Return to Tristan da Cunha

Tags

Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross, Gough61, TdCadventure, Tristan Albatross, Tristan da Cunha

Perhaps it’s wanderlust. Or maybe some kind of zugunruhe. But it’s that time of year when I’m about to ditch the comforts of modern living and head for the field. I don’t just mean a week or two, but several months. And what better place to go than the most remote inhabited place on the planet – Tristan da Cunha.

The village of Edinburgh of the Seven Seas, the settlement on Tristan da Cunha

Sitting about 2800 km WSW from Cape Town, South Africa, this 12 km-diameter island is home to about 270 Tristanians. Aside from the main island, my work will take me to Gough Island, Nightingale Island, and hopefully Inaccessible Island (which, despite the name, is, in fact, accessible, but only during the confluence of good weather, good seas, and luck).

Last year was my first journey to the South Atlantic, and it was eye-opening. Aside from the fantastic (and novel) biodiversity, the visible impact of humanity was also in plain sight. Whether this was the mice on Gough that eat albatross chicks alive, or the deafening silence of the main island, it’s clear that though remote, Tristan is far from pristine.

So on Wednesday I begin the long journey for what I’ve dubbed on Twitter #TdCadventure. But not before another small adventure – the annual crew change at Gough Island.+

Panoramic view of Tarn Moss on Gough Island

Along with the University of Cape Town, the RSPB runs an annual monitoring program on Gough that measures population size, breeding success, survival, and the effects of mice on a myriad of species. This year marks the 61st expedition to Gough, and so is dubbed Gough 61. Our team of 3 scientists will join the 5 staff of the South African weather station on the island for a 13 month posting. in September, we’ll relieve the Gough 60 expedition, and transition to Gough 61. It’s a hectic time, as we only have about 18 days on the island, and need to transfer skills, knowledge, and methods to the new team. Lots of long 18+-hour days, but also some amazing scenery, great company, much laughter, and for the last number of years, great success.

Tristan Albatross chick. This species is endemic to Gough and is greatly affected by introduced mice.

Then, when the S.A. Agulhas II departs Gough, it will deposit me back on Tristan for another 2 months where we’ll hopefully accomplish our delayed survey of the endemic Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross, and deploy autonomous acoustic recorders to get a handle on what nocturnal burrow-nesting species are on the main island.

Adult Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross. They are endemic to the Tristan group, and the largest population is on the main island.

The internet is fairly poor, so don’t expect much, but I’ll try to put up a few blog posts. You can read about last year’s adventures here: Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

 

A journey to Tristan da Cunha

Tags

albatross, TdCadventure, Tristan da Cunha

Starting this Friday, I’ll begin my journey to the most remote inhabited island in the world – the UK Overseas Territory of Tristan da Cunha.  I’m headed there as part of a project funded by the Darwin Initiative, and the Agreement on the Conservation of Albatrosses and Petrels (ACAP) to do the first quantitative survey of the endemic Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross (Thalassarche chlororhynchos) on the main island of Tristan, and to update counts from Gough Island (400 km to the south).

About half of the world’s population of “Mollys” breeds on Tristan, and the only estimate is “16,000-30,000” from 1972-74, and is based largely on expert opinion.  Tristan has introduced mice and rats that can actual eat albatross chicks alive.  Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross are also frequently killed in fisheries as bycatch.  So you can imagine that not having a reliable population estimate of the (possibly) largest breeding population for more than 40 years is a bit of a conservation gap.

We’ll be working with the Tristan Conservation Department, the Percy FitzPatrick Institute of African Ornithology, and the South African Department of Environmental Affairs to count them.  Working from the S.A. Agulhas II, we’ll do helicopter flights to photograph the birds as they sit on their nests early in incubation (the albatross are large, white birds and show up against the brown/green vegetation).  But that’s the easy part.  When the Agulhas II departs, we’ll have 2 months of hiking around the slopes of Queen Mary’s Peak to ground-truth our aerial counts.

The only way to reach Tristan is by ship – between 5-7 days’ steaming from Cape Town, South Africa.  Consequently, there aren’t that many opportunities to get there.  Or get back, for that matter.  So for the (northern) autumn, The Lab and Field will be on a bit of a hiatus.  I’m hoping, though, to find time to post a few updates from the field, and hopefully some photos (Tristan does have satellite internet, but it’s been known to go down for several days at a time).  You can also follow along on Twitter with the #TdCadventure hashtag.

So until December, here’s to fair winds and following seas!

Tristan Adventure 4: an island without birdsong

Tags

albatross, Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross, TdCadventure, Tristan da Cunha, Tristan Thrush

I’ve spent a good chunk of the last 10 years working on seabird islands.  During the breeding season, birds look for the safest spot to raise their young, and this often means they find themselves on coastal cliffs, offshore islands, and remote parts of the world.  This natural order of things is thrown on its head when novel predators like mice, rats, or cats are introduced.  The birds, having evolved over millions of years in the absence of ground-based predators on breeding islands, are prime targets because they have no behavioural defences.  In some cases, like I wrote in my last installment, the birds are, in a word, screwed.

 

The main island of Tristan da Cunha had rats and mice introduced in the 1880s, about 75 years after the island was settled permanently, and had cats from the early 1800s until about 40 years ago.  Today, Tristan is an island without birdsong.

 

When the UK established a garrison on Tristan in 1816, Captain Dugald Carmichael, Fellow of the Linnean Society, accompanied the voyage, and recounted his journey on December 16, 1817, recorded in the Transactions of the Linnean Society as “Some Account of the Island of Tristan cla Cunha and of its Natural Productions”.  It offers us a unique perspective on what this island was like almost 200 years ago before rats, mice, cats (now absent), dogs, livestock, and people arrived on the most remote inhabited island in the world.

 

“Further on, the ground becomes more firm, but is perforated in all directions by the various species of Petrel, which resort in myriads to the island during the season of incubation, and burrow in the earth”

 

Here, Carmichael is referring to the habit of many seabirds to nest in burrows underground.  These are chiefly petrels and shearwaters, which abound on other islands in the Tristan group, like Nightingale, Inaccessible, and Gough.  But today, there are scant few burrowing petrels, and those that remain are on steep cliffs, offshore sea stacks, or suffer low reproductive success and survival thanks to the rats and mice.

 

“As we walked down the mountain on our return, we passed among flocks of albatrosses engaged in the process of incubation, or tending their young. There are four species of them that breed on the island, none of which hatches m0re than one egg at a time ; the Diomedea spadicea, exulans, chlororynchos, and fuliginosa”

 

In modern parlance (and with the benefit of a better understanding of albatross plumage changes and taxonomy), these are three species: D. exulans and D. spadicea are Tristan Albatross (D. dabbenena, male and female respectively), D. chlororhynchos is the Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross (Thalassarche chlororhynchos) that I’ve written about before, and the last is now Phoebetria fusca, the Sooty Albatross.  There are few places now where the albatross could be said to form flocks, and Tristan Albatross has been extirpated from the island entirely.  Sooty Albatross breed on steep cliffs, and the density of Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross nests is surely lower than that even 40 years ago.

 

Just last week, we went with staff from the Tristan Conservation Department to the Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross study colony at the top of Hottentot Gulch, about 800m above the settlement.  After a 3-hour climb, we found ourselves at the edge of this “colony”.  About 10 person-hours later, we had found a grand total of 30 nests, and covered an area I would estimate to be around 30 hectares.  Clearly many fewer than in Carmichael’s time.

 

This is to say nothing of the landbirds.  There is one native landbird remaining, the Tristan Thrush (Nesocichla eremita).  A finch (or more properly, a tanager), and moorhen (Gallinula nesiotis) are gone, and the Gough Moorhen (Gallinula cormeri) was introduced in the 1950s, but exists mainly above the settlement plain.  The result is that around town, the sounds of birds singing, calling, courting, and otherwise announcing their presence is absent.

 

So how did this come to be?

 

Like many other remote islands, there is a history of harvesting birds on Tristan, though today this is no longer permitted on the main island (there is a small subsistence harvest of shearwater chicks on Nightingale).  Cats on South Africa’s Marion Island consumed more than 400,000 birds a year when they were present (from the early 1950s until officially eradicated in the early 1990s); cats were present on Tristan for much longer (early 1800s through the 1970s), and likely exacted a massive toll on the breeding seabirds.

 

But disentangling the role harvesting played from the catastrophic effects of introduced predators is practically impossible.  Regardless of their relative importance, the result is the same – when we’re out hiking and we see a slope, a hill, a cliff, a plain and think “there MUST be birds there!” we are nearly always wrong.

 

What we do know, though, is that the conservation ethic on the island is as high as it has ever been, and the folks we work with in the Conservation Department are dedicated, resourceful, and fantastic to work with.  With about 3 weeks left for me on Tristan, I’m already looking forward to coming back.

Tristan Adventure 2: why am I here?

Tags

albatross, TdCadventure, Tristan da Cunha

Why, one might ask, would a Canadian scientist working in the UK travel via South Africa to the most remote inhabited island in the world? The answer involves 19^th-century British garrisons, fishing boats in Brazil and Namibia, Napoleon, a helicopter, and my mad Photoshop skillz.

Tristan da Cunha comprises 4 main and 2 smaller islands.  There’s the main island of Tristan da Cunha, which includes the 2060 m high Queen Mary’s Peak, and is 96 km².  About 40 km south are two other islands: Nightingale (4 km²) with its associated Alex (or Middle) and Stoltenhoff Islands, and the aptly-named Inaccessible Island (14 km²).  Gough, the last island, is 350 km to the south, and the second largest (65 km²).  And to paraphrase the classic movie, of all the islands in all the oceans in the world, the Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross (Thalassarche chlororhynchos) had to nest on these four. And only these four.

And, all else being equal, the Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross would continue its albatrossy existence, doing what albatross do (fly, dance, breed, and repeat for 30, 40, 60, or even 70 years).  But all else is not equal.

The first problem, if you are an Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross, is that you are large and delicious.  Tristan had no indigenous population, and the community here today traces its origins back to only 1817 when William Glass and his family remained behind when the British garrison stationed to (somehow) prevent the liberation of Napoleon from “nearby” St. Helena (which is actually more than 2000 km away, but the closest habitation to Tristan).  On islands that were in all respects wild and rugged, the Tristanians had to adapt to the local conditions for survival, and that included harvesting the seals and seabirds that used the island.  Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross were a delicacy, and the eggs (measuring XX x XX mm), as well as chicks laden with fat (weighing > 2 kg each) were harvested right up through the 1950s.

In the 1950s, up to 2500 eggs were taken each year on Nightingale, with a further 1700-2000 chicks harvested later in the season (a collecting permit, incidentally, cost 1 shilling).  In fact, most of the seabirds on Tristan were exploited in some way or another.  Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross are now protected under the Conservation Ordinance of 2006, and what limited poaching used to exist has all but fizzled out.

The second problem, if you were an Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross, is that somewhere along the line, black rats were introduced to Tristan.  The current best guess is that they arrived on a shipwreck in 1882.  Rats love to eat, and when they produce 3-5 litters of 5-8 pups/litter it doesn’t take long to go through a fair number of birds. Petrels, close relatives to albatross that usually nest in burrows in the ground, are generally harder hit than albatross, which nest on the surface on pedestal nests, but the rats undoubtedly took their toll.

The third problem, if you were an Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross, is that longline fisheries, particularly those in Brazil and Namibian waters, tend to catch a lot of Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross.  In Brazil, 0.011 birds are caught for every 1000 hooks set (and when there are hundreds of thousands or millions of hooks set, you can see the numbers add up quickly).  They’re also the most common bycatch species in pelagic longlining and trawl operations in Namibia.

So in the face of these former (in the case of harvesting) and current (rats, bycatch) threats, the natural question is “Well, how many are there, and is that changing?”.  As I write this in early September 2014, I can let you in on some inside knowledge: we honestly haven’t a clue.

In the early 1970s, a chap named Richardson was on Tristan and its other islands, and came up with what were then the best estimates of the population of most of the breeding seabirds, including the Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross.  Since then, there was some work done on Gough about 10 years ago, a count on Nightingale in 2007, and a guess at the population breeding on Inaccessible in the early 1980s.  But the main island of Tristan remained uncounted since 1974.  Back then, the estimate was 16,000-30,000 pairs, making it the largest breeding colony for the species.

There are about 5300 pairs at Gough, 4000 at Nightingale (with another couple hundred pairs on Alex and Stoltenhoff), and 1100 pairs on Inaccessible.  Even together, they don’t eclipse the estimate from Tristan.  But that estimate is horribly out of date, and a lot has changed since 1974^{[citation needed]}.

Which brings me to the purpose of my visit: figuring out just how may Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatrosses there are.  Now, this is much easier said than done, but thanks to our project partners at the Tristan Conservation Department and with the logistical support of the South African National Antarctic Program and Department of Environmental Affairs with the helicopters of the research ship S.A. Agulhas II, a couple hundred photos, a pile of computer memory, and the aforementioned Photoshop “mad skillz” we’ll photograph the entire island in about 3 hours from 100-200m above ground.  You can actually see albatrosses on their nests since their white backs stand out against the brown, green, and otherwise dark ground.  Stitch ‘em together and what have you got? Bippity boppity boo A massive image file where we can count the nest.

But it’s not that “easy”.  The photos will undoubtedly miss some nests, so will be supplemented with a healthy dose of groundtruthing where we hike up, count the nests in a set area, and compare this to the photo count to come up with a correction factor based on nesting habitat and other features that impede detecting the nests from the helicopter.

So what, some might be asking.  Without a good idea of how many there are, we don’t know the toll that bycatch is playing on populations.  Taking the same number of birds a year has different consequences for a species with 10,000 breeding pairs than for one with 100,000 pairs.  In fact, the lack of a current population estimate was identified by the Agreement on the Conservation of Albatrosses and Petrels, an international agreement between several nations (including the UK, and therefore Tristan da Cunha, as well as Brazil) aimed at reducing seabird bycatch (www.acap.aq), as a significant gap.  So much of a gap that they actually provided some of our funding for the current expedition.

So that, in a nutshell, is why I’m here.  Along the way, I’ll also be working with the Conservation Department looking at their current albatross monitoring program, we’ll count some penguins, trap a bunch of rats to look at their diet and distribution, and continue the work to better understand the poorly-known burrowing petrels of Tristan.

But next week, I’ll be off to Gough on the SA Agulhas II to get to know the island, hopefully do a similar Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross count there, and contribute to the science underpinning the hopeful eradication of introduced house mice from the island.  I won’t be back on Tristan until early October, and will likely have the next instalment of Tristan Adventure then.

Tristan adventure 1: journey & arrival

Tags

TdCadventure, Tristan da Cunha

Tristan Adventure 1: Journey and arrival

Hello outside world! I’m safely ensconced in Edinburgh of the Seven Seas, the capital (and only settlement) of Tristan da Cunha. For those just joining us, this trip to the most remote inhabited island in the world (some 2100 km south of St. Helena (which is, itself, not close to much else other than similarly remote Atlantic Islands), and a full 2800 km west of Cape Town, South Africa) is one of the perks of my job working at the RSPB Centre for Conservation Science.  I’m down here to do the first census of Endangered Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross (Thalassarche chlororhynchos) on the main island of Tristan, and to work with the Tristan Conservation Department until the end of November. So, needless to say (and at long last!), the next few months I’ll be living up to the “field” portion of this blog’s moniker more than in the past.

A joyful journey to Heathrow along the M1 and M25 (known as one of the largest carparks in England!), a 3-hour flight delay, 9 hours, and one barely passable airplane meal later, I awoke to the trickle of light coming through the shade of the British Airways 747.  Peeking through the blind so as not to wake my fellow cattle passengers, my first sight of Africa was the red sands of the Kalahari Desert and the Skeleton Coast of Namibia.

About 90 minutes later, we arrived in Cape Town on a spectacular day with Table Mountain in excellent form.  A colleague picked me up at the airport and dropped me off at my accommodation in the City Bowl.  The weekend was spent getting orientated, and seeing another friend who works on large mammal ecology and conservation in Southern Africa.  We journeyed around the Cape Peninsula, taking in the fantastic mammals – eland, bontebok, Cape mountain zebra, rock hyraxes (known locally as “dassies”), and a troupe of baboons while he explained the many and varied conservation, human-wildlife conflict, and management issues he and his students were working on.  And what better way to end the day than discussing lion trophic ecology over grilled ostrich on the Waterfront?

I spent two more days running around acquiring sundry and miscellaneous field equipment at the various (and interesting!) specialty shops of Cape Town before arriving at the offices of Ovenstone Agencies (Pty.) Ltd. in Green Point.  Ovenstone operates the fishery for Tristan rock lobster (Jasus tristani), and two ships – the MFV Edinburgh, a passenger, cargo and factory fishing boat, and the MV Baltic Trader, a passenger/cargo vessel.  I went out on the Edinburgh with 8 other passengers, including a dentist making her 4^th trip to the island (and 3^rd with her now 4-year-old daughter), the manager of the lobster factory on Tristan and one of the supervisors from Cape Town (originally fro Bulgaria), and 4 Tristanians, including a 7-week-old on his first journey after being born in Cape Town in June.

After 2 days, we were into steady northwest winds, and very lumpy seas.  The saving grace of this voyage was I had the luxury of being seasick in the sink in the privacy of my own cabin.  Now, I’ve been on ocean-going vessels in eastern Canada, the Aleutian Islands of Alaska, and off Australia, and never – never! – have I had such a case of mal-de-mer.  Thankfully, by day 6, the winds had shifted around to the southwest and were from behind.  This afforded several days of small luxuries, like being able to eat more than bread, water, and an apple in the run of a day.

But the northwesterlies had slowed us down, and our 7-day passage turned into 8, 9, 10 days.  On the following Friday (i..e, 10 days after we left Cape Town), we pulled into the lee on the southeastern coast of Tristan da Cunha, the engines stopped, and a wave of excitement permeated the passengers in the mess as we chowed down on oxtail stew.  The only problem was that the settlement, and “harbour” were on the northwestern side (as in, on the exact opposite side of the island from which we current found ourselves at anchor).  The winds were too strong, the swells too great, and the boats that were to fetch us unable to leave the harbour.  But a pleasant day was had by all watching early 1990s British mysteries on DVD, and I spent some time getting some old data in order (after a week of not being able to look at my computer screen without inducing emesis, it was actually quite enjoyable!).

Saturday morning came, and the engines started up.  We rushed up to grab a quick breakfast in anticipation of being ashore for lunch.  But it was not to be.  After a quick peek, the seas were still too rough.  Back to the anchor, and Helen Mirren solving murders in 1980s London.  But, in mid-afternoon, things looked promising, we steamed north, and next thing we knew, the Tristan Conservation boat Arctic Tern was alongside, the Tristan flag flapping stiffly in the wind.  We rushed back to our cabins, suited up for departure, grabbed our cabin baggage (stowed baggage and cargo would have to be landed when it was calmer still), and made our way to the deck.  The police boat had been craned up next to the Edinburgh, we hopped in – 9 passengers, 3 dogs, and bits of kit, and made for the harbour.  In a blink it was all over, and we were bailing out onto the jetty, passing gear up the stairs, and shedding our waterproofs and PFDs.

Of all the beach landings I’ve done on islands in Alaska, Newfoundland, and Australia, this was one of the fastest (thanks to the two 120 hp motors), and consequently most frantic.  Literally within 15 minutes, I went from waiting on the Edinburgh to standing on Tristan da Cunha.

But now, I’m dry (aside from the near 100% ambient humidity), warm(ish, it is winter south of the equator, after all), and I’ve had lovely fish pie, date pudding, and cheese sandwiches.  The island store opened again on Monday and after a visit to the Finance Department (which acts as the island bank – it’s cash only on Tristan), I was supplied for the next few days.  Monday was also when the cargo from the ship, including food, fuel, supplies for the store, and the passenger baggage came ashore.  Two barges go out from the harbour to the ship, anchored about 400m offshore, and the goods are craned from the ship onto the barges, which then chug back to the harbour where the harbour crane reverses the process.  When the ship is unloading, most other work on the island stops (particularly that involving able-bodied men), but that enabled me to take care of some running around (see Clarence, the island’s only police officer, to get my passport stamped and say hello, thank Dawn for arranging our accommodation and learn that one must dial 89 and then an outside number, and stop by the admin building to chat finances).  I can also happily report that the bread maker produced an excellent loaf of whole wheat on my first attempt.  I’ve got less than three months to perfect it.

Science-wise, I haven’t even started yet, and we won’t start gathering data until the S.A. Agulhas II takes us 220 miles south to Gough Island in about two weeks.  It took more than 2 weeks to get from my front door to my field accommodation (which, incidentally, is spectacular), but I’ve seen some incredible wildlife (including my first albatross since 2010, and my first wild penguins!), thought a lot about science, scientific expeditions (including the trials and tribulations, particularly those in the days of olde), made some friends, and can heartily recommend the grilled springbok paired with a Western Cape merelot at a little place on a side street in Cape Town near the cable car to Table Mountain.

 

2019 by the numbers

Read previous years’ By the Numbers: 2018, 2017, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2013

 

This year’s top 10 posts by views:

Personal academic websites for faculty & grad students: the why, what, and how (again!)

Amusing bird names explained: Fluffy-backed Tit-babbler

What’s in an affiliation?

The system of student research in the UK fundamentally broken

Some rambling thoughts on field work to wrap up Pride Month

How did we learn that birds migrate (and not to the moon)? A stab in the dark

Listing grants on one’s CV

The advantages of Google Scholar for early-career academics (also, again!)

Keeping track of projects and prioritising work

Reflection in science

 

18,500 (ish)

The number of visitors to The Lab and Field this year, an all-time low! Readership of The Lab and Field continues to fall, perhaps mirroring a broader trend in blogs. It’s increasingly hard to know what resonates, or what’s useful. Twitter is great for “in the moment” interactions, but anything that’s older than a couple of days gets lost and nearly impossible to find (and certainly not serendipitously). L&F has never been a traffic-driven project, so it will continue.

146

The number of countries, according to WordPress’s stats, that these visitors came from. Shout to the single people who visited from Swaziland, Namibia, Albania, Côte d’Ivoire, Cambodia, British Virgin Islands, Montenegro, Falkland Islands, Jersey, Jamaica, Belize, Guyana, Mozambique, St. Kitts & Nevis, Benin, Afghanistan, Sudan, Bermuda, and Oman!

 

3

Trips to the Southern Hemisphere, for field work on Lord Howe Island, and Henderson Island, and my annual visit to the University of Tasmania. Hoping to bring that down to 2 this coming year because it’s getting more and more exhausting (especially coming back to the UK)

 

46

Days in the field this year, in bouts of 17 (Lord Howe Island) and 29 (Henderson). That’s the most field work I’ve done since I was outposted to Tristan da Cunha for 4 months in 2015. I used to absolutely LIVE for field work, but as I continue to get not-younger, less so which I find particularly sad.

 

26

New publications in 2019. Ack! How on earth did that happen? A conference proceedings was published, which accounts for 4, and about 4 appeared online in 2018 but ended up in 2019 issues. Some were massive consortium-type papers, and there were 2 Commentary pieces. Some were also massive collaborations, some (most!) were driven by coauthors and students, but some particular highlights include:

-The first paper by a student I supervised

-A paper we worked HARD on for YEARS, and seemingly couldn’t interest anyone else in

-The first paper from a PhD student in the Adrift Lab, and a cracker at that!

-Our paper with huge media coverage this year, on crabs trapped in plastic waste on beaches. Sad, but important.

 

85

The number of coauthors, not counting the two large consortium papers I was involved in (that would push this to nearly 140, I’d guess).

 

0.67

My Gender Gap – better than last year, but still not parity. Also excluding the two consortium papers. And still in a binary format, which I’m increasingly less pleased about because that’s not what gender is. I need to think more about how I use this metric and frame this discussion in the future.

 

7726

The number of emails sent. Yikes. That’s back to 2016 levels, the first year I kept track. Especially yikes given the number of days I was in the field (and therefore not really emailing). I attribute this rise to some big projects at work (our building being re-clad), an increase in the number of PhD students I co-supervise from 2 to 4, and trying to coordinate a few professional initiatives.

 

28

The number of people who found The Lab and Field by searching for tits (as in the birds, of course). Including this gem: “why are burds called tits”

 

5

The number of years that I’ve been involved with LGBTQ+ STEM, which remains an absolute career highlight, and something I never imagined would happen.

 

Here’s to a happy & healthy 2020!

Me, exhausted after running through the scrub/forest and catching a Henderson Petrel during field work in June 2019. Photo by Jon Slayer.

 

2015 by the numbers

Tags

year in review

It’s time once again for my annual round-up of science, and science blogging by the numbers. You can also read the 2013 and 2014 editions.

 

23

The number of posts, which by all accounts isn’t that bad since I was away for 4 months on Tristan da Cunha and Gough Island, and away for most of May.

The most popular posts this year were:

• Personal academic websites for faculty & grad students: the why, what, and how (a perennial favourite, it seems)
• The advantages of Google Scholar for early-career academics
• Beware the academic hipster (or, use what works for you) UPDATED
• Who are scientists?
• How #icanhazpdf can hurt our academic libraries
• Some lessons learned from 10 years of sciencing
• How did we learn that birds migrate (and not to the moon)? A stab in the dark
• Why volunteer field techs are a bad idea
• Now accepting submissions: CrapWildlifeVolunteerJobs.tumblr.com
• Future of Visiting Fellowship postdoc program in doubt

Like most writers, I think some my favourite bits are missing from this list, like tips for applying for field jobs,or how to be an LGBTQ ally at conferences, or the continued under-representation of women in NSERC major awards.

 

42,222

The number of page views this year. I continue to be amazed that there are people out there who are interested in the ramblings of a wayward Canuck navigating the world as best he can. My deepest thanks.

 

165

The number of countries/autonomous regions represented by those readers. Wow.

 

109

Days I spent in the field, on Tristan da Cunha and Gough Island. I hope to have a post on time spent in the field sometime in the new year. Suffice it to say, it’s a long time, and filled with rewards and challenges.

 

17

The number of new papers published this year, up from 10 last year thanks to some exceptionally productive co-authors! Many of them were also a glut from postdoc work that have finally seen the light of day. I think this reflects more my career stage than productivity: I suddenly have staff, and a glut of collaborative projects.

 

34

The number of co-authors I had in 2015.

 

0.29

My Gender Gap for co-authors in 2015 (the ratio of female:male coauthors). Not particularly happy about this one, but I will take some solace in the fact that I inherited several projects that had a large number of male collaborators. Need to do better next year.

 

6

The number of posts I have started this year, but not finished for various reasons. Not happy about that one, either, since I think they’re all important things to write about, and I think I have some thoughts to contribute.

 

3

The number of keyboards that died on me this year. Was it something I said typed?

 

202.3

The size, in ml, of the average Atlantic Yellow-nosed Albatross egg, which has remained unchanged since at least 1854. Just one of the highlights of a paper I’m working on at the moment.

 

and lastly…

 

1

The number of family members lost this year who told me I could do anything.

 

Here’s to a happy, productive, and successful 2016!

While I was away… some recommended reads

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links

I have just returned from 3 months of field work on Gough and Tristan da Cunha, and in addition to the hundreds of emails, piles of fliers, and loving family that welcomed me back, there were a couple hundred blog posts in my RSS feed (yes, I still use RSS. It could only be improved if it were coupled with a typewriter). Last year, I did a quick run-through of the posts that tweaked my interest from the massive amounts of fantastic writing that happened while I was away, and I’ll do the same this year. As always, there are heaps of other fantastic posts out there by these same folks, and more, so this is hardly a ’best-of’, but more a ’in-case-you-missed-it-like-I-did’.

So without further ado, below is a quick summary of some of the posts that caught my attention (in no particular order).

 

Open your mouth and say… science! (Unmuzzled Science)

Canada had an election back in October, and science seems to have been given a bit of a boost, and in particular, government science. A nice summary of what needs to happen next if actions are to match Trudeau’s rhetoric.

 

Giving Thanks for My Mentors (Chronicle Vitae)

Jeremy Yoder has a great post on the often unsaid good things that mentors do. We’re quick to complain about the negative side, and bad mentorship (and rightfully so), but I’d wager there’s a larger population of good mentors than bad.

 

 

We’re Looking to Grow (Liberal Arts Ecologists)

The great blog Liberal Arts Ecologists is (well, was back in August) looking for more contributors!

 

The Midget Subs of Kiska Island (Aleutian Islands Working Group)

I spent 4 summers on Kiska doing my PhD research, so it’s great to see Richard Galloway write about the beached Japanese midget sub from 1942 at the south end of Kiska Harbour. The preservation of historic sites in such remote areas is a great challenge.

 

2015 caRd – A diveRsity of Santas (The EEB and Flow)

An amusing evolutionary look at the wide and varied forms of Santa Claus (and related phenotypes) around the world. It seems reindeer transport diverged early, and is highly conserved.

 

Top 10 signs that a paper/field is bogus (Raj Lab)

There are piles of papers that are simply crap, sometimes the case of ’a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing’, and I’ve wondered in the past why we seem to just ignore these in ecology & conservation. Here are some good tips for spotting those papers (or more broadly, fields).

 

Dealing with mental health: A guide for professors (Caroline Anne Kovesi in University Affairs)

This is a particularly fantastic piece, and not just because it’s written by someone from my wee alma mater! And more broadly, I think it applies outside academia as well, as a guide to those of us who supervise staff. Just because it’s not for degree credit doesn’t mean some of the same issues don’t apply.

 

And because they’re perennially at the top of my reading list when I return, some highlights from Dynamic Ecology…:

Why fit is more important than impact factor in choosing a journal to submit to

I generally try to go for fit when deciding when to send papers, and Brian makes the compelling case even more clear. Read those Guidelines for Authors!

 

Techniques aren’t powerful; scientists are

All tools, in the right hands, can be useful. But one must know how to use them!

 

The hardest part of academia? Moving.

Having done 3 large (>1000 km) moves, including two >4000 km moves, this resonated with me a fair bit. I think it’s even harder to move internationally (a topic I hope to write on in 2016).

 

Musings on reading older literature

I’m a fan of older literature, but it must be looked at, at least in part, through the lens of the time. And occasionally when you delve deep to find the source of some oft-quoted ’fact’, and finally see the evidence that underpins it, you just might think twice.

 

Strategies (and reasons) for being more productive with fewer hours

Meg has some fantastic tips for time management, something I need to work on.

 

… and Small Pond Science:

A lot of scientists are kind, careful and caring

This certainly matches many of my experiences. We don’t always hear about the positive folks in grad school, so there can sometimes be a negative ’reporting bias’ with respect to bad supervisors. This is part of the reason the Academic Kindness tumblr irked me. See also Jeremy Yoder’s piece above.

 

If you have a bad advisor in grad school

Though not everyone has a good supervisor-trainee relationship. Terry offers some good advice on what to do in those cases. Non-supervisor mentors are key.

 

Prescriptive reviews are a scourge

Finally from Terry, a look at whether reviewers should be prescriptive. I sort of disagree with some of this post, as it assumes that editors are capable of, and actually do, provide the critical next steps. Too many editors simply forward the reviewer comments without adding much (or by summarizing the comments. I don’t mind suggestions for what to do to improve the paper, and if it’s simply not possible, will say so in the rebuttal letter, which hopefully the editor understands. Though I will continue to maintain that peer review is much better done over a pot of tea or pint of beer.

 

Lastly, heaven help us, Terry McGlynn has a science podcast (Not Just Scientists), and it’s pretty awesome.

The allure of islands

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field work, islands

Recently, Sarah Boon wrote about her search for silence on Vancouver Island, which reminded me of some of the reasons I enjoy island work so much.  Islands have a cultural allure – cut-off from the mainland, isolated, occasionally uninhabited – and for the majority, they are “elsewhere”.  Immersing ourselves in the natural world is becoming challenging. There are simply more people with greater means of “getting away”.

When living in Newfoundland, a friend remarked that she used to love camping, but that it had fallen out of favour recently. Surprised, I asked why. “You’ve got to go farther and farther into the woods to really get away” she replied. The incursion of the partying, 4×4-driving, fashion-“field clothes”-wearing demographic was simply too great.  This is not to set up a sense of conflict between True Outdoors-folk™ and those who take less pleasure in discussing cross-gate-loading of carabiners, but highlights that the make-up of those in the backwoods is shifting. It’s fantastic that more people are going out to see nature (if that is indeed their goal).

But islands are still the domain of the explorers, the adventurers, the discoverers. They are steeped both in history and in the unknown.

One of my formative island experiences came in 2004 while working at Cape Enrage, New Brunswick, on the shores of Chignecto Bay.  Further up the bay was Grindstone Island, which is now managed by the Nature Trust of New Brunswick. For the previous two years, two friends and I discussed kayaking there from the mainland.  It would be a tough paddle, and had to be timed with the tides.  This was the days before Google Maps (at least it was for me), so we relied on survey charts and published tide tables.  One August afternoon, at about 3pm, we launched from Mary’s Point, and were on the island a little over an hour later.

Paddling out

The one landing beach on Grindstone Island

Grindstone Island lighthouse in August 2004

Grindstone was home to a lighthouse from the 1850s, but was decommissioned in 1985.  During our visit, the lighthouse and keepers’ houses were in a state of disrepair.

But why did three of us spend two years dreaming of subjecting ourselves to a very difficult paddle to go see falling apart buildings? Because we knew no one else who had kayaked there, and because it was there.

 

 

With the seeds sewn, I quickly became an “island junky”.  Two years on Machias Seal Island in the lower Bay of Fundy while I did my MSc, and then a move to Newfoundland (a larger island, but an island nevertheless).  But nothing could prepare me for the challenges, the hardships, the memories, and the love I found on Kiska.

 

Sitting far out in the western Aleutian Islands of Alaska, Kiska is an island with a fascinating past. Occupied for thousands of years by Aleut communities, it was largely abandoned by the early 1800s.  The outbreak of World War II saw an American weather station established in 1941, and it was one of two American islands occupied by Japan (the other being Attu, to the west) from 1942-1943.  Today, Kiska is part of the Alaska Maritime National Wildlife Refuge, and his home to millions of auklets (small seabirds related to puffins), but also introduced rats – this was to be the focus of my 4 years of work.

Kiska is large (over 270 sq. km), volcanic, and isolated. A large lava dome also formed in the late 1960s also meant jagged lava rocks that would tear your boots and pants to pieces if you weren’t careful.  We did 11-weeks on Kiska each year, with no resupply, and mostly canned/dried food, relying on rainwater as any natural source was tainted by volcanic emissions.  After my first “big” hike in 2007, through what would become a regular route, I literally asked myself what I had gotten myself into.

Landing “beach” at Kiska. Not for the faint of heart.

Our wee camp. Tents and a weatherport.

The 1960s lava dome in the distance; photo taken from about 1800′ up the volcano

The summit of Kiska Volcano – 4004′ above sea level

Again, why?

Kiska is a place of immense beauty, and the work we did there had not been done before.  We, quite literally, were going to places on that island that no one had ever been to before.  Stepping where no one had stood before. That’s pretty powerful.

 

Despite there significant differences, these two islands (and my experiences there) share many characteristics.  First and foremost, I visited them with friends, and that shared experience, through hardship, success, and completing the task before us made our friendships stronger.  Second, and relating to Sarah’s post, they were remote and isolated. No phones (cellular or otherwise) aside from the sat phone (at $1.50/minute), no internet, no television, no distractions.  Complete and total immersion (sometimes literally), for better or worse.  I have spent considerable portions of my life in the absence of anthropogenic noise. Now living in England (where you can be no farther than 3 miles/5 km from a road at any time), I am inundated with noise.

But not for long. These days, I venture to the most remote inhabited island in the world, Tristan da Cunha, and spend 3 weeks in joyful natural bliss (and hardship) on Gough Island. The stark differences between my current and future locations make each more intense, which can be both good and bad.

Panoramic view of Tarn Moss on Gough Island

—

Postscript – there’s a pervading sense of machismo around field work that I’m certainly not advocating. Field work is tough, hard work, but so is lab work, modelling, writing, administrating, … tough work, not matter the context, can be just as rewarding.

2014 by the numbers

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year in review

I did this last year (and stole the idea from Jeremy Yoder), and rather enjoyed it – so here’s a quantitative look back at the year that’s been, and an opportunity to look ahead.

 

24

The number of posts this year. Not as many as last year, but being away for 4 months of field work will do that.  The most viewed:

Post title	Page views
Personal academic websites for faculty & grad students: the why, what, and how	4708
Your daily dose of sexism (again) and #ProteomicsSexism	4143
How did we learn that birds migrate (and not to the moon)? A stab in the dark	2790
Beware the academic hipster (or, use what works for you) UPDATED	2262
The advantages of Google Scholar for early-career academics	1726

 

37,189

The total number of visits to The Lab and Field in its 2nd year of existence.  A huge thanks to everyone to drops by.  When I started The Lab and Field back in January 2013, I thought of it as an outlet where I could talk about non-research aspects of academia and science more broadly (sort of like I did as  grad student while waiting for the kettle to boil, or over a cup of tea). I had no idea that y’all would find it as interesting as I did, but I’m glad you do.

 

2800; 9

The distance, in km, and time, in days, from Cape Town to Tristan da Cunha. I made the journey twice this year, and will do it again in 2015.

 

6568

The distance, in km, that we relocated for me to take my first permanent job with the RSPB.

 

0

The number of job applications submitted this year, the first year since 2010 where I haven’t been looking for work. To say it’s been nice is a bit of an understatement.

 

10

Like last year, the number of new papers.  I was fortunate enough to work with some wonderfully prolific colleagues again this year, and here’s hoping the productivity continues in 2015.  This included some exciting (but depressing) work on the effects of climate and ingested plastics on shearwaters in Australia, and seabirds in the North Atlantic, a review of seabird plastic ingestion in Canada, and looking at the dynamics of mercury in a couple of different systems.

 

0.96

My gender gap – the ratio of my female:male coauthors in 2014 – a big improvement on my gender gap of 0.60 calculated last December.

 

163

The total number of Tristan Albatross chicks we counted this year. Out of about 1700 nests. In case you were wondering, this is abysmally horrible.

 

and lastly, a number that will be of increased significance for me in 2015 …

10

The time, in years, since I picked scientific research as a career, started grad school, came out, and met my husband.  In retrospect, 2005 was a pretty big year, and I’ll reflect on my first decade as a married gay scientist a fair bit in 2015.

 

May 2015 be prosperous, productive, and successful for all of us.

Cheers,

Alex.