Flying forest

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Corvids are a wonderful genre of beast.

I was reminded of this fact not long ago when, biking back home across southeast Portland from the waterfront, a veritable river of crows began streaming overhead. Thousands of them blurred and bobbed and circled each other in a stuttering current from east to west. This current eddied over warehouses. Spilled over parking lots. Formed a recirculation hole over the freeway, then fanned into a delta and out of sight beyond the skyscrapers of downtown. Corvid biologist John Marzluff later told me that the crows were likely heading for a communal roost to settle for the night. There’s one in his home city of Seattle that’s 15,000 strong.

Besides coalescing into this sort of breathtaking “murdermuration,” as I’ve decided to call it, crows recognize their dead, understand analogies, and one species, the New Caledonian crow, even makes its own tools.

Yet while crows and ravens get most of the attention, smaller members of the corvid family like jays and nutcrackers are out in the world busily building and rebuilding forests. Not on purpose, of course, but through a behavior charmingly called “scatter hoarding,” which basically involves stashing seeds around in various places for later devourment. (The same phrase could easily describe the way I distribute books throughout my house.)

In February, a group of scientists led by Mario Pesendorfer of University of Nebraska, Lincoln published a sweeping review of the available research that elegantly lays out just how important and pervasive this relationship is: Many broadleaf trees, including hickories, oaks, chestnuts and beeches, rely entirely on scatter-hoarders to spread their large, heavy seeds, while 20 percent of pine species do. The authors suggest that this reliance may help some of these species better weather forest fragmentation caused by human activities like farming, or shift their range in the face of climate change.

Unable to walk or fly themselves, in other words, these trees borrow the wings of birds. Continue reading →

See No Evil

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This is a bit unusual, but I’ll start by asking you to watch this video.

It’s not long, but I should warn you that it might upset you. It did me, which is why I am writing about it. It’s from a traffic cam trained on an intersection in Shandong Province, Eastern China.

Here’s what it shows, in case you refused your viewing assignment: A man in a hooded jacket on a motorbike is idling in the far right lane of a wide, mostly empty intersection. He rolls forward slightly, then begins to cut to the left without looking for oncoming traffic. A car zooms up behind him before he can get across the lane. The car hits the rider, hard. The man rolls through the air, then crashes to the ground, sliding across the pavement. When he stops, he is curled in a ball on his side. His bike has skidded off to the left. He doesn’t try to get up or even writhe in pain. He doesn’t move at all. The car that ran into him continues forward, the way a tennis player follows through on a swing after a solid hit.

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Marvin and The System

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We live with machines. And our machines are getting smarter. They’re still very dumb, they do what we tell them to, and often not really all that well. But we’re teaching them. And I do mean “we.” When you tag your friends on Facebook, you’re teaching its facial recognition system what to look for in faces. When you click on ads or Google results you’re training its system to know what you like. Computer scientists are working on ways to make machines learn smarter, learn passively, make connections we never even thought of.

Alpha Go, an artificial intelligence trained to play Go, recently beat a Go grandmaster. This is a big deal, partially because Go is an extremely complicated game, but also because the system did things while playing that nobody expected. It made moves that seemed like mistakes, and twenty moves later were suddenly clearly not mistakes. Now imagine your computer could surprise you in that same way.

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Redux: The sniffle, hack, sneeze blame game

This post first ran on March 22, 2013.  We run it again here because it does seem like half the world is sniffling, hacking, sneezing, and looking for who to blame. We recommend this view over the medieval one. 
Sneezers_shutterstockThe storytelling begins the morning you wake up with a slight scratch in your throat. Oh, this is nothing, you tell yourself, as if denial was the best antidote to a virus. If I just sip some throat-soothing tea, I’ll be fine.

When the runny nose starts, you load up on oranges or Fisherman’s Friend and promise yourself an early bedtime. When evening rolls around, your head is on the verge of exploding with mucous. You can try to hit the sack early, but it’s no use. The mucous is flowing fast and furious now, and perhaps you’re coughing too. You’ll get no sleep tonight.

When morning arrives, you’re exhausted and cranky and this is when the next phase of storytelling begins. You need an explanation — what is it, and why me?

Without a bunch of lab tests, you won’t find any certainty. But that’s ok, because you’ll invent an explanation that at the very least feels true. Oh, it’s that flu that was going around at work. I must have caught this from that coughing bastard on the plane. Obviously, my husband’s little cold mutated into this nasty flu.

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The Last Word

Cherry blossoms frame the Washington MonumentThis week the Last Word on Nothing, usually riffing on the theme of science, marked a week where we talked about anything but.

Guest Judith Lewis Mernit traces Easter traditions to their odd combination of origins in a dead man risen and a fertility goddess.

Rose spends her leisure hours in vicarious bladesmithing competitions. Followed by lots of chopping.

Thirteen is a magical age for venturing into self sufficiency, and the best place to do it is on the land.

The much vaunted cherry blossom bloom is fleeting, and so is one lifetime’s chance to experience them.

I use an advent calendar to mark the completion of a project. How about you?

Photo by our own Helen Fields

The Advent Calendar Method

advent calendarLast Tuesday, I finally finished sorting out two years’ worth of tax returns, stubbornly eschewing the accounting industry even as my receipts and special forms multiplied to fill the desk. I sealed the envelope then turned and opened up the Number 9 door on my Quentin Blake advent calendar.

The main illustration itself, adorned with glitter paint, is entitled “Snowman and his family” and it features an implausibly tall snowman and seven members of a scribbly family that most readers would associate with Roald Dahl stories.

Underneath Door Number Nine, I was met by a child standing on his head next to a frog, also standing on its head. On the inside of the door was written “16 days to go!” Until what, exactly? It was March 22nd. But I saw the number and replaced the calendar against the wall with great satisfaction. Continue reading →

Coming of Age

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A few years ago, I joined a group of families on a backcountry kayaking trip in Alaska’s Prince William sound. A kid named Will was just about to turn 13, and I was there to watch him come of age. I’d known him as a strong little wild-haired monkey, but on this trip he became something else, turning into a new kind of person.

Will and I jumped to shore on a mangy, alder-and-spruce island. We were sent as scouts looking for two things, flat places to camp and cook, and bear scat. The bear scat we found looked old, no fresh kills or dark droppings of meat and berries. This was our spot.

Will was set for adventure. He would be our fire starter with his new knife, a magnesium rod, flint, and some dryer lint brought from home. His dad had given him four dry matches and no more. He’d been watching survivor shows on TV. He had a knack for this outdoors stuff.

Will and I found a few options for clearings, then circled back to each other. “This look good to you?” I asked. The straggle-haired boy nodded eagerly: “Yeah.” Continue reading →