Natural historians make observations that prompt questions, whose answers lead to an understanding of life in its various dimensions. In this collection of natural history essays, I hope to provide a general audience with examples of the links between such observations and the science of biology. My chosen topics are derived from common observations of nature. I wanted to highlight some of the stories that I have found most exciting through the years and had published in Natural History magazine and other venues. Some are the result of decades-long studies, while others were instigated by anecdotes that inspired shorter periods of curiosity. In winnowing through essays to include in this volume, I exercised a bias in selecting a variety of subjects that depict the interconnectedness of all of life, and their relation to our individual human lives.
It seems to me that the process of understanding nature at large has become increasingly difficult. To study it in depth and scientifically may require specialization, which can at the same time remove us from the world we experience, making investigations and conclusions abstract. My hope, however, is that these essays will stimulate and encourage participation and the desire to experience nature not only through science but also through direct contact.
I am fortunate to have had unique opportunities for extensive and intimate contact with the natural world as well as scientific grounding. This combination was made possible by the enthusiastic predecessors who provided me with experience and inspiration: rich soil to grow on.
My father, Gerd, made me go out with him to hunt ichneumon wasps and trap mice, and at age six gave me instructions on how to properly pin beetles for a scientific collection. My mother, Hildegarde, taught me how to skin and stuff small birds and mammals for museum specimens, and how to dry and preserve plants. Rolf Grantsau showed me how to make and use a slingshot and introduced me to a paintbrush. Floyd Adams told me about the woodpecker (the flicker) that feeds on the ground and the songbird that flies like a quail (the meadowlark). His wife, Leona, was upset when I shot a hummingbird with my slingshot in her blueberry patch in bloom in the yard. Floyd took me along with his kids to go bee-lining, raccoon hunting, and white perch fishing at night on Pease Pond. Phil Potter taught me how to use a .30–30 Winchester rifle and how to handle a canoe, fly rod, ax, pitchfork, and hoe. I thank Dick Cook for giving me confidence and joy in doing meaningful experiments suitable for publication in technical journals. George Bartholomew helped me consider every word in writing up scientific results. I remember all these people fondly and appreciate them still, for they all live on in spirit, having helped create the work presented here.
I thank my agent, Sandy Dijkstra, whose upbeat nudging instigated and then encouraged me to write another book in the first place. My editor, Deanne Urmy of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, was always figuratively looking over my shoulder to see the larger picture, and I appreciate Susanna Brougham’s careful eye in spotting the inconsistencies, though all errors that remain are strictly my own. Lisa Glover graciously coordinated this book’s production. Lastly and mostly, I’m grateful to Lynn Jennings for her patience during my prolonged time spent at the writing desk, her deciphering of my script and typing, and her active support as a sounding board for ideas. The Maine woods have not been the same since she arrived, and they never will be. Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood, of the Naturalist’s Notebook of Seal Harbor, Maine, archived my illustrations so that I could make them available here.