Red in tooth and claw

Hints of spring in eastern Ontario….

One crisp, clear March day a couple of years ago, I found myself driving out to the Queen’s University Biological Station with a friend.  She was going out to do fieldwork, and I was going out to help her (in an effort to pretend that I still did fieldwork).  It was a typical Ontario pre-spring day: the snowbanks along the roadside were almost as tall as the car, and the sun glinted off the drifts of snow in the fields.  However, there was also a faint warmth in the air, and the ice on many of the lakes and ponds was covered with a thin film of water and a fine webbing of cracks.

Just before we turned down the road leading to the field station, we passed a group of three deer standing somewhat forlornly in the snow along the edge of a large pond.  Anyone who has ever driven along a country road is well aware that deer tend to be flighty creatures, and these three were no exception.  As we passed them, they all jumped into action, taking the easiest route of escape – straight out onto the pond.

My friend brought the car to an abrupt halt, and we sat there, horrified, watching as their headlong flight was quickly reduced to a slipping, sliding walk.  Even in the car, we could hear the ominous creaks and cracks coming from the ice.  It was the same feeling you get driving past a car accident: we didn’t want to watch, but it was hard to look away.  We were sure it was only a matter of time until one of the deer fell through the ice and was unable to get back out – and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.

 

This is one of the paradoxes of fieldwork: while the job naturally attracts people who want nothing more than to spend their days hugging trees and cuddling bunnies, doing the work often means standing aside and watching while a fox or a hawk rips the bunny apart.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the first time I opened a nest box door to check on the family of five tree swallow nestlings inside – only to find a huge, satisfied-looking black rat snake curled up in the nest instead.  As I looked at him, I could see five bumps in his body, one for each nestling, and I had an (admittedly irrational) urge to grab him by the tail and shake him hard, until they all came flying out of his mouth.

Surprise! Not quite who I was expecting to find in this box…

Even worse was the first time I opened a box to reveal a nest full of dead nestlings.  This happens surprisingly often, when cold snaps in the early spring make food hard to come by, particularly for aerial insectivores like tree swallows.  In these stressful circumstances, parents may attempt to keep feeding the nestlings for a while, but at some point, most adults prioritize their own survival (or rather, future reproductive potential) and abandon the nest.  This also means that sometimes, you come across nests full of heartbreakingly cold, hungry, weak nestlings.  It’s hard to close the box and walk away, knowing that the next time you open it, they will all likely be dead.

Abandonment, predation, and death are not easy things to witness, and it can be tough to stand back and get out of nature’s way – especially if, like most field biologists, you’ve developed a certain amount of fondness for your study organism.  Sometimes, it’s tempting to do crazy things to try and fix the situation.  I’ve certainly screamed at more than my fair share of snakes, although it’s never bothered them much.  And the first time I came across a nest of dying birds, I begged my boss to let me adopt them.  (Which, incidentally, is not just against the law, but also virtually impossible to do, as simply keeping them adequately fed would be a full time job.)  Years later, when running my own field season in the Okanagan, it was my turn to explain to my field assistants why they couldn’t adopt the abandoned baby bluebirds.

Unfortunately, standing back and watching nature take its course is a necessary part of the job.  It’s often hard to resist the temptation to intervene – but if we do, we mess with the very thing we’re all out there to study: natural selection and survival of the fittest.  The parents of those abandoned baby birds will build another nest and give it another try when the weather turns warm again.  And, as much as the birder in me objects, the snake needs to eat too.  My job, when I’m out there, is only to observe – not interfere.

 

As for the deer we saw on the treacherous ice that day?  We sat watching them, on the edge of our seats, for at least two full minutes – afraid to keep driving in case we caused the sudden movement that made them fall through the ice.  (Full disclosure: not only was I worried about the deer, I was also very concerned that, if they did fall through the ice, my friend and I were going to have to jump in to the freezing water to try and help them – see previous point about doing crazy things.)

But in the end, the ice held and they made it safely to the opposite shore.  As they scrambled up the bank and disappeared into the forest, we couldn’t help but cheer for them.  As hard as it is sometimes to witness the cruel side of nature, that cruelty makes the small victories all the sweeter.

I am slowly going crazy… 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… switch

Crazy going slowly am I… 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

For the past 30 days I’ve been finishing the data collection for a major experiment that spanned three field seasons. I’ve spent the vast majority of the month sitting next to experimental plant communities that contain anywhere from 8-40 species. I counted each individual of each species, pulled them all out of the ground, and then sorted them into paper bags by species, and by whether or not the plant is reproductive. Each community took up to one hour to completely harvest and with 200 communities in total… well…yep…it’s been a long summer.

As much fun as data collection can be, it’s also a tedious, sometimes painful task – especially when you need very detailed data to answer a given question. This got me thinking about all the ways I have tried to not lose my mind doing tedious field tasks over the years.

Sing

Singing is an excellent way to pass the time, and it’s easy to sing and still concentrate on the task at hand. Over the years, campfire type songs have always been a favourite, or other songs from childhood. The whole field crew will likely know the song, they’re catchy, and they’re fun. One thing I’ll warn you about though…don’t sing songs like “99 bottles of beer on the wall” or other tunes that count you down. By the time you get to 4 bottles of beer on the wall and realize you still have 194 plots left it could have the wrong effect on your motivation.

Learn a new language

I took French growing up and loved it. I lost touch with it as I entered post-secondary and really regret that. In my early years in the field, I would try to speak French, which we lovingly called “field French” because it was mostly just English words spoken in a French Canadian accent. Years later I would look up new French words each night, and then try to use them in the field the next day. And a couple years ago, I was lucky to have a field assistant who was fluent in French, and she would quiz me with various French translations. It’s a great way to pass the time and it’s a useful skill to have!

The “favourites” game

One of my favourite things to do with my field assistants is play the “favourite game” (no pun intended). We each take turns asking one another about our favourite hobbies, foods, colours…anything really. It’s entertaining and it really helps with team bonding.

Reward system

New to this field season, I started a fieldwork rewards program: one mini-Reese’s peanut butter cup for every plot we successfully count and harvest. It might encourage poor eating habits, and it might rot our teeth, but let me tell you, it is surely the most motivating way to make it through the day.

I best be off to bed now, as another long field day awaits me.

Crazy going slowly am I… 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

Oh the places you can swim

One of my favourite things about fieldwork has nothing to do with the work itself.  For me, one of the best parts of being in the field is the chance to swim in natural water.

I’ve always loved the water, and taken every possible opportunity to swim in every available body of water, from pools to lakes to the ocean.  No matter where I’m swimming, the feeling of moving through water is wonderful; for a klutz like me, feeling graceful and fluid is a welcome change.  But as much as I love pools, they just don’t compare to swimming outside in natural water, surrounded by the green of trees, the pink and grey of rocks, and the blue of the sky.

I’m at my happiest when I’m floating on my back in a lake on a hot summer day, staring up at a blue sky scattered with clouds, and letting the water bob me up and down.  And there’s no better way to end a day in the field than by submerging yourself in water and feeling the stress, frustration, and sweat of a hard day’s work wash away.

Swimming is such an integral part of fieldwork for me that I’ve gone to some rather extreme lengths to get in my field swim.  For example, during some recent fieldwork in Manitoba, I decided that my field experience would not be complete without a swim in Lake Winnipeg.  Never mind that the weather was unseasonably cool, or that we never got back from the field before dinnertime…the lake was there, which meant that I had to swim in it.

I quickly discovered several…interesting…aspects of Lake Winnipeg that make swimming an adventure.  For one thing, the water is an opaque muddy brown, so dark that you can’t see your own feet when submerged.  It’s a bizarre feeling, jumping into water with absolutely no idea what else might be in there, right below your feet.

But for me, the real problem was the horse flies, which turned swimming in the lake into an extreme sport.  Each time I went swimming, no sooner had I ducked my head under, than one of these huge biting flies would come buzzing out of nowhere.  Usually she would bring at least one friend, and the two of them would circle my head in an ecstasy of excitement about having found a warm-blooded creature in the midst of all that water.

Swimming then became a race between me and the demon flies, as they tried their best to get their pound of flesh and I tried my best to thwart them.  As they circled closer to my head, honing in on me, I would duck under the water and swim for as long as I could hold my breath, then pop up and enjoy the blissful silence – which would inevitably be broken within milliseconds by a frantic buzz as the flies noticed me again.  When I got out of breath, I’d flip onto my back, leaving just my face showing above the water.  The flies would counter by landing on my forehead and nose, forcing me to swat wildly at them.  In the end, I managed to avoid getting bitten, but every swim was frantic and punctuated with episodes of ungainly flailing.  I’m sure I gave people on the shore a good laugh – but the swim was still worth it.

The inviting (?) waters of Lake Winnipeg

While swimming in Lake Winnipeg was definitely an adventure, the lake itself didn’t feel all that different from the Canadian Shield lakes I’m used to.  But sometimes, in the course of fieldwork, I’ve resorted to swimming in some pretty odd places.  Take, for example, my field season in the Dominican Republic.  You would think the swimming opportunities would be boundless on an island renowned for its beach resorts.  However, when you’re up in the mountains, hundreds of kilometers from the nearest beach, you have to make do with what you have.  In our case, that was the little canal that ran past our camp and down into the nearby village.

Canal or lap pool? Beggers can’t be choosers!

While doing ‘laundry’ (i.e. making a valiant attempt to rinse at least the top layer of dirt out of my field clothes) in this canal one day, I realized that it could, in theory, be used as a lap pool.  The current was strong, the water was cool and clear, and the canal was just wide enough for a comfortable breast stroke.  So as soon as we’d hung the laundry up to dry, I decided to try it.

At first, I thought I’d found the perfect solution to satisfy my swim cravings: the canal was refreshing in the tropical heat, and while the current was challenging (I certainly couldn’t float on my back for any length of time without being pushed downhill towards the village), it was great exercise and lots of fun.

The after-effects of canal swimming…

It wasn’t until I got out of the water that I noticed my arm was just a bit itchy.  The itch built over the next few hours…until the back of my arm was swollen and covered in welts.  When I mentioned the problem to the family that lived at the camp, they managed to convey to me, using a mixture of Spanish and English, that the canal was a favourite spot for many things – including a very tiny, but very effective, biting bug.

So my first canal swim was also my last canal swim, and I resigned myself to a swim-free field season.  However, the dry days were more than made up for when we took a brief trip to the closest beach (an ~8 hour drive away), and I got my first chance to swim in the Caribbean sea.

Now *that’s* more like it… the Caribbean sea near Oviedo.

But no matter how many fantastic (and…er…interesting) places I’ve gone swimming in the field, none of them can top swimming at the very first place I did fieldwork, the Queen’s University Biological Station.  Down a path worn by generations of feet, out of sight from the main station road, is a slightly ramshackle metal diving board hanging over a quiet stretch of Opinicon Lake.  During the day, the water is warm and clear, making it easy to see the group of sunfish that hang out under the diving board, and the shore is bordered by thick trees and the occasional glimpse of grey rock.  At night, you can float on your back, stare up at the stars and count the passing fireflies.  It’s a site of laughter, conversation, and splashes, but also a site for quiet contemplation.  Most of all, it’s a place where you can relax and let the lake water do its quiet work to wash your worries away.

This land is our land

In honour of Canada Day, we wanted to highlighted some of the cool, interesting, funny, or neat stories about fieldwork in Canada that we have shared on Dispatches from the Field over the years. Our blog tells stories from fieldwork happening all across the country, and also across many different species. We do truly live in a great country – check out these blogs for yourself!

Beginning in the west, Catherine D. shares why everyone loves bluebirds in the Okanagan Valley, British Columbia,

Julia S. shows us the varied habitats of Alberta’s boreal forest,

and Krista C. shares her adventures in the Land of Living Skies in Grasslands National Park, Saskatchewan.

 

From the great white North, Michelle V. explains how she prepared for polar bear fieldwork.

Julia C. and Rachael H. share their hilarious (sorry Julia) beaver story from the Muskoka region of Ontario where they almost flip the canoe, while Melanie S. explains how help is always where you least expect it.

 

 

 

Southern Ontario is quite busy with field biologists, with Jenna S. running around in fields chasing butterflies, Toby T. listening for what the bat said, and Amanda X. searching for snakes on a [fragmented] plain.

 

Fieldwork is very popular at the Queen’s University Biology Station in southeastern Ontario.  Amanda C. spends her nights at the symphony listening to the frog chorus,

 

 

 

Amanda T. collects beautiful wildflower seeds (being both wonderful and disastrous at the same time),

 

Liz P. plays hide and go seek with whip-poor-wills,  and Adam M. creates robots for sampling daphnia.

 

 

 

 

 

As we head to the east coast, Michelle L. shares what it is like to collect salmon eggs in New Brunswick…in the winter.

We will leave you with a short variation on a great song:

This land is your land, this land is my land,

From Bonavista, to Vancouver Island (or studying seabirds off the coast of Labrador with Anna T. to Haida Gwaii with Sarah W.)

From the Arctic Circle to the Great Lakes waters, (or what to do with your not so “down time” in Nunavut with Kathryn H. to getting stuck in beaver pond sampling aquatic invertebrates in Muskoka with Alex R.)

This land was made for you and me.

Clash of the cattle

In my tenure as a field biologist, I’ve experienced and had to deal with many problems…unfortunate events…hideous disasters…whatever you want to call them. Catherine’s blog about the revenge of the ruminants from earlier this month got me thinking about an encounter that I had with these beefy creatures way back at the start of my time doing fieldwork.

Back in my first field season in the summer of 2009, our lab was setting up a long term experiment (about 10 years) to assess the effects of climate change on temperate grassland communities. The first step after getting the overall design and relevant details in order was to find an appropriate field site. We trekked around all over QUBS’ properties, and eventually found a good-sized piece of land on the Bracken tract. It met all of the criteria including having a high species richness, easily accessible by foot and was relatively flat. There had been some cattle grazing allowed on the property but the farmer assured us that they were now back on his property, and for good.

This particular study had 240 replicate 1 x 1 m plots. Treatments included plots with excess water added each week, control plots, and those with rainout shelters to minimize the access of water. There were also nutrient addition plots, and those with herbivore exclosures. Needless to say, it was a huge experiment. We spent a solid week mapping and measuring out the field. We set up the 240 plots and then used 6 different colours of flags to mark them all with their respective treatments. By the end of the week, we had made serious progress. We even left early that Friday just because we had worked so hard.

An example of what the rainout shelters look like. 

We came back Monday ready to start putting up some of the shelters and fences together for the treatments. But the field wasn’t exactly as we had left it. In fact, it wasn’t even close to the condition we left it in. This would have been early June, so the grass was well over a foot tall and there were buttercups ad hawkweeds blooming galore. At least, there were when we had left the field on Friday.

Now the grass was barely an inch tall. The flags were no longer upright. Some were crushed. Some were torn to shreds. Some were just completely gone. And the source of this damage didn’t cover it up well. They certainly left their mark. There were cow patties all over the field site.

This led to a very awkward and upsetting call to our Supervisor about the state of the field, and the wasted hours of work put into setting it up. The next week a bunch of guys came down from Queen’s and installed a barbed wire fence around the site to prevent this from happening again. Luckily, the story has a happy ending because this ended up being an isolated incident and the cows have never broken into the field site after the fence was installed, and the experiment is now going into it’s 6^th year.

The cows make an appearance now and then, and in large numbers, often around 70 at a time. As free-ranging beef cattle they aren’t exactly friendly or unfriendly. If you look them in the eyes, they run the other way. But 5 minutes later you’ll see their heads poking out of the bush wanting another look at what you’re doing. Occasionally one gets stuck in the barbed wire trying to get a taste of the grass in our site. They have at least a hundred acres to roam free on, but of course, the grass is always greener on the other side…or so they say.

They think we can’t see them

Oh, there they are!

Why I fell in love with #fieldwork?

In my third year of Undergrad I took a population ecology course that involved a weekend long trip to the Queen’s University Biological Station. We were doing a study about patterns in size and abundance with one of my favourite plants, milkweed (Asclepsias syriaca). We had worked in a disturbance or no disturbance component to the study and as such needed to choose the proper habitats. We hiked out down the road leading to QUBS to the edge of the main road and set up some plots along a mowed fence line. We stood there discussing methodology and sampling methods for the first several minutes. From the east corner of the field three beautiful horses started trotting towards us. Of course, the data collection was derailed at that point so everyone could get a chance to pet the horses. While this took time away from our data collection, everyone was enjoying themselves so the TA just rolled with it.

Milkweed – A. syriaca

When we got back to work, we needed to set up a random plot and measure the height of each milkweed that was in our plot and record the abundance. I measured the plants and my partner recorded the measurements and counts. I knelt down on the damp September grass and placed the metre stick at the base of the plant. As my eyes followed the numbers up the stick, it went dark…almost as if a giant black cloud rolled over the sky.  My eyes quickly glanced up and there was the head of one of those giant horses staring right down at me.

The culprit

Our eyes met and before I realized the horse’s intentions, it was gone. The milkweed was uprooted from the ground and hanging from the horse’s mouth. I stood up and stared amusingly into the horses eyes. She just stared back at me with the milkweed hanging out of her mouth. And then just as quick as she tore it up she bit it in two and then spit it at my feet.

I patted her head and mentioned to the horse that I didn’t think horses liked milkweed and that was a lesson learned. I crouched back down, picked up and measured the two slobbery pieces of the milkweed and moved on to the next tallest milkweed, and before I could even place the ruler at the base of the plant *snap*. This time it wasn’t uprooted but just snapped in half.

She stood there for a split second with that milkweed in her mouth and then “pfft, spat!” spitting it out this time, on her side of the fence.

I stood up and looked her in the eyes with a “so this is how it’s gonna be, eh?” glare. She stared back. Tail swaying in the wind swatting deer flies left and right.

I knelt down by the next plant. And just like the rest…gone. Eventually, we just had to retreat. This horse wanted nothing, and yet absolutely everything to do with our data collection. We moved our experiment to the other side of the road, where it was still a disturbed fence line, but there were no horses to munch on our data.

Of course this experience was frustrating, but it was equally entertaining and was my first fieldwork experience. It remains one of those capstone experiences that likely played a huge role in shaping my interests in ecology and fieldwork today.

I have visited these same horses every year since 2008.

Planning a field season? The short answers, and the long ones too.

It’s that time of year again. While, it is still -20C here in Kingston, ON… believe it or not spring is on the way! Labs here at Queen’s are busily interviewing for summer field assistants, rummaging through closets in search of missing equipment and planning out the work for the summer months. This is the first time in a long, long time I do not have a full field season in my near future, but nevertheless the little fieldwork I do have to do will require some serious planning. And that really got me thinking how one goes through the motions of getting ready to head out for fieldwork. So today I’ll highlight some of the questions to ask yourself as you are preparing for a field season.

 

Question: Do you have a plan?

Short answer: Yes, but plans mean nothing in the field.

Long answer: Ok, they don’t mean nothing per say.  Yes, every field season I plan out all of my work to the tee. I consider what projects need to be implemented, and what the timing for set up, monitoring and data collection is. I also consider existing projects and what they might need in terms of maintenance and harvesting. And of course, you have to slot in things like travel time, some wiggle room for bad weather (or hideous disasters), time for data entry, time for yourself to ensure you don’t go crazy, etc. And so each year I tediously plan out each minute detail of my upcoming field season in hopes that everything goes smoothly.

The reality is that things in the field are completely unpredictable. Now and then by chance something will go exactly as planned, but for the most part, something big or small will go wrong. That always makes me question the merits of actually making lists, but then I think to myself… Can you imagine if I didn’t make a list at all? Those tiny hiccups would probably have escalated to hideous disasters and any hideous disasters could have escalated to… well, you get the point!

So planning is critical. But plan on a broader scale, and leave lots, and lots, and lots, and lots of time for troubleshooting.

 

Question: Do you have everything you need?

Short answer: You never have everything you need. And you never will.

Long answer: Lists are essential in the field, especially when it comes to what physical items you need to bring with you. However, a lot of times, you are limited by what you can carry, your geographic location, your poor memory and unforeseen roadblocks.

I can recall one specific time in the field when I was cutting up hardware cloth (fencing) to make vole exclosures. In the past we had made deer exclosures using similar materials and used rabbit cage clips and a special tool for those clips to keep the fencing together. We got a tonne of rabbit clips and 2 extra pairs of the specialised hand tools, and as arrived at our site we quickly realized that each clip is about ¼ inch in length. Now that was not a problem when we were making deer cages out of 1 inch hardware cloth. But for vole cages out of ¼ inch hardware cloth, that was going to be a problem. They just wouldn’t fit. And now there we were in the middle of nowhere, with a whole day of cage-making ahead and yet, no way of making cages. Luckily, we realized that when we unrolled the hardware cloth there was a bunch of pliable wire holding the rolls together, and with a bit of creativity, we had a make shift twist tie that actually worked to hold our cages together! While that was certainly a story of fieldwork success, it was something that was well-planned for, on a list, and still managed to present a challenge!

 

Question: Do you have everyone you need?

Short answer: Let’s hope. We did forget Jen in the parking lot that one time…

Long answer: I have learned over the years that who I take in the field with me can make or break a field season. I have always taken a lot of care in the interviewing process to find people that are not only suitable candidates on paper, but also have a personality, and attitude about fieldwork that fits nicely with the rest of the field crew. And importantly, I need someone that can handle me.

I took a road trip with my brother and sister a couple of years ago, and I can’t even count the number of times my brother said “Why are you such a spaz?” to me during the trip. At the time I had no idea what he was talking about. But looking back on it, he is totally right. I wouldn’t say I overreact (about everything) but I have been known to freak out, about big things, about little things… it’s just part of who I am I guess. My best field assistants, were able to not only deal with that (good for them), but were constructive and actively involved in troubleshooting any problems we encountered, they were positive and enthusiastic, and are all still great friends of mine.

And in the end, that’s what it’s all about. I have had excellent luck with field assistants over my many years in the field. I bring people in the field with me that look solid on paper, but importantly, people I can envision forming a friendship with. Once you’ve made the friend connection with your field crew, the teamwork, the collaboration, the enthusiasm, the good science and the fun all just comes naturally.

Possible impossibilities

Over the last year, I’ve come to realize that one of the major downsides to writing up your thesis is sitting behind a desk for 16 hours a day – especially when you’re used to spending lots of your time outside.  So to remedy the situation, I’ve started taking every possible opportunity to sneak in a little fieldwork.  Early last spring, I decided to get my field fix by heading up to QUBS with a friend who needed to catch a few black-capped chickadees for her own thesis work.

It was a beautiful early March day – frigid, but bright and blustery.  Mounds of snow glittered in the dazzling sunlight, and the lake was still covered in ice.  We arrived at my friend’s study site, and set up the Potter trap (essentially a cage with trap doors over a feeding platform; when birds go for the food they trigger the doors and trap themselves), and backed off to await our first hapless victim.

Then we waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.

The woods, usually alive with movement and calls, had never seemed so silent. Even though I knew better, it seemed to me that there were no chickadees within 5 miles of our trap.  Sitting and waiting for something that seems increasingly unlikely to ever happen tends to cause your mind to wander.  As I sat there that day (getting progressively colder), I found myself thinking about all the time I’ve spent trying to catch birds over the years.

Ornithologists – indeed, all field biologists – frequently have to catch wild animals for research purposes.  However, although this is often the key step on which all subsequent steps depend, it is usually only briefly mentioned in the Methods section of scientific papers, glossing over all the effort, patience, and utter frustration involved in the process.  In reality, catching birds is a study in contradictions: simultaneously extremely stressful and extremely tedious.  This became particularly apparent to me during my first PhD field season in British Columbia.

I arrived in BC in early February, fired up with enthusiasm and determination.  My first goal was to find and catch as many wintering western bluebirds as possible.  On our first morning in the field, I dragged my field assistant out into the cold and snow, and headed for a place where (according to our sources) we’d be sure to see bluebirds.

Sure enough, we had only been walking along the trail for a few minutes when a small flock of the little thrushes appeared and settled into a nearby tree.  I threw down my bag and tugged out our net and poles, flinging supplies every which way in a frenzy to get set up and catch my first bird.

It seemed to take forever to get the net up.  We had to use a rubber mallet to pound the aluminum poles into the frozen ground.  Then we began to string the net between them.  But mist nets are delicate things, made of fine mesh to make them more difficult for birds to see.  They tangle easily and are quite difficult to handle with gloves; the more I hurried, the more complicated the tangles seemed to be.  So off came my gloves, thrown unceremoniously on the ground with the other discarded equipment, and I started untangling the net with my numb fingers.

Finally everything was in place, ready to go…at which point the little flock of bluebirds took off over the hill, leaving us sitting there in silence.

Having spent the effort getting the net up, I thought we might as well stay and see if the birds came back.  So we plopped down into the snow, staring at the empty net, blowing in the fierce wind.  The 6 by 4 foot stretch of mesh looked impossibly small in the big, wide world.  It seemed ludicrous to imagine that a bluebird would ever occupy that particular space – why would it, when there were so many other places it could be?

The wide open spaces of the Okanagan – and one lonely little mist net.

I was starting to get quite discouraged when suddenly soft chattering and whistles heralded the return of the bluebird flock.  I held my breath as they approached the general area of the net – and then let it out as they sailed straight over it to perch in a nearby tree.

Messing with my head: a male bluebird perches on the mist net.

The next thirty minutes felt a bit like being on a rollercoaster.  My hopes would go up, up, up as the flock fluttered their way towards the net…and then drop like a stone as they bypassed it.  (Or, in several extremely irritating cases, actually perched on the net itself.)

But then…it finally happened!  One of the males in the flock misjudged his trajectory, hit the mesh, and got tangled in its strands.  Despite my frozen and creaky muscles, I leapt to my feet, running full out towards the net.  But just as I stretched out my hand to grab him, he managed to free himself and took off into the nearby trees – quite literally slipping through my fingers.  (This happens more often than you might think.  In fact, just a few weeks later, a camera crew from a local station, filming us for a news story, witnessed a similar mishap.  They also recorded my frustrated response, which – if I’m going to be honest – involved a fair amount of profanity.  Luckily they edited the footage before it hit the news!)

We never did catch a bluebird that day…or the next…or the next.  In fact, although we put in roughly ten hours of effort a day, every day, for the next six weeks, we only managed to catch seven bluebirds in total. That works out to approximately 0.017 bluebirds per hour effort – a pretty high ratio of time spent sitting around to time actually spent handling a bird.  There were days when, as I stared at our little net blowing in the breeze, the idea of capturing a bird seemed absurd: a complete impossibility.

But then, every once in awhile, there would be a bird hanging in our net and the impossible would suddenly become possible.  And every time that happened, the feeling of triumph would make all the days of frustration worthwhile.  It’s amazing how good outsmarting a bird can make you feel!

The end result of all that work: putting a band on a bluebird.

Thinking outside the lab

Shortly after starting my PhD, I was assigned to TA a class called “Diversity of Plants”.  As an ornithologist, I did not feel entirely confident teaching undergraduates about plants.  But what worried me most was the first lab, which focused on how to use a microscope properly.  “This is going to be a disaster,” I lamented to a friend over the phone.  “How am *I* qualified to teach people to use a microscope?”

“Why do you say that?” my friend asked. “I would think you’re actually extremely qualified.  Don’t you use microscopes all the time?”

I stared at the phone in consternation.  “Um…I study bird behaviour, so…not so much, no.”

There was a long silence, and then my friend said uncertainly, “But you’re a scientist!  All scientists use microscopes…don’t they?”

 

My friend is not alone in her misconception.  For most people, the word ‘scientist’ conjures images of serious people wearing white lab coats and safety goggles, ensconced in pristine labs full of Erlenmeyer flasks and microscopes.  Few people immediately picture dirty, windswept individuals wearing an excess of plaid, large floppy hats, and socks with sandals.  Fieldwork isn’t usually the first thing the general public associates with the word ‘science’.

And this misconception often extends to science students as well.  As an undergraduate in Biology, I spent a lot of time gathered around lab benches counting fruit flies or looking at slides – but I didn’t really understand that science doesn’t always take place in a laboratory until I was in third year.  That year, my ecology course went on a mandatory weekend field trip to the Queen’s University Biological Station.  This trip was a long-standing tradition in the course; its purpose was essentially to introduce us to some of the questions, methods, and experiences of field biology.

Years later, that trip is one of the few things that stands out vividly in my memories of undergrad.  I remember dragging myself out of bed obscenely early to catch the bus to QUBS (and getting carsick on the twists and turns of the gravel road).  I remember stepping out of the bus into quiet air that smelled faintly of pine and rain.  I remember tromping through a field wet with dew to check live traps for small mammals, and I definitely remember the large and extremely angry weasel that the lab coordinator very carefully released from one of the traps.  I remember discovering that chickadees, although small, pack a surprisingly powerful bite, and the moment I realized that the chest waders I was wearing to seine for sunfish had a rather large leak.  Most of all, I remember being completely entranced by the whole experience.  That field trip was my first real exposure to the world of field biology – and clearly it made a lasting impression.

Seining for sunfish in Lake Opinicon.

 

Fast forward a few (okay, many) years, and suddenly I found myself TAing that ecology course.  I was really excited to help organize and teach those field weekends – not least because it would be my first chance as a PhD student to teach something I felt passionate about.   But I was also a bit apprehensive about it.  The field weekend had been one of the most important parts of my undergraduate experience, but this group of students didn’t seem particularly excited about it.  I was frustrated because I wanted them to love it as much as I had.

Throughout the early weeks of September, I spent several long days at QUBS with the lab coordinator, preparing all the weekend activities – from digging holes for pitfall traps to carefully laying out and flagging grids of small mammal traps.  In doing so, I got a firsthand look at just how much work was involved in pulling off the trip each year.  Planning a field weekend for 160 young adults is no small task.  The lab coordinator, who had been organizing these weekends for many years, was a bit like a general in charge of a very intricate military campaign.

On the last Friday of September, she and I headed up to the field station late on Friday evening.  I was driving the (very sketchy) departmental van, which made for a somewhat nerve-wracking drive.  The brakes creaked ominously, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to turn on the high beams.  On top of that, the road was inexplicably covered in frogs – so the drive was a bit like an obstacle course, as I swerved first one way and then the other in an attempt to minimize the carnage.

However, I made it unscathed (although sadly the same could not be said for all the frogs) – and upon arriving, was immediately put to work.  It was late and dark, but there was so much to be done before we got to sleep.  Cabins needed to be assigned, lists and maps needed to be printed and posted, and supplies needed to be distributed to the appropriate places around the station property.

Finally, before falling into bed, we headed out to bait the 40 small mammal traps we’d laid out with seed.  When we put the traps out earlier in the month, we’d flagged them with glow-in-the-dark flagging tape to make them easier to find.  However, I learned a few valuable lessons that night.  First, glow-in-the-dark flagging tape doesn’t really glow in the dark.  Second, forests are tricky places at night, even with a headlamp.  And third, spider eyes glow when light hits them.  The last lesson led to another discovery: there are many, many, many more spiders in the forest than one might think.

With the traps baited, everything was ready for the arrival of the students the next morning and I finally got to crawl into my sleeping bag – for a short time, anyway.  Very early the next morning, we climbed back into the departmental van and headed out to meet the students.

The bus had been scheduled to leave Kingston at 6 a.m., so it was no surprise that the students staggering through the doors into the cool fall morning were sleepy and cranky.  Despite having been told multiple times about appropriate footwear, at least five or six of them were wearing flip flops.  Several others were still in pyjama pants.  They stood shivering in the field beside our grid of mammal traps, leaning against each other, yawning, and complaining about the hour and the cold.

Naturally, the order to split up into pairs and go retrieve the traps was met with some muted resistance.  But eventually, they all grudgingly trooped off into the woods, and then ambled slowly back carrying the metal Sherman traps.  At first it seemed like all the traps were empty…until one last pair of students came running out of the forest, clutching their trap and shouting, “I think there’s something in here!”

Who would have thought one little deer mouse could capture the attention of 80 undergrads?

I watched as the coordinator carefully emptied the contents of the trap into a plastic bag.  A surprised deer mouse slid out, which she then held up for everyone to see…and a collective “Ooooohhhhhh” rose from the students around me.  All of a sudden, no one was yawning.  Everyone’s eyes were on the deer mouse, and everyone looked awake and interested.  Suddenly, I was less worried about the weekend.

 

I ended up TAing that course for four years, and helping to run the field trip is still the most fulfilling teaching experience I’ve ever had.  Every year I watched tired, cold, and disinterested students straggle off the bus on Saturday morning – and energized, excited students climb back onto the bus on Sunday afternoon.

Please don’t misunderstand me: I know that the skills and techniques learned in labs are an essential part of a scientific education.  But I think it’s also important that we give students a chance to explore the other side of science.  For most people, the experience may change the way they think of the discipline.  For some people – like me – the experience may change the course of their lives.

Watching a grad student band birds at QUBS.

A night at the symphony

This week, Dispatches from the Field welcomes guest poster Amanda Cicchino, who shares some of her adventures wading through the marshes of QUBS in the dark to record frog songs.  For more about Amanda, check out her bio at the end of this post.

I like to compare the frog chorus to a symphony. The orchestra in this case is composed of many different species, each with the same end goal. The timing and frequencies of the noises they make have been molded over time to allow them to be heard simultaneously, yet they still compete with one another. Over the course of the night, the entire chorus comes together and tells a story.

My last field season was done at QUBS (Queen’s University Biological Station) and focused on frog acoustics. As I learned from presenting a poster at the annual Open House, not many people are aware of the different sounds frogs and toads can make. Though some species sound quite pleasant, others present you with ear-splitting, gurgling screams that result in a pounding headache¹. Most frogs and toads call during the breeding season as a way to attract mates. Most calling and breeding is done at night in marshes or swamps. My original aim for that season was to record the mating calls of Spring Peepers to supplement a dataset, but I developed a “small” side-project with a lab-mate that would require recordings from each species found at QUBS². What a shame.

Single, lonely spring peeper seeks soulmate…

A typical night of sampling involves organization and proper preparation. Prior to leaving for the site, a few cups of coffee must be ingested, with at least one travel mug packed. The field pack must include digital calipers (to measure the frogs), plastic calipers (in case it rains and the digital ones can’t be used), multiple flashlights and headlamps, a heat gun, my notebook and pencil, recording equipment, back-up batteries (in case the ones in the devices die during the night), and emergency back-up batteries (in case the back-ups die or spontaneously combust³). Everything digital is kept in Ziploc bags in case it rains through the car or through the rain-cover on the pack.

Wearing the right attire is also a necessity for a smooth sampling night². Fashion has always been a priority in my life, and I’m glad to have the opportunity to maintain that passion while sampling. Since the first frogs (typically Wood Frogs) begin calling when there is still ice floating on the marsh, the temperatures I sample in can be quite low.  I won’t bore you with specifics of how I dress, but I do want to give you an image of how I feel I look.  (But also stuffed into brown neoprene chest-waders). Of course, dressing with that many layers might impede my speed and agility in the marsh, so I tend to invest in good thermal clothes.

Once the sun sets, a few individuals will start to call until the peak is hit and the chorus is in full swing. My sampling begins at the peak and ends either when I have transected the whole marsh, reached my sample size limit for the site, or the chorus goes silent (usually the last one). I record every individual I come across for at least 20 consecutive calls using a Marantz PMD660 recorder and Sennheiser microphone. This can look quite humourous as the microphone is at least 30cm long and some frogs are approximately 2cm in length. I then catch the individuals and take morphometric measurements before releasing them. This can be a slow process as some individuals are “mic shy”. When they stop calling once the microphone is put near them, my general tactic is to turn off all my lights, splash a bit, and wait. Usually after a minute, they start calling again and I can feel good about myself for out-smarting a 2cm long frog. This tactic does not have to be employed too often, as I find that frogs can be quite bold. In fact, on more than one occasion, I have witnessed a frog making mating calls when the lower half of its body was inside a snake’s mouth. Once I have finished my sampling, exhausted and exhilarated, I look forward to reliving the night when I analyze the call recordings the next day.

A gray treefrog adds his two cents to the chorus.

Perhaps comparing a frog chorus to a symphony seems a bit quixotic, but they do have some similarities. They both require a specific dress code, they both overlay impressive sounds and rhythms, and they both tell an extravagant story. Of course, the frog chorus’s story is one of acoustic niche and evolution, but that is one of the most interesting stories I can think of! This kind of field work isn’t for everyone, but I truly love it. Nothing compares to standing in the middle of a marsh during peak breeding season, with a full chorus of hundreds of frogs desperately calling to attract a mate. The frog chorus is quite literally music to my ears.

1. Google ‘Bird Voiced Tree Frog call” and “American Toad call” for this comparison. You may want to make sure your speakers are turned a bit low for the latter.
2. Please beware of extreme sarcasm used ahead.
3. A pessimistic mindset leads to the best preparation.

Amanda recently completed her BScH at Queen’s University, researching acoustic divergence in the Spring Peeper for her Honour’s thesis. She is starting her MSc at Queen’s this fall, and will continue to study the role of mating systems on speciation.