Upon return from a summer studying beetles on Kent Island (the Bowdoin Scientific Station), I decided to become a biology major the fall of my senior year which meant taking organic chemistry, biostatistics, and a 300-level ecology course in one semester. No one could comprehend such insanity. Even I had trouble articulating my motivations—mostly because my decision to add the major had very little to do with the scientific material itself. Rather than devoting my studies to a body of information, I decided to subscribe to the life philosophy of a field biologist.
Who, then, are these field biologists? They are, above all, enthusiasts. While on Kent Island, I telephoned an entomologist to inquire about a bark beetle that was damaging white spruce trees. A very intimidated undergraduate, I had only to introduce myself and hesitantly pose my question when the expert was off on a breathless explanation of the bark beetle's life cycle and the dynamics of infestation. Then came the bombardment of questions. How many infested trees? How many beetles per tree? How long had the infestation lasted? Were larvae still present? I couldn't seem to scribble down all the information or compose my thoughts fast enough to satiate his curiosity. A sudden silence fell, broken when the entomologist murmured reverently, "How about those guys, huh? There are no more interesting creatures to study than beetles."
A field biologist's devotion to her study subject often extends beyond enthusiasm into genuine admiration. (An ornithologist once told me, "You are not unlike a bird, what with your affinity for languages and your ability to count beetle antennae segments." I consider it one of the highest compliments I have ever been paid.) True admiration of an organism endows field biologists with a certain relativism; they are able to jettison anthropogenic interpretation and become hypersensitive to the workings of the natural world. Go on a hike with great naturalist and you'll see! A naturalist's translation of the goings-on in an ecosystem is a multidimensional, multisensory experience—you become aware that communications between organisms are not only auditory and visual but also olfactory, tactile, and gustatory; that they occur in moments and over years; that they traverse both millimeters and kilometers. Acquiring this hypersensitivity allows you to do much more than take a particularly stimulating walk in the woods.
You will start to see beauty in the world where others cannot. And I do not necessarily mean the flashy red of a cardinal or the metallic iridescence of a Morpho butterfly. Beauty, to a field biologist, has very little to do with aesthetics.
Last week in Winter Field Ecology, my friend and I stopped beside a large rock covered in a mosaic of lichens. "Oh, aren't they beautiful," she sighed blissfully. Lichens are a symbiotic association between a fungus and an alga and frankly, they look like something you might find in your fridge if you've forgotten to let it air out over winter break. But, I too, found the muddy green crusts on this rock to be quite beautiful...because the sight of them initiated a rush of glorious questions.
Why were there so many more species of lichen on this rock than on another only meter away? Why were these lichens so much larger? Why did this species appear deep green here but brown in a different location? Why do these orange fruiting bodies occur here but nowhere else? Beauty for a field biologist is defined by that rush. Spontaneous sparks start firing in your brain as you perceive how this very patch of lichen could give you answers as to how organisms choose their habitat and make their living within an ecosystem. Your heart begins to swell for that crustose lichen.
This sense of beauty need not only apply to scientific study; the field biologists that I met on Kent Island did not limit their enthusiasm to biology alone. Among the greatest memories of my summer was time spent talking non-science with scientists. The population biologist was transported by 19th-century literature, the developmental biologist inspired by banjo music and the community ecologist roused by political debate.
Many had undergone and were still undergoing career changes (from epidemiologist to nurse; from journalist to behavioral ecologist) but each one maintained that distinctive openness to the universe. They made fascinating conversation, fueled by perpetual wonder.
If you are like me and your major switches weekly, think not about what you want to be but who you want to be. Being a biology major does require learning about photosynthesis, the nitrogen cycle, and DNA replication, but a major can also leave you with a valuable life philosophy. Regardless of my future career, I will strive to live as a field biologist: an enthusiast unafraid to be moved by the world and the inundation of wondrous questions it unleashes.
Meredith Steck is a member of the Class of 2009.