I've been thinking a great deal lately about what interests people in wildlife, and the types of things that draw certain people towards certain species and away from others. What is it, for example, that influences someone to want to become an entomologist, or an ichthyologist, over, say, an ornithologist or herpetologist? What is it that makes one person very fond of sharks but wary of snakes? Or fond of snakes but aversive to bees? Or interested in salmon but not so much in bats?
What draws people to certain species or groups of species over others? Is it genetic? Does it come from the environments in which we're raised? Some form of experiential learning? Imprinting at an early age? Or some combination of these things?
If I were asked by someone what my favorite animal/species is, I wouldn't be able to give a concrete answer. The truth is, I don't have a single favorite. But I could easily name a range of animals of which I'm very fond, and would have a keen interest in studying and/or seeing first-hand in the wild. I could also easily rank the taxonomic groups of animals in terms of those that I like most and those in which I'm less interested. But what exactly is it about my particular make-up (genetic or otherwise) that has led me to feel this way?
I was recently talking with a friend about the specific factors that influence how "exciting" a particular species is for someone to encounter first-hand. I thought back to all the animals sightings I've considered "special" and rehashed them in my mind, trying to pinpoint what they all might have in common. Then, my friend did something that made me realize, instantaneously, just exactly what it was that made certain encounters stick out amidst others.
"Hey," my friend said. "Check out this cool bird I took a picture of the other day. I've never seen one before. It was really pretty!"
I looked at the photo he showed me. It was indeed a bird, with a striking yellow bill and dark, iridescent plumage, covered in flecks of tan.
"Uh, that's a European starling," I said.
"Huh," remarked my friend. "Neat-looking bird. I was really excited when I saw it. And I got a pretty good photo, too."
"Yeah," I said, "except they're as common as trees around here and they're a highly invasive species. They out-compete a lot of native species, threatened species, for nesting sites."
"Seriously?" he asked. "I had no idea."
And then it came to me.
Of course.
So simple.
My friend was excited about encountering a starling because it wasn't something he'd seen before. To him, it was an "uncommon" species. The same reason seeing a lynx one summer almost had me wetting my pants, but that I hardly take the time to look at an eagle nowadays. The same reason mallards and Canada geese and deer sometimes seem boring, but American avocets and cinnamon teal are always worth getting the camera out.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized how strongly this phenomenon (if it can be called such) is tied to conservation, or perhaps more directly, conservation strategies. People are willing to fork out cash to conservation organizations to save the panda, the polar bear, the tiger, the gorilla, but they never give thought to the species that are languishing in their own back yard. For some reason, "I see them all the time" has become acquainted with, "They're not worth protecting."
This can become a major hurdle in developing countries. Areas in the tropics, which have the greatest biodiversity of any habitat on earth, and contain some of the most unique assemblages of species, are of great concern in terms of conservation, for reasons beyond which I'll go into here. But some of the biggest issues in trying to protect the remaining parcels of uninhabited or undamaged land lies in the local peoples' apathetic response to the plight of what they consider a "common" species.
I remember, vividly, being awed at seeing two gorgeous species of toucan while in Belize, and watching the local people go about their daily business without a second glance. Didn't they realize how incredible that bird was? How outrageous? How unique? How could they just ignore it? How could they not stop and marvel at the tiny paths beaten down by hordes of leaf-cutter ants, or the dinosaur-like tracks of a tapir?
I realize now, of course, (as I did then, to some extent) that seeing those things on a daily basis made them all a little less interesting, a little less unique, and ultimately, less important that getting the wash done and feeding the kids. Just in the same way that I was completely entranced the first time I saw a bald eagle, but barely gave a second thought to the one I saw a couple weeks ago.
The same problems fester on at home, too. Americans fret for the plight of the African elephant, the red panda, the blue whale, but drive too fast at night on poorly-lit roads to avoiding hitting deer, dump poison down prairie dog holes and raze the hillside so their cows won't break their legs, set mice traps in their garages during the winter, and buy the adjacent empty lot to their house so they can put in a pool and a swing set for the kids.
Sometimes I wonder if more ecologists should focus more on domestic conservation issues... resist the draw for the foreign, the exotic, the romanticism of adventure, and focus on matters close to home.
Erm... not that I'll end up doing that myself, when I do start my research.
What kind of animals do you like most? Or are you more of a plant person? Fungi? Microbes? Do you know why you have that particular preference? When was the last time you had an exciting encounter? What exactly was it about your sighting/discovery that made it impressionable?
Think about it.
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