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.

Altruistic Exchange

Social psychologists describe a very nice quality that we humans possess—something that is planted deep in our psyche; something that has been bred into us by evolution: a natural inclination to reciprocate kind behavior when it is shown to us. If someone does something nice to us, we feel an urge to return the favor.

However, there's another, negative side of the coin: when someone mistreats us we often have an equally natural inclination to reciprocate with like mistreatment. Revenge is a deep instinct of ours. Indeed, much of human history is replete with violence, as humans often strike back, in retaliation. Although that is an important topic on its own, I will focus here on the positive side of the coin: our returning favor for favor.

It makes sense that we feel a yearning to return kindness with kindness, when we consider it from an evolutionary perspective. When our deep ancestors reciprocated the altruistic behaviors of community members, it pulled the community together. The clan became stronger and more cooperative. It strengthened the group, so that they survived better than clans who didn't cooperate. The noncooperative group went extinct, while the altruistic group thrived.

So altruistic exchange strengthens our connections to one another. And thanks to evolution, it's literally in our genes. We are thankful for it and enjoy its benefits. That said, there's a bit of a problematic side to friendly reciprocity: it opens us up to being scammed. Salespeople have known this and have cleverly used it for ages. If, as a salesman, you offer someone a token favor, you've earned a little leverage to get them to cooperate with you. Thus, the reciprocity tendency can be used to manipulate people and sell them stuff they'd otherwise not want.

Salespeople are often extremely solicitous before they sell you their product. They are your best friend; they have all the time in the world to be with you; and they're apt to gift you with little mementos. Once you respond and buy, however, attempts to reach the formerly friendly salesperson—if you have a question or a complaint—very often go unanswered.

As another example, we may get “free” offers from salespeople to enjoy a gratuitous meal, in exchange for the “opportunity” to purchase a time-share condominium in some idyllic location. Watch out! After the free meal, you will be forced to endure a coercive session, where you will be expected to return the favor of a meal by buying your very own condo.

But to return to my starting point: we are genetically programmed to reciprocate, when someone does us a favor. It's nice to be able to respond in kind. There are, however, times when we can't return the kindness to the individual who benefited us. What do we do then? How do we deal with the propensity to respond kindly, when we can't? Many people say that the right thing to do is to pass it on to others. That's an honorable thing to do. The “Pay it Forward” movement arose years ago to do just that. The reciprocity of kindness to others can spread around, to the benefit of everyone.

So which side of the coin predominates in society—returning kindness or revenge? That's an argument that I don't wish to wade into here. I'd just like to recognize and celebrate the fact that altruistic exchanges are inherent in us and that we all can benefit from this natural positive urge.

Dung Beetle

I found this guy in a bucket of water by the outdoor tub. He was a along way from his favorite plaything: a round ball of poop to roll home. He did pause long enough for me to get a photo. He's almost an inch (2 cm) long. Click to enlarge.

Eclipse Impressions

Recently I traveled more than halfway across the American continent to view the “Great American Eclipse” of 2017. I chose to travel from Virginia to the state of Wyoming, because it had an excellent chance of experiencing clear skies during the event. We also have friends out there who set us up with a superb viewing location.

For several months prior to the eclipse I did lots of research, in order to better appreciate the event. This Great American Eclipse promised a unique experience. The eclipse path would travel diagonally across the country, right through its middle. I bought the requisite solar eclipse viewing glasses—which allow you to stare directly at the sun, without frying your eyeballs. I also bought a filter of the same material, to place over the lens of my camera to allow photos. I was ready!

I was aware of the fact that viewing a solar eclipse requires one to be gazing at the sun for about three hours, as the Moon first begins to block the sun, until it again exits the scene, leaving behind a full sun again. Those three hours sandwich less than three minutes of totality—when the Moon fully covers the sun. So you patiently wait for well over an hour for totality to finally occur, and then experience a darkened sky for only a couple of minutes. It all happens just too quickly.

So I prepared well. I was ready with camera, with charts describing the event's timing, and with past eclipse stories in mind—all very objective kinds of preparations. What I was not prepared for was the emotional experience. I knew from my research that to witness a total solar eclipse was a very subjective and moving experience. All Earth's creatures expect to continually sense the sun's rays all day long, and then to experience several hours of nighttime, until the sun reappears in the morning. It's a pattern we come to presume is always there. But if the sun is suddenly turned off for a couple of minutes in the middle of the day, we become disoriented. We emotionally respond.

It is hard to describe the feelings that came over me at totality. I wish, like Joshua, I could have stopped the sun in its tracks for a couple of hours, in order to have more fully soaked up the emotions. It's over far too quickly. All you have time for is to be amazed and dazzled by the sight in that brief time frame. It's truly the experience of a lifetime.

One interesting reaction that endures for me, a few weeks later, is that the Moon I saw eclipsing the sun that day was an alien moon. I am quite a Moon freak. For most of my life I've been fascinated by the Moon. I gaze at it at length. I follow its phases through the month. I've photographed it many times. I've come to have an intimate relationship with it. I have written about it several times in this blog.

But the eclipsing Moon I saw on 21 August 2017 was not my Moon. It did not have the varied features and contrasting topography that my Moon does. It was not gray or orange. It did not shine brilliantly like on a dark night—when it illuminates my pathway through the woods. The eclipsing Moon was a black circle that slowly obliterated the sun. It seemed to be a two-dimensional disk—a flat circle without features. It did its job and then it was gone! The renewed brilliant sun banished it from the sky. Fortunately, a few nights later I once again spotted my old, familiar Moon—now a thin, bright crescent that I knew would soon wax into a round, brilliant, orange-gray ball, that would dominate the night sky, in a few more nights. My Moon will be back!