Unsavoury scientific pasts

This weekend I wrote an article for the BES Bulletin in which I referred to an intriguing character, Otto Schultz-Kampfhenkel (1910–1989). He was a German geographer, explorer and film-maker, whose lasting legacy was to have founded an institute producing educational films for schools on global matters (it still does). He also established a field centre in Portugal where I’ve taught and carried out some research, which is how his name first came to my attention.

Schultz-Kampfhenkel was well-known for his 1933 book Das Dschungel rief (The Jungle Cried), based on his expedition to Liberia, and a film Rätsel der Urwaldhölle (Riddle of the Jungle) from his 1937–37 expedition on the Amazon. Both are very much products of their time and, while no doubt valuable for their anthropological records and natural history observations, they are likely to be uncomfortable for modern audiences. One of the main reasons for this is that Schultz-Kampfhenkel was a Nazi.

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A photo from the 1935–37 expedition on the Brazilian Amazon. I can find no evidence that Schultz-Kampfhenkel appears in this image; only that this was the team which he led, and clearly the flag that they carried.

Examining the careers of European cultural, academic and scientific figures of the mid-20th century always carries some trepidation. Many made compromises in order to protect themselves or their families; others found ways to manipulate the system to advance their own interests, regardless of their own personal affinities. My own family history contains examples, and it’s important to not make too many moral judgements from a distance that is now not only historical but also social and cultural. We cannot know how we would have acted in such circumstances; go back far enough and all of us are descended from murderers.

Such equivocation is unnecessary with Schultz-Kampfhenkel, who by all accounts appears to have been an enthusiastic fascist and collaborator with the wartime regime. One of his core activities was to set up a group of scientists to advise the German war effort. This included geologists, geographers, environmental scientists, foresters and, to my surprise, a botanist: Heinz Ellenberg (1913–1997), one the foremost vegetation ecologists of the mid-20th century. His works on the formation and classification of plant communities remain some of the most important contributions in the history of the field. Together they produced military maps for assessment of terrain and landscapes, based on both aerial photography and field surveys.

We of course know more of Ellenberg from his later career; after the war he worked with  Heinrich Walter in Stuttgart-Hohenheim*, and was later appointed as director of the Geobotanical Institute at ETH Zurich where he led the conceptual development of UNESCO’s Man and the Biosphere (MAB) programme, one of the most transformative innovations in conservation policy. To my mind, however, Ellenberg’s greatest contribution was the book Vegetation Mitteleuropas mit den Alpen in ökologischer, dynamischer und historischer Sicht (first edition 1963, with the last produced by Ellenberg himself in 1996). This has sat on my bookshelf (in translation) for 20 years now, and I still periodically refer to it as a trove of observations, measurements and insights. There is so much data in there that would be unpublishable in the modern world, even unthinkable that someone would bother to collect it (or to fund efforts to do so), and yet, as time goes on, this record of the vegetation of Europe in the 20th century becomes ever more valuable.

Why does Ellenberg’s name on the list of distinguished academic contributors to the German war effort matter? Perhaps it shouldn’t. Scientific facts are not in themselves political, even if scientists themselves are, as is often their funding, as well as the uses to which their work is put. Stripped of its political motivations, we can still learn from studies arising from even the most distasteful of sources. More to the point, Ellenberg’s most important academic contributions all came long after the war. I know a number of emeritus vegetation ecologists in Germany and the UK who must have met Ellenberg in person. Some of them even worked with him. Perhaps my discovery would not be news to them; they could even provide some clarificatory context to assuage my discomfort. Or, as with many of that generation, maybe it never came up in conversation.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be shocked to find this skeleton in Ellenberg’s closet, although what surprises me more is not that a man of his age was involved in the war effort, but rather that it was in his capacity as plant ecologist. I have my own strong political opinions as a socialist and committed anti-fascist. I’d like to think that none of this inflects my work (at least not in content, although whether it does in conduct is a different matter). Nor would I expect anyone reading my work to judge its value through that prism. Nevertheless, were there some way in which I could use my expertise to advance the causes I believe in, I would have no hesitation**.  None of us are only scientists. Was the same true of Ellenberg?

Learning the about the histories of influential scientists can have mixed results. Some have risen in my estimation as I’ve discovered more about their exploits (like the legendary botanist Richard Evan Schultes); others I can continue to admire while not wishing to spend any time in their company (see the recent Robert Trivers autobiography), while some turn out to have been surprisingly boring. We care about them as people because we are social creatures (mostly), but this should have no bearing on our estimation of their contributions to science. Nevertheless, however hard I try to rationalise it away, finding Ellenberg’s name on such a list has left a bad taste in my mouth. One of the giants of the field just became, for me, much shorter.


* Walter’s foundational work from the 1970s Die Vegetation der Erde in Öko-physiologischer Betrachtung was still core reading when I was an undergraduate in the 90s, and remains in print in the form of Breckle’s much-updated edition.

** I don’t see right now how my work on forest structural organisation is going to lead to a radical rebalancing of the social contract between our government its people, but if you can see a way then let me know, and quickly — we have an election coming up.

How much stuff is in a forest?

Forest are complex, messy habitats. The tired old saw of not being able to see the wood for the trees has an element of truth, because the tangle of material prevents easy measurement and assessment. And that’s without even mentioning the leaves.

Terrestrial laser scanning (also known as ground-based LiDAR) is a great technology for getting round this because it allows us to create full three-dimensional reconstructions of forests, from which we can extract parameters that would be otherwise unavailable to a surveyor on the ground. In this aspect it’s a major advance over traditional techniques of forest surveying, though challenges remain in turning the vast quantities of data into relevant and meaningful measurements that we can use to understand how forests form and what the implications are.

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One of our laser scanners in action in a UK woodland. Photo by Joe Ryding. If FARO want to give us a discount for all this free advertising then I’d be very happy to hear from them.

In this post I’d like to focus on some of the findings of our recent paper in Journal of Applied Ecology that might have been overlooked in the media hullabaloo. For a reminder of the major findings, and what I think the implications are for forest conservation, see my earlier post. In any paper, however, there are always some hidden insights that couldn’t be elaborated on in the space available.

In this post I’d like to ask: how much stuff does a forest actually contain? In answering this, our data is perhaps non-intuitive. We split the whole forest into 1 cm cubes then asked whether each contained wood, leaf or neither. Terrestrial laser scanning can’t see inside stems, so instead we measured the surface area of trunks and branches*. Rather than using LiDAR to simply recreate the metrics we can obtain by other techniques, I think the future will be in learning to use these outputs more directly as indices in their own right.

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Vertical distribution of foliage in 40 UK woodlands, split into those with either high or low deer densities, and which were either managed or unmanaged.**

Our scans found that woodland plots contained an average (median) density of leaves of 523 cm3/m3. What that means in real terms is only 0.052% of the total forest volume. In other words, although a forest looks like it’s full of foliage, actually it’s mostly empty space. This is necessarily a minimum estimate because we probably failed to detect many leaves higher in the canopy because our laser beams were blocked by other material getting in the way. Even so, if we only detected half of all the foliage in the forest, it would still be less than a tenth of one percent of the total volume.***

If forests are mostly empty space, this has a number of interesting implications, one of which is for the movement of species. For large, lumbering mammals like ourselves, we perceive forests to be difficult to move through, but for small insects they contain vast distances which need to be traversed. Organisms that can fly find this easier, others will depend on physical linkages to help them move around. The amount of stuff in a forest, along with its density and distribution, will have major influences on the mobility of organisms of all sizes.

Another implication is that we can treat the three-dimensional surfaces of forests as area in much the same way as in less complex habitats. This is actually an old idea, with Southwood coining the term ecospace to describe the effective area presented by a habitat, and proposing that this increased area might be responsible for differences in diversity between habitats. For the first time we have a straightforward way to measure the amount of leaf in the forest, which is a metric of how much habitat space there is for the many organisms that feed on or move across them. We could potentially compare this between sites.

We can do the same thing with stems, remembering that our measure is of surface area rather than woody volume. The area of stems in these woodlands was an order of magnitude lower than of foliage, at 49 cm3/m3. This is interesting because it tells us that for species that forage on tree trunks and branches, there is approximately ten times less area available to them than there is for those utilising leaves as habitat.

The Species-Area Relationship (the closest thing ecology has to a law) tells us that the number of species doesn’t increase linearly with area****. Instead, we would expect a 90% reduction in area to mean a roughly 50% reduction in species richness. Is that true? Do we find half as many species of insects, lichens or gleaning birds on bark as we do on leaves? I’d be interested to look. Unfortunately right now we don’t have an easy way to tell live and dead wood apart, which is important because they form habitats for completely different species.

In short, capturing the three-dimensional structure of these forests is just the beginning, and there are all sorts of new avenues which we can explore with these data.


* A range of algorithms exist to convert these into volumes using cylinder fitting, which is the standard approach used if you want to determine either the amount of timber or carbon in a forest. These weren’t part of our objectives so we didn’t, and actually as a measure of habitat structure as experienced by other organisms, surface area might be more relevant.

** Note that these figures are flipped relative to those in the original paper. This is a more intuitive way of looking at the patterns, whereas in the paper the orientation was set to match the statistical analyses.

*** Strictly this is ‘number of 1 cm cubes per cubic metre which contain foliage’. Leaves are flat and much thinner than 1 cm, of course, so the true volume of foliage is much, much lower than this.

**** The actual relationship is S = cAz, where z is a parameter determining the sensitivity of species richness S to area A, and c is a mathematical constant representing the theoretical richness of a single unit of area.

Should we eat Bambi?

 

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Fallow deer in Avon Valley Country Park, Bristol, UK. By Adrian Pingstone (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Note that deer kept in parks are not part of the problem; this just happens to be a nice picture of them. Leave these deer alone.

 Our new paper has just come out in Journal of Applied Ecology, in which we’ve used terrestrial laser scanning to examine the three-dimensional structure of 40 lowland British woodlands. We compared woodlands in areas with high and low deer densities, and which were either managed or unmanaged. One of the main findings will surprise no-one: in areas with lots of deer, there is much less foliage at heights below 2 m. What makes our study unique is that we were able to quantify this as a 68% reduction. The interesting results don’t stop there though; there were other differences between high- and low-deer woodlands, extending right the way through the canopy. High-deer woods were on average 5 m taller for some as-yet-unknown reason.

In another post on the Journal of Applied Ecology blog I’ve described these findings in more detail and explained their specific implications for forest management. Here I’m going to use my own site to step over the line into more controversial territory and ask what this means for the broader issue of conservation policy. Note that these are my personal opinions, and go some way beyond what was said in the paper itself*.

First, there are vast numbers of deer in the UK. Their populations have boomed over the last century for a number of reasons. These include a lack of natural predators (wolves and lynx disappeared centuries ago) along with a range of other factors that might include an increase in woodland area, planting of over-wintering crops, and perhaps also impacts of milder winters on their survival. The UK is not alone in this; similar patterns have been observed elsewhere in Europe, throughout North America, and in Japan.

One of the features of the deer we find in British woodlands is that they are overwhelmingly made up of non-native, invasive species. In our study most (85%) were fallow deer, pictured above, which were introduced in the 11th century for sport hunting in deer parks. They are joined by Reeves’ muntjac, a small Asiatic species that probably escaped into the wild in the 19th century. It’s worth emphasising that I bear no grudges against the large, noble red deer of Scotland, nor the scarcer native roe deer, which we seldom detected in our surveys.

Our work has shown that in areas with high deer populations (more than 10 per square kilometre and often much higher) there is a loss of complex understorey vegetation. This dense ground-level foliage includes the regrowing seedlings and saplings of canopy trees, as well as providing habitat for a wide range of birds, small mammals and insects. That many woodland birds have been in decline over the last century is probably not coincidental, and consistent with patterns seen all elsewhere in the world.

There are several options to keep deer out of woodlands, but most are either infeasible or ineffective. Fencing is an option, but it’s enormously expensive to establish and to maintain. Moreover, the longer a woodland is left without deer, the greater the amount of palatable foliage that will build up, and hence an ever-increasing incentive for deer to find their way in. It’s also difficult to keep small deer out while allowing passage to all the other animals we would wish to have free movement around the countryside. For this reason fencing can only ever be a local and temporary option. Deterrents are also unlikely to be effective. Chemicals soon wash away, and deer quickly learn to ignore attempts to scare them. These tricks might work briefly but they won’t keep deer away for decades, which is what we need to do if we would like complex forest structures to develop.

What then can we do? Let’s tackle that thorny euphemism, ‘control’. What this almost invariably means is finding a way to reduce deer populations. In such circumstances  well-meaning people will always suggest sterilisation, although this would be prohibitively expensive to apply to many thousands of deer, and probably as stressful as any other action. The next option then is that most unpopular of conservation moves, a cull. These are still expensive to carry out and to maintain over long time periods, at least in open landscapes where deer can constantly wander in from elsewhere. What do we have left?

Venison_escalope

Venison escalope in Switzerland. By Kueued (Own work) CC BY-SA 4.0-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0, via Wikimedia Commons. Serving suggestion only.

We can eat them. It’s almost the same as a cull, except the meat doesn’t go to waste, and the market would help fund deer control. Fallow deer were actually introduced to the UK by the Romans a thousand years before the Normans brought them here, but died out — probably because they were eaten. Together we can do it again.

Venison was a traditional meat eaten throughout the UK only a century ago, as it remains in many parts of Europe. If wild-caught, free-range British venison were to appear in our butchers, on supermarket shelves and restaurant menus, we would only be restoring it to its former popularity**.  Another benefit is that it would provide a source of income for rural communities, many of which are among the most deprived in the UK. The same approach could be taken with wild boar, though my suspicion is that this would not be as effective at controlling their populations***.

Will this work? Nothing in ecology (or life) can ever be guaranteed. When we intervene in complex systems there is always the chance — indeed the likelihood — of unforeseen consequences. The only way to guard against this is through careful monitoring and intervention. If the aim is to restore forest structures then we don’t yet know how low deer populations need to be brought down, over what time periods, and whether market forces will be successful in achieving this. What we do know for certain is the effect of doing nothing. If there’s a chance that eating deer might work then, if you’ll pardon the pun, it’s worth a shot. And venison is delicious.

Eichhorn M.P. , Ryding J., Smith M.J, Gill R.M.A , Siriwardena G.M. and Fuller R.J. (2016). Effects of deer on woodland structure revealed through terrestrial laser scanning. Journal of Applied Ecology, in press. DOI 10.1111/1365-2664.12902


* One of the reasons I’m writing this here, rather than in the paper itself or the journal blog, is that the authors of the original paper wouldn’t all necessarily agree with my prescription.

** In North America hunting is a popular rural pastime and, contrary to the perception of outsiders, has little to do with taking down large animals for display. The majority of people hunt for the table. Why then has this not led to effective control of deer populations? This is probably down to two factors. The first is the vast area of North America, much of which is wooded, and with low densities of people. The second is that game laws regulate hunting so as to maintain populations of deer (at least in part) rather than for the conservation benefits.

*** What we refer to as wild boar in the UK are actually a breed of pig. Although they have escaped and naturalised (and trash habitats in places like the Forest of Dean), when you buy wild boar sausages in the shops it doesn’t necessarily imply wild-caught boar. Most meat still comes from farms. The reason I don’t think we will control wild boar by hunting alone is that they breed at an incredibly fast rate, whereas deer populations grow much more slowly.

What academic journals should I follow?

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Yay, more journal issues have arrived! I’ll add them to the heap. It’s becoming a fire hazard.

A few years ago I bemoaned the fact that I had effectively stopped reading the academic literature. Despite apparently being a common phenomenon among mid-career academics, at least based on my conversations with colleagues, it provoked a nagging guilt. How can we tell our students to read constantly if we don’t practice what we preach?

Over the years the table of contents emails continued to pile up, causing permanent low-level stress as I realised how much interesting, relevant and important science was simply passing me by. But there was no time to do anything about it, nor would there ever be. With a heavy heart I deleted them all. This has, in effect, blinded me to several years of output in almost all of the journals that I used to follow*.

That’s not to say I haven’t been reading any papers. Every time I need to write a manuscript, proposal or lecture, I’ve carried out a targeted search and found what I needed to get the job done. This is a limited way to learn about science though; it doesn’t expose you to as many new ideas. I was raiding the literature, not reading it.

I’ve now come up with a new system based on the principle that it’s better to do a small amount well than attempt too much and fail. This involves selecting ten journals for which my aim is to scan the contents for every issue, and read the papers that are most compelling. They make up my ‘essential’ list. Next are a set of ten for which I will scan them if I have time, but if the next issue comes out before I’ve had a chance, they’ll be ignored. This means I will only follow a maximum of 20 journals at any given time**.

Essential: Science, Nature, PNAS, PRSB, Nature Ecology & Evolution, Ecology Letters, Ecology, Journal of Ecology, Ecological Monographs, TREE.

Time-permitting: American Naturalist, Nature Communications, Methods in Ecology & Evolution, Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment, PPEES, Forest Ecology and Management, J Veg Sci, Biotropica, GEBJournal of Biogeography.

I could easily list another ten, or twenty, that I would love to read if there were room in my life, but there isn’t. It’s been a tough decision-making process. If you’ve tried something similar, then what did you end up with? How did you decide? If anyone is interested then my rationale for selection is below the fold.

I’ve focussed here on how to keep pace with new literature. It doesn’t even mention other issues such as the value of reading older papers, reading outside your own narrow field of study, or whether sometimes it’s best not to read at all. Some people will even argue that the whole concept of journals is becoming obselete, and in a world of online search engines we no longer need them as anything other than gatekeepers. I have some sympathy for this view, but the Brave New World has yet to arrive, so I’m making use of the system we have.

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How to survive the BES Annual Meeting

I’ve attended pretty much every BES since 1999, during which time the meeting has massively increased in size; we now attract over a thousand delegates, making it the largest gathering of ecologists in Europe. There has also been an overall increase in quality of presentations, accompanied by stiff competition for slots. With so many people and so much awesome science to see*, it can be easy to feel overwhelmed.

This post is aimed at people attending the BES for the first time, and gives some suggestions for how to get the most out of it. If you’re a student then some of these tips will be especially helpful. Older hands can check whether they agree and add their own thoughts in the comments.

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A stranger is just a collaborator you haven’t met yet. Or more likely a reviewer that you already hate, but only they know it.**

  • Pick a session and stick with it. With 12 parallel sessions, you’re not going to be able to see everything. Or even most of it. One way to guarantee missing even more is to run between sessions to catch particular talks. With the best will (and chairs) in the world, sessions do not run exactly to time, and getting between them often takes longer than you think. The end result is that you have to dash out as soon as one speaker finishes (disrupting the questions in the process), run to another lecture theatre, then miss the start of the next one. Often you’ll end up stood at the back, crammed on the end of a row, or waiting in the corridor. A better strategy is to choose the session that sounds most fun, pick a good seat, then just embrace whatever comes along. Take a gamble and discover something new rather than listen to work you’ve already heard about.
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Ooo, colourful! Pick one you like then just sit through the whole thing. The dark green is particularly recommended.

  • No-one has read your abstract. Back in August you had a tentative idea about what your results might show, once you’d finished collecting and analysing the data. By the time you put everything together for the meeting, the conclusion has probably entirely changed. This is not a problem, because no-one will notice. The title you gave was indicative of the content. Treat your talk as a fresh start. No-one is assessing how closely your actual talk or poster follows the abstract in the meeting program.
  • Posters can be skimmed. Good posters, that is. Even yours. Don’t try and read every one and absorb the information (unless you’re marking them), because your brain will be full after the first five. Better to find one with an interesting title or concept, then ask the person presenting it to talk you through. Conversations about posters are always more rewarding than standing in silence while the author nervously watches you. If they’re not there then find them later or send a message.
posters

You’re not going to read all those posters unless you’re really trying to avoid social interaction.

  • E-mail the people you want to meet. If you have a hit-list of people to whom you really want to show off your research, send them a quick message beforehand. Best of all is to say “I’m giving a talk on helicopter weevils in the east stairwell on Thursday at 8:30pm and I’d really appreciate if you could make it.” Most will be flattered and make an effort to come along, thereby finding out who you are so they can recognise you later. It also helps to prompt conversation. If you don’t do this then expect to spend the whole meeting in a futile effort to spot the right name on the tags worn by total strangers. And failing.
  • Having said that, it’s even more important to make contacts in your own peer group. Meeting the stars of your field is often invigorating, but if you’re a PhD student then others like you are the people who, in future, you’ll be collaborating with and seeing at the next conference. I would argue that these are the most important connections you can make — in time they will become your friends. Try not to hang around with people from your own institution too much, you’ll see them again next week anyway. If you’re already an established ecologist then make an effort to talk to younger people, and if they’re on their own, to introduce them to others.
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This is the BRITISH Ecological Society. We do not slavishly follow the Americans and their ways.

  • Go to the Specialist Interest Group meetings. They’re the best way to meet like-minded ecologists, and also a great way to get more involved with the society. It’s not well-known enough that the SIGs have access to money, and are always looking for ideas from members for events that they could run. Tell them what you would like the society to put on, and best of all, offer to run an event yourself!
  • Find a conference buddy. The ideal person will be at the same career stage, from a different place, working in a related but slightly different field, and who you’ve only just met. Arrange to catch up regularly, perhaps at breakfast to compare what sessions you’re going to, or at coffee time to swap notes. This doubles your potential to find out about interesting people and science, because they can look out for things on your behalf. The welcome mixer on Sunday night is a good place to recruit one. Also, when you go down for breakfast wherever you’re staying, look out for the tell-tale tags and bags of fellow delegates and approach anyone who looks like they’re alone.
  • Steal stuff. Not valuable infrastructure. But all the stalls will  be giving away a wide variety of useful things: pens, USB sticks, post-it notes, mugs, fridge magnets… Harvest them. I haven’t needed to buy a pen in years. The recent redesign of the BES logo means they’re bound to have a whole load of fresh tat. My family always know what to expect for Christmas. “An Oxford University Press beermat? You’re too kind!”
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Quick, no-one’s looking after the stand, STEAL ALL THE PENS.

  • Watch out for the drinking. There’s no getting round it, British people do like to drink, more than most nationalities. Add to this the lethal combination of it being right before Christmas, at the end of a draining academic semester, and it’s inevitable that we flood to the bars. Most of the evening social events involve alcohol. If you’re a non-drinker then don’t worry, you won’t be a pariah, just be aware that others will be drinking around you. My main warning is to the drinkers though. It’s easy to slip into a cycle of filling up on booze in the evening, staying out late, hardly sleeping, then sustaining yourself on endless cups of coffee throughout the day. This is not healthy. It’s ok to sometimes drink something that doesn’t contain alcohol or caffeine.*** Really, the water is completely safe.
  • Talk to people! One of the best things about BES, and which we work hard to encourage, is that it’s welcoming and informal. That’s also a British thing; we’re not good at massaging big egos, or letting people take themselves too seriously. This means that if there is someone who has been particularly influential or inspirational for you, or whose advice you’d like, just walk up and say hello. Seriously. I know three of the plenary speakers, and am certain that they would all be overjoyed to speak to an enthusiastic student. If you’re not sure then ask me to introduce you.

On which note, if you’re stuck for someone to talk to, and you happen to spot me, please come up and say hello! I don’t care whether you’re a keen undergraduate or an embittered old prof, whether you work on foraminifera or velvet worms. I’m always happy to meet new people, and, if I can, to introduce you to lots of other cool ecologists. The one place you’re guaranteed to find me is the Forest Ecology Group mixer.**** We know how to party.

I love the BES. Forget Christmas, this really is the most wonderful time of the year.


* Although apparently one person only used to come for the meat sandwiches. Each to their own I suppose.

** Thanks to Richard English for the photos, which are all from the amazing BES centenary meeting with INTECOL in 2013. I was there, but too preoccupied to take any pictures.

*** I don’t follow my own advice. You’ll find me a pale, trembling wreck by Wednesday morning, and it takes a few days to recover. No loud noises or rapid movements please.

**** Apart from my talk, which is on Monday 4pm in the Population Ecology session, room 11C. Which reminds me, I still need to write it. The title? So kind of you to ask. It’s “How to avoid the Allee effect, assuming that you’re a tree. Or a barnacle.”

That’s not a jungle

Last night I watched the episode of the BBC’s Planet Earth II on jungles, narrated by Sir David Attenborough, and it’s provoked me into a rant. Now I’m well aware that any criticism, even indirect, of Sir David is likely to stir a backlash, so I’ll get the disclaimers in early. TV nature documentaries serve a number of functions, of which the most important is to entertain. In this regard the series is an undoubted success. The spectacular footage of the natural world is dazzling, and will inspire a new generation of naturalists, ecologists and taxonomists.

Nevertheless, there is another function, which is to inform and educate. The balance between the two is difficult to strike; the dry tones of an academic lecture would hardly boost viewing figures, and this is no place to be showing data. It is still important, however, to convey the correct impression, and in this the choice of terminology and manner of presentation are crucial. Hence my great discomfort at the use of the word ‘jungle’. At the end I’ll explain why this matters to those of us who care about forests.

junglebook

The Jungle Book is another example of conflation of distinct biotas. Ostensibly set in India, but there is nowhere on earth (outside a zoo) where you will find this combination of species. Also, look how sparse the canopy cover is.

What is a jungle? There is no accepted vegetation type known as ‘jungle’, and you won’t find it used in the scientific literature. The whole episode of Planet Earth II was in some doubt about what the term ought to mean. Segments switched from tropical rain forests — and Sir David frequently talked as if this was the accepted definition of ‘jungle’ — to dry forests, igapo*, and subtropical forests. By the end it was clear that the producers felt the word ‘jungle’ to be defined in popular imagination as ‘place with lots of big trees’.

Perhaps that is what most people have in mind when you say ‘jungle’, and it’s consistent with the dictionary definition, although the word also applies to such disparate entities as a musical genre and the former refugee camp in Calais. The irony is that the original derivation was quite different. The Hindi word jangal could be applied to any uncultivated ground or wasteland, encompassing everything from forests to deserts. Going further back, the Sakskrit jangala refers to an arid area with sparse trees. Of course the meanings of words drift through time and with their transfer between cultures, but this only reinforces my point that the word jungle can mean many things to different people. This leads onto my second gripe.

There is no such thing as ‘the jungle’, in the same way as there is no single thing called ‘the’ tropical rain forest. Every tropical forest is as different from one another as they are from any temperate forest. This point is the main message of Corlett & Primack’s excellent and strongly-recommended book Tropical Rain Forests, which itself only reinforces the lessons of earlier books by the late Tim Whitmore and Peter Richards, and I could go back further. We’ve known this for centuries.

Now in fairness to Sir David, he does use the plural ‘jungles’, but many of the segments failed to even mention the locations where filming had taken place. This serves to obfuscate and trick the unwary viewer into believing that all these species can be found together in some common, unitary habitat. The three photos below come from forests in Africa, Australia and Malaysia. Though they are all recognisably forests (call them jungles if you like), the similarity is superficial, and there is unlikely to be any single species of plant or animal in common among them.

Why does this matter? Perhaps at this point you’re thinking that I’m an academic pedant, preciously guarding the intellectual high-ground against any incursions from enjoyable, popular culture. You’d be right. But there’s a serious motive behind my rant, which is that the conflation of so many habitats and biomes around the world diminishes the importance of their diversity, variety and local particularity. As part of the segment on indri, Sir David noted the rapid rate of deforestation in Madagascar. But one rain forest is not the same as another. The loss of a hectare of rain forest in the Philippines will lead to the loss of a completely different set of species than one in the Western Ghats or the Brazilian coastal forest. Each biome has its own distinct composition and threats. By blurring forests into a composite, we lose the appreciation of the value that any single one has in particular.

The audience of this series includes viewers in countries around the world. The real work of conservation takes place on the ground, in the places that host all this diversity. One of the challenges of environmental education and outreach is to get people to care about the diversity on their doorstep. By making forests more abstract, they become more distant and less relevant, even whilst appearing in your living room. It matters to say where particular species are found, because they can provoke interest and pride in the host nations whose citizens have the greatest power to ensure their ongoing survival. It’s not just any forest — it’s your forest.

What should we do? If you’ve been inspired by Planet Earth II — and I’m sure that many have — then take it as an entry to learning more about the enormous diversity within and between forests around the world, and what makes the forests in your own area so special. If you’re an educator, at whatever level, then use the brilliant BBC materials as a starting point. Then tell your students about how much more diverse, ingenious and spectacular nature is than even the most high-definition TV screen can ever convey, and to go out and see it for themselves.


* Thanks to fellow forest ecologist Sophie Fauset, who corrected my initial post, in which I’d called it varzea. Extra pedant points to her!

Why should you join an academic society?

In the last month I’ve spent a lot of time, over and above the duties of my actual job, doing unpaid work for one academic society. I turned down an invitation to apply for the council of another, though I remain an active member and attend their conferences. Finally, when the renewal for a third society came up, despite having been a member for many years, I decided that it was no longer meeting my needs and will allow my membership to lapse at the end of 2016.

There’s a good reason why I haven’t actually named the societies concerned; I’d like to use this as an opportunity to think about the general reasons for joining an academic society (or not) rather than the benefits of any in particular. Here are some of the common benefits:

  • You believe in their mission. In this sense you might view membership in the same was as supporting a charity: you’re making sure that work you care about gets done, and opinions you share have a collective voice. Every society should have a clear mission statement. Here’s a few random choices:

Like those? Then head to the membership pages and sign up. That said, I’m only a member of one of the above, despite warmly supporting all of their objectives. This again is much like charities. In general it’s hard to disagree with what they aspire to do, but that doesn’t mean we can give to all of them. Another filter is required.

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Head to their website, and it’s immediately clear what BES aspire to do. Join if you agree!

  • You want something back. Joining a society isn’t just about supporting them; you may have an expectation that they will provide some benefits to you. Some of the common ones include:
    • Professional membership and accreditation. Having membership of a society on your CV demonstrates a commitment to the academic field in which you are working. Some societies, such as the Ecological Society of America, provide certification schemes to demonstrate your standing in your field.
    • Discounts for meeting attendance. For the British Ecological Society the equation is pretty simple: if you’re attending the Annual Meeting then it’s cheaper to join for a year than to pay non-member rates. This is at least in part why the headline costs of many conferences are so high; it increases the incentive to join the society.
    • Receiving their in-house magazines. Only members of the BES can receive the quarterly Bulletin, which contains news, opinion articles and reviews.  ESA members get a print copy of Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment, which you might not otherwise have access to (other than via dodgy links).
    • Journal access. Most societies give their members free access to their journals, or the option of discounted print copies, which are cheaper than subscribing independently. Digital access is also a normal offering, although I’ve never managed to log into the online version of a society journal successfully.
    • Members-only grants. This is a big one. The early stages of my career were made possible by small grants of a few thousand pounds from societies and charities that were kind enough to invest in me, provided that I signed up to them. This was awesome.
    • Support and mentorship. Societies are a great way to get advice, access dedicated support and training, or to meet and learn from role models in your field. Many place a particular focus on developing graduate students or early-career researchers. You will also build confidence through finding and sharing with other people like yourself.
    • Discounts on books and journals, often those produced by the society, but sometimes through deals with other publishers. This is a nice bonus but I doubt that it draws in great numbers of new members.
    • Reduced page charges. If you join the American Society of Naturalists, you get discounts for publishing in American Naturalist. This is common for many society journals, and as with attending their conferences, it usually saves money in any given year. Whether this acts as a sufficient incentive to depends on whether you pay directly for page charges and membership from your own money or a grant. Remaining a member implies that you believe that you will continue to publish regularly in that journal, which seems rather aspirational.
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Want to feel good about your research? Join an academic society and meet people who will be really enthusiastic (and want to help you). I’m on the right next to my collaborator Ahimsa Campos-Arceiz examining his student’s poster at SCB-Asia 2015.

  • It’s affordable. This does rather depend on your career status, amount of disposable income, and whether your employer (or grant) will cover the costs. Many societies offer cheap rates for students, or are even free for introductory periods. Joining international societies can depend on exchange rates; if your currency is plummeting the way Sterling has in recent months, think twice before adding to your direct debit list. A cost-benefit analysis comes into play. It’s likely that you will accumulate memberships as your career progresses, but sometimes these will need trimming because you can’t participate in everything.
  • Become part of a community. You care about your research area, right? Of course you do, otherwise you’d be doing something soulless that’s better remunerated for shorter hours*. Being a member of an academic society puts you in contact with other people who are passionate about the same things and are investing their lives in them as well. They will be interested in what you do, supportive of your work, and looking to share and collaborate. In time, after running into them for a few years, they become friends. I met many of my closest friends at conferences; some of them I’ve worked with, most are just awesome people that I wouldn’t otherwise have come across.
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Meeting new friends at ATBC 2016 in Montpellier. Food and wine help.

Back to my opening comments. I won’t name the society I’m leaving, other than to say that the fall in the value of Sterling following Brexit shifted my equation and made me feel that it was no longer worthwhile. But it’s no secret that the one I do a lot of work for is, of course, the British Ecological Society (I’m on their Council). Not a member yet? Well you should join, and it’s free for students for the first year, so you’ve got nothing to lose!


* Quick disclaimer: I write mainly for an academic audience, but am aware that many members of scientific societies are actually interested parties who just want to keep abreast of developments in a field that they’re enthusiastic about. If that applies to you then please don’t flame me, but I’d love to hear about a job that is well-paid, intellectually satisfying, allows an appropriate work-more work-life balance and still allows you to measure trees occasionally.