely hammock-reading.

“Best practices” are just that — descriptions of how we can improve our science as individuals and collectively. We can design better spreadsheets for our data and we can support gender equity in our scientific societies. I strongly recommend that all ecologists read up on both. 

Plant Mysteries

I didn’t particularly notice [trophy collecting/associated taxa/pollen color polymorphism] before, but now I can’t not see it…

1. Sperduto, D.D., Jones, M.T. and Willey, L.L., 2018. Decline of Sibbaldia procumbens (Rosaceae) on Mount Washington, White Mountains, NH, USA. Rhodora, 120 (981), pp.65-75.

I love this deep dive into the history of snowbank community alpine plant that occurs in exactly one ravine in New England (though it’s globally widespread across Northern Hemisphere arctic-alpine habitats). Over the past four decades, surveys in Tuckerman’s Ravine have documented a continuous decline in the abundance of creeping sibbaldia, and recently researchers have been unable to find it at all. This would make creeping sibbaldia the first documented extirpation of an alpine vascular plant in New England. Dr. Daniel Sperduto and coauthors revisit the photographs and notes from contemporary surveys and find that mountain alders are encroaching on the creeping sibbaldia’s snowbank habitats. These notes also include anecdotes of local disturbances like turf slumping at the sites where creeping sibbaldia used to be found. In herbaria across New England, Sperduto and coauthors discovered sheets covered with dozens of specimens — this “trophy collection activity” in the 19th century led them to calculate that “there are more than three times as many plants with roots at the seven herbaria examined than the maximum number of plants counted in the field within the last 100 years.” I am obviously partial to New England alpine plants, and I got to see Sperduto present this research as a part of an engaging plenary session at the Northeast Alpine Stewardship Gathering in April, so you could write this off as a niche interest. Despite this, I see creeping sibbaldia as a lens for considering the universal mysteries of population decline and extirpation, and the challenges of tying extirpation to concrete cause-and-effect stories. 

2. Pearson, K.D., 2018. Rapid enhancement of biodiversity occurrence records using unconventional specimen data. Biodiversity and Conservation, pp.1-12.

Leveraging herbarium data for plant research is so hot right now. But what if you could squeeze even more information from a specimen label? For example, many collectors note “associated taxa” along with the date and location of collection. The associated taxa are plants that were seen nearby, but not collected — a kind of ghostly palimpsest of the community that grew around the chosen specimen. Herbaria across the globe have spent the past decades digitizing specimens and uploading photographs of their pressed plants. In this process, the associated taxa on specimen labels are often stored in a ‘habitat’ database field. In this impressive single-author paper, Dr. Kaitlin Pearson extracts the associated taxa data from Florida State University’s Robert K. Godfrey Herbarium database with elegant code that can recognize abbreviated binomial names and identify misspellings. She then compared the county-level distributions of the associated taxa database with their known county-level distribution from floras and herbarium specimens. Incredibly “the cleaned associated taxon dataset contained 247 new county records for 217 Florida plant species when compared to the Atlas of Florida Plants.” There are plenty of caveats: the associated taxa can’t be evaluated for misidentification the way a specimen can, and lists of associated taxa are obviously subject to the same spatial biases as herbarium specimens. But this is clearly a clever study with a beautifully simple conclusion: “broadening our knowledge of species distributions and improving data- and specimen-collection practices may be as simple as examining the data we already have.” 

3. Austen, E.J., Lin, S.Y. and Forrest, J.R., 2018. On the ecological significance of pollen color: a case study in American trout lily (Erythronium americanum). Ecology, 99(4), pp.926-937.

Did you read Gelman and Hill’s Data Analysis Using Regression and Multilevel/Hierarchical Modelsin a seminar and think, this seems like an amazing resource but I’m an ecologist and examples about school children watching Sesame Street or election outcomes and incumbency for US congressional election races just don’t resonate with me? The ecological and evolutionary mystery of red/yellow pollen polymorphism is super interesting in its own right and Dr. Emily Austen and coauthors thoroughly attack this question. For me — and I’ve admitted here before that I am the kind of learner who benefits from repetition  — Austen’s statistical methods are the star. Austen demonstrates glm best practices and brings stunningly clear plant ecology examples to the Gelman and Hill framework. I would probably teach this paper in a field botany course (trout lilies are charismatic! look at this fun map of pollen color polymorphism!), but I would absolutely prefer to assign it in a statistical methods course, especially as a supplement/set of alternative exercises to Gelman and Hill. 

Best Practices

Do this…

1. Potvin, D.A., Burdfield-Steel, E., Potvin, J.M. and Heap, S.M., 2018. Diversity begets diversity: A global perspective on gender equality in scientific society leadership. PloS one, 13(5), p.e0197280.

Gender equality in biology dramatically decreases as you look up the ladder in academia — compare the gender breakdown in the population of graduate students to tenured professors and gender disparity is stark. Leadership in our field is still heavily male skewed. Dr. Dominique Potvin and her coauthors asked, is this true in scientific societies too? Scientific societies are generally more open than academic departments, and there is more transparency in the process of electing governing boards and leadership positions. Potvin and coauthors leveraged these traits to ask: what is the role of scientific societies in rectifying gender inequity? why are some societies better than others at promoting women in leadership? After considering 202 societies in the zoological sciences, they found that the culture of the society — the age of the society age, size of its board and whether or not a it had an outward commitment or statement of equality — was the best predictor of equality in the gender ratio of society boards and leadership positions. This “outward commitment or statement of equality” covered anything published on the society website — a statement, committee, or other form of affirmative action program — that “implies that the society is dedicated to increasing diversity or improving gender equality.” Of the 202 societies they studied, only 39 (19.3%) had one of these visible commitments to equality. Whether societies with high proportions of female board members were more likely to draft and publish these statements, or whether societies that invested time and energy in producing such commitments attracted more women to leadership positions is a bit of a chicken-and-egg riddle. Societies looking to reflect on their own state of gender equality can take advantage of the resource presented in Table 6: “Health checklist for scientific societies aiming for gender equality.” Assessing gender equality is kind of a low hanging fruit — and the authors encourage societies to reflect on intersectionality and race, age, ethnicity, sexuality, religion and income level as well. Basically, if a scientific society is struggling to support white women in 2018, there’s an excellent chance it is failing its brown, LGTBQ, and first-generation members to a much greater extent.

2. Broman, K.W. and Woo, K.H., 2018. Data organization in spreadsheets. The American Statistician, 72(1), pp. 2-10.

If I could send a paper in a time machine, I would immediately launch Broman and Woo’s set of principles for spreadsheet data entry and storage back to 2009, when I started my master’s project. Reading through this list of best practices made me realize how many lessons I learned the hard way — how many times have I violated the commandments to “be consistent”, “choose good names for things”, or “do not use font color or highlighting as data”? Way too many! Eventually, I pulled it together and developed a data entry system of spreadsheets that mostly conforms to the rules outlined in this paper. But, if I’d read this first, I would have skipped a lot of heartache and saved a lot of time. This is an invaluable resource for students as they prepare for field seasons and dissertation projects. Thank you Broman and Woo, for putting these simple rules together in one place with intuitive and memorable examples! 

Happy Fall Reading! 

Summer Reading (Part 1)

We’re rushing out of the dog days of summer and into the start of a new semester — or in my case the start of parental leave, which is a little bit like embarking on a new semester at an unknown campus and while I completed the newborn syllabus three years ago, I have this sinking feeling that I don’t even know which classes I’m enrolled in yet. Regardless, I’m reflecting on my summer reading.

Over June, July, and August, I was all in on #365papers and I have a top ten list of scientific papers from these long summer days of slow reading. Because my “semester” might start at any moment, I’m breaking this post into two parts. First up: my favorite hot-off-the-press summer reads on mountains and phenology.

On Mountains

Think globally & way into the past…

1. Iglesias, V., Whitlock, C., Krause, T.R., Baker, R.G., 2018. Past vegetation dynamics in the Yellowstone region highlight the vulnerability of mountain systems to climate change. Journal of Biogeography 45, 1768–1780. doi:10.1111/jbi.13364

Fifteen pollen records covering 16,000 years and the 80,000 km2 mountainous Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem create an incredible review of elevational patterns of vegetation change in an iconic mountainous region. In this paper, Dr. Virginia Iglesias lays out the challenges of quanitifying pollen-vegetation relationships in mountain regions (aka what I didn’t know when I proposed my postdoc research) and then pulls in a staggering amount of modern and fossil pollen data to recreate the history of Yellowstone’s dominant conifers. These are stories of both stability and rapid change through past climatic changes with conservation implications for managers facing anthropogenic climate change. My favorite line: “The current vegetation distribution is, at best, a short and rather anomalous baseline for evaluating ecological responses to future climate change.” 

2. Elsen, P.R., Monahan, W.B., Merenlender, A.M., 2018. Global patterns of protection of elevational gradients in mountain ranges. PNAS 115, 6004–6009. doi:10.1073/pnas.1720141115

This study has it all: mountain biodiversity love, protected area planning, big data analysis, and beautifully designed maps of “elevational protection” across the globe. Full disclosure: Dr. Paul Elsen is a fellow Smith Fellow and I also got to see this paper as a speed talk at the North American Congress for Conservation Biology in July. The bottom line is this: when you zoom out, most of the world’s mountain ranges are narrowly protected — we need conservation across elevation gradients to effectively protect species under climate change. 

On Phenology 

Wherever you get your phenology data (maybe from TV?) scientists are asking some really interesting questions about community composition, temporal dynamics, and the implications of climate change on interspecific relationships…

3. Carter, S.K., Saenz, D., Rudolf, V.H.W., 2018. Shifts in phenological distributions reshape interaction potential in natural communities. Ecology Letters 30, 133–9. doi:10.1111/ele.13081

Amphibian breeding phenology is not the kind of phenology that I study — I don’t install recorders at ponds to capture EPs of overnight breeding calls, I don’t log hours listening to the audio to identify twelve different amphibian species and record the number of individuals per species calling during each recording session, and I certainly have not done this tirelessly for fifteen years. But I’m so glad that Dr. Shannon Carter and her colleagues did because their ingenuous analysis of changes in the timing of calling between pairs of amphibian species has huge implications for how we — plant phenology people included! — study phenological mismatch. The overlap (or "phenological distributions") of amphibian breeding calls has shifted in weird and non-uniform ways, and metrics like ‘first day of calling’ or ‘median call date’ don’t capture these changes well. This is just a great analysis of a grinder ball dataset (8 ponds in Northeast Texas, monitored consistently over 15 years) which opens up a window to these big questions — How do we monitor phenology? What information do we need to know that temporal mismatch is occurring?

4. De Frenne, P., Van Langenhove, L., Van Driessche, A., Bertrand, C., Verheyen, K., Vangansbeke, P., 2018. Using archived television video footage to quantify phenology responses to climate change. Methods Ecol Evol 149, 1791–9. doi:10.1111/2041-210X.13024

Dr. Pieter De Frenne and his coauthors have received tons of press coverage (best sub-headline: "ignore the lycra—look at the flowers") for this incredibly photogenic work. They basically watched 200 hours of TV (old coverage of the Tour of Flanders), justified this as “research” by grabbing screen shots of 46 shrubs and trees from along the cycling course, and found surprisingly strong advances in the timing of spring leaf out and flowering in these plants over the years. This is, on one level, the opposite of Carter et al listening to frog calls for fifteen years — the phenology monitoring here is opportunistic and there is only a single metric each year (what was happening on the day they filmed the Tour). But as De Frenne points out at the end of the paper: “Probably the most promising way forward for phenology research is to better integrate all types of phenology data…observational time series, experimental manipulations of climate, herbarium records, historical surveys of vegetation, historical maps, repeat photographs and other, yet unexploited, sources such as television video footage from broadcast archives.” 

5. Winkler, D.E., Butz, R.J., Germino, M.J., Reinhardt, K., Kueppers, L.M., 2018. Snowmelt Timing Regulates Community Composition, Phenology, and Physiological Performance of Alpine Plants. Front. Plant Sci. 9, 631–13. doi:10.3389/fpls.2018.01140 

Dr. Daniel Winkler, PLoS ESA Reporting Fellow 2016, tweeted out his new paper in July and he had me at “community composition, phenology, and physiological performance of alpine plants.” My “alpine-ish” communities include true alpine on Katahdin, but also Cadillac Mountain in Acadia, which is a whopping 1,530’ and more accurately described as ‘Northern Appalachian-Acadian Rocky Heath Outcrop’ by NatureServe. I’m definitely interested in the differences between alpine-restricted species and wide-ranging species. Winkler’s team recorded species diversity, flowering phenology, and physiological measurements including gas exchange, net CO2 assimilation, and stomatal conductance across plots along an elevation and aspect gradient in the Colorado Rockies. Two results jumped out at me: the alpine-specialists displayed less flexible flowering phenologies than the wide-ranging species, but there were not strong differences between these groups in physiology. This is the kind of paper that inspires mad grant writing — I'm interested but skeptical, will this hold up in my pet region/ecosystem/study system? I want to replicate this kind of research in the Northeast — and across a gradient of sites where phenology is tied to snowmelt (true alpine areas of Katahdin and the Presidential range), and where the two are (I think) decoupled (Cadillac Mountain). Winkler and I wrote a blog post together in 2016, I think I can convince him to collaborate on a larger scale — and get him to New England! 

Bonus “Reads”

Recent podcast episodes tangentially related to recent blogging

Pikas Meet Cute: Two Subspecies, One National Park

The National Park Service is wrapping up celebrations on its 102nd anniversary this August. I’m unabashedly biased towards park science: my dissertation and my postdoc research are both Acadia-based, while cleaning out old papers last week I actually paused for a moment before recycling a torn up, coffee-stained copy of a National Park research permit from 2013. (Don't worry, the original pdf is safely stored on an external hard drive.)

I’d report on the hybridization of pikas in Rocky Mountain National Park even without the excuse of a belated happy birthday to the National Park Service, but clearly covering research on pikas and #poopscience is the perfect way to honor the stewards of our public lands. There are charismatic megafauna (mini-fauna?) and there are charismatic landscapes, and the scientists who study pikas in the western National Parks enviably have cornered the market on both. Dr. Jessica Castillo Vardaro just published new research on the population genetics of American pikas in PLoS ONE last month. In “Identification of a contact zone and hybridization for two subspecies of the American pika (Ochotona princeps) within a single protected area” Castillo Vardaro and coauthors analyze the DNA in pika poop to pinpoint where the northern and southern Rocky Mountain lineages of these rabbit relatives meet. Their pika #poopscience spanned samples from Grand Teton National Park, Great Sand Dunes National Park, and Rocky Mountain National Park.

Before Castillo Vardaro’s work, there was some evidence that the northern and southern Rocky Mountain pika subspecies had a historic contact zone somewhere near-ish Rocky Mountain National Park. However, Castillo Vardaro wasn’t looking for a contact zone or hybrid pikas when she began working on the Pikas in Peril (PIP) project — a team of National Park Service staff and academic researchers. Pikas are a bit of poster child for climate change vulnerability — “a climate indicator species” — because they cannot tolerate prolonged exposure to high temperatures. Castillo Vardaro’s initial genetic analyses of pika populations in western National Parks focused on signals of isolation by distance (IBD). She explains, “the further individuals are apart geographically, the less related they are genetically. Since pikas typically establish territories close to where they were born and mate with their neighbors, I expected to see strong signals of IBD. I did in all of my study sites except Rocky Mountain National Park (ROMO).” Comparisons of the pika samples and their sequences to Genbank showed that there were two genetic lineages represented in ROMO — Northern and Southern. Then, at a pika meeting (could there be a cuter meeting?) Castillo Vardaro met Preston Somers, a researcher who studied pika dialect in the Rockies in the 1970's. She notes, “His work suggested there might be a contact zone, but we were the first to actually show it and evidence of contemporary gene flow. So, we weren't initially interested in studying ROMO as a potential contact zone, but we are now.” The analyses in this research are steeped in #poopscience, or what the paper refers to as “fecal samples…through a combination of random, targeted, and opportunistic sampling.” I asked Castillo Vardaro about the trade offs of #poopscience versus tissue samples. As a plant ecologist, my Methods have never included gems like, “We avoided collecting old fecal pellets by preferentially collecting pellets with green plant material inside to avoid degraded DNA” — but I was curious to hear more. Castillo Vardaro expounded,

Fecal DNA is essentially the mucus and cells lining the digestive tract that then coat the fecal pellet as it passes through. There are very few cells compared to tissue (organ tissue or ear clips), there are other things present that can inhibit the PCR process like plant secondary compounds, and the feces has been sitting around outside for an unknown amount of time so the DNA can degrade. Each sample has to be genotyped multiple times to overcome the errors resulting from low quality/quantity DNA. My genotyping success rate was 50% - 75%, after removing samples that failed, contaminated samples, and multiple samples collected from the same individual unknowingly. That's a lot of work in the lab.

But, the #poopscience lab work pays off if you need lots of samples across a broad geographic area:

In contrast, I just got back from a week in Montana where I was helping my coauthor Chris Ray trap pikas at a site she has been monitoring for 30 years. In four days of effort (two trap days, but it takes a day to set up traps and a day to check traps/process pikas) we trapped 5 pikas. One person can collect 10-25 quality fecal samples in a day, plus anyone can collect fecal samples for genetic analyses after about 10 minutes of training. So while I would have preferred to have worked with tissue, there is no way to sample the number of individual pikas necessary for 10 high resolution genetic analyses if you had to trap every animal.

The collaborative nature of Castillo Vardaro’s research and the Pikas in Peril reminded me of an earlier blog post I wrote about the Biological Conservation paper “The importance of non-academic coauthors in bridging the conservation genetics gap.”  I noticed that Castillo Vardaro’s PLoS coauthors were all academics, but she pointed out that her coauthor and grad mentor, Clint Epps, designed the PIP project alongside National Park Service personnel and other academic researchers. “The questions, goals, and desired products were explicit from the beginning. These included National Park Service reports, summaries, briefs (publications on the web and available at the parks themselves), spatial data, and research that could be utilized in each of the parks.”

While Castillo Vardaro was doing field work, she worked with National Park Service and US Fish and Wildlife Service biologists, interns, and volunteers. She noted, “we worked with interpretive staff to prepare the park specific resource briefs. We (myself, Clint Epps, and Doni Schwalm) also wrote a note on the potential effects of a proposed quarry site in Grand Teton National Park on the pika populations there, which was provided to resource managers there.” Basically, this work (one of Castillo Vardaro’s dissertation chapters) is the exception that proves the rule to the non-academic coauthors paper: here, the coauthor list belies the strong partnerships with non-academic scientists and managers, and if you didn’t know about Pikas in Peril, you might think wow, these academics really know how to put together explicit management implications single-handedly! 

Finally, in Castillo Vardaro’s research I saw a mirror of my own dissertation work. I had no pikas or fecal DNA, but we both finished our dissertation field work in National Parks before the 2016 election. Her work could inform whether pikas are listed as endangered or threatened under the Endangered Species Act; my research supported a climate change vulnerability assessment; and after our halcyon days as PhD students under the Obama administration, we are now watching an administration and Secretary of the Interior generally disregard the National Park Service expertise on these issues.

I told Castillo Vardaro that I feel an extra sense of urgency in publishing my Acadia papers now — especially in open access venues. I wondered if this was a personal quirk or if she felt a similar sense of responsibility for her field sites and study species. She agreed that highlighting the work that we are doing on public and federally managed lands is even more important in the current political climate. “One of the main reasons I chose to publish in PLOS ONE was because I wanted the manuscript to be accessible (open access).” She also noted that, “the PIP project was funded as part of the NPS Climate Change Response Program. I do worry about continued funding for similar projects and initiatives under Zinke and the Trump administration. Pikas tend to live in places that aren't as directly impacted by development as other ecosystems (it would be difficult to put a subdivision on the steep, rocky, side of a mountain), but the policies and proposed changes to the Endangered Species Act under the current administration to make it easier for development and resource extraction on public lands could definitely impact pikas.” 

The flipside of non-academic coauthors bridging a conservation gap is this: when the federal government is hostile towards non-extractive natural resource management, the academic coauthors in these partnerships will continue to publish our findings, piling up the evidence to support our field sites and our study species. For those of us in academia who completed National Park fieldwork in what seems like another era, getting the writing done can seem both daunting and futile. It's not. Traditionally, the first wedding anniversary is the “paper” anniversary, but for the National Park Service’s 102nd I think papers are still an appropriate — and important — gift. 

References:

Castillo Vardaro JA, Epps CW, Frable BW, Ray C (2018) Identification of a contact zone and hybridization for two subspecies of the American pika (Ochotona princeps) within a single protected area. PLoS ONE 13(7): e0199032.

On Story Telling

Last Monday night I took the mic at a Toronto bar. The whole second floor was full of conservation scientists in town for the North American Congress for Conservation Biology, the music from below thumped into our enclave, and we settled in with local beers to listen to stories of childhood tree forts, surfers tying themselves in kelp like sea otters, and daylilies dug from the lot where a great-grandmother’s garden once grew.

This was Plant Love Stories Live — a storytelling event that grew out of a blog that grew out of a tiny conversation in January between a group of postdocs in a hotel conference room who were maybe a little bit burnt out from discussing how to impact policy and what progress we’d made on a major literature review.

Plant Love Stories is a collection of personal stories about how plants have shaped our lives. As conservation researchers, we often see plants as a backdrop, a hazy, nondescript habitat for the charismatic megafauna. And yet, almost everyone has a story about a plant — the venus fly trap you didn’t realize needed water as well as flies, the delicious fruitiness of fresh-from-the-garden tomatoes, the unexpected utility of an alder tree in the middle of a fieldwork disaster. Since its launch on Valentine’s Day 2018, Plant Love Stories has published weekly stories from plant ecologists, scientists who are stridently not-botanists, artists, parents, kids, professors, and undergraduates. The beloved plants are house plants, garden plants, greenhouse plants, wild plants, trees, seeds, tattoos, and million-year-old fossils. The growing collection of love stories reminds us that we all share emotional connections to wild, growing things. Full disclosure: I am among the Plant Love Stories cofounders. I was one of the postdocs in the hotel conference room in January — basically wilting in my seat from a long week of trainings and meetings and panels — when Dr. Becky Barak animatedly exclaimed “we need plant love stories!”

Barak knows about the power of storytelling. In 2016 she delivered an amazing talk titled ‘Big Green Things Start Tiny’ as a part of the Ecological Society of America’s ‘Up-Goer Five Challenge: Using Common Language to Communicate Your Science to the Public.’ Limited to only the 1,000 most commonly used English words, Barak and the other presenters found creative language to express complicated theories, interactions, and results in memorable and entertaining talks. This session was especially memorable for me because I was taking copious notes. I was a PLOS Ecology Reporting Fellow at ESA 2016 — I had pitched writing about the Up-Goer session in my Reporting Fellowship application, and ESA 2016 was my first experience blogging for PLOS.* Ultimately, I wrote “Science Communication, Simple Words, and Story Telling at ESA 2016” a post about Up-Goer Five, language, and an ESA Special Session titled ‘Engaging with the Wider World: True Tales Told Live.’ I remember this event as a cross between The Moth and casual office hours with your favorite professor or TA. Four scientists shared stories on the theme of engagement. There were no notes or slides, I’m not even sure if they were sitting in chairs or just perched at the edge of a stage, I mostly remember it feeling very intimate.

On the PLOS Ecology blog I wrote “There was a real sense of craving in the audience as we watched these ecologists talking about science communication. We want more examples of successful science communication, and more opportunities to practice these skills ourselves.” I did not realize how personal, or prescient these words were at the time. The “craved for” examples of successful science communication are proliferating.

Storytelling is increasingly recognized as a valuable tool for communication within our scientific community — in presentations and papers — and for engaging with audiences beyond our journals and conferences. Looking inward, the 2017 paper ‘Tell me a story! A plea for more compelling conference presentations’ is an amazing resource. There’s also the 2017 PNAS opinion piece, ‘Finding the plot in science storytelling in hopes of enhancing science communication.’ My fellow PLOS Ecology Editor Dr. Jeff Atkins explored the 2016 paper ‘Narrative Style Influences Citation Frequency in Climate Change Science’ in a blog post that dives into the importance of storytelling within the scientific community. In February 2018, PLOS Biology collected ‘Conservation stories from the front lines’ to highlight “the deeply human side of research…These narratives present peer-reviewed and robust science but also include the muddy boots and bloody knees, ravaging mosquitoes, crushing disappointment, and occasional euphoria their authors experienced.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, the authors include Dr. Annaliese Hettinger, a storyteller at ESA 2016’s Engaging with the Wider World: True Tales Told Live, and Dr. Nick Haddad, an ESA 2016 Up-Goer Five presenter. 

At ESA 2018, there will be a ComSciCon workshop: “Story-Tell Your Science with ComSciCon: The Communicating Science Workshop for Graduate Students.” I attended the incredibly rewarding three-day ComSciCon in Boston in 2015. The ESA ComSciCon workshop agenda includes a write-a-thon session “where attendees can receive expert feedback on a piece of writing from a media of their choosing, from experienced academic communicators.” The write-a-thon was one of my favorite experiences at ComSciCon: I workshopped a podcast script — though I had absolutely no podcast production experience — and I basically abandoned the idea at the end of the workshop in June 2015, tucking my notes into a folder, filing it away while I went back to fieldwork and dissertation-writing. Then, last summer, my postdoc advisor suggested my name to the organizers of TEDx Piscataqua River. I had about a week to create a pitch for a TEDx talk — while I was in the middle of preparing for ESA 2017, packing to move to Maine, and submitting my final dissertation edits. But, I had that old ComSciCon folder. I dusted off the podcast script, re-wrote it as a talk pitch, and sent it to TEDx Piscataqua River. That talk — “Botanizing with my 19th century girlfriend” — is one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.** 

All the little opportunities to “story-tell your science,” all the examples we see modeled in special sessions and special paper collections, they build on each other quietly in the back of our minds until suddenly we are the one holding the mic in the front of the room. Looking back at my 2016 notes, I realize that the ESA 2016 live story telling event was organized by COMPASS and the Wilburforce Foundation and recognize a Smith Fellow alumna among the speakers. Plant Love Stories Live was hosted by the David H. Smith Fellowship, the Liber Ero Fellowship, the Wilburforce Foundation, and COMPASS. It is hard not to feel like the PLOS Ecology Reporting Fellowship has magically propelled me into this surreal present — the ESA meeting where I blogged my way through the Up-Goer Five session was also the ESA meeting where I outlined my Smith Fellowship proposal. I spent so much of that week thinking about storytelling and reporting on other ecologists' stories, I must have semi-consciously absorbed some of these lessons and ambitions to become a better storyteller myself. And so, in Toronto last week, I found myself ready to kick off a live story telling event at a scientific conference, and all those ESA 2016 memories flooded in. Somehow it was two years later, and 2,400 miles north of ESA 2016 — all the thinking and reading and writing around storytelling that ESA 2016 sparked had become a kind of personal practice. Now, I had the mic and I had the story to tell. 

References

 *A quick search through my documents folder unearthed my original pitch: “In addition to the traditional sessions, the Ignite 1 Up Goer Five session will be an amazing exploration of science communication itself: will the 1,000 most common words in the English language lead to clarity or confusion? Is this an effective strategy for reaching the general public or a fun stunt that will baffle even fellow ecologists?” 

** Aside from co-founding Plant Love Stories of course! Please submit your plant love stories!

The Rollercoaster of Exploding Pollen

When I think about reading peer-reviewed natural history papers — including contemporary articles in a ‘Natural History Miscellany Note’ or ‘The Scientific Naturalist’ section — I imagine them mostly as a classic throwback: just a scientist, a hand lens, and a notebook. I generally do not think about employing $50,000 of high-speed video recording equipment to test dueling hypotheses about pollination modes from the 1860s. I’m clearly missing out. 

The American Naturalist recently published a mash-up of 19th century natural history observations and 21st century tech: in “Dispensing Pollen Via Catapult: Explosive Pollen Release in Mountain Laurel (Kalmia latifolia)” Dr. Callin Switzer and coauthors present speed records, specialized weaponry vocabulary, and plot twists. 

The Speed Records: Mountain laurel is well known for its explosive pollination — a great botanical cocktail party conversation starter*, but an adaptive function that has remained a mystery since the 19thcentury. Back in 2005 fans of understory plants of the temperate deciduous forest and speed records** were wowed by bunchberry — researchers from Williams College clocked this explosive pollinator launching pollen grains at 3.1 meters/second, and accelerating pollen at 24,000 meters/second2.Switzer’s research at the most basic level sought to record the speed and acceleration of mountain laurel’s explosive pollen. The mechanisms behind the explosion were well documented by the 1990s (pollen on the mountain laurel anthers are tucked into “pockets” in the petals and held under tension by curved filaments — when the anther is released from the pocket, the pollen is launched into the air), but the speed was still unrecorded. Switzer explains, “The paper was inspired by walking around the Arnold Arboretum with several of the faculty there. Robin Hopkins (my PhD advisor) and Ned Friedman both knew that I had done some high-speed video projects in the past, and they suggested that I should take a look at the mountain laurels. I first had the high-speed videography background, and then Robin pointed me to the 19th century literature.” From the high-speed videos, Switzerfound that mountain laurels launched pollen at 3.5 meters/second for an average maximum speed and achieved average maximum acceleration at 4,100 meters/second2. Mountain laurels thus have “one of the fastest-moving floral parts recorded”! But why? In 1867 The American Naturalist published competing hypotheses for the adaptive function of explosive pollination in mountain laurels. Was the pollen aimed at the stigma for incredibly efficient self-pollination? Or is the pollen catapulted on to visiting bees for cross-fertilization? These 19th century natural history observations sat at the heart of Switzer’s interest in quantifying the speed of mountain laurels — a chance to unravel this species’ mythology of adaptive explanations. “I think of natural history as a part of biology that starts with curiosity about the natural world.” Switzer reflects. “Naturalists tend to get ideas for projects simply by going out into the field with a hand lens and a notebook -- with all the new technology available, however, naturalists can do a lot more interesting and quantitative studies.”

Before revealing the speed-pollen’s adaptive function, I just need to acknowledge the weird side effect of reading about explosive pollen — I learned a ton about the physics and vocabulary of medieval weapons…

Specialized Weaponry Vocabulary: The next time you are struggling to articulate the difference between a regular catapult and a medieval trebuchet, just think about the difference between a mountain laurel and a bunchberry. While both flowers have filaments under tension and fling pollen from the tips of their anthers, on bunchberry anthers there is a hinge connecting the anther to the filament tip. The bunchberry trebuchet is a specialized catapult: the payload is attached to the throwing arm by a hinge. Mountain laurels may be standard issue catapults — without the hinge that propels bunchberry pollen with incredible acceleration — but mountain laurel pollen grains are structurally designed to be their own weapon. The mountain laurel’s pollen grains “form tetrads connected with viscin threads…causing each anther to release several stringy aggregations of pollen when it is triggered.” Switzer hypothesizes that these stringy aggregations may act as a bola— hitting a target/pollinator and then wrapping around to attach itself tightly. Both the bunchberry and mountain laurel papers weaponize their flowers, making explosive pollination seem explicitly conflict-driven. I asked Switzer, “Are plants at war with their pollinators?” He responded, “plants and pollinators are in evolutionary conflict -- they have different "goals", and both are constantly evolving to suit their own goals.  If you'll excuse the anthropomorphizing, plants "want" bees to keep pollen on their bodies and transfer it among flowers, but bees "want" to collect the maximal amount of resources, without wasting energy carrying pollen among flowers.” When we look closely at the world around us, the metaphors of natural harmony and balance blur and fade: petals are architects of secret triggers, flowers a minefield of exploding pollen. 

The Plot Twists: Switzer filmed 69 mountain laurel pollen explosions outdoors at the Arnold Arboretum to capture the insect visitors and causes of catapulting pollen. Bees — mostly bumble bees — triggered the anther catapults, while appearing to search for nectar. During this fieldwork, and in the playbacks of the high-speed videos, Switzer watched pollen fly past the bees. It seemed like the catapults were missing their target. Maybe this was an elaborate, Rube Goldberg-esque set up to have a bee trigger a catapult to self-fertilize a flower via an extremely fast but weirdly complicated mechanism?A second set of high-speed videos, recorded in the lab, allowed Switzer to calculate pollen trajectories in 3-D space. In these videos, the flower is set in profile to the camera and half the petals have been removed to give a clear view of the flower parts: stigma, style, anther pocket and filament. The catapult is manually triggered by a needle. When the pollen trajectories are traced and modeled into 3-D space, it’s clear that most of the time the catapulted pollen crosses the central axis of the flower at just about bee-height. Switzer admits, “I was very surprised when I made observations with only my eyes, and I saw pollen flying past the bees. I came up with all kinds of interesting explanations in my head, until I collected the high-speed videos and saw what was really happening.” In the Discussion of the pollen catapult paper, there is a refreshing transparency about this plot-twist moment: “Only with detailed experimentation and observations were we able to better understand the adaptive significance of explosive pollination—we realized that field-based observations did not allow us to see how much pollen actually hit the bee (because the bee’s body often blocked the view).”

The story of the research — stretching back to those 19th century naturalists and the mythology of adaptive explanations — is so clear here. We thought we saw something. We tested it from another angle and saw something else. 

As Switzer explains, “This was indeed a gut-check moment, and it did help me have more empathy for 19th century naturalists as well as present day naturalists. Doing good science with good statistics is hard -- it can be so easy for scientists (myself included) to convince themselves of something that is not true.  For me, it's really helpful to get constructive feedback from others to help me find those 'blind spots.'”

Switzer’s ultimate contribution — beyond allowing mountain laurel to rest on its speed laurels, side by side with bunchberry in the Fast Plants Hall of Fame — is this effort to keep looking: to bring in two high speed cameras, half-dissected flowers in a lab setting, and 3-D modeling, and shed light on the unknowns with every tool in his 21st century natural history toolbox.

References:

Callin M. Switzer, Stacey A. Combes, and Robin Hopkins, "Dispensing Pollen via Catapult: Explosive Pollen Release in Mountain Laurel (Kalmia latifolia)," The American Naturalist 191, no. 6 (June 2018): 767-776. https://doi.org/10.1086/697220 

Edwards, J., Whitaker, D., Klionsky, S., & Laskowski, M. J. (2005). A record-breaking pollen catapult. Nature,435(7039), 164–164. http://doi.org/10.1038/435164a    

*Botanical cocktail party conversation starters are definitely a thing. Just read Amy Stewart’s The Drunken Botanist.

**There are many fans of understory plants of the temperate deciduous forest and speed records. Just think of all the trail-runners you know who are also ecologists and/or iNaturalist enthusiasts. We generally have two speeds: extremely slow (botanical observations) and extremely quick (peak bagging). We pack lots of snacks. We have favorite races based on the phenology of the date and the beta-diversity of natural communities along the course. We like to poke things.

Reading, Walking, Wishing

June in New England is a long stretch of long-lit days. When I was a PhD student, my Junes were the peak of my field season and I spent the long days logging miles up and down Cadillac, Sargent, and Pemetic mountains. For four years, my Junes were hiking ridges, recording data, wearing holes in the toes of my trailrunners. Now, I’m revising the papers that were written on the heels of those leg muscles and it’s weird to be indoors in June, sitting at a computer, without the tight hamstrings or blackfly bites.

After a long slog through a cold spring, this June I’ve returned to reading, picking up #365papers again in earnest after slacking off on the literature for a few months. Last week, I read Liam Heneghan’s essay “Have Ecologists Lost Their Senses? Walking and Reflection as Ecological Method” in Trends in Ecology & Evolution. I was indoors, at my desk, with the AC whirring, reading about walking. I felt like a fish out of water, or more aptly a field ecologist out of nature. In the essay, Henegham makes the distinction between ecologists and naturalists, comparing word counts in the anthologies The Essential Naturalist: Timeless Readings in Natural History (2011) and Foundations of Ecology: Classic Papers with Commentaries (2012).

“Although the two disciplines ‘observe’ and ‘see’ things in equal measure, natural historians nonetheless report engaging all of their senses in the pursuit of observations of nature to a greater degree. Natural historians report touching, feeling, hearing, and smelling the things of the world to an extent that scientific ecologists do not. Indeed, ecologists, if this small sample is representative, have abandoned smelling in its entirety. Moreover, natural historians ‘walk’, ‘roam’, ‘climb’, ‘sniff’, and ‘listen’ to a degree their ecological colleagues do not.”

I am a roaming, climbing, sniffing ecologist. But I bristled at the thought that ecologists as a whole should be compelled to walk to prove some kind of connection to the true core of the discipline. Heneghan does not outrightly demand that all ecologists walk, roam, and climb — his main argument seems to be the gentle conjecture “ecologists may have overlooked the fact that scrutinizing nature can benefit from an engagement of all the senses” — but he doesn’t leave much space within the discipline for non-field ecologists.

Perhaps Heneghan’s essay title is misleading and he isn’t worried about all ecologists losing their senses, just the outdoor ones. The field-based, nose-to-the-ground, perambulatory science that Heneghan and I practice is clearly not universal to ecology — and it shouldn’t be! We need modelers and theorists and lab scientists! But I fell for this essay hard. I am the target audience. When I started as a master’s student at the University of Vermont’s Field Naturalist and Ecological Planning program, my Botany 311 class, the Fall Field Practicum series of weekly full-day field trips, listed 7 goals on the syllabus. Goal #7: “Visit bakeries and enjoy spending the day outdoors.” In Heneghan’s analysis of word counts in the Ecology vs. Natural History texts, “Breakfast” receives 0.72 mentions per page in The Essential Naturalist; it does not appear at all in Foundations in Ecology*. Just digging out my Fall Field Practicum syllabus conjured up memories of cider donuts and eskers, travel mugs of maple-syrup-sweetened coffee and ombrotrophic bogs. My UVM experience was steeped in the kind of sensory details that Heneghan would appreciate and savor.

‘Walking and Reflection as Ecological Method’ reminded me of a similar paper I’d read in another (sadly non-bakery-centered) UVM class: Craig Loehle’s 1990 ‘A guide to increased creativity in research — inspiration or perspiration?’ Loehle also identifies the benefits of walking as a part of the scientific process when he encourages students to “get bored” as a work habit. This is recommended alongside running, procrastinating, and surfing — allegories for carving out time to think deeply and engage in non-productive, non-routine activities. These pursuits, Loehle promises, will facilitate creative problem solving. When I went back to re-read Loehle this week, I was surprised to find the advice “Don’t read the literature” under his list of methods for releasing creativity. I am, traditionally, a big fan of reading the literature. I’m a reader: when I was asked to review a Tansley Insight manuscript for The New Phytologist, my first move was to download and read the 2015 editorial “Introducing Tansley Insights – short and timely, focussed reviews within the plant sciences.” I won’t admit how many other Tansley Insights I downloaded after. A lot, okay? Maybe all of them. But Loehle’s “Don’t read the literature” is not a blanket statement; he clarifies that the first step as a scientist begins mulling over a new idea should not be to run to Web of Science (or whatever researchers used to find papers back in the dark ages of 1990), but to work through it a bit on your own.

“[Reading the literature] channels your thoughts too much into well-worn grooves. Second, a germ of an idea can easily seem insignificant in comparison to finished studies. Third, the sheer volume of material to read may intimidate you to abandoning any work in a new area.”

I agree with Loehle on all three points, but I’d add that the habit of reading broadly in the literature — taking recommendations from twitter**, searching outside of the Table of Contents of your subdiscipline’s favorite journal, checking out how your pet methodology is applied in another country or ecosystem, or seeking out papers with your field site as a keyword by researchers who are not in your field — is a kind of antidote to the well-worn grooves.

This month I read papers from Agricultural and Forest Meteorology, Alpine Botany, Bioscience, Conservation Biology, Current Biology, Ecology, Ecosphere, Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment, Integrative and Comparative Biology, Journal of Applied Ecology, Journal of Geophysical Research: Biogeosciences, Nature Geoscience, New Phytologist, Ocean & Coastal Management, Palynology, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, and Trends in Ecology & Evolution. I am a broadly trained field ecologist — thanks UVM! — but as my career has progressed I’ve naturally found myself engaged in narrower research pursuits, and reading broadly keeps me centered, provides context for the tedium of slicing a 4.09 m core of lake sediment into half centimeter subsamples, and makes my work feel connected to society, policy, and big-picture conservation.

I’ll likely never publish in Ocean & Coastal Management, but reading “‘Back off, man, I’m a scientist!’ When marine conservation science meets policy”*** resonated with my own experiences writing public comments and meeting with congressional staffers. In a way, reading broadly is a kind of indoor-walking for restless ecologists who are prone to wandering.

Loehle and Heneghan’s essays are endlessly quotable for natural history students. But while they strive to expand how scientists engage in the world — Shake off your routine! Get outside! Smell! — they present an ironically narrow picture of role models. The patron saints of creative, roaming researchers, name-checked by both Loehle and Heneghan, are Darwin and MacAthur. I feel very strongly that if your argument around what’s needed in the “culture of ecology” can be reduced to “be more like this white man who had the privilege to travel freely and comfortably in the outdoors” you are fundamentally wrong. In Heneghan’s case, in 2018, there’s no excuse for whitewashing field ecology. Priya Shukla’s amazing piece in Bay Nature Magazine beautifully lays out the importance of representation in contemporary ecology, and the urgent need to uncover and share the ways in which wild landscapes are not empty areas that blankly awaited manifest destiny and reflect only Anglo-European stories. She writes “We need an act of revisionist natural history to color in the environmental and conservation movements. We should remind every hiker, biker, birder, citizen scientist, and field researcher that innumerable diverse people have shaped our natural spaces.” In a series of profiles of diverse voices in outdoor recreation, James Edward Mills writes in Outside, “Organizations like Outdoor Afro, Latino Outdoors, and Out There Adventures have begun stripping away the presumption of a white, male, heterosexual experience. Even more importantly, by unapologetically presenting their unique points of view, they’ve shined a light on a rich heritage of adventure and environmental stewardship that has been there for generations.”

This diversity exists in field ecology and natural history writing too, and it is not hard to find. Sure, Darwin and MacArthur were great at walking and writing about walking with wonderful sensory detail — but have you read J. Drew Lanham’s essay ‘Birding While Black’ or his book The Home Place? Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass? Janisse Ray’s Ecology of a Cracker Childhood****? Hope Jahren’s Lab Girl —in which the titular "girl" (Jahren) spends long stretches outside of the lab writing lyrically about working in the outdoors?

Heneghan begins his essay in a bog, but his call to arms (hiking boots?) is not simply an #OptOutside manifesto. He follows his walking naturalists — his long list of old white men: Irish botanist Robert Lloyd Praeger, Henry David Thoreau, Charles Darwin, Robert McArthur, and E. O. Wilson — indoors to their writing desks. At the end of the piece, Heneghan is in the archives, reading Praeger’s papers and reflecting on his prodigious writing. “A day’s walk can furnish long hours back at the desk.” Heneghan muses, “Thus for every insight into nature, there is a hidden process by which that insight was achieved; every active life contains a hidden core of repose.”

So this is my indoor June, my hidden core of repose. My trailrunners lie neglected, but the writing & reading continues, as I adventure through the memories and field notes and spreadsheets on the heels of the illustrious white men, and the many, many equally bold, sure-footed, and thoughtful unnamed white women and people of color who have trod this path before me.

References:

Heneghan, L., 2018. Have Ecologists Lost Their Senses? Walking and Reflection as Ecological Method. Trends in Ecology & Evolution 1–4. doi:10.1016/j.tree.2018.04.016 

Loehle, Craig. 1990. "A guide to increased creativity in research: inspiration or perspiration?." Bioscience 40.2: 123-129.  

*I have a confession to make here. I read most of Foundations in Ecology while I was a PhD student. I had not even heard of The Essential Naturalist until I read this paper. So maybe I’m not such a great naturalist after all? ...Or maybe I’m an amazing naturalist, always outside tromping around, and I don’t have time to read natural history anthologies because I’m too busy smelling nature?

**I found Heneghan’s essay by way of @ChelskiLittle’s prolific #365papers tweets. Thanks Chelsea!

***I found this paper by way of @Drew_Lab’s #365papers tweets. Thanks Josh!

****I cannot say enough about Milkweed Editions. This independent, nonprofit literary powerhouse in Minneapolis publishes incredible environmental writing. My husband gifted me a Milkweed book subscription years ago and it's my absolute favorite piece of mail every month. Maybe 30% of my love for LacCore & the science they do there is a side effect of the fact that every time I visit LacCore, I get to take a side trip to Milkweed. 

Science Twitter and the Secretly Super-rare Saxifragaceae

During one of the coolest experiences of my PhD, I had the opportunity to work as a field assistant on a flora for an iconic park in Maine. The Plants of Baxter State Park is a beautiful book and, if you turn to page 135, there’s a stunning photograph of a carpet of Empetrum atropurpureum, red crowberry — okay, full disclosure it’s my photograph. 

Reflecting on my small contributions to this wonderful book, I remember the sunburns, the crystal clear ponds, the apple cider doughnuts, the black flies, the incredibly cushy shower in one of our crew cabins, and the incredible love I developed for this rugged, cut-over landscape. These expansive memories are tied up in 477 printed pages that sit in a place of honor on my desk. The flora is a snapshot of a place and time: Baxter State Park in 2016. It is already outdated; when I returned to Baxter in Spring 2018 for new research, I heard from the rangers that hikers and botanists had recently found a population of a species we thought was lost from the park —it was in a new, downslope location from its historical site. The limitations of published flora — and the fun of the internet — have led some 21st century botanists to embrace new, technologically innovative tools. In one outstanding example, YouTube, twitter, and iNaturalist played a major role in the discovery of a globally imperiled plant species in Pennsylvania.

Dr. Scott Schuette and coauthors published this finding in a paper that merges social media with early 20th century herbarium specimens, and a gorgeously produced YouTube series with a serious NatureServe Conservation Rank Assessment. They write: “This discovery may also serve as a cautionary tale of relying entirely for plant identification on floras which, through no fault of their own, become incomplete or ‘static’ over time.” “The hidden Heuchera: How science Twitter uncovered a globally imperiled species in Pennsylvania, USA,” published in PhytoKeys in April 2018, is the peer-reviewed version of corresponding author Dr. Chris Martine’s March 2018 YouTube video “Rappelling Scientists Find Rare Species Hiding for 100+ Years.” If you need a break from #365papers, if your ‘To Read’ folder is overflowing with pdfs, if you lost your reading glasses — seriously, it’s summer vacay, you don’t need an excuse — watch the video! 

The episode starts as a quest to re-locate a historical population of the state-endangered plant golden corydalis. Martine, a professor at Bucknell and host of the YouTube series Plants Are Cool, Too! interviews Schuette while botanists in climbing gear rappel down the shale cliff faces of Shikellamy Bluffs above the Susequehanna River*.

After three days, they finally locate the elusive golden corydalis by climbing up from the base of the bluffs. Martine and Schuette shake hands in a classic wrap up scene. And then — record-scratch sound effect, the frame freezes and tilts, and a voiceover exclaims, “normally this is where our episode would end, but this story took another amazing turn…” Martine flashes back to stills from earlier in the episode and sports-commentator-style circles a Saxifragaceae species with coral bell-shaped flowers that had blended into the background as the climbers searched for golden corydalis. 

Throughout the survey, the team — and Martine on twitter — had identified this as the common plant Heuchera americana, American alumroot. A tweet reply from Heuchera expert Dr. Ryan Folk revealed their common plant was very, very uncommon. It was Heuchera alba, a globally imperiled wildflower, endemic to the mountains of West Virginia and Virginia — a plant never before recorded in Pennsylvania. Ultimately, Schuette, Folk, Martine, and coauthor Dr. Jason Cantley found eight populations of H. alba in Pennsylvania, as well as historical evidence that the plant had been there, hidden, for at least a century. When they re-examined herbarium specimens of the two known Pennsylvania Heuchera species, they found four specimens collected between 1905 and 1949 that were actually H. alba.

One of those specimens — housed in Bucknell’s Wayne E. Manning Herbarium — was collected at Shikellamy Bluffs in 1946. By W. ManningEven the guy who got the herbarium named after himself missed this identification! As the paper title notes, the credit goes to “Science twitter,” a resource that Manning unfortunately did not have when he was botanizing the Shikellamy Bluffs. I asked Schuette and Martine about their social media habits. While all of the paper’s authors had met IRL (in real life), the Plants Are Cool, Too! episode and twitter conversation around H. alba sparked this research through virtual collaboration. Martine says, “I use Twitter nearly every day and see it as part of my job as a scientist and academic. It is my go-to source for keeping up with the latest findings in my disciplines and the most pressing issues in higher education.” Schuette admits that his twitter check-ins were less frequent, “but certainly picked up a bit after the H. alba discovery.” Schuette is active on iNaturalist — parallel to Martine’s twitter mis-identification, Schuette had a similar social-media moment when his iNaturalist post of a Heuchera in Pennsylvania turned out to be H. alba. He explains, “I started on iNaturalist when I started my position with the Pennsylvania Natural Heritage Program at the Western Pennsylvania Conservancy. I viewed my work as a great opportunity to share the diversity that I see on a day to day basis with the larger naturalist community.” Both Schuette and Martine work in Pennsylvania and their standard botanical reference, the Plants of Pennsylvania flora, lists H. americana and H. pubescens as the only Heuchera species present in the state. Earlier botanists were working under the same assumptions, no one expected to find H. alba in the state — the difference is that in 1946 you couldn’t upload your herbarium specimen to a network of naturalists across a broad geographic range and receive instant feedback on your identification.Martine muses,

“I just saw a Tweet from a scientist saying that she had been told by a senior colleague that "no one who matters" is using Twitter. That is totally false, of course, but I would also say that we are fast approaching a time where it might even be more true to say the opposite: Everyone who matters is using Twitter. They are equally silly statements, really, but my point is that on-line communities like Twitter are now where scientists do a lot of their networking, sharing, and, as shown by our study, collaborating. If you ain't there, you are missing out.”

Schuette echoes this perspective on the great potential for social media in scientific research:

“I think that as field botanists we are constrained by the prevailing taxonomic concepts of the times and places where we work. However with the immense availability of information through online databases and social media outlets, we are in a unique position in history to really increase our understanding of biodiversity at several different scales ranging from local parks to EPA Ecoregions. The fact that H. albahas been here under our noses raises some really interesting biodiversity questions that we can now explore in detail.”

 Finally, I just loved that they were able to name-check “science twitter” in the title of a peer-reviewed paper. I asked if they had received any pushback from the journal. I didn’t know anything about PhytoKeys before this paper appeared in my own twitter feed; for the similarly uninitiated, it is “a peer-reviewed, open access, rapidly published journal, launched to accelerate research and free information exchange in taxonomy, phylogeny, biogeography and evolution of plants.” Martine assured me that it was a smooth process; he had experience publishing new species descriptions in the journal and he had a hunch it would be a good fit for the paper. He says, “In working with [PhytoKeys] I have come to appreciate how progressive they are when it comes to promoting their articles online, including via social media - so we weren't especially surprised when they accepted our title. Personally, I think it was the smart thing to do!”

The metrics on PhytoKeys’ website show that the article has received over 670 unique views and 153 pdf downloads. Martine and Schuette agree that the social media buzz around the paper has been positive and congratulatory. As Martine notes, “people who believe in social media as a way to engage with both the public and one's broader scientific community see it as a confirmation; meanwhile, even people who might poo-poo Twitter as a waste of time for scientists have to admit that it led to a pretty cool discovery in this case.” 

References:Schuette S, Folk RA, Cantley JT, Martine CT (2018) The hidden Heuchera: How science Twitter uncovered a globally imperiled species in Pennsylvania, USA. PhytoKeys 96: 87-97. https://doi.org/10.3897/phytokeys.96.23667

*I do love rock-climbing botanists!

**I'm also a big fan of Rosemary Mosco!

Hidden in Plain Sight: the Secret Tree Diversity of Cultural National Parks in the East

Last summer, my daughter received All Aboard! National Parksa whimsical board book that devotes full-page spreads of colorful, kid-friendly illustrations to nine National Parks along a fictional railroad route. The National Parks skew western — Olympic, Yosemite, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon — with Acadia and Great Smoky Mountains representing the entire eastern half of the U.S. But, the book is a skewed representation of the National Park System in another way too: it only showcases the large, iconic, and “wild” national parks. Where are the National Battlefields, the National Recreation Areas, the National Scenic Rivers, and the National Historic Sites?

A recent paper from Forest Ecology and Management has me thinking that the cultural parks of the east that fall under the National Park Service umbrella deserve their own board book!

In the eastern United States, our National Parks dot the landscape as constellations of historic battlefields, homes of important historical figures, and wild islands of nature scattered across an eastern seaboard of cities, development, and fragmentation. But, it turns out that these small, cultural protected areas are harboring incredible tree species diversity. Dr. Kathryn Miller and colleagues from the National Park Service and University of Maine published “Eastern National Parks protect greater tree species diversity than unprotected matrix forests” after comparing tree species diversity measured in National Park Service Inventory & Monitoring plots to the species diversity recorded in nearby US Forest Service Forest Inventory and Analysis plots. Miller considered five metrics of diversity in each plot — number of individuals, tree species richness (how many species were in each plot?), Shannon evenness (are the species in the plot relatively as abundant as each other or are some super common and others very rare?), McNaughton Dominance (what is the relative abundance of the two most abundant species?), and Percent Rare N/S (what percent of species in a plot have fewer individuals than the average species abundance in that plot?).

The title of Miller's paper is a spoiler alert — the parks were more diverse than the matrix (non-park) forests — with park forests comprising higher species richness and a more even, less dominated distribution of abundance across species. She found this pattern of higher species diversity across the majority of the parks in the study, but it was most consistent in the lower latitude parks. Over a decade of publicly available data from the National Park Service’s Inventory & Monitoring plots and the Forest Service Forest Inventory and Analysis plots allowed Miller and her team to explore tree species diversity across 39 eastern National Parks, each containing between 4 (Sagamore Hill National Historic Site) and 171 (Acadia National Park) forest plots. Before Dr. Miller began her PhD at UMaine, she led field crews that collected some of the data in the National Park Service Inventory and Monitoring Program. Miller told me, “My field experience sampling and hiking around eastern forests has definitely helped me frame the types of research questions to ask, and interpret whether the results are meaningful. When I started this study, I suspected that at least some of our parks, particularly the larger ones (e.g. Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area, New River Gorge National River), would have greater tree diversity. I was surprised, however, to find out that many of our cultural parks, which tend to be smaller and haven't been protected as long, also have greater stand-level tree diversity than matrix forests.”

Miller’s results are both expected and unexpected. First, there’s a general understanding among ecologists that eastern US forests today are smaller, younger, and more homogenous than they were before centuries of European settlement, land clearing, and timber harvesting. And, we know on a basic level that forests in US National Parks are largely protected from development and harvesting. So, it shouldn’t be shocking to find that forests managed by an agency that is dedicated to promoting ecological integrity and natural disturbance regimes are full of lots of species — not just the early successional ones. But, on the other hand, we often don’t imagine Minute Man Historical National Park — a battlefield replete with actors in Revolutionary War costumes — as bastion of biodiversity. Or, in the case of All Aboard! National Parks, we don’t imagine these cultural parks as national parks at all. So how did Miller land on this question — what made her interested in comparing the tree species diversity in parks and unprotected forests in the east? She muses that “this research question in particular was a follow-up to [our 2016 Ecosphere paper] "National parks in the eastern United States harbor important older forest structure compared with matrix forests" which compared metrics of forest structure in eastern national parks with surrounding matrix forests.” In that study, she found that “parks, regardless of park designation (e.g. National Park, National Recreation Area, or National Historical Park), had consistently older forest structure than matrix forests.” Were these older forests also more diverse? The same forest plot databases could answer that question as well! 

I asked Miller if her research changed her view of the ecological value of cultural national parks. “For me, the results of this study were very encouraging, and confirmed that our efforts to monitor and keep even the smallest parks' forests healthy are worthwhile. I am hopeful that the results of these studies are empowering to the resource managers in our cultural parks, and lead to stronger emphasis and additional resources for maintaining healthy forests in these parks. Ultimately our research also makes a strong case for the importance of protected areas in preserving forest biodiversity, even small urban parks.”

This research seems relevant to managers outside of National Parks as well — and Miller hopes that private landowners, state parks, and NGOs take note. She recognizes that resilience to global change is a big contemporary concern for many land managers. “In forests, tree diversity and structural complexity are important components of resilience, and our results demonstrate the positive influence that protection, particularly protection from logging, can have on forest resilience. In addition, park managers often receive pressure from well-meaning members of the public, and even other park staff to "clean up" forests after natural disturbances. In fact, this was typical management practice in the early days of national parks before we knew better.” She tied together her species diversity and forest structure research and reflected that, “coarse woody debris, dead and dying trees, and blow-downs all contribute to the overall diversity of a forest, and our research has shown that protected forests have more of these features than unprotected forests. Hopefully our research can help inform and support managers' decisions not to clean up after disturbances unless there is a concern about human safety (e.g. hazard trees).” Miller and I both work in Acadia — the kind of classic wild National Park that appears in our imaginations and children’s books as an iconic protected landscape. But as Miller points out, “Interestingly, Acadia National Park did not come out as being more diverse than surrounding matrix forests, particularly because the park has more extensive late successional forests that are largely dominated by red spruce.” She explains, “this isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it does suggest that the forests in Acadia may be more vulnerable to stressors than matrix forests, particularly stressors that could impact red spruce. While this isn't the greatest news, this is important information for park managers to know.”

Like many folks in the greater Boston area, I drive hours to Acadia and feel like I am stepping into a wilder, more biodiverse ecosystem when I lace up my hiking boots at the trailhead to Cadillac Mountain. But, there are pockets of protected tree species diversity hidden in plain sight across the eastern US. Miller’s research makes me rethink my summer road tripping plans — perhaps I should seek out some of those old, diverse forests in National Recreation Areas and Historical Parks, maybe some are actually accessible by railroad... I'm going all in on my research for the All Aboard! Cultural National Parks of the East board book pitch! 

References:Miller, K.M., McGill, B.J., Mitchell, B.R., Comiskey, J., Dieffenbach, F.W., Matthews, E.R., Perles, S.J., Schmit, J.P. and Weed, A.S., 2018. Eastern national parks protect greater tree species diversity than unprotected matrix forests. Forest Ecology and Management, 414, pp.74-84.

Miller, K.M., Dieffenbach, F.W., Campbell, J.P., Cass, W.B., Comiskey, J.A., Matthews, E.R., McGill, B.J., Mitchell, B.R., Perles, S.J., Sanders, S. and Schmit, J.P., 2016. National parks in the eastern United States harbor important older forest structure compared with matrix forests. Ecosphere, 7(7).  

Book Review: The Feather Thief

I’ve got my conference roadtrip routine dialed in. This spring I drove to the Northeast Natural History Conference (215 miles each way), the Northeast Alpine Stewardship Gathering (150 miles), the University of Maine Climate Change Institute’s Borns Symposium (250 miles), and (as a fan, not an ecologist) the New England Division 1 College Men’s Ultimate Frisbee Regional Tournament (100 miles). I packed insulated mugs for both hot and iced coffee, a trusty ice scraper for the always-lovely April ice storm in northern Vermont, a light-weight wrap to chase the air conditioning chill on my bare arms after ducking inside on the actually-lovely first 70° days of spring in Maine, and a garment bag of professional clothes to replace my ripped maternity jeans/driving uniform upon rolling into the conference center. I hit the best bakeries (King Arthur’s, Beach Pea, Florence Pie Bar). And on the last few legs, I listened to an amazing, engrossing audiobook: Kirk Wallace Johnson’s The Feather Thief: Beauty, Obsession, and the Natural History Heist of the Century. 

My favorite moment in The Feather Thief is not the poignant description of Alfred Russel Wallace watching four years worth of his South American collections burn at sea from the lifeboat of the Helen, or the almost heroic depiction of the generations of curators of natural history collections shepherding scientific information through the ages. It is the suitcase scene. Author Kirk Wallace Johnson and his wife are packing a suitcase: a laundry-laden re-enactment of Edwin Rist’s 2009 theft of hundreds of bird skins from England’s Natural History Museum at Tring: 

“Do you think two hundred ninety-nine birds would’ve fit in just one?”…Seeing where her questions led—that multiple suitcases would suggest multiple people—I got out a medium-size suitcase. Having seen the window at the Tring, I knew he couldn't have fit one much larger through it. Working together, we spent the next hour building a pile of fake birds. A rolled-up pair of dress socks formed a Blue Chatter. She folded several dozen T-shirts and dish towels in the approximate size of an Indian Crow, and used her leggings to fashion Respendent Quetzal tails.We started packing. Marie-Josée, consulting the Tring’s spreadsheet, counted off each species. When the suitcase was halfway full, we were already at eighty birds. Of course, our experiment was hardly scientific—my washcloth Flame Bowerbirds might have been a bit large—but it seemed as though it would’ve been difficult to fit all of them in a single suitcase.

 By this point in the book, the reader (in my case, the listener) has followed rapt while Johnson evolved from a memoirist trying to escape writer’s block through fly-fishing to an amateur detective with an accordion file of notes on the history of biogeography and conservation biology. In the prologue, when he first hears of Edwin Rist’s theft, Johnson is running a foundation committed to helping Iraqi refugees who have worked for U.S.-affiliated organizations to obtain visas to the U.S. (This American Life listeners may remember Johnson’s story from Nancy Updike’s interview in episode 607). He knows almost nothing about fly-tying, museum bird collections, Alfred Russel Wallace, or how these topics could possible overlap. The Feather Thief weaves these niche interests and the unbelievable robbery of 299 bird skins from the Tring into a compelling, larger-than-life narrative that traces Wallace’s birds of paradise from Southeast Asia to Victorian trends in hat fashion to the International Fly Tying Symposium in Somerset, New Jersey. 

When Johnson begins packing his suitcase with laundry-birds, we are deep into the story — the thief has been caught, the case is closed, the Tring curators are sifting through the remains of bird skins separated from their tags, including Ziploc bags of feathers plucked for individual sale and returned to the museum by a paltry few of the fly-tiers who discovered their eBay purchases were stolen goods. In the suitcase scene are the echoes of all the travels of both the bird and human characters of the book — Wallace’s voyages, the ships laden with feathers for fancy hats, the bird skins and other natural history collections spirited to the English countryside and away from bombed out London during World War II, the American flautist studying at the Royal Academy of Music, the stolen bird skins mailed to eBay customers across the globe, Johnson’s own travels from Iraq to New Mexico’s Red River, to New Jersey, South Africa, Germany, and Norway tracking down fly-tiers associated with Rist. 

Many of the legs of Johnson’s trip will be familiar to ecologists. As a community, we know the namesake of the Wallace Line, we’re familiar with the story of how Wallace’s correspondence coerced the plodding Darwin to finally, publicly share his theory of natural selection, we know that some of the earliest major conservation policy was driven by women who were appalled by the hidden cost of other women's decorative hat choices, and we can expound on the value of natural history collections. Though, The Feather Thief might make us think twice before again exclaiming broadly, “Given [natural history collections] breadth of importance and relevance, it would be difficult to imagine anyone dismissing the value of natural history collections to society relative to the research, education, and training of next generation scientists” (Bradley et al 2014).

Throughout the book, the value of natural history collections to society is routinely dismissed — the tags associated with Wallace’s bird skins are tossed aside and the record-keeping at the Tring is questioned by fly-tiers who suggest the museum should sell their extra skins to fly-tiers instead of keeping them in musty drawers. Reflecting on the scientific loss related to his crime, Rist cavalierly (and wrongly) says, “after a certain period of time—I think about a hundred years—technically speaking, all of the scientific data that can be extracted from them has been extracted from them. You can no longer use DNA, because what you would want to do it for is to prolong and help living birds, which hasn’t really worked anyway, because they’re still going extinct, or will go extinct depending on what happens with the rainforests.” This scene reminded me of another science-heist book, Sex on the Moon, in which a NASA intern steals a lab safe full of moon rocks for kicks. The scientist whose samples were taken tells the FBI that the safe also contained his notebooks documenting thirty years of research. The thief “didn’t remember seeing any green notebooks in the safe. As far as he knew, they hadn’t thrown any thing out, other than the safe itself, so if there were notebooks, they’d still be either in Sandra’s storage shed or in the suitcase that had been with them in the Sheraton. But [the thief] didn’t really want to talk about some phantom notebooks.” In both cases, the scientific value of the stolen goods barely registers with the young, white males who believe they are entitled to these rare items.

In The Feather Thief this tension between the curators who mourn the loss of the skins and tags, and the general public’s perception of the heist — a hilarious tale of an American kid robbing a British museum for feathers so he can tie flys that no one will ever actually fish with! — reflects our biases; we, as scientists, do not clearly understand the difference between how we value natural history collections within our community and how these same collections are valued by those outside of science. 

Finally, I want to note one failing in the book. As a former natural history museum intern (shout out to Worcester’s EcoTarium) and herbarium researcher, I bumped on the clumsy way that Johnson described the record keeping associated with museum specimens. He never explained the accessioning process — how museums enter items, like skins or specimens, into their collections. I think that this oversight diminishes Johnson’s eureka moment when he, late in the book, receives the Tring’s spreadsheet of stolen birds: “it meticulously noted the exact number of skins gathered from Edwin’s apartment the morning of the arrest (174), the number of those with tags (102) and without (72), and the number of skins subsequently returned by mail (19).” Later, this same spreadsheet returns but when Johnson reads the column headings aloud, the first one is “Number of Specimens Missing in July 2009.” This column sounds like it was sourced from a museum database, while the first description reflects numbers collected by the police from a crime scene. Johnson documents the fly-tying community’s dismissal of the Tring’s records — "'Ask Tring the last time they counted all their birds!'"— but drops the ball on presenting clear, compelling evidence to support the museum's count of 299 lost skins. It’s never explicitly explained how the 299 tally is calculated, which is a shame because I imagine that opening the empty drawers in the Tring, matching the tags of the left-behind birds — juvenile males and females without the prized technicolor feathers — to the accession numbers and digital photographs of museum records, creating a Missing List for each species and drawer, all of this would be high drama while also offering a window into the work of natural history collections. What specific research had these skins, the missing and the left-behind, contributed to in the past? Which birds had donated DNA or geographic information to scientists before the heist? I imagined these notes, papers, and reports exist but Johnson doesn’t cover them, except to offer general examples of the kinds of research that rely on collections. And here’s the thing: The List Project literally started as a spreadsheet. Johnson knows spreadsheets. Why is this one, which figures so prominently in Johnson’s moment as a main character, which drives his detective work as he dives deeper into the case, so poorly-described? Just another unsolved mystery of The Feather Thief… 

References:

Johnson, Kirk Wallace. The Feather Thief: Beauty, Obsession, and the Natural History Heist of the Century. Viking, 2018.

Robert D. Bradley, Lisa C. Bradley, Heath J. Garner, Robert J. Baker; Assessing the Value of Natural History Collections and Addressing Issues Regarding Long-Term Growth and Care, BioScience, Volume 64, Issue 12, 1 December 2014, Pages 1150–1158, https://doi.org/10.1093/biosci/biu166

The Hidden Gems of Data Accessibility Statements

Sometimes the best part of reading a scientific paper is an unexpected moment of recognition — not in the science, but in the humanity of the scientists. It’s reassuring in a way to find small departures from the staid scientific formula: a note that falls outside of the expected syntax of Abstract-Introduction-Methods-Results-Discussion. As an early career scientist who is very much in the middle of sculpting dissertation chapters into manuscripts, it’s nice to remember that the #365papers I read are the products of authors who, like me, struggled through revisions and goofed off with coauthors and found bleak humor in the dark moments. 

Ecology blogs, twitter, and the wider media also love noting the whimsical titles, funny (and serious) acknowledgements, memorable figures, and unique determinations of co-authorship order that have appeared in the pages of scientific journals.

I enjoy stumbling on these moments of levity in my TO READ file; last spring I procrastinated formatting my dissertation by avidly reading the Acknowledgements section of anyone I’d even vaguely overlapped with in my PhD program. One place I have not thought to look for serendipitous science humor: the Data Availability Statement. As it turns out, I have been missing an interesting story.

A recent PLOS ONE paper set out to analyze the Data Availability Statements of nearly 50,000 recent PLOS ONE papers. This may sound like a dull topic, but Lisa Federer and coauthors' work is surprisingly engaging, topical, and thought provoking. In March 2014 PLOS unveiled a data policy requiring Research Articles to include a Data Availability Statement providing readers with details on how to access the relevant data for each paper. But, as Federer et al point out “‘availability’ can be interpreted in ways that have vastly different practical outcomes in terms of who can access the data and how.” 

Why do Data Availability Statements matter? In ecology, open data advocates make the case for reproducibility and re-use. So many of us work on small study areas and amass isolated spreadsheets of data, and then publish on our system, maybe throwing a subset of the data we collected into a supplementary file. But big picture questions that look across scales, ecosystems, and approaches rely on big data — and big data is often an amalgam of many small datasets from a wide array of scientists. Small (or any size) datasets that are publicly available, and easy to access in data repositories instead of old lab notebooks or defunct lab computers, are much more likely to have legs, to get re-used and re-tested, and contribute to the field at large.

While PLOS was on the vanguard of Data Accessibility Statements among peer-reviewed journals, Federer’s review of the contents of these Data Availability Statements makes it clear that we are not yet in the shiny future of Open Data. PLOS’ Data Accessibility policy “strongly recommends” that data be deposited in a public repository; Federer found that only 18.2% of PLOS papers named a specific repository or source where data were available. Most Data Accessibility Statements direct the reader to the paper itself or supplementary information. Even among the data repository articles, some Data Accessibility Statements indicated a repository but failed to include a URL, DOI, or accession number — basically sending readers on a wild goose chase to locate their data within the repository. 

Other statements seem to have been entered as placeholders, potentially intended to be replaced upon publication of the article, such as “All raw data are available from the XXX [sic] database (accession number(s) XXX, XXX [sic])” or “The data and the full set of experimental instructions from this study can be found at <repository name>. [This link will be made publically [sic] accessible upon publication of this article.]” These two articles, published in 2016 and 2015, respectively, still contain this placeholder text as of this writing.

 These examples of placeholders that made it into publication are embarrassing, but human, and as Federer points out, Data Accessibility Statements should be reviewed by editors and peer reviewers with the same scrutiny that we apply to study design, statistical analyses, and citations. I have worked on meta-analyses and projects that depend on data from existing digital archives. The frustration of chasing down supplementary information, Dryad DOIs, and GitHub addresses only to find a dead end or a broken corresponding author email address is a feeling akin to discovering squirrels chewing through temperature logger wires halfway through the field season. Federer notes that the tide is turning towards open data: after a rocky start in 2014 — Federer’s team parsed many papers likely submitted before (but published after) the Data Availability policy went into effect — 2015 and 2016 saw the percent of papers that lacked a Data Availability Statement drop dramatically. Over the same time period, Federer notes slight increases in the number of statements referring to data in a repository and fewer that claim the data is in the paper or — shudder — available upon request.

At a broader level, open data is a newly politicized topic. The EPA recently proposed new standards that would ban scientific studies from informing regulatory purposes unless all the raw data was widely available in public and could be reproduced. This is not so much a gold standard as a gag rule.

In a PLOS editorial, John P. A. Ioannidis points out that while “making scientific data, methods, protocols, software, and scripts widely available is an exciting, worthy aspiration” in eliminating all but so-called perfect science from the regulatory process, the EPA is committing to making decisions that “depend uniquely on opinion and whim.” Most of the raw data from past studies are not publicly available — and as Federer’s research shows, even in an age of required Data Availability Statements, open data is still a work in progress. And so we beat on — scientists against anti-science Environmental Protection Agency administrators, borne back ceaselessly in support of publishing accessible, open data as a kind of green light to past research. 

References:

Federer LM, Belter CW, Joubert DJ, Livinski A, Lu Y-L, Snyders LN, et al. (2018) Data sharing in PLOS ONE: An analysis of Data Availability Statements. PLoS ONE 13(5): e0194768. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal. pone.0194768 

Ioannidis JPA (2018) All science should inform policy and regulation. PLoS Med 15(5): e1002576. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pmed.1002576 

National Parks are for the Birds

Happy National Parks week!While I tend to plan trips around plants — Thuja plicata in Olympic National Park, Lathyrus japonicas at Cape Cod National Seashore — I understand the draw of non-botanical Park residents: the iconic bison in Yellowstone, the wolves and moose of Isle Royale, the bald eagles cruising the coast of Acadia. 

Birds are among the most beloved park wildlife, and people — regular visitors, rangers and researchers alike — have been studying birds in National Parks for decades. Bird watchers are among the most consistent and prolific citizen scientists and their observations from National Parks to backyards comprise some of the largest and oldest community-based science research in the country. The most famous datasets of this kind are the Christmas Bird Count and the Breeding Bird Survey. These two datasets — covering a huge spatial area, a long species list, and over three decades of observations — allowed the National Park Service and the National Audubon Society to project bird responses to climate change across the National Park System.

Imagine you are standing in a National Park (I always imagine I am standing in Acadia). Take a moment to identify the avifauna — aka the birds — in this park. Now, zoom into the future, sometimes between 2041 and 2070. What birds are in your National Park now? Has your species list changed? Grown? Shrunk? Park managers, researchers, and bird watchers would all love to know the results from this time traveling exercise. Now, thanks to Dr. Joanna Wu and colleagues, we have these projections available! In a recent PLoS ONE paper, Wu and coauthors use the Christmas Bird Count and Breeding Bird Survey to model climate suitability for over 500 bird species. Then, they zoom into the future and look around at the projected climatic changes in 274 National Park. From this perspective in the future, they write a new species list for each park: which birds are disappearing, and which new colonizers are expected to move in. They find that most parks are likely to become more bird-y — potential colonizations will exceed extirpations, especially in the winter. 

The models of summer and winter distributions were trained on two big, old citizen science projects — the Breeding Bird Survey and the Christmas Bird Count. I asked Wu if it was coincidence that this research was grounded in community-based science, since both Audubon and the National Park Service depend on the general public for support. She writes, “these data sets were the only ones done with survey rigor at a large enough of a spatial scale to allow us to map out bird occupancy across the entire North America. It was certainly meaningful for Audubon as the compilers of the Christmas Bird Count data to rely on our community science products in a scientific study.” This shared enthusiasm between Audubon and the community of birders is reflected in the beautiful website that presents Wu's findings to the public: you can watch species turnover, click on specific parks, and look at national trends.And it’s not just that birds are charismatic fauna with huge fan bases that are obsessed with making lists (I’m looking at you, birdwatchers). Wu notes, “birds are important ecological indicators because they travel much larger distances on an annual basis (as a whole) than plants or mammals, and may thus be able to track climate better than other taxa.” So, when Wu and her colleagues project changes in bird communities at the National Parks, they are looking at the frontline of ecological changes under anthropogenic climate change.

“Though plants and mammals are shifting too, birds are indicators as they’re likely to respond first and more drastically. Of course this leads to a potential mismatch in resource availability as plants, insects, etc. respond at a different rate to climate change, leading to unforeseeable consequences.” 

Finally, I asked Wu what we can do if we live and/or work outside of a National Park. Unfortunately, Acadia is not actually home, and I wanted to know how my actual backyard fit into the bigger picture here. “Our research does show that birds are going to be on the move and the corridors between parks are important to support this change. State parks, wildlife sanctuaries, and even back yards are going to be increasingly important places for birds moving to new areas in light of climate change. One of the things we can do is planting native plants to provide resources for birds as they face unprecedented change to the climates and habitats they evolved in in the coming decades.” 

Enjoy National Park Week! Happy birding! 

Reference:

Wu JX, Wilsey CB, Taylor L, Schuurman GW (2018) Projected avifaunal responses to climate change across the U.S. National Park System. PLoS ONE 13(3): e0190557. https://doi. org/10.1371/journal.pone.0190557

An Epic Joshua Tree Roadtrip & the Reproductive Ecology of an Iconic Southwest Plant

Think of your most amazing four-state roadtrip. How much data did you collect between stops at Disney Land and the hotel pool? Did you stargaze in the Mojave Desert or were you too exhausted after a day of running transects through Joshua Tree National Park? Did you look at the famous Joshua trees with wonder and awe, or did you keep your head down and count individual flowers on these episodic bloomers then hastily move on to the next site to keep tallying reproductive metrics? Did you come home to your computer and upload slideshows of vacation snapshots or did you immediately begin writing up notes like:

Despite its prominence in plant communities of the Mojave Desert, surprisingly little has been published on its reproductive and structural ecology. The majority of research on Joshua tree has focused on its highly coevolved pollination relationship with the Yucca moth. Outside its pollination biology only a few studies have been published on its reproductive ecology.

Thanks to one amazing roadtrip — with a little help from Disney World and Denny’s — new research is shedding some light on patterns of flowering, fruit production, and stand structure of Joshua trees across the Mojave Desert. I did not realize how “hashtag blessed” my own phenology research was until I read Samuel St. Clair and Joshua Hoines’ new PLoS ONE paper on the reproductive ecology of Joshua trees.

My research is a steady annual routine: I study flowering in plant populations that consistently bloom every spring when I arrive in Maine to record them. St. Clair does not have this luxury with Joshua trees — he writes: “episodic blooms make it hard to anticipate a study of its reproduction.” Early in 2013, St. Clair saw Joshua trees blooming at his field sites and called around — the trees seemed to be blooming across their range, he “even heard reports of blooming in Las Vegas and Phoenix yards.” As it became clear that 2013 was a rare opportunity to study reproductive ecology for an unpredictable study organism, St. Clair jumped to take advantage.

“Obviously there was little time to spare. I mapped out a range wide survey of populations, put a travel map together and booked hotels. Took my two sons out of school (ages 10 and 9) for field help in early May and promised them a stop at the Adventure Dome in Las Vegas and a day at Disneyland. We jumped in our car and were off.” St. Clair, a professor at BYU, and Hoines, at the National Park Service, split the fieldwork and covered ten study sites across four states in May and June 2013.

At each site they collected data on the population characteristics (population density, tree height, trunk diameter) and reproduction (number of inflorescences and total fruits, percent of trees in bloom, fruit mass, seed number) of 120 Joshua trees. That’s 1200 trees — from 60 100-meter transects! — in under two months. St. Clair shared some memorable moments, “A grasshopper outbreak at Lytle Rach that had the boys in tears, Kids eat free at Denny’s at least 4 or 5 nights and Disney Land was awesome. The boys still talk about the trip fondly.” The opportunistic rush for reproductive data revealed interesting patterns across the climate gradient of the Joshua tree’s range. At warmer sites, the Joshua trees produced more flowers and seeds, but stand density was lower, while at cooler sites, there were more Joshua trees but fewer flowers and fruit per tree. So while warming temperatures may be good news for reproductive success, the establishment of new Joshua trees seems constrained by warmer temperatures. I asked St. Clair what these results meant for Joshua trees facing climate change. “I think the bigger limitations moving forward will probably be in the seedling establishment and recruitment phases of development.  The fruiting success suggests that the pollinator populations are intact which is good—we’ve see pollination failure due to a lack of yucca moth in populations of Banana Yucca in a recent paper we published.” 

The future of Joshua trees in Joshua Tree National Park is not just a concern for scientists. The official twitter account of the Park (@JoshuaTreeNPS) garned five minutes of fame last November when they began tweeting about the potential effects of climate change on the park’s biodiversity. Secretary of the Interior Zinke apparently reprimanded the Joshua Tree National Park superintendant for these social media science lessons.The idea that a national park should be dissuaded from sharing research on the natural and cultural resources — including, the namesake of that park — with visitors and general public is truly absurd.

I think this means that it is our responsibility to tweet out the results and implications of St Clair and Hoines’ new paper and continue the conversation that @JoshuaTreeNPS started. 

Reference:

St. Clair SB, Hoines J (2018) Reproductive ecology and stand structure of Joshua tree forests across climate gradients of the Mojave Desert. PLoS ONE 13(2): e0193248. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0193248

Academia & Parenthood: Advocating for Child-friendly Conferences

I’m currently navigating the stormy and under-charted academic conference-childcare seas. My daughter hasn’t attended an academic conference since she was an infant. During our parental leave, my (non-academic) partner and I banged out two trips to Maine for regional meetings, but in the two and half years since, I’ve been traveling, presenting, and poster-ing solo. In that first year, I schlepped my breast pump across conference centers and through TSA lines. Now, I leave room in my bag for tiny t-shirts and kid-friendly swag. Next month, my kid will come with me to my MS alma mater for a conference in my old grad school home. 

The “childcare-conference conundrum” — how can parents balance conference attendance and childcare and how can conferences accommodate these (mostly) early-career scientist-parents— is widespread in academia, but these discussions seemed to be relegated to a whisper network of moms-mentoring-moms. When I first searched for advice on conferencing-with-a-baby/parenting-with-a-career, it was mostly through informal channels. There were conversations at women-in-science events and panels, tips traded through twitter, and hard-won insights passed from lab to lab.

This month, PNAS published Rebecca M. Calisi and a Working Group of Mothers in Science’s ‘How to tackle the childcare-conference conundrum.’ In this piece, Calisi and coauthors clearly define the challenges of parenting while pursuing a career in science and outline four concrete suggestions for conferences to better support academic parents. They write:

“Using [these] guidelines also helps normalize pregnancy, lactation, and the childcare needs of working parents, especially working mothers. These guidelines may seem burdensome to conference organizers; however, they entail considerations that parents take into account every day while maintaining an active career.”

This Working Group of Mothers in Science opinion piece is simple, clear, and groundbreaking. This is a departure from the model of moms-mentoring-moms — it is an outward-facing, policy-ready call to action for institutional changes. The moms-mentoring-moms model can be great for individuals, but it does not address the structural inequalities facing parents in academia. Instead, the forty-five co-authors write: “These recommendations are directed toward research societies and conference organizers who are willing to take a leadership role in creating solutions, either incrementally or on a large scale.”

The recommendations are packaged in a memorable acronym, CARE: Childcare, Accommodate families, Resources, and Establish social networks. Each recommendation is outlined in detail, from the physiological needs behind specific accommodations (for example, how baby-wearing, on-site childcare, and lactation rooms to support breastfeeding parents) to a range of possible policies and actions for conference organizers to adopt. In my own experience, this year I’m attending an intimate one-day science symposium at my field site, medium-sized weekend regional meetings, and a huge week-long international conference. There are CARE recommendations that could improve every one of these conferences.

I plan to share this PNAS paper with the conference organizers next month when I arrive to give two talks with my two year old in tow. Part of the appeal of bringing my child to this conference is the opportunity to return to my old grad school and share my whole self — the scientist & the parent that I’ve become — with my old colleagues, grad cohort, and mentors. Earlier this month, I chatted with PLoS Ecology Community Editor Jeff Atkins on his podcast Major Revisions. We talked about academic parenthood, kid field assistants, and my dramatic balance (see-saw?) of family and career as a postdoc. I spent a lot of the last year as an absent academic parent while I traveled for research, training, conferences, and longs stay at my “home” institution, a university that’s actually a four-hour drive from my “home” home. Throughout this stretch, I’ve received amazing moms-mentoring-moms mentorship, wonderful childcare and co-parenting, and enthusiastic support from all professional corners. A combination of luck and privilege has buoyed my scientist-parenthood journey. What Calisi’s CARE recommendations do is provide this kind of support with equity and inclusiveness to all parents at academic conferences. What I need — what my peers in the early-career parenthood cohort, and the grad students coming up behind us need — is not more stories about having-it-all, work-life balance anecdotes, or advice on how individuals can adjust to parenthood in academia. We need the CARE recommendations, we need institutional support, and we need these to continue to be published in high-impact journals in our field like PNAS. 

Finally, I should disclose that I’m writing about ‘How to tackle the childcare-conference conundrum’ while lounging in my hotel room 1300 miles away from my kid. I’m visiting the National Lacustrine Core Facility with samples I cored from my ponds in Maine. My kid is old enough to FaceTime, my breast pump is gathering dust in storage, traveling is much easier on both of us at this point, and I am determined to enjoy it. For me, enjoying the travel means immersing myself in college basketball from my hotel bed, and uninterrupted evening manuscript revisions that run right through toddler bedtime. One of the benefits of the support system outlined in ‘How to tackle the childcare-conference conundrum’ is the ability to decide to travel without children. This option is often not a choice but a necessity, and if I had waited until it was easy to travel without my child, I would have missed out on at least a year and a half of research, training, and conference opportunities. My cushy visiting-researcher-in-a-hotel-life now is possible (and mommy-guilt-free) because people like a Working Group of Mothers in Science have advocated and worked to shift the culture of academia. Now, we have the CARE roadmap to shift the policies and culture at our conferences. So, with gratitude and nine uninterrupted hours of sleep, I salute the amazing work of Calisi and Working Group of Mothers in Science!