Goldilocks conferences

Last week I, along with dozens of Canadian entomologists, was in beautiful Saskatoon, Saskatchewan at our annual Entomological Society of Canada/Entomological Society of Saskatchewan Joint Annual Meeting. I had a great time there. There were five talks from my research program (including one of my own). I was very proud of all of my students and postdocs, as they all gave great talks. One of them, Sharleen Balogh, won the Presidentā€™s Prize for her talk. And UNBCā€™s very own Staffan Lindgren became President of the Society for the next year.

Besides all of that, I was able to visit with many colleagues and students. We were able to ā€œtalk shopā€ and discuss our ideas easily, almost like an ongoing, really large lab meeting. We had time to get to know each other a bit better as actual humans, not just another name on a co-author list. And we were treated to all sorts of inspiring and informative regular talks, symposium addresses, and poster presentations. By the end of the four days in Saskatoon, I was tired but also elated at the state of entomological research and teaching in Canada. Our discipline is in very good hands for the foreseeable future, and that makes me happy.

All of this got me thinking a bit more about conferences on my plane flight back (while trying to avoid a conversation about ā€œchem trailsā€ with an insistent fellow sitting next to me). Iā€™ve been to some very large conferences with attendees numbering in the thousands. And Iā€™ve been to some very small conferences with maybe 20 or 30 attendees. The ESC JAM is an order of magnitude smaller than the former and an order of magnitude larger than the latter ā€“ nestling right into a bit of a sweet spot, in my opinion.

I do truly appreciate the smaller conferences for a number of reasons. There are no concurrent sessions, so you never are forced to miss a talk. They are really great venues for early-stage students to present their work in a thoroughly non-threatening atmosphere. They are a great place to reconnect with your closest ā€“ geographically and often in terms of discipline ā€“ colleagues. On that latter point, in a discipline like entomology where many of the issues that we deal with are regional in nature, this aspect cannot be stated too strongly. Having some time to compare notes on regional conservation or pest issues in a semi-formal setting with regional colleagues is vital.

I also like the larger conferences, but not quite as much. And the fact that I havenā€™t been to a large conference in several years now is perhaps a bit of a testimony to my deeper current mindset. Large conferences have the advantage of having something for everyone. With thousands of attendees giving talks or posters over a three- or four-day period, there are also many ā€“ sometimes dozens ā€“ of concurrent sessions. Organizers have a ton of resources, and they can bring in big speakers and a great trade show. This means that no matter what, I can find talks and items of interest to me at large meetings. But it also means that I feel required to preschedule myself to such an extent that it is unlikely that Iā€™ll just stumble into a talk (or remain in a session after the talks that I was interested in) that truly but accidentally blows my mind. Pure organization is key at a large conference, and that reduces spontaneity.

I also find that Iā€™m often more prone to being ā€œlonesome in a crowdā€ at large meetings because you have to be pretty lucky to meet someone you might know just in time for lunch or dinner with so many concurrent sessions going on. Again, this can be overcome with planning (ā€œhey, letā€™s meet at the registration desk for lunch at noon on Tuesdayā€), but does not really allow for surprise meetings with known and yet-unknown colleagues.

Donā€™t get me wrong, Iā€™m not opposed to large conferences. They are amazing events, and I have always benefited from being at them. But perhaps itā€™s my somewhat introverted tendencies that make me more comfortable at the small-to-medium-sized meetings. Itā€™s at those venues that I find that I can see presentations that are both exactly relevant to my work and also tangentially interesting. I can easily meet with people who I know. I can meet a few who I didnā€™t know before. And I can make a gracious retreat when Iā€™m feeling a bit tired of interacting.

Ultimately I suppose that each of us has a Goldilocks ZoneĀ for preferred meeting size. Mine generally matches what I experienced last week. Preferences, of course, will vary. And the benefits of all meeting sizes mean that we should all also step away from our personal Goldilocks ZoneĀ from time-to-time to experience meetings of all sorts.

(And a quick addendum: Thanks so much to the organizers of the ESC-ESS JAM 2014. Having been part of an organizing team in the past, I realize how much work that was. I hope that you all are feeling proud of the great work that you did, because that was an excellent meeting all around.)

To whom it may concern

Throughout the year, but particularly during certain periods when students are applying to graduate or professional schools, I am asked to write reference letters or to fill out reference reports. As a faculty member, this is one of those jobs that can be a positive experience or, frankly, less than positive. But in either case, writing reference letters and reports is an expected responsibility of my job, and one in which I take considerable pride in putting out a good product. The quality of a reference letter says almost as much about the referee as it does about the applicant.

When I am writing about excellent students who I know well ā€“ e.g., students who have committed substantial time and effort to our research program here and whom I have interacted with on a regular basis ā€“ I find this to be a pleasant task. However things become much more difficult, verging on near-impossible, if all that I know about a student is that they were in my class and they received a particular mark.

One of the biggest questions that a student should consider before asking a faculty member to write a letter for them is ā€œdoes this person know anything about me other than a mark that I received in their class?ā€ This means that the student should also begin to think about references early in their undergraduate career. So they should also ask themselves, ā€œif I were an employer or on a professional/graduate school selection committee, what sort of references would I take most seriously?ā€

Having been on the committee side of the reference letter equation, I know that letters from referees who have had substantial experience with the candidate are taken far more seriously than are more tangential relationships. Any good reference form asks for how I know the applicant, and for how long; and I always make that sort of statement in letters that I write. And most good reference forms give the option of ā€œhave not observedā€ when asking for rankings of various criteria. Too many ā€œhave not observedā€ marks on a completed form tells the committee that the referee knows only very little about the applicant.

When I write a reference letter, I commit to:

  • being completely honest and enthusiastic about what I see as the candidateā€™s strengths and other indicators of excellence.
  • being equally honest about anything that I feel the candidate needs to work on, particularly in light of the position that they are applying for. My credibility relies on my honesty, and I will be fully honest.
  • delivering a letter or report that is clear, concise, and professional. I will ensure that whatever is asked for will be delivered in an appropriate manner and that the output will be a credit to the candidateā€™s application package.
  • delivering the letter or report on time. I will not irritate selection committees by being ā€œthatā€ referee who they have to badger for a report.
  • ensuring, if possible, that my snail mail or electronic letter reaches the recipients. Some organizations make this possible, others donā€™t. But if and when I verify that the letter has arrived, I will also notify the applicant so that they can cross it off of their to-do list. I will definitely notify the applicant that I have sent off the reference letter.

I expect the applicant to:

  • think carefully ā€“ before approaching me for a letter ā€“ about whether or not I will have enough information to be able to write anything that will be useful for the selection committee.
  • work with me to find a time to sit down and have a discussion about their plans, if we havenā€™t talked about this in the past. This allows me to write in a credible fashion and perhaps even include some tangential-but-relevant information that committees like to read about.
  • provide me with unofficial transcripts if I request them. Itā€™s hard for me to say much about what courses an applicant has taken and their trajectory over the course of a degree if I donā€™t have this information.
  • ask me for the reference with sufficient time to spare before the deadline. In all honesty, if I donā€™t feel that I can write a good letter in the time that I am given, I will say no to the request. And keep in mind that reference letter requests often come near or during the end-of-semester rush when professors are under as much pressure as are students. Any deadline that is less than a week away is more than likely too little time, because by that time much of my upcoming week is already planned out.
  • realize that if I donā€™t know them other than from a mark in a course, that I will do my best but will not be able to say much, if anything, beyond what their transcript tells me. The applicant should also then realize that my letter may be of less value to the committee than would be one from someone who knows them better.

Reference letters are an important part of career progression, and I take this task very seriously.

Iā€™d be interested to hear from others ā€“ applicants and referees ā€“ who may want to add to either of my lists.

Beetle Byte (19 September 2014 edition)

(Extinct) grizzlies, maybe-extinct aliens (or us?), prairie plants and pollinators, pollinator (and other insect) poetry, and a bit of balance.

Cloak and dagger natural history in California

When Johnson and Grinnell returned to Boothā€™s shop to follow up, they found Booth with a cleaned skull, which he promised to hand over when the job was done. But Grinnell recognized that the specimen was the skull of a polar bear. Grinnell kept quietā€”he worried that confronting Booth would only diminish his chances of ever getting the real grizzly skull. Later Booth told Grinnell that if he wanted the skull (the polar bear skull that he was falsely presenting as a grizzly skull), he would have to bid against Grinnellā€™s good friend Frank S. Daggett at the Los Angeles County Museum of History, Science and Art.

 

ET may not be as nice as the creature in the movie

Possibility 5) Thereā€™s only one instance of higher-intelligent lifeā€”a ā€œsuperpredatorā€ civilization (like humans are here on Earth)ā€”who is far more advanced than everyone else and keeps it that way by exterminating any intelligent civilization once they get past a certain level. This would suck.

 

You’ll probably spend the rest of your afternoon on this site.

Museums across Canada protect and preserve collections of plants and insects along with their collection data. These data are used to help scientists determine habitat preferences, and changes in speciesā€™ distribution and abundance over time. These specimens are therefore used to determine whether a species is in danger of becoming extinct! The gallery pages for each species will allow you to see actual Museum research specimens and photographs of the organisms in a natural setting.

 

Every insect order, in verse.

Now he is taking on insects in poetry as third co-editor of a new eBook called The American Entomologist Poetā€™s Guide to the Order of Insects, which includes about 90 poems that date from the seventeenth century up to the present, with at least one poem for each insect order. Contributors include three U.S. Poets Laureate (W. S. Merwin, Kay Ryan, and Ted Kooser), and luminaries such as John Keats, Emily Dickinson, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Walt Whitman, Carl Sandburg, Robert Burns, William Wordsworth, Jonathan Swift, John Donne, and many others.

 

Balance.

There is a blending of work and life that woos us with its promise of barbecues at work and daytime team celebrations at movie theaters, but weā€™re paying for it in another way: a complete eradication of the line between home life and work life. ā€œLove what you do,ā€ we say. ā€œGet a job you donā€™t want to take a vacation from,ā€ we sayā€”and we sit back and watch the retweets stream in.

I donā€™t like it.

 

How to unplug. For a year.

One night, late in the summer of 2012, discussion at my dinner table turned to the venerable topic of What to Be When You Grow Up. My older son, Griffin, then nine years old, wanted to be an ā€œunderwater paleontologist.ā€ His little brother, Huck, then seven, wanted to be a monkey.

ā€œDo you know what I do for a living?ā€ I asked Huck.

His eyes grew wide. ā€œAll you do is sit on your computer and say, ā€˜Blah blah blah Congress, blah blah blah Mitt Romneyā€™!ā€

Finding something new

It seems that, with this post, I have inadvertently blogged a three-part series on why field work matters. In part 1 I wrote about the value of getting out, rather than being stuck behind a desk. In part 2 I wrote about the idea of place and how regular field work in one discrete location is important in terms of both understanding a system and for developing a conservation mindset. In this final (I think) part, I would like to write about the importance of novel experiences in the field.

In July I accompanied Dr. Aynsley Thielman, a postdoctoral associate in my lab, on her first visit to some high elevation, coastal field sites. Our particular task was to spend a couple of days intensively surveying the arthropod fauna in various habitats, and we were set to access the sites by helicopter. I’ve flown in helicopters on a number of occasions prior to this, but only for general reconnaissance purposes. This was the first time that I was going to be dropped off in a remote location. While the pilot was planning to stay with us, the reality in these mountainous situations is rapid shifts in weather and visibility. That meant that the pilot would give us very little notice before starting up the machine and leaving if he thought there was a safety risk. That, in turn, meant that besides efficient packing of field gear, we had to be prepared to potentially survive a night or two on the mountain before we could be flown down again. This was an interesting challenge, and one that I had never encountered before as most of the work that I have ever done is in locations accessible by well-traversed logging roads. I was, to be honest, a bit nervous leading up to the trip.

Those nerves dissipated rapidly, however, as soon as we were in the chopper and flying over the phenomenal landscapes of British Columbia’s central coastal mountains. And if just getting there was great, being there was doubly great. It’s hard to fully express in words how beautiful this place is. On the first day, we were beset by banks of clouds that meant that our pilot had to keep us moving quite quickly from site to site. But even so, the sight of clouds all around, the wind-stunted trees, the heather meadows, and the strange soil crusts kept us continually fascinated. The second day was as warm and sunny-beautiful a day as you can imagine ā€“ a complete reversal from the first day ā€“ and we were able to spend many hours in two discrete sites, looking under rocks for spiders, poking in the heather, sweeping trees, and waiting near flowers for pollinators.

By the end of two days of glorious collecting, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go back to my desk. I was certainly jealous of Aynsley and the summer students who were going to be going up there several more times over the course of the summer.

This was a unique experience in my career as a biologist. Most of my field work experience has been in the, relatively speaking, lower elevation forests of the interior of British Columbia. On the mountain, on the other hand, I was taller than most of the trees at one of the sites; and the “canopy” at the other site was the heather and wildflowers. And we were dealing with a whole host of arthropods, and none of them were bark beetles (although I do need to get in closer to inspect the boles of some of those trees next time I’m up there). I found that being in a unique field site ā€“ one that is beyond my normal travels ā€“ helped to prod my brain towards fresh thinking. It is easy, I think, to lose some degree of that freshness when doing the same thing repeatedly in the same type of situation. An entirely new ecosystem, a different mode of transportation, and the challenges that go with this kind of field work stimulate the mind or, perhaps, rouse it from potential lethargy.

It might also be worth noting that some of the noted naturalists of bygone eras ā€“ think Darwin on the Beagle or Wallace in the Malay Archipelago, for instance ā€“ spent some part of their careers in fairly continuous motion to new and vastly different areas. I could never hope to accomplish what either of these preeminent scientists did in terms of turning the study of biology upside down. But I think it would be fair to say that getting out of what they were used to on the British Isles to new contexts allowed them to see patterns that they may have never noticed if they had stayed put. In Darwin’s case, the experience took some time to set in, but was instrumental in the development of the idea. In Wallace’s case, the idea came to him in the context of his experience. In either case one might argue that experiencing a unique field situation can help to make a scientist alert to new ideas. And this may be an outcome of the mind being stimulated toward fresh thinking.

Finally, new experiences like this can serve to remind us about the bigger picture. It is easy to get complacent about the “known” when we travel to our regular sites that we think that we understand so well. But how much do we really know, even of those sites? Spending time in a place that is unique to you ā€“ and where almost everything that you see is new ā€“ is a good reminder of how little we actually know. It should stimulate a researcher to return to their regular field locations with fresh eyes and a new realization about how much we still have to learn.

I know that it has done that for me.Ā And I can’t wait to get back.

Beetle Byte (9 September 2014 edition)

You never know when you’ll be bytten by a beetle. Turns out, today’s the day!

Canada’s coolest university towns

The Spruce Capital of the North (pop. 84,000) ā€“ locally known as PG or the Notorious P-I-G ā€“ is a frontier town turned fun zone. Surrounded by ancient forests and mountain peaks, the green-minded University of Northern British Columbia combines small class sizes with the great outdoors: on a clear day on campus, you can see all the way to the McGregor Range. Just watch for wandering moose on the hike up to school.

 

Get your hands dirty

ā€œWe donā€™t yet know how much exposure to environmental bacteria (for example, through activities that involve contact with the soil) is enough to confer health benefits,ā€ says Lowry. ā€œIt is clear, however, that exposure through breathing or consuming specific types of environmental organisms has the capacity to reduce inflammation and confer health benefits.ā€

 

Experience dirt by getting out to play

ā€œParents should think about why their child is in a particular program and whose needs are being served,ā€ she says. ā€œIs the program to keep the child busy while the parent is busy? Is it something the child really wants to do? If so, how much time is taken up with activities during the week? Is it reasonable? Does the child have time to complete school work and take responsibilities for other commitments at home? What about time to engage in simple play?ā€

 

You’re going to have to wait awhile to read this

A forest has been planted in Norway, which will supply paper for a special anthology of books to be printed in one hundred years time. Between now and then, one writer every year will contribute a text, with the writings held in trust, unpublished, until 2114.

 

Poetry, translated from original bark beetle inscriptions

Translations from Bark Beetle (Milkweed Editions) is made up of two basic types of poems. In the first, Gladding translates notations left by bark beetle (those squiggly inscribed lines one sometimes sees in wood) into poetry; and in the second, she inscribes her own poems on natural materials such as quarried slate or found objectsā€”a pair of tongue depressors, for example, or a scan from a doctorā€™s office. The collection is an ambitious work that presses the reader to see and read language (and resituate it in the world) anew.