Submission

Abstract

Many years ago, some birds started breeding on an island. Several thousand of them still do. The world changes around them, but their basic needs have stayed the same. Will they be on the island much longer? We don’t know. We hope so. The signs are ambiguous.

Keywords: Seabirds, oceans, uncertainty

Introduction

A good introduction is a funnel. A funnel takes an otherwise unruly amount of material and feeds it through a small opening. It is a tool not so much of order as of constraint. Here, the unruly amount of material is the ecological state of the world. But we constrained ourselves to the changing nature of the ocean, and how that change affects some of the things that depend on it. That is a topic we can reasonably wrap our heads around, given the areas of our expertise.

We focused on birds. (We happen to like birds.) One species in particular, in one particular place. We have been watching this bird in this place for a while. During that time the ocean went through an especially severe change that lasted a few years. Thousands and thousands of animals died—not just birds, and not just here. (We are still determining the extent of the loss.) Then conditions returned more or less to “normal.” Whatever that means anymore.

We wanted to know how the birds we watched fared. More broadly, we want to know how they will survive in this world we’re making for them. But we can’t phrase our research question quite that way, so we will say something like: Given such-and-such marine states that we believe we can measure with some degree of accuracy, what did the birds do? How many laid an egg in a burrow, how many chicks hatched from those eggs, how many of those chicks survived to set off on their own?

To refine our thinking we reviewed the literature. It was often contradictory. We are left with our simple questions. Some of the answers were easier to come by than others. Here we report a few of the former.

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Winter Sunsets Are the Best Sunsets

Last week on my podcast, my co-host and bestie Rosemerry asked me the last time I’d experienced awe. The honest truth was, I experience it almost every evening this time of year. For reasons that I’ll explain shortly, winter sunsets are the best sunsets. They are very often awe-inducing, and that means that they’re good for you. As author Florence Williams explains in our recent episode and her book, The Nature Fix, awe can spark creativity and invite the muse. Awe can open us up and connect us to the world around us. Try it! The piece below first appeared here on February 26, 2021, but it’s just as relevant now.

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This post began with a question from my dear friend, the novelist and documentary filmmaker George Lerner. 

Looking over two years of footage from South Texas, I noticed something striking: I have lots and lots of glorious images filmed around sunset, but scant few decent shots at sunrise. Why is this, I wondered — is there a difference from an optical or geophysical perspective between sunset and sunrise?

George copied me on this question he sent to my dad, who has taught atmospheric physics. (How the three of us became close like family is a story for another day.) 

I had a knee-jerk answer to George’s question: the reason that sunsets are more amazing than sunrises is that you just see a hell of a lot more of them. So I chuckled to myself when I saw that Dad’s reply to George began, “I try to avoid the early morning hours so I do not see many sunrises.” (Neither of us are morning people.)

But it turns out that there’s more to it than just selection bias. There are scientific reasons that sunsets might be more scenic than sunrises. 

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Ask Mr. Cosmology

Time again to reach into the “Ask Mr. Cosmology” mailbag and see what readers want to know about . . .

The Wonders of the Universe!

Q: Does the word “creation” imply a Creator?

Mr. Cosmology: No, thank God.

Q: What does Mr. Cosmology think of the theorists who argue for the anthropic principle?

Mr. Cosmology: They’re always so me, me, me.

Q: How would Mr. Cosmology describe the difference between HST and JWST?

Mr. Cosmology: Wait, are we back to the whole Scrabble thing from a previous Ask Mr. Cosmology mailbag? If so, then HST =  6 and JWST = 14. Which is roughly the same proportion as the difference in their mirror sizes (2.4 meters versus 6.5 meters). The Creator works in mysterious ways! (Even so, acronyms aren’t admissible in Scrabble tournament play.)

Q: How far is the horizon?

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plant wisdom

Six or seven years ago, I bought a small, lopsided aloe plant from a holiday market for $7. I have neglected it for years, never changing its soil and rarely giving it enough light. It grew more and more crooked, and last year, its leaves (wait, do aloe have leaves? the fact that I don’t know feels like proof of my neglect!) shriveled and paled, so I was sure it would die. I decided fuck it, if it’s going to die, I’m going to put some of that nice aloe goop on my face. And then: what do you know? The damn thing sprang back to life somehow with not one but TWO clumps of sproutlings. The top popped off with new growth for no good reason.

I was reminded of this post I wrote in 2020 about the wisdom of plants, and how much I still have to learn from them. Is it corny to mention that this all happened during a period where I was feeling stuck in my writing life, and that the aloe’s rebirth coincided with a burst of new ideas? Well, it’s true.

Here’s my 2020 post, in case you missed it the first time, or would like to revisit some more corny plant lessons.

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Science Poem: To the Sylacauga Meteorite

Colored pencil drawing of a gold meteor streaking downward through a dark sky.

NOTE: The images in this post are best viewed on a desktop device or tablet, not a phone.

One dim November afternoon in Alabama in 1954, 34-year-old Ann Hodges curled up on her couch, pulled the quilts around her body, and fell asleep. She woke in pain and disorientation to a house full of smoke, a hole in the roof, and a large, rough rock on her living-room floor. She’d been struck by a 4.5-billion-year-old meteorite.

Ann checked in to the hospital the following day. The enormous, eerie bruise on the left side of her body would eventually fade, but the event itself changed the course of Ann’s entire life. She became a celebrity overnight, appearing on the cover of Life magazine. She stopped sleeping. The military seized the space rock, then returned it, and then the Hodges’ landlady sued them for custody, arguing that the house and everything that crashed into it was rightfully hers. Ann’s marriage ended, and her health disintegrated. She died in a nursing home at age 52.

Every single aspect of this story is haunting, but what stood out to me the first time I heard it years ago was the prologue: a 34-year-old woman lying down on a Tuesday afternoon in the mid-1950s. I have no evidence to support this, save my own experience and projections, but something about that scene feels like depression to me. My heart goes out to Ann. I imagine her feeling simultaneously adrift and trapped in her own life, powerless to make a change. And then—

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A Shooting, a Storyteller

mary-ellen-toya-storyteller02big

This post first appeared in July 2016 and sadly, this is the kind of story we are still having to tell.

I was with a group kayaking and camping on the coast of south-central Alaska — seven adults, five kids from four years old to twelve. One of the adults was a muscular late-20s man named Everett, a friend who came along to get out of the city for an adventure. A street cop from Aurora, Colorado, Everett quickly became the favorite of the children. They hung on his arms, begging for a lift or a twirl.

Everett wouldn’t tell them he was a cop. He kept his work a secret.

Called uncle by the kids, he was soon the group story-teller. For hours they gathered all over him as he spun story after story to their breathless anticipation. He became our babysitter. The rest of the adults were free to hike or start food cooking in our mobile kitchen, while Everett picked a rock outcrop near the water’s edge and kids crawled onto him as if he were a bean bag.

Everett happened to be working the intersection in front of the Century 16 Theater in Aurora the night of July 20, 2012. He was the first law enforcement on the scene of a shooting that left 12 dead and 70 injured. He had run into the thick of it, blood and smoke, the movie playing at full volume, the killer still present.

He didn’t tell the kids this either. Continue reading

The Abominable Mystery

I wrote this post in 2019, and am still gobsmacked by flower hormones.

Last November, my mother gave me several crumpled paper bags full of flower bulbs for my birthday. Daffodils, hyacinths, snowdrops, paperwhites — the bulbs promised frilly, fragrant bounty and I couldn’t wait to plant them.

Then life got hectic. The bags sat in a corner for a week, then a month. By the time I opened the bags again, in early January, some of the bulbs were dusted with mildew. I’d lost the instructions for when to plant the different types of bulbs, and what bulb belonged to which type of flower. As I brushed the mold away, I contemplated how little I knew, not just about these flowers, but about flowers in general.

Understanding flowers is not trivial. Darwin referred to the awesome expansion of flowering plants during the late Cretaceous period as “the abominable mystery.” The ability to manipulate flowering has always been key to crop domestication, allowing humans to expand the range of rice, wheat, corn and other staples. Despite this, scientists only recently discovered how flowering works on a molecular level. 

The story is surprisingly brutal, and begins with chrysanthemums. In the early 1930s, Russian plant physiologist Mikhail Chailakhyan was trying to figure out how plants sense light and dark, and decide when to flower. He shone light on different parts of chrysanthemum plants — the stem, the leaves — and found it was the leaves that sensed light. When leaves detect a certain daylength, the plant bursts into bloom, he discovered. 

By then, scientists knew about hormones, signaling chemicals that travel through the bloodstream in animals. Hormones are molecules of transformation, controlling everything from the sprouting of hair to the thickening and thinning of the uterine lining.  Chailakhyan proposed the existence of a hormone in plants that travels from leaf to stem and triggers flowering. He dubbed the hormone “florigen,” or “blossom-former.”

Chailakhyan performed experiment after experiment to prove that florigen exists.  He transferred sap from the leaves of a flowering tobacco plant into the Chenopodium rubrum, or goosefoot plant, and showed that it induced the sprouting of tiny purple blossoms. A similar infusion in potato plants triggered the formation of tubers, he and his colleagues showed.

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Bee Lines

A fuzzy bee

I’m on an email listserv for people who study bees. Not honeybees (goodness, no, not honeybees). All the other bees. There are some 20,000 species of bees in the world. Tiny metallic green ones, big fuzzy ones, and everything in between.

I rarely read the emails – it’s more fun to imagine what they might be based on the subject lines. So I share, for your delight, a few from the last year.

When did bumblebees arrive in South America?
Multi-egg days
Bees on a vacation to Egypt
Bees on American chestnut
Bumble bees sleeping in flowers
Alaska bumble bee guide
Bees in space
Hylaeus defending flowers

Imagine the bees with little sunhats and cameras, gawking at the Great Pyramid of Giza.

Photo: USGS Bee Inventory & Monitoring Lab