Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
of shorebirds. We were out until noon, in small groups supervised by TAs and pro-
peatedly, so they could contemplate seasonal changes. Students also conducted field
projects and summarized them in scientific publication format, on topics ranging from
mundane to bizarre—studies of brown towhees and gray squirrels on campus were
routine, but one young man carried road-killed cats and dogs into a meadow, sat for
hours under a cardboard blind, and watched turkey vultures find the carrion.
Our kids came inappropriately decked out for the inaugural field trip in bright cloth-
ing and fancy shoes, and as the morning wore on they fumbled with borrowed bin-
oculars, grumbled about rain, and were bewildered at the prospect of distinguishing
dozens of little drab birds. By the last trip, however—one to a ranch in a nearby arid val-
ley—they'd transformed into seasoned naturalists, confidently sorting rodent skulls out
of barn owl pellets and calling classmates over to see a western rattlesnake among some
rocks. That course, in particular the field trips, has no doubt influenced thousands of
people since its early-twentieth-century beginnings. A rural gas station attendant once
grinned through Stebbins's windshield and blurted out that thanks to Bob he'd never
again ignored wildlife. At graduation, parents exclaimed that “natural history changed
my kid's life”; I'm still getting glowing feedback long after leaving Berkeley.
For decades Stebbins had given the first and last lectures of the course, but with his
retirement ornithologist Ned Johnson assumed the lead. Henceforth Ned would cover
the introduction, and we'd share the final session. My closing remarks, initially titled
“Many Happy Days I've Squandered,” were illustrated with photographs of animals in
find out “what it all means.” Surprised by his candor and gravity, I mumbled something
about seeking one's own path, shifted to a lighter topic—and resolved to develop a bet-
ter answer.
From then on I would end the class with slides from our field trips and comments
about what makes life worthwhile. First are relationships with friends, lovers, family,
and so on. Students always chuckled when I admitted no special wisdom on that front,
saying that I'm fumbling along in the agony and bliss like everyone else. Second is being
creative and feeling accomplished, a sort of fulfillment that nature can provide. Finding
a rattler in its ambush coil next to a rat nest is precious, as is the pleasure of identi-
fying “little brown job” birds and feeling food items through the belly of a live snake.
Lastly, we need time, space, and grandeur to shrink our problems, humble our perspect-
ives. “Think about it,” I'd say. “Across centuries of strife and for millions of years before
our hairy ancestors strode onto the African savannas, salamanders have been surfacing
when it rains and hiding out when it doesn't, indifferent to our much-vaunted import-
ance. Surely there is a sense in which those amphibians, among the most abundant of
vertebrates, transcend us.”
Then I would remind my listeners that judging from aboriginal rock art, Pablo Neru-
da's poetry, and countless other examples, being inspired by nature is an ancient, uni-
stars of insightful and humorous incidents on field trips. My voice would crack with
emotion, while a few students sniffled audibly. We'd stood around a muddy pond and
sexed Pacific chorus frogs by checking for the dark throat of males or eggs visible
through the abdominal skin of females; we'd walked a ragged line across meadows, an
