Tumble Those Trees?

I have a neighbor who decided to take action against some of his trees years ago—an action that I could never bring myself to do. I'm sure he disapproves of my not following suit. His action? Cutting down a dozen or more mature trees that surrounded his house. In contrast, I love the dozen or so trees that surround and lean over my house; I'd never cut them down!

Why the difference? Don does not dislike trees; his motivation was to avoid ever having them blow down and damage his home. He lives in the woods as I do, and enjoys his trees. He just doesn't want to risk one toppling onto his roof. Don is also a guy who likes a tidy yard. Each fall he assiduously sucks up dead leaves with a big machine and deposits them off in the woods. He definitely doesn't like dead leaves carpeting his lawn. By cutting down his trees, he has no falling trees or their leaves to deal with.

So by leaving my trees to stand tall, I am taking an unacceptable risk in Don's eyes. I like the pleasure that trees bring me: their beauty and their shade. I have written on this blog before about sitting in the outdoor tub, looking up and revering the trees, while fully aware that if one takes a notion to fall on me, I'm dead.

This contrasting approach to handling trees reminds me of the teachings of many past and present philosophers, who pondered the propensity of humans (and all critters, for that matter) to maximize pleasure and avoid pain. We constantly make choices that are aimed at enjoying things, while evading suffering. Don doesn't get immense pleasure from his trees, and he is certainly determined to avoid the pain of the expense of roof repairs. His choice is to clear out the trees. I take great pleasure in my trees, and recognize the pain that they could cause me, but choose to take the risk.

One of the crucial factors going on here is one's assessment of the probability of risk. Both Don and I enjoy and get pleasure from trees. But while he is not willing to chance a fallen tree, I am. I regard the probability of a falling tree as low enough that I need not worry about it. So it's a case of how we read the probabilities and how we weigh that against our pleasure/pain. We each make our personal decision.

As I pondered this contrast between Don and me, it occurred to me that a central reason why insurance companies exist is to allow us to take pleasure in those things we enjoy, while the companies step in to decrease the pain we get when bad things happen. We willingly pay a small amount of money each month to an insurance account, to build up a sort of savings. When disaster strikes we are covered. It's a way to game the system: keep enjoying our pleasures, while we don't have to fret the possible pain. Insurance companies are accomplished at computing the probabilities of catastrophes, as they average the costs over many participants.

The function of insurance works to benefit those who can afford to pay for it. A small payment each month is lost in the noise. A downside of this situation is that it allows advantaged people to take otherwise unreasonable risks (for example, building their house on a hillside that is prone to mudslides) and still be covered for losses. Disadvantaged people, however, (who can't afford insurance) lose everything when disaster strikes. It's just another unfortunate example of the differences between the “haves” and the “have-nots.”

Zinnia with Butterfly

Click to enlarge.

Discomforting Curiosity

I have always delighted in the feeling of curiosity. I've written about the value of curiosity several times on this blog. I've described my sense of inquisitiveness about numerous things in my immediate environment, as well as in the wider world. The dictionary's definition of curiosity is “a strong desire to know or learn something.” The word's root is the Latin word curiosus, which means “careful.” I find it fascinating that our modern usage of the word curiosity stems from being careful. I'm not sure what that means, but it sounds appropriate.

I live in the woods. I live a simple life that provides ample time for exploring the natural world around me. My scientific training predisposes me to seek explanations for things I observe in my world. Countless times I have paused to look at my environment and wondered what is really going on. How did nature arrive at the thing I'm seeing? What led to it? Why does this animal behave as it does? I find this behavior to be mysterious. How can I learn what causes it? The internet is an invaluable resource to answer many of these questions, but I also know that if I take the time to watch and be open, an understanding may come.

I have always greeted these questions with an enthusiastic feeling of interest and wonder. I wonder why that bird does that. I wonder about the meaning of life. I wonder what's going on around all those stars out there. I wonder about the cognitive differences between humans and other animals. So much wonder!

A recent scientific blog on National Public Radio by Tania Lombrozo addressed this issue of curiosity—asking, curiously, whether the feeling is a negative or a positive one. Some people, she writes, experience curiosity as a negative emotion, while others respond positively. I was very intrigued by her blog, because I've never felt negatively about curiosity.

She cited recent research that looked into why this contrasting response occurs. It turns out that those who feel positive about their curiosity tend look upon the situation with anticipation; they look forward to learning something new. Those who feel negative, however, often feel frustrated about the situation; they are unsatisfied about being in the dark.

Lombrozo points out that curiosity arises when we notice a gap in our knowledge. We want to close that gap. We want to know. So curiosity is all about learning... coming to know.

So why do some people feel negative about their curiosity, while others look forward to the pleasure of finding out why? The research shows that the main factor that divides the two camps is a function of the time it will take to satisfy one's curiosity. Those who don't like to wait will focus on their not knowing; they will focus on that gap, and they don't like it. Those who don't mind the wait focus on the anticipation of learning something new, and thus are more positive and eager.

It seems to me that a major factor dividing these two groups is that some people want to know, while others seek to learn. Those seeking to know are motivated by finding an answer and thus concluding the inquiry. They're mostly interested in answers. Those who want to learn, however, see the process of understanding as an open-ended, unfinished process. Once they close the gap and learn something, they eagerly greet the additional gaps that pop up, to continue on the endless learning curve. The inquiry for them is never concluded. There's always more to learn. I find that comforting. In contrast, some people—those who want definitive answers—seem to be uncomfortable with the gap.

Caged Opossum

The blog entry below describes how this opossum got caught. Notice those teeth and that snake-like tail. Click to enlarge.

Playing 'Possum

We recently had some kind of critter invade the garden in the night and gnaw off tomato seedlings and other vulnerable young vegetables. We struggled with protecting the delicate plants, as we tried to figure out who was the culprit. We at first suspected rabbits, but after several failed attempts at intercepting and identifying the perpetrator, we bought a live trap. The very next morning I entered the garden to greet a very unhappy opposum staring at me from his cage. I drove him up the road a few miles and released him into the woods.

That incident led me to do some investigation into the Virginia opossum, hoping that I could figure a way of discouraging these critters from invading the garden in the future. We have been growing vegetables for over three decades now and this is the first time opossums have raided us. We've dealt with voles, rabbits, countless insects, and deer, but the opossum was a new threat.

The local opossum (Didelphis virginiana) is North America's sole marsupial—which is a type of mammal that lacks a placenta. Like kangaroos, the opossum gives birth to tiny fetal-like creatures, who scramble into mom's pouch, where they spend their first few months of life. The opossum looks like a rat with a very long, pointed head. It's about the size of a domestic cat, but its brain is only one-third of the size of a cat's brain. (Now, that's really dumb! I've written on this blog a few times about how the cognitive capability of the household cat is quite inferior to a dog.)

The opossum is a nocturnal creature, rambling around in the night for its food. Its nose is extremely sensitive, which compensates for its poor eyesight. It is truly an omnivore, as it will dine on grains, snakes, mice, chipmunks, human garbage, insects (ants, ticks, flies, spiders, etc.), as well as tender vegetables. That last item spurred this blog.

Most Americans are familiar with the term “playing 'possum,” which refers to the animal's habit of suddenly falling down and playing “dead” when it's threatened. It does a remarkable job of looking dead. Its eyes are open, its tongue flops out, its heart rate halves, its breathing rate drops by a third, and it oozes a foul-smelling liquid from glands near its anus that reeks of death. It can lie lifeless for up to six hours.

The opossum is a hairy critter (rat-looking, as I said) with a hairless tail that looks eerily like a snake. It has more teeth than any other similar mammal. What's especially unique is that it has an opposable thumb on all four feet; making them look uncannily like human hands. It's a very bizarre little critter!

Another fascinating fact about the opossum is how it came to North America. Millions of years ago North America was inhabited only by placental mammals, while South America's mammals were predominantly marsupial. About three million years ago the Isthmus of Panama arose as sea levels dropped, connecting the two continents. Some marsupials migrated north; some placental northern mammals headed south, through Panama.

Thereafter, similarly-behaving species (one kind marsupial, the other mammal) came into competition, and when they did, the placentals almost always had the advantage. As a result, many marsupials in South America went extinct, giving way there to their placental competitors. In North America, all marsupials went extinct, except for the intrepid opossum. Maybe its ability to play dead so effectively helped it to persevere?

I find it fascinating that we humans evolved from placental mammals—primates—who resemble the opossum. It makes me wonder what if the marsupials had been more fit than placental mammals, and they had won the evolutionary competition? Would the world's most intelligent critter today be a marsupial with opposable thumbs? It's a reminder that, if we could roll back the clock a few million years and replay evolution, today's mix of species would be very different. The fact that humans came out (so far, anyway) as the dominant species was not preordained.

Highland Cows

A friend in Scotland sent me these photos of highland cow calves. Could anything be cuter? Click to enlarge.

Untiring Attention

Many years ago I discovered the French naturalist Henri Fabre, who, in the latter half of the 19^th century painstakingly and relentlessly studied insects and wrote about them. Charles Darwin paid tribute to Fabre and his many contributions to the science of entomology. Fabre spent countless hours on his knees studying many kinds of bugs and recording his observations. Those observations are often delightful to read.

There are two contrasting types of scientists who devote their lives to the natural world. The first type is usually formally educated, takes a position on the staff of an institution of higher education, and writes academic papers in his chosen field. The second type is often not formally educated, may have no academic employment, and devotes most of his time to field observation.

Of the first type, we have as examples such eminent individuals as Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, and E.O. Wilson. Three examples of the second type are John Muir, Charles Darwin, and Fabre. The third individual in each case focused their work on insects.

Both Wilson and Fabre are people for whom I have enormous admiration, and have learned much from each of their studies and writings. I think what especially elicits my appreciation for the kind of naturalist that Fabre was, is the deep devotion and untiring attention he put to his work. In fact, what he accomplished should not really be described as work, but as passion. What drove him on (as well as Darwin and Muir) was not the desire to hold an esteemed academic position, or publish papers, but simply the urge to discover nature's ways. They were not driven to publish, but to watch.

I do not wish in any way to disparage the college professor who spends the majority of her time on campus, teaching, or writing papers. Science has benefited greatly from the work of academics. College professors often collaborate with fellow academics and form teams that tackle problems that individuals can't. College professors also have access to expensive resources—such as supercomputers and complex experimental machinery—that individuals don't. So they make invaluable contributions to knowledge.

An individual investigator like Fabre, Muir, and Darwin has his own advantage: freedom from academic dogma and institutional thinking. They can follow their own intuition. They are often obsessive people who are untiring in their attention—with a singular devotion to pursue their zeal to their heart's content. Darwin's extraordinary insights into evolution came after decades of dogged pursuit. Muir's advocacy for the need to protect nature's beautiful places followed decades of courageous and dangerous travels through the wilderness. Fabre's delightful discoveries came after decades of squinting at tiny bugs and getting sore knees.

I value both kinds of scientist—the academic and the field naturalist. Indeed, some scientists are both kinds. Maybe I lean a little bit toward the loners like Fabre because, living as a hermit, I treasure solitude. Besides, curious people like him inspire my own investigations in my own corner of the wilderness.

Alien Intelligence

The search is fully on for signs of intelligent life on planets other than Earth. Humans have long pondered whether or not life arose elsewhere—and in particular, if it could be intelligent life. Up until the last couple of decades, this conjecture was little more than idle speculation. But now we have telescopes that have discovered thousands of planets circling nearby stars—some of those planets might harbor life. Additionally, our definition of the extreme conditions under which life can survive has greatly expanded, so we can now expect to see life surviving under fierce conditions that we once thought were impossible. More and more, it seems that the discovery of extraterrestrial life is more a matter of “when,” not “if.”

Very recently there's been yet another finding in this arena—right here on Earth—of a new type of intelligence that was under our noses, but was never before recognized. This finding is very similar to recent discoveries of terrestrial lifeforms—dubbed “extremophiles”—that thrive in conditions we once considered to be too hostile to allow life. The new discovery is a species of ocean critters called ctenophores (pronounced ten-o-fors) that are intelligent creatures who evolved their brains and nervous systems in a very different manner from the rest of Earth's species. They are some kind of alien.

From the earliest understood forms of Earth life, all the way up to us humans, the progression of nervous systems from primitive cells to the human brain have followed what we came to believe was a singular path. All life's nervous systems (so we have believed) genetically evolved to employ common neural messengers, such as serotonin, dopamine, and nitric oxide. This mechanism is the same, from nematodes to ants to humans. We've all evolved our nervous systems in the same fashion.

A Russian scientist (Leonid Moroz) who emigrated from his native land to the US two decades ago, insisted upon looking more deeply into the qualities of ctenophores. These critters had been identified and cataloged for a long time—and were considered to be a close cousin of jellyfish. When Moroz captured a few of these critters and began examining them, however, he found that, although they had evolved muscles and a nervous system like other creatures, they took an entirely different route from all other life forms.

Ctenophores are a very ancient life-form. They display an example of what is called convergence: life evolving into similar-looking critters, but doing so by following a different evolutionary path. For example, eyes have independently evolved many times, following parallel but quite different evolutionary paths. Porpoises and sharks are very similar creatures, but evolved through completely different paths. One is a mammal, the other is a fish. In the case of the porpoise and shark, we find very different critters which arrived at the same solution, because—although they started at different beginning points—they each had to solve the same problems: swimming.

What is fascinating about ctenophores is that, had their singular evolutionary route been favored by nature, life-forms on Earth today would be very different. Life would likely have eventually still evolved nervous systems and sophisticated brains, but they'd be housed in quite different kinds of animals. There would be no humans, as we know them.

This discovery has relevance to our search for extraterrestrial life. Just as the existence of extremophiles has caused us to open our minds to other kinds of life elsewhere, ctenophores seem to be advising us to open our minds even more, to understanding that intelligence may have evolved in alien ways that we have yet to understand, and to be on the lookout for some strange possibilities. We can learn from aliens right here on Earth.

Orange Caterpillar

I found this caterpillar a few days ago. It's about 2 inches (5 cm) long. Click to enlarge.