Cloudy with a chance of data

Anyone who does fieldwork knows how important the weather is.  Regardless of what you study, the weather plays a huge role in shaping the kind of day you have.  It determines if you go home at night thinking you have the best job in the world, or wondering why any sane person would do what you do.

So much for the rain day: checking tree swallow nest boxes in the rain.

So much for the rain day: checking tree swallow nest boxes in the rain.

When I started my first field job, my boss told me firmly, “Birds don’t do anything in the rain.”  This is a maxim most of us ornithologists cling to – because it means that there’s no point in us going out in the rain.  And as a field assistant, I deeply resented it when the desperate graduate students I worked for sent me out in the rain anyway.

I always thought I’d be the first to call a rain day and take a well-deserved break from fieldwork – until I became one of those desperate graduate students.  Then I realized what my former bosses had known all along: while you may not be able to catch birds during a rainstorm, losing an entire day of data collection isn’t an option either.

There are a number of strategies to try and wring some data out of a rain day, most of which involve sitting in the car at your field site, hoping for a break in the weather.  The strategy I employed during my PhD fieldwork in British Columbia was based on this approach, but with an added twist.  Because my sites were spread over 100 km of the southern Okanagan Valley, even when it was raining at one site, it might be clear at another – at least in theory.

Chasing the rare patch of blue sky on a rainy day in the Okanagan Valley.

Chasing the rare patch of blue sky on a rainy day in the Okanagan Valley.

In practice, this amounted to something very similar to chasing the end of a rainbow.  We spent many days in the field driving back and forth between sites, in the (largely futile) hope of being in the right place at the right time to catch five minutes of blue sky.  It almost never worked…and I’m sure my field assistants felt the same way about me as I had about my former bosses.

Sometimes, of course, there’s just no way to avoid bad weather. This is particularly true if you happen to be doing fieldwork on a small island – like the summer I worked for a friend catching terns on Lake Winnipeg, Manitoba.

Impending doom: a storm approaching across Lake Winnipeg.

Impending doom: a storm approaches across Lake Winnipeg.

On this particular day, I had been glancing nervously at the sky for over an hour, getting increasingly anxious as towering clouds approached from across the lake.  Rather unfortunately for a field biologist, I hate sudden loud noises (like thunder), so I was quite vocal about my desire to get the hell off the island before the storm hit.  But my friend – who was also my boss for those two weeks – was determined to squeeze every possible moment of data collection out of the day.  She repeatedly insisted the storm would probably miss the island entirely.

Needless to say, it did not.  When the downpour started, she was sitting in a nylon blind in the middle of the tern colony.  I, on the other hand, was out on the beach – I’d finished the task she’d sent me to do, but couldn’t return to the blind without disturbing the birds she was trying to catch.  As the rain poured down in buckets and the thunder shook the island, I looked desperately for someplace – any place – to shelter.  But there was nothing except the slate gray water of the lake and the dirty sand of the island.  There was nowhere to go.

Finally, I resigned myself to my fate.  I sat down cross-legged on the beach, stuffed in ear plugs, and covered my ears with my hands for good measure.  For the next hour, I stayed in exactly the same spot on that beach, getting wetter and wetter and more and more miserable.

By the time the storm finally moved off, every item of clothing I had on was completely soaked. As I stood up, water cascading off my jacket, my radio went off.  It was my (completely dry) friend, asking me to move on to the next task on our to-do list.  (This is a great example of why it’s often a bad idea to work for friends/family/significant others in the field: homicidal rage tends to be bad for any relationship.)

But of all the places I’ve done field work, the site that wins the title for the worst weather is Sable Island.  As anyone who’s lived in eastern Canada knows, the Maritimes are a place you love in spite of – not because of – the weather.  Sable, a thin crescent of sand approximately 150 km off the coast of Nova Scotia, is no exception.  It is frequently shrouded by fog, which has undoubtedly contributed to its reputation as the “graveyard of the Atlantic”: the site of more than 350 shipwrecks over the past 450 years.  In fact, the summer record for fog on Sable is 30 days in June and 31 days in July.

A typical view of one of Sable Island's famous wild horses..shrouded by fog.

A typical view of one of Sable Island’s famous wild horses..shrouded by fog.

When I arrived on Sable, I figured the island’s Environment Canada meteorological station – located approximately 50 steps from my front door – would be a major advantage of working there.  Instead of checking the forecast online, I could get my information straight from the source.  So the very first day I woke to the patter of rain on the roof, I headed over to the station.

I ducked inside, shaking water droplets off my coat, to see two people staring intently at computers, the very picture of hard work.  “So,” I asked, trying to sound casual and not thoroughly panicked by the very long to-do list the weather was interfering with, “How long is this rain going to last?”

Both meteorologists looked up from their computers, blinking fuzzily at me.  Clearly I had caught them off guard.  (You don’t tend to see many people working on Sable Island.)  But they weren’t nearly as surprised by my presence as I was by their reply.

“How the hell should we know?”

Life with owls

This week, Dispatches is excited to welcome a good friend of ours, Lauren Meads.  Lauren is the Executive Director of the Burrowing Owl Conservation Society of BC – and is in the enviable position of working with some of the most charismatic (micro)fauna around.  For more about Lauren and the BOCSBC, check out the bio at the end of the post.

As the Executive Director of the Burrowing Owl Conservation Society of British Columbia, I’m often asked how I wound up working in this field. I don’t have a simple answer. My path to this career — which I love — has been somewhat meandering. And honestly… birds?! I never thought in a million years that my passion for birds, specifically owls, would be such an important part of my life.

I’ve always loved animals and growing up had dreams of being a zookeeper. This led me to an undergraduate degree in Biology and then an internship working with exotic cats in the US. To further my career, I went back to school for my master’s degree in Applied Animal Behaviour and Welfare at the University of Edinburgh. My first job after finishing that program was at a zoo that focused on conservation, which drew me into the world of breeding animals for the purpose of reintroduction into the wild. My expertise in working with mammalian carnivores led me to working with raptors. And from there, I found myself working on the beginnings of the Northern Spotted Owl breeding program in BC.

Remember how I said the route was meandering? Well, after two years working with spotted owls, I decided it was time to move on to another job. During a co-op placement in my undergraduate degree, I had dabbled a bit in lab animal work and I decided to give that a try again. This was a short-lived decision, as I quickly realized that world was not for me. I longed to get back into conservation and working in the wild. Luckily, I had kept in contact with my colleagues from the Northern Spotted Owl project. When I reached out to them, they alerted me to an opportunity to work in the field with burrowing owls. That was ten years ago, in 2008. And ever since then, I have been deeply involved with burrowing owls. First volunteering, and then working in the field monitoring releases, and now overseeing the breeding and reintroduction of a native grassland species throughout British Columbia. As you can tell by the length of time I’ve been working at this job, I finally found my calling working with the Western Burrowing Owl (Athene cunicularia hypugaea).

4-week-old burrowing owls after banding. (Photo credit: Lauren Meads.)

4-week-old burrowing owls after banding. (Photo credit: Lauren Meads.)

I fell in love with burrowing owls as soon as I started working with them. I love how unusual they are among owls. While they do fly, like all owls, they also spend a lot of time on the ground hunting and roosting. They nest underground and are active during both day and night.

Unfortunately, burrowing owls are also currently threatened across North America, and endangered in Canada. Populations in Manitoba have been extirpated, while in Alberta and Saskatchewan they continue to decline.  And where I work, in British Columbia, burrowing owls have been extirpated since the 1980s. While the causes of these dramatic population declines are complex, we do know that losses of burrowing mammals, such as badgers, have played a major role in the owls’ decline.  Despite their name, burrowing owls don’t excavate their own burrows, but instead use those abandoned by other animals – so without animals like badgers, they have nowhere to nest.  Other issues facing the owls include pesticides, increases in populations of aerial predators such as red-tailed hawks and great horned owls, road construction, and climate change.  Conservation efforts are underway in all four Canadian provinces, as well as several places in the States.

In 1990, volunteers in British Columbia initiated a comprehensive re-introduction program, including three captive breeding facilities, artificial burrow networks and field monitoring research. The Burrowing Owl Conservation Society of BC (formed in 2000) produces over 100 owls each year to release in the Thompson-Nicola and South Okanagan grasslands of BC. In recent years, improved release techniques have resulted in higher adult survival and greater numbers of wild-hatched offspring with the potential to return in following years.

Preparing for release: (left to right) Leanne, Lia, and Lauren banding and assessing owls for release.

Preparing for release: (left to right) Leanne, Lia, and Lauren banding and assessing owls for release. (Photo credit: Mike Mackintosh.)

What my work looks like varies greatly depending on the season. Right now, in winter, I’m busy with the joys of writing reports and grant applications, as well as fixing the breeding facilities, installing artificial burrows in the field, and providing outreach to the public. Come spring, I and a field assistant (more than one, if funding is good!), plus some dedicated volunteers, will check each of the ~600 active burrows across our field sites. Our task is to check each one for owls returning from migration, and to ensure the burrow is in good working condition. In April, we will take the 100 owls bred in our facilities and release them into our artificial burrows. We have placed these burrows on private ranches, land owned by NGOs, Indigenous band lands, and provincial parks. This work requires a LOT of driving — sometimes up to 3-5 hours per day as we go from site to site.

After the release, we continually monitor the nesting attempts of the released owls, as well as those returning from migration, and provide supplemental food to help them raise their chicks. Along the way, we band the young born in the field. We monitor them until they all leave in September and October to head south.

Banded and ready to go: Lia, Chelsea, and Lauren getting ready to return a banded clutch of burrowing owl nestlings to the nest. (Photo credit: Dawn Brodie.)

Banded and ready to go: Lia, Chelsea, and Lauren getting ready to return a banded clutch of burrowing owl nestlings to the nest. (Photo credit: Dawn Brodie.)

Where exactly the owls go during the winter is still something of a mystery. We sometimes get reports of sightings of our banded owls, and we also get data from groups in the US and elsewhere in Canada that have deployed satellite tags.  (We’d love to use satellite tracking tags ourselves, but they are expensive, and our organization runs on limited funds!) Based on the information we’ve received, we know that BC owls have been seen throughout the western United States, and most likely spend the winter in Mexico.

Recent years have seen an increase in the number of owls that return to BC in the spring; however, currently we still don’t have a self sustaining population.  Our next step is to work on understanding the owls’ migration movements, and determine ways  to increase survivability.  This will involve working across Canada and internationally.

Something else I’m often asked is what the next steps are for burrowing owl conservation. Unfortunately, there’s no easy answer to this question either. While there are many organizations dedicated to conserving these unique owls, they all run on limited funds and resources. BOCSBC uses almost all of its funding breeding and releasing owls, as well as creating and maintaining the artificial burrows they use.  Certainly, this is essential for the species’ recovery, but we also need to tackle the many unanswered questions about the causes of their decline before we can hope to reverse it.  At the moment, there’s still so much information we’re lacking, including where the birds’ winter, issues of migratory connectivity, changes in prey availability and shifts in climate across their range.

The path that brought me to working in burrowing owl conservation was unconventional. But ten years into this career, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be!

Photo credit: Lia McKinnon.

Lauren Meads is the Executive Director of the Burrowing Owl Conservation Society of BC.  She has worked with owls for over 10 years, although she still has a passion cats both big and small.  She lives in the South Okanagan Valley in BC with her husband Tim and their three (small) cats.  To learn more about the ongoing effort to reintroduce burrowing owls in BC, check out this video from Wild Lens.  If you are interested in helping out with this project, you can contact the Burrowing Owl Conservation Society of BC at bocsbc@gmail.com or donate via Canada Helps.

The bear necessities

Anyone who has been following my posts has probably figured out by now that I am essentially a scaredy-Cat.  I love being in the field, but when I’m there, I worry about anything and everything – from mountain lions all the way down to cows.  Unsurprisingly, bears have always featured pretty high on my list of worries.  Huge, powerful bodies, sharp teeth, and a distinct tendency to be irritable when surprised…what’s not to love?

My initial bear encounter took place during my very first field season, up the Queen’s University Biological Station – and, in fact, wasn’t an actual encounter at all.  I was working at the station as a field assistant, and my duties included daily inspections of approximately 200 tree swallow nest boxes.  One day, as I made my way through a grid of boxes, I suddenly realized that one was missing.  At first, I wondered if I was losing it: how could a nest box just vanish?  However, closer inspection revealed that the box was actually still there…in pieces on the ground.  The nest was torn apart, the nestlings were gone, and a pile of bear scat sat on the ground close to the wreckage.

Until that point, I had thought of QUBS as an entirely safe place to do fieldwork.  Finding the ruins of that box was a rude awakening.  I froze in place and stared frantically around the field, looking for other indications that a bear had been there – or, more problematically, was still there.

In the end, of course, I found nothing; the bear that had destroyed the box was long gone.  In fact, over the course of my two summers at QUBS, I never actually saw a bear, just heard occasional second- or third-hand stories of sightings.  I eventually accepted that I was highly unlikely to actually meet a bear at QUBS, and I relaxed.

All that changed when I started my PhD.  I was thrilled to be doing my fieldwork in the beautiful Okanagan Valley of British Columbia…but at the same time, my mind heard the word “mountains” and interpreted it as “bear country”.  And while no one would claim the Okanagan is overrun by bears, my research informed me that black bears are reasonably common there, and even grizzlies aren’t unheard of.  Too make matters worse, a lot of my work took place in vineyards, where bears can be a big problem in late summer, when they come down out of the hills to gorge themselves on the grapes.

In preparation for this ‘highly dangerous’ fieldwork, I purchased a plethora of bear bells (to warn bears people were coming) and a few cans of bear spray (to deal with bears that didn’t heed the warning).  Armed with these tools (and accompanied by a ceaseless jingling), I felt pretty secure wandering around my field sites.  That is, until one day, when a local asked me, “How do you tell the difference between black bear scat and grizzly bear scat?”

“I don’t know,” I said innocently.  “How do you tell the difference?”

“Well, black bear scat is full of berries.  And grizzly bear scat…well, it smells like pepper spray and jingles a bit when you kick it.”

With a wicked smile, he went on his way.  I stared foolishly after him, clutching my pepper spray while my backpack jingled faintly.

This conversation somewhat eroded my faith in my bear spray and bells.  On top of that, it turns out that ceaseless jingling is phenomenally annoying after a few days.  Add to that the fact that I kept accidentally leaving my bear spray behind in various locations (forcing me to spend additional time wandering around in bear country attempting to retrieve it) and it’s not hard to understand why I decided to abandon that approach.

But I was still not enthusiastic about encountering a surprised, irritable bear.  So I devised a new strategy: I would just talk to myself as I wandered the hills, providing fair warning to any bear in earshot.

However, I quickly found out that it’s hard to talk constantly when you don’t have anything in particular to say.  In desperation, I found myself thinking back to high school, trying to recall any lines of the poetry or prose we’d recited in English class.  As it turns out, the only thing I remembered was the prologue to Romeo and Juliet.  So day after day, I would stumble around the Okanagan back country, repeating “Two households both alike in dignity / In fair Verona where we lay our scene…” as loudly as possible.  It’s probably a good thing that I didn’t encounter too many people on my wanderings.  At least the bears of the Okanagan are now well educated.

I guess the star crossed lovers did the trick, because I didn’t actually see any bears for most of my first field season.  But one day in early August, as I was making my way back to the car in one of my most isolated field sites, I rounded a corner and found myself about a hundred feet from a black bear.

Given that I’d worried about this exact scenario all summer, I was surprisingly taken aback. I turned on my heel and started walking away briskly, trying not to look back over my shoulder.  Finally, though, I just had to know.  I whipped around to survey where the bear had been…only to realize it had vanished.  Now I had a new problem: there was definitely a bear in my immediate vicinity, but I no longer had any idea where it was, and it was a very long walk back to the car.

Isolated ranch field site in the Okanagan

Can you spot the bear in this picture?… Nope, I can’t either.

Clearly the thing to do was keep talking to avoid surprising it; unfortunately, though, Romeo and Juliet deserted me in my panic.  So I decided that the logical thing to do was call home and talk to my parents.

When I dialed my home number, my sister picked up.  I told her about the bear and explained that I just needed to stay on the phone to keep talking.  “That’s too bad,” she said impatiently.  “But I need to call my friend now.  Call Mum on her cell instead.”

Right.

I hung up with her, and did as she suggested, still striding in the direction of the car while swiveling my head vigilantly in all directions. This time, I managed to get a hold of my mum…and that’s when I learned that you never, ever, ever call your mother and tell her that you’re in the middle of nowhere, with an unseen but very real bear lurking around.  She was quite willing to stay on the phone with me, but had no problem letting me know that she was not thrilled with the situation overall.

Much to our mutual relief, I made it to the car with no problems, and I didn’t see another bear for the rest of the field season.  In fact, it was over a year before my next bear encounter.  This second run-in happened at a less isolated site, but played out in much the same way as the first.  I froze briefly, then did an about face and walked away.  And once again, after a few seconds, I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder.  This time, the bear was still visible.  In fact, it looked an awful lot like he had also done an about face and was hurrying in the opposite direction as fast as his furry paws could take him.

Apparently some bears are aware that humans also have a distinct tendency to be irritable when surprised.

Red in tooth and claw

Hints of spring in eastern Ontario....

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...

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.

Revenge of the ruminants

When I first started doing fieldwork, I must admit that I spent a lot of time worrying about large mammals.  Even when I worked up at QUBS, in the relatively safety of eastern Ontario, I fretted about bears.  When I went to California, I obsessed about mountain lions.  And after working in Hawaii, I added feral pigs to my list of formidable and frightening creatures.

But until I began my PhD fieldwork in the Okanagan Valley, it would never have occurred to me to worry about cows.

I know what you’re thinking: how can cows be in the same league as bears or mountain lions?  After all, they’re vegetarians!  There is no chance that you’re ever going to be eaten by a hungry cow.  They just stare at you with their huge brown eyes and chew their cud meditatively.

Right.

As it turns out, you really don’t run into bears or mountain lions that often in the field.  (Not that I’m complaining.)  But what you do see – especially doing fieldwork in an agricultural area like the Okanagan Valley – is cows.  They’re everywhere.

This is especially true if your study species is partial to the type of habitat that often holds grazing cows.  When I was setting up my PhD field sites, I wanted to make sure to cover as many types of bluebird habitat as possible.  So while much of my research took place in vineyards or along walking trails, I also had two sites that were open rangeland.

The wide open spaces of one of my two rangeland sites.

The open spaces and sage brush of one of my two rangeland sites.

When I first set up nest boxes at these sites, I fell in love with the wide, empty spaces and the scent of sagebrush.  My rangeland sites instantly became my favourite.  But on my second visit to one of these sites, I got an inkling that they might be more problematic than I’d thought.  As the car rounded the last corner on the way to the site, I had to hit the brakes hard.  My field of vision was suddenly filled with milling brown and black bodies.  Cows, cows, and more cows…as far as the eye could see.

I pulled over to the side of the road and took out my phone to call the landowner.  He’d mentioned to me that they’d be bringing the cows in, but I had to assume they weren’t supposed to be blocking traffic.  “There must be a break in the fence,” I told him.  “The cows have gotten out and are all over the road.”

“Oh, that’s normal,” he replied.  “I’m sure the fence is fine.”

“But…” I started at the solid wall of bodies on the road in consternation. “…how did they get out, then?”

“Well, fences are more like…suggestions…to cows,” he responded.  “They usually ignore them.  But I’m sure if you honk at them enough, they’ll get out of your way.”

More trouble than they look...

More trouble than they look…   (Photo credit: Manisha Bhardwaj.)

From then on, the two rangeland sites were the bane of my existence.  No matter what was on my agenda when I arrived, the cows always seemed to be between me and where I needed to go.  It was like they had a copy of my schedule.  And it was never just one or two cows – wherever one went, the other 30 animals in the herd joined it, forming a dense, noisy, smelly barrier between me and my destination.

Also, as it turns out, cows and bird boxes are not a good combination.  The cows decided that the boxes were perfect scratching posts, and were irresistibly attracted to them.  Almost every time I arrived at the sites, one or more of the boxes would be hanging at a precarious angle – often with a perplexed bluebird sitting beside it.

And then, of course, there were the cow patties everywhere.

After a month or so, though, the cows and I had settled into an uneasy détente.  I was starting to think the situation was relatively under control – and that’s when the bulls showed up.

The first time I realized the cows had been joined by their male friends, I had just dropped my field assistant off at a site.  I happened to glance in the rearview mirror as I pulled away, only to see my assistant standing completely still about 100m away.  Straight across the field from her, staring her down, was a very large cow.  As it lowered its head and began pawing at the ground, it slowly dawned on me that it was really too big…and muscular…and horned…to be a cow.  As my field assistant ran for the car, I realized we had a problem.  From then on, we spent considerably less time at that site.

My other ranch site, on the other hand, remained blissfully free of bulls for most of the summer.  So while the cows and I continued to wage a cold war, I usually felt pretty safe.  By the time August rolled around, the fieldwork was slowing down and I had pretty much relaxed.

Then one day, I was out in the field with my assistant, banding a nest full of bluebird nestlings.  I had just taken two out of the box and was settling onto the ground with one in each hand, when I felt a malevolent gaze on the back of my neck.

I looked around in surprise…only to find myself making eye contact with a bull.  He was about 50m away, and though he appeared relatively unconcerned, there was no doubt that he was sizing me up.

I scrambled to my feet and started backing away, urging my field assistant to do the same.  We struggled cautiously up the small hill behind the box, turning frequently to watch the bull as he meandered closer to the box we’d abandoned. Every time we stopped moving, he would start towards us again – so we kept climbing.

As we reached the top of the hill, I realized two things simultaneously. One – we were out of hill to climb; if he kept coming, we were going to have to make a run for the car.  And two – I still had the nestlings I’d been intending to band clutched in my hand, peeping faintly.

Luckily, after 20 very tense minutes, the bull lost interest and headed on his way, allowing us to creep back down to the box and finish banding.  It took a little longer than that for my heart rate to come back to normal.

So, after more than a decade of fieldwork, here’s what I’ve learned: if you must worry, focus less on bears and the mountain lions, and more on the things you’re likely to actually run into.  And don’t let those big brown eyes fool you – cows are usually up to no good.

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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.

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.

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.

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

The incredible journey

Even though it’s still August, and the air is hot and humid, I’m sure I’m not the only one who has noticed that the days are getting shorter, the nights are getting longer, and some of the leaves have a distinct reddish tinge to them.  We may prefer to pretend it’s not happening, but we all know it: fall is on the way.  For millions of birds across North America, it’s time to start thinking about packing their bags and turning their sights to the south.  As summer draws to a close and our forests and fields begin to empty out, I’d like to share a post about migration that I originally wrote for Land Lines, the Nature Conservancy of Canada’s blog, back in the spring – when all the birds were just returning.

“We’ve got rocks and trees, and trees and rocks, and rocks and trees, and trees and rocks, and…rocks and  trees, and trees and rocks, and water…in Canada.”

-Arrogant Worms, “Rocks and Trees”

Canada: land of rocks, tress, water...and endless highways.

Canada: land of rocks, trees, water…and endless highways.

Ever since getting my driver’s licence, I’d dreamed of driving across Canada.  As a concept, it seemed romantic and adventurous – the perfect way to really get to know my own country.  But the reality, it turned out, was a bit different.  As I set off from Sudbury on my second day of cross-country driving, I wanted to be excited.  The first day had been easy: only six hours in the car, and a friend waiting for me at the other end.  But today was the real start of the adventure.  Today, I’d be leaving the relative safety of roads I knew well and passing into territory that was unknown, at least to me.

As I pointed my car west and hit the gas, I was more terrified than excited. Six thousand kilometers is a lot of road – especially when you’re driving alone.  In an effort to kickstart my enthusiasm, I reached over to slide the “Canadiana” mix CD a friend had made for me into the car’s CD player.  As the first strains of the Arrogant Worms’ “Rocks and Trees” came over the speakers, I glanced out the window and couldn’t help but laugh.  A vast, lonely landscape met my gaze, composed of…well, rocks, trees, and water.  Somehow, the song wasn’t actually making me feel any better.

The purpose of this epic journey was to get myself out to BC, and begin my PhD research on the population of western bluebirds that breeds in BC’s Okanagan Valley.  Although there are bluebirds (of one species or another) across the country, I was particularly interested in this population because of their migratory behaviour: the western bluebirds in the Okanagan are partial migrants.  This means that while some birds migrate south in the fall, others hang around the Okanagan, gather into flocks, and brave the snow and cold of a Canadian winter.

Western bluebird flock (and one lone goldfinch) check out a heated bird bath on a cold winter day. Photo credit: Eva Durance.

Western bluebirds (and one lone goldfinch) check out a heated bird bath on a cold winter day. Photo credit: Eva Durance.

I’ve been fascinated by avian migration ever since taking my first Animal Behaviour course as an undergraduate.  This fascination has shaped the last eight years of my life, informing my research interests as a graduate student.  Migration is a common phenomenon:  every year, billions of individuals from more than 350 bird species across North America embark on migratory journeys.  Migration is ubiquitous, and each spring and fall, as I hear the honks of Canada geese passing overhead, I’m tempted to call it ordinary.  But this common phenomenon is composed of extraordinary feats.  As summer winds down in the northern hemisphere, birds like the 25g northern wheatear set off into the unknown, often travelling thousands of kilometers south to spend the winter in more hospitable climates.  In the case of the wheatear, individuals breeding in the Canadian Arctic and Alaska brave the perils of crossing the Atlantic, ultimately covering 14,000 km to reach their wintering grounds in sub-Saharan Africa.  Then, come spring, they do it all over again in reverse.

Migration captures the imagination of scientists and the public alike.  But what is it about these journeys that inspires and enchants us?  That’s a question I’d never been able to answer satisfactorily, but as I faced the vast, lonely distances of my own incredible journey, the answer became clearer: migration may be common, but it is also an extraordinary story of adventure and challenge.

It's just possible that I should have left earlier...

It’s just possible that I should have left earlier…

To begin with, you must decide when to leave.  For birds, timing of migration is affected by many things – from predator abundance to food availability and individual condition – but it’s crucial that they get it right.  This is especially true in the spring, when arriving too late on the breeding grounds can undermine the success of an individual’s breeding season.  However, timing is also important in the fall, when staying too late can mean encounters with the kind of weather you’d rather avoid – as I found out the hard way.

Of course, once you’ve decided to leave, it’s also very important to know where you’re going.  Unfortunately for me, I’m one of the most directionally challenged people imaginable.  (Despite the fact that driving from Ontario to BC essentially involves following the Trans-Canada highway west, a number of people were actually placing bets on whether I’d end up in BC or Nova Scotia.)  Luckily, I had help: before I embarked on my journey, my mother dragged me to the CAA to purchase a staggering number of maps.  I ended up with a separate map for every Canadian province west of Quebec, a very long set of driving directions, and a North American road atlas for good measure.  Despite this plethora of directional aids, I can’t deny making the occasional U-turn on quiet parts of the Trans-Canada.

Just in case you’ve misplaced your country: thank goodness for maps, directions, and road signs.

Just in case you’ve misplaced your country: thank goodness for maps, directions, and road signs.

Birds, of course, have to manage without the help of the CAA.  Instead, they get their directional cues from a variety of sources: the sun, the stars, and the Earth’s magnetic field.  Recent research also suggests that scent cues may play a role in guiding migrants to their destination.  In fact, despite decades of study, we’re still learning new things about how birds manage to navigate the vast distances involved in migration.

You can meet almost any need along the way, as long as you pick your stopping places carefully. If you find yourself suddenly in need of custom embroidery halfway across the continent, the World’s Largest Truckstop in Iowa is the place for you.

You can meet almost any need along the way, as long as you pick your stopping places carefully. If you find yourself suddenly in need of custom embroidery halfway across the country, consider taking a detour to the south: the World’s Largest Truckstop in Iowa is the place for you.

Now on your way, you face another problem: finding places to stop.  As I made my way across the country, I realized that Canada’s seemingly endless rocks, trees, and water didn’t make that challenge easy to overcome.  I quickly learned to appreciate the value of a good refueling point, preferably one with gas, clean washrooms, good coffee, and food packaged within the last decade.  As every migrant knows, finding ideal stops as you navigate an unfamiliar world is not easy.  You need to be able to quickly size up potential sites for their value.  If you decide to stop, you need to quickly figure out what to eat and how to avoid being eaten yourself.  For me, the most important part of finding stops was learning to compromise.  Under less than ideal circumstances, I decided, fresh food was optional.  Even clean washrooms could be optional – after all, all those trees have to be good for something.  Gas and good coffee, however, were non-negotiable.

Even when you finally reach your general destination, the challenges aren’t over.  It’s important to know exactly where and when to stop.  When I crossed the border from Alberta into BC, I cheered, pulled over, and took a victory photo.  Little did I know that finding my new home in the Okanagan would involve more U turns than the rest of my trip put together.  My directions said, “Follow the highway around a curve and the driveway will be on your left”.  Unfortunately, the highway in the Okanagan is nothing but curves.  I drove past my new accommodations three times before finally focusing on the right curve, noticing the driveway, and making the turn.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to stop driving in my life.

During the course of my PhD, I made the drive to the Okanagan and back three times.  Each time, I took a different route, and each journey brought its own adventures, trials, and excitement.  Of course, I had it easy during my ‘migrations’: unlike me, birds travel under their own power, at the mercy of the unpredictable (and often nasty) elements.  But I still feel that my cross country travels gave me a unique opportunity to gain a more personal understanding of the ordinary, extraordinary phenomenon of migration.

Well worth the trip: the Okanagan Valley from above.

Well worth the trip: the Okanagan Valley from above.

There’s no place like home

“The bluebird carries the sky on his back.” – Henry David Thoreau

Western bluebird nestling peers out of nestbox.

Who’s there? Western bluebird nestling peers out of nest box.

It seems to be an immutable law of nature photography (at least in my experience) that anything mobile will move the second you’ve gotten your camera ready, leaving you standing forlornly with your lens pointed at empty space.

But on this particular summer morning, I seemed to be witnessing an exception to this law.  As two hikers scrabbled through their backpacks for cameras, a male western bluebird sat calmly on top of the nearby nest box, singing his heart out – completely unperturbed by his audience.

From my perch beside the hiking trail, I watched the hikers rifling through their bags somewhat frantically.  Although I’m very familiar with ‘perfect shot’ panic, in this case I was pretty sure the would-be photographers would have no trouble snapping their photo – since the bluebird in question was in fact my wooden decoy bird, Webster.  I had set him up on the box about 20 minutes earlier, hoping to lure in the bluebird that actually owned it.  Apparently neither hiker had noticed the clip attaching Webster to the box – or the speaker below, broadcasting bluebird song.

As the hikers finally pulled out their cameras, I thought about explaining the situation – but somehow it just seemed mean to spoil their excitement.  A few minutes later, as they continued on their way, their conversation floated back to me: “That was amazing!  I can’t believe he sat so still.  I love bluebirds; they’re so beautiful.  That just made my day!”

Webster, my decoy Western Bluebird, perches on the edge of a nest box.

Webster, my decoy Western Bluebird, perches on the edge of a nest box.

 

Everybody loves bluebirds.

One of the first things you learn as a science student is to be wary of making absolute statements.  When you say something is ‘always’ true, or the ‘the cause’ of something, you had better be able to back it up.

And yet, even though I am not willing to go out and interview the 7.2 billion people in the world to determine their opinion on bluebirds, I’m still comfortable making this statement: everybody loves bluebirds.  They are, in fact, inherently lovable – charismatic, highly visible little birds with beautifully vivid plumage, associated with happiness, spring, and the land somewhere over the rainbow.

All three bluebird species (eastern bluebird, left; mountain bluebird, centre; western bluebird, right) have beautifully vivid blue plumage.

All three bluebird species (eastern bluebird, left; mountain bluebird, centre; western bluebird, right) have vivid blue plumage.

I have to admit, when I decided to focus my PhD research on bluebirds, I didn’t realize just how much people love them.  I quickly discovered that there are both upsides and downsides to working with a group of birds so universally beloved.  To be honest, sometimes it made things considerably more complicated.  For one thing, it meant that people tended to be very interested in what I was doing.  While this is mostly a good thing, it can be difficult to focus on answering questions and doing fieldwork simultaneously.  For another, people were often very protective of ‘their’ birds, and reluctant to allow me to capture and band them – a totally understandable attitude, but one that sometimes made my work a bit harder.  All ornithologists are aware that banding is a stressful experience for a bird.  Although we try to mitigate that stress as much as possible, being ensnared by a net, grabbed by a giant hand, and then handled, poked, and measured…well, it just can’t be that much fun.  Ornithologists do what we do because being able to identify individual birds gives us important insights into behaviour and ecology that would otherwise be impossible.  Ultimately, banding birds may provide us with information that benefits the species (for example, by informing management plans) – but we are all very aware that no individual bird ever benefits from being banded.

But while public interest in bluebirds occasionally made my life a bit more difficult, there were also many upsides to working with such an iconic group of birds: chief among them, having a species to study at all.

Perhaps one of the main reasons that people love bluebirds is that they are, relatively speaking, easy to see.  They are dwellers of disturbed areas.  They love the long forest edges and wide open fields created by agriculture; unlike many other bird species, human-wrought habitat changes were largely beneficial for them.  However, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, naturalists began to notice a troubling trend: a persistent decline in bluebird populations.

Although bluebirds forage mainly in open areas, they build their nests within cavities in trees.  All three species of bluebird are secondary cavity nesters – meaning that, while they need cavities for nesting, they do not create those cavities themselves.   Instead, they depend on finding holes created and abandoned by other species of cavity nesters, such as woodpeckers.

So when bluebird numbers began to decline, people wondered if maybe there simply weren’t enough cavities for them to nest in anymore.  But if that was the problem, what had caused the decrease in available nesting cavities?  The answer was simple: while the actual number of cavities available was staying the same, the competition to use them was likely getting increasingly fierce – thanks mainly to the introduction of a number of invasive cavity nesting species, such as the European starling and the house sparrow, to North America.

Concerned citizens were determined to tackle the problem.  Getting rid of the advancing hordes of invasive cavity nesters was virtually impossible – so they approached the problem from the other direction, by building and installing artificial nest boxes.  These boxes were designed to exclude some of the larger competing species (such as starlings), and were carefully positioned away from sources of food for house sparrows, to decrease their interest in the boxes.

Putting up bluebird nest boxes in the southern Okanagan Valley of British Columbia

Putting up bluebird nest boxes in the southern Okanagan Valley of British Columbia

As public interest in the plight of the bluebirds grew, enthusiastic citizen scientists began to establish nest box trails across the continent – and populations of all three bluebird species began to rebound.  In 1978, scientist Lawrence Zeleny enlisted the help of the Audubon Society to found the North American Bluebird Society (NABS) – an organization which continues to actively promote the conservation of bluebirds and other cavity nesters today.

Currently, many populations of all three bluebird species are stable or increasing – thanks in large part to NABS and its network of citizen scientists.  Every spring, these citizen scientists maintain and monitor thousands of bluebird nest boxes across North America.  Volunteers like 91 year old Al Larsen (the subject of Bluebird Man, a recent documentary by wildlife filmmakers Wild Lens) spend many hours each year gathering detailed information on box usage and nesting success of bluebirds and the many other species of cavity nesters that use the boxes – ultimately producing huge amounts of data on a much larger scale than any single researcher ever could.

The bluebird recovery story is an inspiring tale of grassroots conservation success – a win for the birds, but also a win for the people who continue to put so much effort into protecting them.  Although I encountered a few challenges working with this ‘poster species’, I don’t regret for a second choosing to study bluebirds for my PhD.  Getting to know the bluebirder community gave me the opportunity to work with some of the kindest and most generous people I’ve ever met – people who went out of their way to help and support me.  Without them, my project would not have been a success.  But more than that, I found that I loved watching the bluebirds too. Even on the most frustrating field days, they made me smile – partly because of their charisma, but also because they are living proof that sometimes, we can make a difference.

Home sweet home

Home sweet home

 

Welcome to the (urban) jungle

“What the hell are you doing?”

Upon consideration, I realized I probably did look a bit odd: standing on a beach in my rubber boots on a cold winter day, holding a pop bottle (with the top cut off) and pouring its murky contents into a smaller bottle.  No wonder the guy walking his dog was staring at me strangely.

“Um, I’m collecting rainwater for analysis, as part of my PhD thesis project.”

The beach was public land, belonging to the city of Penticton, but I was pretty sure what I was doing wouldn’t bother anyone.  To my relief, the dog-walking stranger didn’t seem to mind my presence.  He did, however, appear to be laughing at me.

“Oh yeah?  How often are you planning to do that?” he asked.

“Once a month until the end of August,” I replied.

Now there was no mistaking it.  He was very definitely laughing at me.  “Interesting location you picked,” he commented nonchalantly.

“Um…” I looked around the deserted beach.  “What do you mean?”

“I just mean that, come July, collecting rainwater is going to involve a very different view.”

“Well, yeah – I assume this beach gets pretty busy during the summer.  But I won’t get in anybody’s way.”

“It does get busy,” he agreed.  “In fact, it’s one of the busiest beaches in Penticton.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Well,” he replied with a wicked grin, “There are lots of choices for ordinary beaches in the area – but this is the only nude beach in the south Okanagan.”

Three Mile Beach: serene and deserted in February, Penticton's only nude beach in July.

Three Mile Beach: serene and deserted in February, Penticton’s only nude beach in July.

Amanda’s recent post about her experiences doing fieldwork at the Royal Botanical Gardens (Fieldwork in unexpected places) got me thinking about the various field sites where I’ve worked over the past decade.  It’s easy to get captivated by the wild and remote locations that field biologists often get to visit.  But as Amanda pointed out, fieldwork in more populated places can be an equally rewarding experience.  My PhD fieldwork took place in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia – one of the most beautiful places in BC, but definitely not one of the wildest.  Home to several cities, many orchards, and a thriving wine industry, the Okanagan Valley is anything but remote.

Grapevines as far as the eye can see... Wineries dominate much of the south Okanagan.

Grapevines as far as the eye can see: wineries dominate much of the south Okanagan.

Obviously, doing fieldwork in places like the Okanagan makes some things much easier.  For example, you don’t have to think as carefully about what to bring with you – if you forget something, it’s easy to run to the nearest Canadian Tire and grab a replacement.  And instead of spending months pining for fresh fruit and vegetables (and flirting with scurvy), you can grab local produce from any one of the numerous roadside fruit stands.

But fieldwork in populated areas also comes with its own set of challenges – from collecting data on clothing-optional beaches to hanging out in winery parking lots in full field gear, training binoculars on bluebird nesting boxes while trying to ignore the stares of well-heeled winery patrons.  And of course, working in residential and agricultural areas poses one major problem for women: finding a place to pee.

My male field assistant had little sympathy for me when it came to this particular problem.  But while being a man may have provided an advantage in that department, it also put him at a disadvantage one February afternoon.  We had been looking for bluebirds along a popular hiking trail which ran behind several backyards in the suburbs of Penticton.  When we finally spotted our quarry, we rushed to set up our net – at which point, predictably, the bluebirds vanished.

Having put all that effort into setting up, we decided to see if they would come back.  We split up to keep an eye out for them and flopped down on the snow to wait.  I was peering around through my binoculars when suddenly a pair of boots appeared in my field of view.  I looked up and realized my field assistant was looming over me, looking frustrated.  “I have to switch places with you,” he said.

I was confused.  “Why?”  I asked.  “I know this is tedious, but it’s not like there are any bluebirds over here either.”

“It’s not that,” he responded.

“So what’s the problem?” I asked him.

“See that backyard there, right near where I was sitting?”

“Um…yes?”

“A woman just came out of that house in her bikini and got into her hot tub.”

“Okay…” I still couldn’t see the problem.

He glared at me.  “She’s in the hot tub in her bikini.  And I’m sitting directly across from her backyard, hiding in the bushes with binoculars.”

I burst out laughing as he continued, “Either you switch places with me or you bail me out when I get arrested.”

I switched places with him.

 

Traveling in style: checking nest boxes with a golf cart.

Traveling in style: our transportation while checking nest boxes at the Oliver golf course.

I did three field seasons in the Okanagan Valley, and each presented me with its own challenges.  However, there were also some incredible benefits to working in cities and on vineyards – such as using golf carts to check bird boxes at the local golf course, or a receiving a free glass of wine while watching birds in front of a winery on a hot afternoon.  (I’m pleased to report that a lawn chair and a cold glass of Pinot Gris really improve the fieldwork experience.)

Perhaps best of all, doing fieldwork in populated areas offers unique opportunities for outreach.  We encountered people all the time – around wineries, along hiking trails, and in public parks – giving us the chance to talk a bit about what we were doing and why we were doing it.  And the importance of that contact can’t be overstated.  Even though science in Canada is largely publicly funded, there’s often a huge gap between scientists and the public.  Conducting fieldwork in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the Okanagan Valley gave us a chance to bridge that gap.

A room with a view: bluebird box along a trail overlooking downtown Penticton and the Penticton Yacht Club.

A room with a view: bluebird box along a trail overlooking downtown Penticton and the Penticton Yacht Club.