Environmental stewardship is one of this generation's signature issues, but nearly nobody, from the Boomers (my generation) and the X-generation to the Millennials, knows what is needed to make it work. From a few sources I compiled this list of environmental concerns, in order of importance:
- Climate Change
- Species Conservation
- Mining
- Nuclear
- Pesticides
- Pollution
- Population
- Waste
These overlap quite a bit, of course, but it is rather tragic that, while Species Conservation is the second-most important issue, support for the fundamental, naturalistic studies needed has been drying up, year after year, decade after decade.
Questions: (1) How can we care for the species on this planet if we don't know what they are? (2) Do we already know enough so we can set public policies to mitigate (dare I say eliminate) extinctions that we are causing?
Answers: (1) We can't, even a little bit; and (2) No, not even close: we don't even know what most of them are.
Dr. Eli Greenbaum is a front-line soldier of species knowledge, one of a totally insufficient cadre of naturalists and taxonomists who actually gather the specimens held in museums and describe them for publication and further study. He and others like him gather and communicate the knowledge needed to actually perform Species Conservation. You need to know what you have if you expect to keep it or care for it!
An old fable, much abbreviated:
Two brothers inherited their parents' farm. The older brother did most of the work while the younger brother preferred to party. But soon there was a war and the older brother was called to serve as a soldier. He left the care of the farm to his younger brother, with the demand that the farm continue to prosper until his return, "Or I will demand an accounting of you!" The younger brother said nice things to his older brother, but continued to party and ignore the care of the farm. After a few months, he got a letter from his brother, stating that he hoped to return after another month, and repeating his warning and threat. The young man went to the bank to check on the finances, and was shocked to discover that very little money remained. He went to the barns and found that hardly anything was stored against the coming winter. In a panic, he took a gold doubloon to the village witch to ask for help. "My brother will kill me if he returns and the farm is in such a mess!" he told her. She went to a back room and returned with a small wooden chest, saying, "This and my advice are worth only half a doubloon." She gave him some silver pieces in change, and then said, "See the hole in the top of the chest? It contains enchanted dust. You must go to each corner of the farm, and to the middle of each building, and shake out a few grains of this dust, every day. Then your farm will begin to prosper. But do not open the chest." The young man returned to the farm and set out on his task. In a back corner of the land he found a farm hand napping next to a broken portion of fence he was supposed to be mending. The young man kicked him awake and demanded that he finish his work. In another spot, two men were playing cards. He set them to their tasks and took the cards away. In the barn he noticed the messy stalls, so he called another hand and together they cleaned them and put in fresh hay against the animals' return. And so his day went. Day after day he continued, and the farm began to prosper. The promised month came and went, as did more months. His brother never returned. After a few years, the farm was prospering indeed, and he took a wife. When he was very old and dying, he asked his wife to bring him the magic chest. He said, "I was told not to open this, but after I die, that will not matter. Please help me open it. I want to see what is inside." They forced the lock and opened the chest. Inside they found just a remaining ounce or two of desert sand.I think you can draw the appropriate conclusion.
In his book Emerald Labyrinth: A Scientist's Adventures in the Jungles of the Congo, Eli Greenbaum chronicles two of his early field seasons (2008, 2009) in the eastern part of the Democratic Republic of The Congo, once called Belgian Congo, and later, Zaire. Dr. Greenbaum is a herpetologist, one who studies snakes, lizards, turtles, frogs, salamanders and toads. He describes his experiences in the Congo, where he photographed and collected a broad range of "herps", as such animals are colloquially called. His studies expanded knowledge of the geographic range of many species, particularly of frogs, and resulted in the discovery of several new species. He worked with a Congolese herpetologist, Chifundera Kusamba (AKA "Chif"), several other colleagues, and a variable crew of porters and guides, visiting some of the remotest areas of eastern Congo.
The chapters contain alternating sections of the author's experiences and historical narrative. Congo does not have a pretty history. Yet, because of the sheer difficulty of travel, large sections are still, well, not exactly pristine, but in better shape than much of Africa, environmentally. But it is not exactly a paradise.
Being a naturalist is difficult. In past generations, a naturalist had to be an artist, drawing from life the things being collected, because once a specimen makes it back to the laboratory, even a local lab in the same country, it has changed a lot, usually from being preserved in alcohol or formalin. Formalin is not used any more; it destroys DNA and is dangerous to handle. Even drying an insect changes it; many beautifully-colored beetles turn black soon after death, for example. While artistic skill is still very useful, now we have digital photography and memory cards that can hold thousands of images, even in larger formats (In the 35mm days, even up to the late 1990's, a day of serious shooting could consume about ten rolls of film).
Secondly, a naturalist must be a scholar in a chosen discipline (and pretty good in several others). What is the difference between an expert and a scholar? An expert has a wealth of useful knowledge of a subject. A scholar knows everything that is known about that subject. This is what is needed to be able to recognize if that yellow-spotted, blue-bellied frog in your hand is a new species, or a familiar species in a habitat from which it was not recorded before.
Thirdly, a naturalist must have the strength and energy of a triathlete and a superior immune system. In places like the Congo, you will get sick and clinics are scarce. Dr. Greenbaum suffered two rounds of malaria and one of typhoid fever, in addition to stings by venomous ants (of a variety that can kill) and a number of other diseases and afflictions. His colleagues in Africa would kid him about coming from America in a rather pudgy condition (in contrast to their whip-thin physiques). That would soon change. But he records unflinchingly that he was frequently the slowest climber and needed others to wait for him.
Fourthly, a naturalist needs sponsorship. Traveling to places that are hard to reach is costly. Not just in gasoline, repair parts for vehicles, and food and lodging: Keeping good will with the locals frequently requires giving small gifts, treating a village to a beer party, and other social expenses. It appears that actual bribery was hardly ever needed.
There was the added complication of the civil war among at least four rebel groups and the tatters of a national government. It takes more than documents with official-looking stamps and signatures on them to allay the suspicion of a militia commander. The crew were lucky as often as they were politically skillful, just to stay alive.
With all that, I want to return to the question of taxonomy and systematics. These two words are formally synonyms, and both refer to the classification of items and hierarchical structure of the classification system. But they differ in usage. Taxonomy describes determining how a specimen is classified; in biology this means assigning a binomial species designation such as Tyrannosaurus rex, Homo sapiens, or Turdus migratorius (the American Robin). When describing a new species, it means not only assigning it to the right Genus (the first word of the binomial), but possibly deciding that a new Genus is to be described, and into which Family it is to be placed. The original binomials were Latin words and compounds, but the language had too few words for the millions of species, so "Latinized" words of many languages are pressed into service, as are names of people one might wish to honor. For example, the author and his colleagues named a new species of lizard Congolacerta asukului: "Lacerta" is Latin for "lizard", and Asukulu was a helper on the expeditions who was murdered by a militia group later on. Tacking an "i" to Asukulu's name "Latinized" it.
Systematics describes the maintenance of the taxonomic structure, and is typically concerned with "everything from Family on up". Thus, the complete "branch" to which we humans belong is
- Kingdom: Animalia
- Phylum: Chordata
- Class: Mammalia
- Order: Primates
- Suborder: Haplorhini
- Infraorder: Simiiformes
- Family: Hominidae
- Subfamily: Homininae
- Tribe: Hominini
- Genus: Homo
- Species: H. sapiens
- Binomial: Homo sapiens
There are at present about 1.4 million species that have been described. Estimates of the number of species still unknown, just of "animals and plants big enough to see", range from 10 million to 100 million. There may be even more species of microscopic protozoa, algae and fungi; and then bacteria and archaea ("germs" to most folks) are still very little known in comparison to what is likely "out there".
By one estimate the author quotes, it will take more than 600 years of work by half a million naturalists to fully describe all life on Earth. But Species Conservation has to be carried out now, or there will be a whole lot fewer species to describe. There are thousands of naturalists, but we need tens or hundreds of thousands...and the funding to support them. That is what it takes to put "magic dust" on every corner of the farm we call Earth.
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