My Guide To Cross-Country Skiing in Eastern Switzerland

 

A lot of people have asked me: where should I go cross-country skiing? Or, I’d like to try cross-country skiing – but where can I go around Zurich?

Well, I’ve made a post with the answers! Check out my guide to cross-country skiing in Eastern Switzerland, HERE! I’ve picked 12 favorite spots to recommend, and summarized the trail system, how to get there, rental and ticket information, and where you can leave a backpack of dry clothes.

If you run through those suggestions too fast, I add 10 more possibilities at the bottom, with fewer details.

Happy skiing! Please get out there and enjoy winter!

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2018 in Reading: A Tally and Some Recommendations

In 2017, I set a New Year’s resolution to read more. I wanted to set a resolution that would help me do something I liked more often. And it worked! I read a lot, and I enjoyed it so, so much. It definitely improved my quality of life.

For 2018, I wanted to keep reading, but I set some new goals. I wanted to read more diverse authors, including more work translated into English from other languages. I kind of succeeded in my goals; I read 58 books (!), and 35 of them were by women. Again, I would say that reading a lot improved my quality of life.

Clearly, I spent a lot of time reading. This year, I did a lot more reading while commuting; at some point I cut the data plan on my phone drastically so I couldn’t read about politics on my way to work, because I was arriving already in a bad mood. Instead, I read books. Much better. (There was one time I missed my tram stop because the book was so good, but I can no longer remember which book it was!)

Below are some stats, trends, and recommendations of my favorite things I read.

Read More Women: 34 of those books were by women, and 22 by men. Two were academic books with multiple authors. One of my big goals this year was to read more women, and I definitely succeeded in that!

Read In Translation: Only four books were translated into English from another language. I failed on the goal of reading a lot of translated literature, but I can say all four were great.

  • Inheritance From Mother by Minae Mizumura (translated from Japanese) was charming and heartfelt, and given the story line it’s amazing that it never felt cheesy or cliché; I loved it.
  • Lullaby by Leila Slimani is a Prix Goncourt, a prize in France for “the best and most imaginative prose work of the year”; part of it is a ripped-from-the-headlines crime story, but the examination of class in Paris fascinating and sad at the same time.
  • Fever Dream by Argentinian Samanta Schweblin kind of defies classification. It’s short, surreal, creepy, and fantastic, which is probably why it was shortlisted for the Man Booker International prize.
  • I’ll talk about the fourth one, Drive Your Plow Over The Bones Of The Dead, below.

Read Diversely: Including the translated books noted above, here’s my geographic tally for authorship: Argentina, Australia, Canada, China, Finland, France/Morocco, Germany, Ireland, Japan, New Zealand, Nigeria, Pakistan, Poland, Swaziland, Trinidad, UK (7), USA (27). I only succeeded in reading more books by authors not originally from the U.S. by reading more books, total. (And some of those international authors reside in the U.S., U.K., or elsewhere.)

I Fell In Love With Short Stories: I have to admit, I was never much one for short story collections. They bring back memories of schoolwork and “best short story” anthologies that I for whatever reason didn’t connect with. This year, though, I read several incredible short story collections and it totally changed my opinion!

Among those that I loved was Damned If I Do, by Percival Everett, partly for its descriptions of life in the West. Florida by Lauren Groff was a pick for our climate fiction book group (see below); the opening story left me “meh”, but several others killed me dead with their perfection, including “Dogs go wolf” and “Above and below”. Then there was Homesick for Another World by Otessa Moshfegh, which I became a huge cheerleader for and recommended to everyone I knew. It’s a rare book that Steve and I both completely loved and found un-put-downable. The stories are weird and you often feel painfully uncomfortable on behalf of the characters, but they are so, so good in that weirdness.

Crime Writing Kept Me Going: I like crime fiction. And for a chunk of this year, it kind of saved me by being a great distraction from my dissertation; a good crime novel has the capacity to just completely suck you into its world, which is sometimes very necessary. This was particularly true in the very last month of my dissertation, when I wasn’t exercising much because I had just run a marathon and my body needed a rest. I had to fill the time that I’d been spending running with something else, and I ended up tearing through crime novels. A full 20% of the books I read in 2018 could be classified as crime, and several more have criminal deaths at the center of the story, but I’d say are more literary fiction than “crime” (A Separation by Katie Kitamura and History of Wolves by Emily Fridlund come to mind).

I read some great crime fiction. A Beautiful Place To Die by Malla Nunn was one of the best books I read this year in that it transported me to a place I know nothing about, 1950s South Africa. It was brutal, beautiful (as in the title), and educational all at once. Then there were some just simply good books. I love the Irish author Tana French, whose police novels are dark and serious. Broken Harbour is both completely creepy, and a social comment indicting of the housing bubble. I like J.K. Rowling’s Cormoran Strike mysteries, which are different in that they are a bit comic sometimes as well (the crimes are no jokes though, actually sometimes quite gruesome). Then there were the less-literary crime novels that nonetheless helped me through. The afternoon I handed in my dissertation, I came home, sat on the sofa, and read Jane Harper’s The Dry all in one sitting. It’s not going to win a Man Booker but it was a good story set in an interesting place and pulled me along when my brain literally couldn’t make up its own thoughts anymore.

I also enjoyed some true crime books this year, particularly Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann, which taught me a lot I didn’t learn in history class and was both gripping and devastating, and The Feather Thief by Kirk Wallace Johnson.

I Joined A “Climate Fiction” Book Group: My friend Joan started a reading group around the theme of climate fiction. We have read a lot of different kinds of things. Some about dystopian futures; The Water Knife by Paolo Bacigalupi and Memory of Water by Emmi Itaranta both hit me hard because I can picture the landscapes where they are (partly) set, south-central Colorado and Finland respectively, based on my own travels and/or residency. We also read some just plain weirder speculative fiction, including Annihilation by Jeffrey Vandermeer, which I loved so much I went out, bought the other two books in the trilogy, and devoured them. We read a long literary noel with a Big Environmental Message, The Overstory by Richard Powers, and I loved that too (I put a quote from it on my holiday card). And we read Florida, which is not explicitly about climate change in a bang-you-over the head way, but it’s there. This group has been a great thing to join and if you’re interested, you can find out more on Twitter.

The Weirdest Book That I Absolutely Loved: Steve gave me Drive Your Plow Over The Bones of the Dead by Polish author Olga Tokarczuk because he read a review of it in The Economist and thought I might like it. I dove in without learning anything about it, to the extent that through the whole first chapter I wasn’t sure if the narrator was a man or a woman. This book is super bizarre, but I liked it – it was so different than anything I’ve read this year or maybe ever. I won’t give it away other than to say that may or may not be your cup of tea. Steve tried to read it after my rave reviews and got most of the way through before flinging it onto the table as he shouted obscenities, so, your mileage may vary.

Two Books About Science and Society That Changed Me: Two nonfiction books stuck with me and will probably alter how I go about my life as a scientist and human being. The first was The Home Place by J. Drew Lanham, a book that my mother gave me as a gift. The memoir resembles an essay collection, and I typically don’t love essay collections, so I put off reading it. Then I picked the book up and wanted to savor every word. The book details the author’s relationship with nature and the place he grew up, and the challenges he faces as a Black wildlife biologist. It is beautiful nature writing, and made me see my field differently, too. It rightfully won the 2017 Southern Book Award.

The second was Inferior by Angela Saini, which highlights how understudied women are compared to men and how many of the things our culture, or indeed our whole women, believe about women based on centuries of “knowledge” are simply bullshit propped up by pseudoscience, because nobody thought it was interesting or worthwhile to do the real work. This book blew me away and made me mad, but it also profiles researchers working to change the game. Maybe there’s hope.

A Delightful Novel That Will Change Your Opinion of the Author: Some feminist websites I read have occasionally gushed about Orlando by Virginia Woolf. I finally picked up a copy. I like Woolf; if that makes me pretentious, I don’t care. If you don’t like her, though, try this book anyway. It’s about an ageless character who lives for hundreds of years and transforms from a man to a woman in the process. It’s legitimately hilarious in places, but also has some beautiful descriptions of tons of different settings, and musings on the human condition.

Other Books I Highly Recommend: Circe by Madeline Miller; Black River by S.M. Hulse; The Invention of Nature by Andrea Wulf.

***

What’s next? I’m going to keep reading, of course. These two years of trying to read a book a week have reignited a habit in me that was last seen in middle school. My inner bookworm has re-emerged.

In fourth grade we had some kind of reading contest, challenging the class above or below us (I can’t remember which) to see who could read the most books in a month. This brought out my competitive side and while some of my friends struggled to read one book because they just found it boring, I read at least one per day (these were middle-grade books, so nothing too dense)– it was partly because I wanted to win, but it totally wasn’t a chore. It was like getting a prize for something you wanted to do anyway.

Now, I have 11 books on the “to-be-read” shelf of my bookcase, and my Amazon wishlist is hundreds of books long. It would take me well over a decade to read them all at my current rate, even without the many that I add based on new releases each year. I’ll never get there. But I’m excited for the ones I do read.

Want to track your own reading in a systematic way, for example to make sure you really are reading women authors? The website BookRiot has a nice spreadsheet you can use (and adapt).

Planoiras Part 2: Seeking Confidence and Resilience

Note: This is the second of two posts about my racing in Lenzherheide, Switzerland, this weekend. For the first post, click here.

Saturday morning I woke up to one of those emails you don’t want to get at the start of the weekend. A paper I had submitted was rejected. Argh!

This happens all the time if you are an academic, and I think I have generally gotten slightly better at dealing with it. I was able to find some positives: the paper did go out for review (rather than getting rejected by the editor without review, something that is quite common), and all of the reviewers and editors agreed the premise was interesting. It’s not like they were telling me I, or my science, was garbage.

But it was still very disappointing. It was the chapter of my dissertation that I felt the most ownership over: the thing I felt like I had come up with all by myself and then convinced my supervisor and co-author to pursue, and that had turned out to have really interesting results. I had sent it to one of the journals I admire most in my field, and to have it published there would have felt like an incredible milestone.

Luckily, I was meeting some friends for a ski that morning, so after reading the reviewer comments over breakfast I hopped on the train and got some beautiful, sunshiney snow time. Glide. Good therapy.

Later in the day, I skyped with Steve, who is traveling for work. We chatted about a bunch of different things before I even remembered to mention the paper rejection. Then he asked if I was ready for my ski race the next day.

“I’m trying to be,” I said. “But it’s hard. The weather is going to be pretty terrible. It’s just blah.”

“You’re paper got rejected and now everything is painted gray,” he responded. “I know how you will be. The weather is gray and I don’t like it. The skiing is gray. This breakfast is gray, yuck. Gray gray gray.”

I laughed, because he was right, kind of. I definitely get that way. Sometimes when one bad thing happens, it leads me right down a chain of negativity until everything seems overwhelming, bad, and unsolvable. I can’t seem to see anything good in the world.

But I also laughed because it’s something I’m working on. For Christmas I bought myself Kara Goucher’s new book, “Strong.” It’s about building confidence. Some of the presentation is a little too girly for me, but there are aspects of the book that I love. It all works because Goucher is completely honest about her struggles, and she’s easily convincing when she relates how mental training helped her.

One section is about reframing negative thoughts and turning them into strengths, and this is something I really liked.

Here’s an example. These days when I go to a ski race, I’m aware that I probably don’t train as much as most of the people who are around me – people who look all pro in their shiny suits, who own the newest skis and boots and poles, and who probably poured a couple hundred Francs into their wax jobs. I certainly don’t have as much time on snow, because I live in Zurich, and most of them live much closer to the mountains, if not actually in the mountains.

As I see all these people warming up and putting their skis on the line, sometimes I feel like a complete imposter. What am I doing here!? These people are so much better prepared than me! Look how fit they all look!

And, well, some of them are better trained. But physical preparation is not the only thing that makes you go fast. You could have done the best training this year, but if you show up at a race and don’t work hard, you’re probably not going to reach your goals.

I work really, really hard in races in order to make up for my lack of ski-specific (or some years even total…) training. I try to target my effort in the ways that will help the most, take advantage of my love of downhills and corners, and attempt to finish the race having spent every bit of energy I have.

And so when there was an exercise in “Strong” to write down a common negative thought you have and reframe it, this is what I picked.

“Everyone here has done better training than you,” I wrote down for the negative thought.

“You know how to get the most out of the training you’ve done,” I wrote down as a new mantra.

I hadn’t really thought about things that way before, but it felt good.

Did it help me in my race on Sunday? I don’t know. The race still wasn’t that fun, but I did stay focused even though I was performing worse than I had hoped. N=1. Maybe I would have anyway.

A few days later, I was listening to the Science of Ultra podcast when an episode came on about mental training. The host describing the RISE approach: recognize, identify, switch, and execute. His example for recognizing your emotions hit home.

“First, recognize the thoughts you’re having. Be aware of negative, unhelpful, and destructive thoughts…. maybe you’re going much slower than expected, and disappointed that you’re not going to make your goal time, or embarrassed that so many people are passing you.”

As I wrote in part 1 of this blog post, I need to clarify why it is that I race. Skiing doesn’t really have goal times (one of the things I love about it!) and you never know who will show up at a given marathon. Setting results-based goals seems particularly futile when you’re in a field of competitors you don’t know anything about, and I wouldn’t say that I am driven to race because I think I’ll do “well”. I don’t train full time. I’m getting worse at skiing. I know that.

And yet, that embarrassment when lots of people pass me is real. That’s something I need to recognize. Even though results are not the main reason I do this, it feels bad.

What’s funny about all of this is that I have been thinking about mental resilience a lot lately, but not because of sports. Instead, I’ve been thinking about it in my life as a scientist.

Finishing my dissertation was really hard, and I still don’t feel like I’m fully recovered. It took a lot out of me intellectually and emotionally. Two months after handing it in, I sit down at the computer to write on one of the other papers I owe my boss and I just can’t. The words don’t come out. The ideas I had disappear.

And even before that, sometimes I get into these negative spirals. Everything gets painted gray. Science has highs and lows and sometimes I feel like I’m swinging wildly between them from one day to the next. Going through something like a dissertation doesn’t help you deal with all the “normal” lows like getting a paper rejected.

I love science, and I want to keep doing it. But I need to do everything I can to be healthy.

And so when I was at the British Ecological Society annual meeting in Birmingham, England, in December, I headed to a lunchtime workshop about mental resilience in academia.

I was relieved to see that the room was full of people. I wasn’t weak for thinking I needed help in this department. Apparently, this was something that everyone thought sounded like a lifeline. Including people I recognized and admired.

Some things we talked about I already knew. Others I hadn’t thought about, or not in the same way. One of the latter was the instruction to recognize and accept your emotions.

“Sometimes we think that resilience is bouncing back, getting over it and soldiering on,” the workshop organizer said. “But there’s a danger in that. You need to recognize and deal with your emotions, with how you feel about the bad things you’re experiencing. If you bury them in an effort to just ‘soldier on’, that’s not going to work in the long run. That’s not resilience.”

All of these things – confidence, recognition, resilience – seem tied together for me, even though I’m not doing a good job of explaining why. But even though I’m exhausted by my PhD and frequently overwhelmed, I think that thinking about all these things has made me more balanced in the last month or so.

Kara Goucher’s book is about keeping a confidence journal. The premise is that every day, you write down something specific, that you will remember immediately, and that will make you feel more confident when you go back and read it later.

I’ve enjoyed keeping a confidence journal so far. I always write something about the training/exercise session I did each day (or what was good about resting instead of training), and some days I write about science, too. Both sides of my life are places where I need to go back and find some extra confidence sometimes.

My weekend started off with a rejection, but it didn’t have to end that way. I recognized my disappointment and frustration with racing, but found the positive side in my journal entry.

My Ford Sayre ski coach, Scottie Eliassen, always had us talk about one thing that went well and one thing to improve on for next time after every race. This is what I channeled.

“I didn’t go fast, but dang I worked hard. My threshold HR is 177 and my average for the 25 k race was 175. Despite the snowstorm and feeling bad, I hit my process goal of not getting complacent and giving up. I kept pushing.”

Next time I’m about to race and I begin worrying that everyone is more fit than I am, maybe reading that message will help. I’ve been doing this for a long time and I know how to get the best out of the training I’ve done.

Planoiras Part 1: This Doesn’t Feel Fun (A Pity Party)

Note: this is the first of two posts about my racing in Lenzherheide, Switzerland, this weekend. It’s going to be a little negative. Tomorrow’s will be positive though, so stay tuned! (Edited to add: Part 2 is posted here.)

Every year, I have a giddy feeling as the snow starts to fall. That means it’s ski season! Usually I’ve been waiting more and more impatiently for months.

This year was no different. I had trained for a marathon and completed it in late October. After a few weeks of minimal exercise to let my body recover (and to let me finish writing my dissertation), I couldn’t wait to get on skis. I wanted to get moving again, but while running less than I had been in the months leading up to my marathon. I sought glide.

Unfortunately, the weather didn’t cooperate, and it was a very warm early winter in much of Europe. The skiing got good about the time I headed home for Christmas. Back home in New England, folks had been skiing for weeks – but it rained the day after I got home and much of the snow melted, so I didn’t ski much there, either. Of course, there was a huge snowstorm the day I left. I just had horrible timing.

In the last month, I’ve had a few skis here and there, about two of which have been in good conditions.

Just as I had been dreaming, gliding on skis was bliss.

***

Every year since 2003 I’ve done at least a couple of ski races, and it would feel weird not to plan some into my winter. My first race of this year was the Planoiras 25 k skate point-to-point in Lenzerheide this weekend.

I’ve done the race a few times before. Last year, I was recovering from a major ankle injury. I entered only to realize partway through that my injury still significantly limited my range of motion. I couldn’t get the ankle flex I needed to skate at speed. Worse than that, by halfway through the race skating was getting painful, including acute sharp twinges in my ankle whenever I slipped in the icy conditions. I slowed way down and limped my way to the finish.

That was a super frustrating day – one of the most frustrating in my rehab process. It had been six months since the injury, and I thought I was recovered. Turns out, I wasn’t. I skated only minimally for the rest of the winter, licking my wounds and (luckily) enjoying classic skiing pain-free.

This year, just signing up for the race was a reminder of my injury. But I feel like I’m legitimately healed, so it actually brought a smile to my face. I am still a little bit wobblier on the left side when I do balance drills, but I haven’t had pain in months.

I recognized that I haven’t been on snow much this season; when I tried doing some skating intervals last week, I was floundering all over the place. So I didn’t have super high hopes for the race.

But I thought it would still feel triumphant: I would do a lot better than last year, and be able to actually ski an entire race without having to pull up short and walk it in.

***

There was basically nothing about the day that felt triumphant.

The weather forecast called for a major snowstorm, and I did my best to psych myself up. “You can’t just wait around for a race with perfect conditions,” I admonished myself. “You have to go race anyway. Enjoying nice weather is not what this is about.”

I think I did a pretty good job with my mental attitude. I had accepted that it wasn’t going to be a beautiful day in the mountains, and that things were going to be slow and sloppy. I was just going to make the best of things and ski hard.

I did try my best. But everyone just kind of skied away from me. I felt slow and ineffective; my legs felt like lead. The climbs were such a drag. The way my legs were burning, I felt like I should be moving like Jessie Diggins. But, ummm, I wasn’t. (Let’s leave it at that.)

At first I wondered if I’d just picked the completely wrong skis. I might have, but that couldn’t explain the way that I just felt weak, heavy, and slow. I didn’t have any zip.

And at some point, I started wondering, is this fun? Why do I do this?

I managed to push that question from my mind and stay pretty focused. I pushed hard, even though it didn’t make me go fast. Looking at my heart rate data afterwards, I was hovering right around my anaerobic threshold for an hour and 39 minutes straight, often going above it. I can’t say I didn’t try hard.

I crossed the line to no fanfare, not happy with how I skied technically or speed-wise. I had been snowed on for more than an hour and a half and I was wet and cold and bedraggled, the top of my head actually covered in a crust of snow.

The sun was literally not shining on my face.

***

A lot of things about the day didn’t make me feel happy. But the feeling afterwards, as I struggled through a 10-minute jog, developed a race hack, and then proceeded to fall asleep on the train (narrator: this never happens, she’s terrible at sleeping), did make me happy.

One thing I love about racing is the feeling of completely emptying the tank and knowing that you worked as hard as you possibly could, that you are physically 110% spent. That might make me a crazy person, but it is a rewarding feeling. And I think it’s one that a lot of people don’t experience often if at all. When I push myself that hard, I am proud of myself, proud that I can do it.

Regardless of how fast I go, having this relationship with my body. I can ask it to do this massive effort and it delivers. To me, that is an accomplishment.

***

As I skied around the course, I had pushed the questions out of my mind. But on the way I kept mulling over that question: is this fun?

It’s been a few days, and the mental tricks we play on ourselves have already come into force. I’m painting the race all rosy, proud of how hard I tried, thinking it wasn’t so bad.

But I do remember. While it was happening, it didn’t seem fun. At all. Except for a few scattered moments here and there, I wasn’t really enjoying myself.

It hurt, and not in a good way. I wasn’t getting any power or speed out of the burn I was laying into my legs. Pushing hard is rewarding especially when it gets you somewhere, but it didn’t feel like I was getting anywhere.

Then there’s the reality of racing as a woman in Switzerland.

I don’t want to offend anyone with what I’m about to write, but sometimes it is less fun than it could be.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s great that everyone is racing. Keep racing, masters men! Start racing, folks who are just getting into skiing! It’s fun and healthy and I am all for more people ski racing.

But just 40 of the 313 finishers in this year’s Planoiras were women, or 13%. I would go long stretches without seeing another woman, and men just ski and race differently than women. In my experience, we women are more likely to set a steady, even pace (don’t @ me: this is backed up by research). In my part of the race, we also often have better technique to go the same speed as the men –we aren’t as big and strong , so we get to go that fast by other means – and so it’s nicer to ski behind another woman. I will never get passed by a woman who sprints by me in an effort to not get “girled”, only to run out of steam in the middle of the trail later and then try to block me from passing once I catch up. It’s men who do that. The same ones who repeatedly ski over your skis and step all over your pole baskets, but then turn around and yell at you if you accidentally do the same thing to them even once.

Look, there are lots of great men racing out there who excellent to ski with. In fact, I ski around a lot of them a lot of the time! Thanks, guys! It would be lonely out there without you.

But what I mean by “it’s less fun than it could be” is that for the men who are maybe prone to ski like idiots or jerks, I don’t think that the gender imbalance in these races contributes to bringing out their best behavior.

The numbers of women are better in the U.S. in many long races. I checked some data and at last year’s City of Lakes Loppet, between the skate marathon and 20 k combined 166 of 684 racers were women, or 24%. In the Tour of Anchorage 50 k, 43 of 172 finishers were women, or 25%. In the Rangeley Lakes Loppet, 25% of the 80 finishers were women. And in the Boulder Mountain Tour 34 k in 2017, 178 of 534 finishers were women, or 33%.

That might not seem like a big difference – in none of these cases are anywhere near equal numbers of men and women competing in ski marathons – but the difference is meaningful.

Think about if one out of every four people around you is a woman, versus one out of every eight. You’d notice.

So as my legs burned and I floundered in the sections of soft snow, I’d periodically get annoyed at unnecessary, impolite race behavior. Like, chill out! We are not at the front of this race. We are the slow people. We’re all out here trying as hard as we can, and it’s just unnecessary to make other people’s race experience worse in your pursuit of that goal.

Afterwards, the thought stuck in my mind. If I could ski in a pack like this for an hour and a half – worrying all the time that my poles are about to get broken and I’m about to get tripped and land on my face – or I could go have a nice quiet ski by myself in the mountains somewhere, which one sounds like more fun?

***

Then there’s the fact that I’m only going to get slower.

I trained a lot more when I was 23 and 24 and well, kids, it’s all downhill from there. Especially when you live in the city and there’s no skiing within an hour.

I’m probably never going to improve at ski racing again. And despite all the process goals I can make and all the other reasons that I race, that might mean that ski racing is a little less fun. I’m a competitive person, and as hard as I try to let go of that and detach, it’s a little brutal to watch yourself do worse and worse. It’s embarrassing to admit that I have a little bit of ego in this. I’m mediocre, so there shouldn’t be vanity involved. But I’m only human.

***

This is a passing hissy fit. Okay, so I did a race and I felt slow. Grow up.

But as I kept thinking about it – does this make me happy, and if so, what about it does that? – I decided maybe it was important to actually consider those questions, instead of just doing a couple ski races every year because that’s what I’ve always done.

If I think about the answers to those questions – really think about them – then maybe it will feel less disappointing next time I feel slow and weak, or finish twenty places worse than the last time I did a race.

Maybe my next race will be in the sunshine, with perfect kickwax, and I won’t have been too incredibly stressed about work all week, and I’ll feel great and have fun! I sure hope so.

But even if that’s true, too, having the answers to those questions won’t hurt. I don’t have them yet. But I’m working on it.

Why do you race?

Maybe it’s a good conversation to have.

***

Part 2 is posted here.

Book Review: Spying On Whales by Nick Pyenson

My aunt sends us books for Christmas every year, a.k.a. the best kind of holiday presents. In this year’s box was Spying on Whales by Nick Pyenson, and I sat down to start reading it that very night.

In some ways, I’m the perfect audience for this book. I’m interested in nature, natural history, and evolution, but I actually didn’t know much of anything about whales.

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Whale territory. You just can’t see them because they are under the water – as Pyenson discusses, this is one of the things that make these giant animals so mysterious and compelling.

In November I had gone on a whale-watching boat ride in northern Norway, and more or less everything I knew came from the Ukrainian guide on the boat. It wasn’t much, but before and after the trip, I thought whales were cool, when I thought about them at all.

If you are already a little obsessed with whales, then I think you’ll like the book too. All the facts are there for you to nerd out on.

9780735224568But Pyenson writes impressively well, and the book is never bogged down in this nerdery. Instead, it’s fun and adventurous. Chapters sometimes end in cliffhangers – I certainly couldn’t stop reading. And at times, it’s quite a moving read.

In the prologue, Pyenson describes how the Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 spacecraft are carrying whalesong into the outer reaches of the solar system. We may not understand what whales are saying, but we intuitively feel that they are intelligent and powerful – and that their communication is not only beautiful but probably important.

“They’re so compelling that we imagine aliens might find them interesting,” Pyenson writes of whales.

And yet, he continues, we know very little about whales, either the ones that live in our oceans today or the whales of the past.

I’ll admit: I didn’t actually really realize that.

Pyenson fills in details that I never knew I didn’t know, and certainly didn’t realize were so recently discovered. He discusses what things we still don’t know, and what mysteries will be exciting to solve. This book is filled with behavior, anatomy, and evolutionary history, as well as discussions of how all three connect to make a modern whale.

“Nothing in biology makes sense except in the light of evolution”, foundational biologist Theodosius Dobzhansky wrote as the title of one of his essays.

In my fields – ecology and evolutionary biology – this is tossed back and forth. “Nothing in ecology makes sense except in the light of evolution,” an evolutionary biologist will say, scoffing at ecology as boring (yes, this has happened to me, in person).

“Well, nothing in evolution makes sense except in the light of ecology,” a ecologist might retort.

Pyenson’s book is a great demonstration that both are true. In trying to piece together – literally, based on fossil fragments – how whales went from living on dry land to being the biggest animals in the oceans and indeed on the planet, ever, both ecology and evolution are needed. The two are woven together throughout the book as Pyenson describes working with one collaborator after another.

“The trip was an opportunity to push at the questions sitting on the edges of our disciplines, at the intersection of Ari’s understanding of behavior and local ecology, Jeremy’s grasp of physiology and biomechanics, and my background in paleontology and Earth history,” Pyenson writes at one point. “The basic questions about how whales do that they do require all these fields of understanding, and I’ve always thought the best way to answer them was through this Venn diagram of disciplines and personalities.”

Now that’s a scientific approach I admire, and he demonstrates that it’s fun, too. Minus the part at the whale slaughterhouse.

How does this approach deliver answers? Here’s an example question. If whales have gradually evolved to be bigger and bigger, why aren’t they even bigger still? That evolutionary question has an ecological answer.

The first two-thirds of the book are about the past and the present of whales. But my favorite part was the last third, about the future of whales, and of us. Whales live a very long time, sometimes two hundred years. There is a beautiful description of all that a 200-year-old whale has seen in its lifetime.

And then, a description of what today’s whales might see in the future, things that you and I will not live to see.

“Any bowheads living today do so in a liminal gap between a familiar past and a potentially unrecognizable future,” Pyenson writes of climate change in the Arctic. “A bowhead calf born today will live in an Arctic that, by the next century, will be a different world than that experienced by all of its ancestors.”

Maybe that sounds trivial – like, duh, climate change is happening fast – but after reading a hundred pages about all of the different environments that whales have encountered through their long evolutionary history, it is powerful when you reach this point.

And that is one of the things that kept me reading this book. It is peppered with fun facts – large baleen whales grow at a rate of a hundred pounds a day before reaching maturity, dang, that seems impossible! – but also with profound observations and good writing.

Finally, as a field ecologist, I really enjoyed Pyenson’s descriptions of fieldwork trips. He takes us to Chile, Panama, Iceland, and Antarctica, as well as more familiar-to-Americans spots like California and North Carolina. All of his descriptions of the challenges and successes of fieldwork, the camaraderie between colleagues, and even that one wonderful-but-definitely-weirdo collaborator (we all have at least one), feel authentic.

If you like science and nature writing, and compelling nonfiction in general, I think you’ll like this book. I did. Thanks Lizzie!

My #365papers Experiment in 2018

This year, based on initiatives by some other ecologists in the past, I embarked on the #365papers challenge. The idea of the challenge is that in academia, we end up skimming a lot of material in papers: we jump to the figures, or look for a specific part of the methods or one line of the results we need. Instead, this challenge urged people to read deeper. Every day, they should read a whole paper.

(Jacquelyn Gill and Meghan Duffy launched the initiative and wrote about their first years of it. But #365papers is now not just in ecology, but in other academic fields. Some of the past recaps I read were by Anne Jefferson, Joshua Drew, Elina Mäntylä, and Caitlin MacKenzie. Caitlin’s was probably the post that catalyzed m to do the challenge.)

I knew that 365 papers was too ambitious for me, and that I wouldn’t (and didn’t want to!) read on the weekends, for example. I decided to try nevertheless to read a paper every weekday in 2018, which would be 261 days total.

In the end, I clocked in at 217 papers (I read more than that, but see below for what I counted as a “paper” for this challenge) – not bad! I tweeted links to all the papers, so you can see my list via this Twitter search. I can confidently say that I have never read so many papers in a year.

In fact, I am guessing that this is more papers than I have read in their entirety (not skimming or extracting, as mentioned above), in my total career before 2018. That’s embarrassing to admit but I am guessing it’s not that unusual. (What do you think, if we’re all being honest here?)

This was a great exercise. I learned so much about writing, for one thing – there’s no better way to learn to write than to read a lot.

But the thing that was most exciting was that I read a lot more, and a lot of fun pieces. I had gotten to a place where there were so many papers that I felt I had to read for my own work, that I would just look at the pile, blanche, and put it off for later. Reading had become a chore, not something fun.

Titles_wordle

A Wordle of the paper titles. On my website it says I am a community and ecosystem ecologist, and I guess my reading choices reflect that! (I’d be interested to make a Wordle based on the abstracts, to see if there are more diverse words than the ones we choose for titles – but I didn’t make time to extract all the abstracts for that.)

That’s not a great way to do research, and luckily the challenge changed my reading status quo. If I was reading every day, I reasoned, then not every paper had to be directly related to my work as a community ecologist. There would be ample time for that, but I could also read things that simply looked interesting. And I did! I devoured Table of Contents emails from journals with glee and read about all sorts of things – evolution, the physical science of climate change, remote sensing.

These papers, despite seeming like frivolous choices, taught me a lot about science. Just because they were not about exactly what I was researching does not mean they did not inform how I think about things. This was incredibly valuable. We get stuck in our subfields, on our PhD projects, in our own little bubbles. Seeing things from a different angle is great and can catalyze new ideas or different framing of results. Things that didn’t make sense might make sense in a different light.

But I also did read lots of papers directly related to what I was working on. I think I could only do that because it no longer felt like a chore, like a big stack of paper sitting on the corner of my desk glaring at me. This challenge freed me, as strange as that sounds given the time commitment!

And finally, I tweeted each paper, and tagged the authors if possible. This helped me make some new connections and, often, learn about even more cool research. It helped me put faces to names at conferences and gave me the courage to strike up conversations. The social aspect of this challenge was fun and also probably pretty useful in the long run.

For all of the reasons I just mentioned, I would highly recommend this challenge to other academics. (It’s not just in ecology – if you look at the #365papers hashtag on Twitter, there are a lot of different people in different fields taking up the challenge.) Does 365 or 261 papers sound like too many? Set a different goal.  But make it ambitious enough that you are challenging yourself. For me, I found that making it a daily habit was key, because then it doesn’t feel like something you have to schedule (or something you can put off) – you just do it. Then sit down and read a whole paper, with focus and attention to detail. If you like it, why is that? Is the topic of interest to you? The writing good? The analyses particularly appropriate and well-explained? Is it that the visuals add a lot to the paper? Are the hypotheses (and alternative hypotheses) identified clearly, making it easier to follow? Or, if you don’t like it, why is that? Is it the science, or the presentation? What would you do differently?

One thing I didn’t nail down was how to keep notes. I read on paper, so I would highlight important or relevant bits or references to look up. But I don’t have a great system for how to transfer this to Evernote (where I keep papers’ abstracts linked to their online versions, each tagged in topic categories). In the beginning I was adding photos of each part of the paper I had highlighted to its note, but this was too time-consuming and I gave up. In the end it was like, if I had time, I would manually re-type my reading notes into Evernote, and if not, I wouldn’t. I do think the notes are valuable and important to have searchable, so this probably limits the utility of all that reading a little bit. It’s something I will think how to improve for next year. The biggest challenge is time.

In addition to reading a lot, I kept track of some minimal data about each paper I read. I’ll present that below, in a few sections:

  • Where (journals) and when the papers were published
  • Who wrote them – first authorship (gender, nationality, location)
  • A few thoughts about last authorship
  • Grades I assigned the papers when reading – potential biases (had I eaten lunch yet!?) and the three papers I thought were best at the time I read them

I plan to try this challenge again next year, and the data that I summarize will probably inform how I go about it. I’ll discuss that a little at the very end.

What Did I Count as One of My 365  261  217 Papers?

First, some methodological details. For this effort, I didn’t count drafts of papers that I was a co-author on, although that would have upped the number or papers quite a bit because I have been working on a lot of collaborative projects this year. I also didn’t count reading chapters of colleagues’ theses, or a chapter of a book draft. And I didn’t count book chapters, although I did read a few academic books, among them Dennis Chitty’s Do Lemmings Commit Suicide, Mathew Leibold & Jonathan Chase’s Metacommunity Ecology, Andy Friedland and Carol Folt’s Writing Successful Science Proposals, and a book about R Markdown. I started but haven’t finished Mark McPeek’s Evolutionary Community Ecology.

I did count manuscripts that I read for peer review.

Where The Papers Were Published

I didn’t go into this challenge with a specific idea of what I wanted to read. I find papers primarily through Table of Contents alerts, but also through Twitter, references in other papers, and searches for specific topics while I was working on my dissertation or on research proposals. This biases the papers I read to be more likely to be by people I’m already aware of or in journals I already read. Not entirely, but substantially.

We also have a “journal club” in our Altermatt group lab meeting which doesn’t function like a standard one, but instead each person is assigned one or two journals to “follow” and we rotate through each person summarizing the interesting papers in “their” journals once every few months (the cycle length depends on the number of people in the lab at a given time). That’s a good way to notice papers that might be good to read, and since we are a pretty diverse lab in terms of research topics, introduces some novelty. I think it’s a clever idea by my supervisor, Florian.

Given that I wasn’t seeking out papers in a very systematic way, I wasn’t really sure what the final balance between different journals and types of journals would be at the end of the year. The table below shows the number of papers for each of the 63 (!) journals that I read from. That’s more journals than I was expecting! (Alphabetical within each count category)

In addition, I read one preprint on BioRxiv.

I don’t necessarily think that Nature papers are the best ecology out there; that’s not why it tops the list. Seeing EcologyOikos, and Ecology Lettersas the next best-represented journals is probably a better representation of my interests.

But, I do think that Nature (and Science, which had just a few fewer papers) papers get a lot of attention and must have been chosen for a reason (am I naive there?). There are not so many of them in my field and I do try to read them to gauge what other people seem to see as the most important topics. I also read them because it exposes me to research tangential to my field or even entirely in other fields – which I wouldn’t find in ecology journals, but which are important to my overall understanding of my science.

I’m pleased that Ecology & Evolution is one of my top-read journals, because it indicates (along with the rest of the list) that I’m not only reading things for novelty/high-profile science, but also more mechanistic papers that are important to my work even if they aren’t so sexy per se. A lot of the journals pretty high up the list are just good ecology journals with a wide range of content.

There are a lot of aquatic-specific journals on the list, which reflects me trying to get background on my specific research. But there are also some plant journals on the list, either because I’m still interested in plant community ecology despite being in freshwater for the duration of my PhD, or because they are about community ecology topics that are useful to all ecology. It will be interesting to see if the aquatic journals stay well-represented when I shift to my next research project in a postdoc.

Society journals (from the Ecological Society of America, Nordic Society Oikos, British Ecological Society, and American Society of Naturalists, among others) are well represented. Thanks, scientific societies!

When The Papers Were Published

The vast, vast majority of papers I read were published very recently. Or, well, let’s be honest, because this is academic publishing: who knows when they were written? I didn’t systematically track this, but definitely noticed some were accepted months or maybe even a year before final paginated publication. And they were likely written long before that. But you get the point. As for the publication year, that’s below.

year_published

This data was not a surprise from me as a fair amount of my paper choices come from seeing journal table of contents alerts. I probably should read more older papers though.

Who Wrote the Papers: First Authors

Okay, on to the authors. Who were they? As I mentioned for journals, I didn’t systematically choose what I was reading, so I was curious what the gender and geographic breakdown of the authors would be. Since I didn’t very consciously try to read lots of papers authored by women, people of color, or people outside of North America and Europe, I guess I expected that the gender of first authors to be male-skewed, white, and from those continents. I wasn’t actively trying to counteract bias in this part of the process, so I expected to see evidence of it.

I did my best to find the gender of all first authors. Of those for which this was deducible based on homepages, Twitter profiles listing pronouns, in-person meetings at conferences, etc.,:

  • 59 first authors were women
  • 155 first authors were men
  • 2 papers had joint first authors
  • 1 paper I peer-reviewed was double-blind (authorship unknown to me)

I’m fairly troubled by this. I certainly wasn’t going out of my way to read papers by men, and I didn’t think it would be this skewed when I did a final tally. If I want to support women scientists by reading their work – and then citing it, sharing it with a colleague, contacting them about it, starting discussions, etc. – I am going to have to be a lot more deliberate. I want to learn about other women scientists’ ideas! They have a lot of great ones. I’m going to try harder in the future. Or, really, I’m going to try in the future – as mentioned, I was not intentionally reading or not reading women this past year.

I initially tried to track whether authors were people of color, but it’s just too fraught for me to infer from Googling. I don’t want to misrepresent people. But I can say that the number of authors who were POC was certainly quite low.

I did, however, take some geographic stats: where (to the best of my Googling abilities) authors originally came from, and where their primary affiliation listed on the paper was located.

For the authors for whom I could identify nationality based on websites, CVs, etc., 31 countries were represented.

FA nationality

The authors were numerically dominated by native English speakers, but those had relative geographic diversity, coming from the US, Canada, the UK, Ireland, Australia, and New Zealand (I’m not sure if English is the first language of the South African author). 15 different European nationalities were represented. There were a number of authors from Brazil, and one each from Chile, Colombia, and Ecuador, as well as Central America being represented by a Guatemalan. Maybe a surprise was that Chinese authors were underrepresented, either from Chinese institutions (see below) or those outside China; there were just five. There are many countries from which there are great scientists which are not represented in this dataset.

When it came to institutional country, the field narrowed to 24 countries plus the Isle of Man.

FA_inst

While there were 78 American first authors, 90 first authors came from American universities/institutions. In Europe, Denmark, Sweden and Switzerland gobbled up some of the institutional affiliations despite having low numbers of first authors originally from those countries (this is very consistent with my experience in those places).

(Note: it would have been really nice to make a riverplot showing how authors moved between countries, but I was too lazy to build a transition matrix. Sorry.)

This isn’t really surprising, the consolidation into fewer countries. It reflects that while small countries have great scientists, they often don’t have as many resources to have great research funding or many universities. Some places, even those with traditionally strong academic institutions, are simply going through austerity measures. I think of many Europeans I know who decided that leaving their countries – Portugal, Spain, the Baltics and Balkans, and other places – was their best bet to be able to do the research they wanted to do, and have a job. I think of others, notably a friend in Slovenia, who is staying there because he loves it, but whose opportunities are probably curtailed because of that.

I’d like to read more widely in terms of institutional location and author nationality, but it’s a bit overwhelming to make a solid plan. Reading more women is fairly straightforward. But when I think of all the places with good science but where I didn’t read a single paper, there are a lot of them. I can only read so many papers! So part of it will be recognizing that I can make an effort to read more diversely but I’m not going to solve bias in science just with my reading project. I need to make an effort that is meaningful, and then be okay with what it doesn’t accomplish.

Also, I don’t always know the gender, race, or nationality of an author before I Google them – this past year, I only did that after I read the papers. I might need to sometimes reverse that process, perhaps?

Do you have other ideas of how to tackle this? I’d love suggestions if anyone has them.

One thought is to more deliberately read from the non-North American, non-European authors in the journals I already read from. I already know I like the papers those editorial teams select. This would probably be the least amount of extra work required to diversify my reading, because I could stick to the same method of choosing papers (table of contents alerts), but execute differently on those tables of contents.

And a Bit About the Last Authors

I did not collect as detailed information about the last authors of each paper, but I did collect some. A big topic in academia is that women get fewer and fewer the higher you go in the academic hierarchy. I wondered if that was true in the papers I was reading.

There were fewer last authors because some papers were single-author. Of those that were multi-author, I filtered the dataset to look at only those where last-authorship seemed to denote seniority (based on author contribution statements, lab composition and relationships between authors, etc.) rather than being alphabetical or based on something else (on some papers with very many authors, all the senior authors were listed at the front of the author list). Of these,

  • 19 senior last authors were women
  • 105 senior last authors were men

Yikes!

That’s all one can say! Yikes!

Like the first authors, the last authors came from 31 different countries… but some different ones were represented (Venezuela, Serbia, India). They represented institutions in a few more places than the first authors, 28 different countries vs. 24 for first/single authors. I’m not sure what to make of that, especially since this is from a smaller subset of papers (since the single-author papers were removed), but obviously collaborative research and writing is alive and well.

Ratings and Favorite Papers

Right after I read each paper, I assigned it a letter grade. Looking back through my record keeping, I am less and less convinced that this is really meaningful. I think it had to do a lot with my mindset at the time, among other things. Did I just have a stressful meeting? Was I impatient to finish my reading and go home? Was I tired? Maybe I was less receptive to what I was reading. Or conversely, maybe if I was tired and a little distracted I was less likely to notice flaws in the paper. Who knows. Anyway, “B” was the grade I most frequently assigned.

grades

I didn’t keep detailed notes of why I felt different grades were merited, but I can make a few generalizations. Quite a number of the papers I gave poor grades were because I didn’t find methods to be well enough explained. I either couldn’t follow what the authors did, or maybe important statistical information wasn’t even included (or only in the supplementary information when I thought it was so essential to understanding the work that it really needed to be brought to the center). In particular this included some papers using fancy and cutting edge methods… just using those statistics or analysis techniques doesn’t make your paper magic. You still need to say what those analyses show and what they mean ecologically, and convince me that the fancy stats actually lead to a better understanding of what’s going on!

In some ways this is not authors’ faults – journals are often pressing for shorter word counts, and some don’t even publish methods in the main text, which is a total pain if you’re a reader. Also, it’s one of the biggest things I struggle with when writing – you know perfectly well what you did, and it can be hard to see that for an outsider your methods description seem incomplete. I get it! Reading papers where you don’t understand the methods is always a good cue to think about how you present your own work.

I assigned three papers grades of “A+”. Were they better than the ones I deemed “A”s? I’m not sure, but at the time, whether because of my general mood or their true brilliance, I sure thought they were great. They were:

I read a lot of other great papers too! But looking back, I can say that these were among my favorites, all for different reasons. I could go and add more papers to a “best-of” list but I’ll just leave it at that.

Recap!

Besides all the great reasons to do this challenge that I mentioned in the opening, this was pretty interesting data to delve into. I think I will try to keep doing the challenge in 2019, and I am currently thinking about how I choose which papers to read and if there are good strategies to read more diverse authors. I’m happy with the diversity of research that I read, but I would be happier if the voices describing that research were more diverse, to reflect the diversity of scientists in our world.

Do you have ideas about that? Comment below.

This was the final year of my PhD, and so in some ways a great time to do a reading challenge. It probably would have been more helpful if I had done this in the first year of my PhD, but hey, too late now. This year I wasn’t doing lab work, just writing and analyzing, so it was easy to fit in a lot of reading. It’s not good to stare at a screen writing all day, and I prefer to read on paper, so it was often a welcome break.

I don’t know what my work life will be like next year, so I will see how many papers I end up reading. It could be more, as I start a new project and need to get up to speed on a new subfield. Or it could be less as my working habits change. I’ll just do my best and adapt.

Finally, I’m thinking about whether there’s additional data I should track for next year’s challenge. Whether there is a difference between first and corresponding authors might be interesting. I’d welcome other suggestions too, but only if they don’t take much work to extract!

Understanding our values of nature

Above: a view from the Lägern forest outside of Baden, Switzerland, one of the research sites for Katie Horgan’s PhD work. I ran the Lägern ridge while I was training for a marathon this fall.

I’ve always been interested in conservation. Okay, maybe in the beginning it wasn’t a choice. My mother worked for (and now runs) a land conservation nonprofit, and I grew up kicking around the office and volunteering at events.

Some of my first research and jobs in ecology were about topics related to global change: invasive species, contamination, climate change. I was motivated to take these jobs because I cared about the issues and thought that doing research related to them would help.

But these projects were all very much ecology. The grants weren’t written and the studies weren’t designed with an outcome in mind that could be translated to stakeholders or implemented as policy. They were pure basic science: what is happening? Hey, that’s cool (or alarming, or boring, or …. ), and it’s good that we know it now!

Even though so many of our ecology results are framed in the context of global change, including sentences and maybe even paragraphs talking about implications for land management, I’ve never studied conservation biology. Neither have most of my collaborators.

Recently, I have begun to understand how my good intentions and environmentalism don’t help the environment that much. I’ve been doing ecology in a vacuum: I care about “issues”, but those issues are separate from my science (even if they are merged on my Twitter feed). I really like community ecology and understanding species interactions, and that’s what drives my research questions.

I’m not sure that in and of itself is problematic. But what is certainly problematic is the extent to which I didn’t realize what I was doing. It’s hard to expect your science to connect to and inform conservation and planning if you don’t really understand conservation and planning.

One of the things that made me more cognizant of this was the defense of a fellow University of Zurich PhD student, Katie Horgan, last week. Katie’s dissertation was highly interdisciplinary, and it exploded my conceptions of how we think about nature and ecosystems.

Embarrassingly, the big thing that I realized should be obvious: how we value nature depends more on us, than on nature.

(That might seem like a bit of a jump from my first few paragraphs, but I promise I will link it together at the end.)

When I write out my “big realization”, it looks stupid. I find myself thinking that I already knew that. I interact with people every day who think about the outdoors in a different way than I do.

My boyfriend illustrates this perfectly. When I go for a long run, I want to go somewhere new and see a new view. Steve? He would be happy running exactly the same loop around Uetliberg, the local ridge, that he ran the previous week.

“Why do you need to take the train for two hours?” he asks me. “It’s still just a forest.”

The value we place on seeing and experiencing ecosystems is completely different. Running around in the same forest, or similar forests, we pick up different things and take away different experiences.

How does that relate to ecology? In the past few decades, there has been a push to quantify the value of the natural world. We call them ecosystem services – things like clean water, clean air, the provision of fish to eat and wood to build with, nice places to go recreate in. All of these things can be assigned a dollar value and deemed “natural capital.”

This approach can then be used to make policies protecting natural areas. Asking people to identify what is valuable in their landscape helps set conservation priorities. This approach can also demonstrate that neglecting such protection would be economically costly. In some places the ecosystem services approach has worked great, and in others not so much.

Until last week, I have to admit that I kind of saw ecosystem services as black and white: this ecosystem either provides this service, or it doesn’t. This forest provides X and Y. That lake provides X and Z. I saw ecosystem services as something you could measure objectively.

Then I walked into Katie’s defense.

Katie’s research is fascinating. She worked at eight different research sites scattered around the world, from two right here in northeast Switzerland to those in Siberia and Borneo. At each site, she asked people who worked at the conservation areas a series of questions: did they think that ecosystem service X was being provided by this area? What about ecosystem service Y?

This is a seemingly simple dataset and study, but the work and the results are far from simple. Just getting the interview responses, despite cultural and language barriers and all the rest, was a huge feat.

The thing that struck me most from Katie’s talk was that even in ecosystems that seemed in some ways similar – and actually, even at the same ecosystem– the people Katie interviewed had different answers about whether an ecosystem service was provided or not.

In other words: assessing what ecosystem services are provided does depend on the ecosystem. It depends on how people see the ecosystem.

Katie also mined through the responses and deduced how people thought about the value of these conservation areas. Rather than thinking only about an ecosystem service, she classified the responses by what this service corresponded to.

Did people see the service provided as something more utilitarian (“instrumental”)?

Or did they value this service differently, in a more “intrinsic” way – is the service provided something more fundamental, like biodiversity, that just is?

The third type of value is the one that makes me go run in a new place whenever I can – “relational” value, defined by the way that we interact with nature.

Different ecosystem services, which are the metric by which we turn nature into “natural capital”, were valued in a wide range of ways. And importantly, nearly every ecosystem service that Katie asked about was valued in each of the three ways by at least one study participant. In fact, most participants places more than one value on a given service!

Katie’s big question was, what are the things that motivate people to take positive action about biodiversity?

I had been thinking, like a cold scientist, that the natural capital of an area or ecosystem was defined by the ecosystem itself: the biodiversity contained within, the black and white ecosystem services it provided. I thought we had to convince people of that value, and then they would be motivated to protect it.

What Katie illustrated so powerfully was that actually, the value of nature is defined by the people valuing that nature. If we don’t recognize that, then we won’t really succeed with protected areas and conservation policymaking.

And because of that, it’s a little bit stupid for someone like me who leaves human interaction completely out of my research to put in pompous statements about how that same research will inform conservation. The two parts of my brain that think about environmentalism and ecology had skipped a pretty fundamental dialogue that they could be having.

A few days later, I saw the following tweet from Andy Gonzalez, from a presentation by University of Vermont professor Taylor Ricketts at a science conference in Quebec. It distills this point in a different, perfect way.

 

I bet I’m not the only ecologist who needs to mull over that message.

We live and we learn, and I’m trying to become a better scientist and a better person all the time. Part of that is being humble and realizing when you’re being clumsy or just kind of an idiot.

Hearing from inspirational colleagues definitely helps in that process.