reading more about coyotes was entirely unappealing and I brushed off the suggestion. About a month ago, as the one-year anniversary of my Ph.D. defense was approaching and I was feeling nostalgic, I finally decided to pick up my copy of Coyote America and re-immerse myself in coyotes. Below, I focus on my impressions from the book, and I’ve tried to avoid discussing the aspects of coyote biology that I was already intimately familiar with from my research career.
How it stacked up:
My previous read, Elizabeth Kolbert’s The Sixth Extinction, examines the many species that have been driven to extinction as a direct or indirect result of human activity. Dan Flores’ Coyote America deals with the exact opposite phenomenon: the unyielding persistence of a species that humans have repeatedly tried to kill off.
It’s challenging to overstate how hard humans really did try to exterminate coyotes; Flores devotes roughly a third of the book to describing the predator control efforts implemented by men armed with guns, strychnine, and overly inflated egos following the “successful” near-extinction of wolves through similar methods. I found it somewhat challenging to follow all the exact details of the legal history, the precise timeline, and the various agencies involved, but the point was clear: over the past few centuries, humans wanted coyotes to die, and instead, the exact opposite happened. Coyote population sizes grew, and their range expanded in all directions.
As is the case with most scientific observations, the persistence of coyotes in the face of aggressive management efforts aren’t the result of a single ecological factor, and several reasonable and non-mutually exclusive explanations were described in the book. Simply put, coyotes have weaker social bonds than their wolf cousins, and killing one coyote is far less likely to lead to the dissolution of an entire pack. In that sense, successful wolf-killing methods wouldn’t be expected to work as well for coyotes. Further, coyotes are also known to have a highly variable number of offspring, and when population density is low, they repopulate pretty efficiently with increased litter size. Combine that with a largely wolf-free landscape, and you get resilient coyotes on the move, expanding eastward to their final frontier of Long Island, New York, which also happens to be my homeland.
Despite these brutal control efforts, it is essential to note that human hatred of coyotes is not a universal phenomenon. It is from the Aztec word coyotl from which we actually derive the word coyote, and coyotes hold spiritual significance in many Native American cultures. Throughout the book, Flores steps away from the scientific descriptions and retells the stories of “Old Man Coyote,” an anthropomorphized deity whose escapades reveal the human condition. It is with these stories that Flores drives home the central metaphor of the book; as animals resilient to sweeping changes in their environments, coyotes are a lot like humans.
One downside to books is that the publication process is so long that certain conventions and observations will inevitably be outdated, especially in the sciences. Accounting for the fact that the book was published in 2017, there were still a handful of studies I was surprised not to see mentioned. For example, while the topic was covered, some of the more recent studies on coyote, red wolf, and eastern wolf genomics concerning a possible hybrid origin of the latter two groups, were not mentioned. I don’t mean this to be a knock at Flores’ research; the book was comprehensive and distilled complex scientific and political controversy to highly accessible and well-written prose. This is a broader comment on the reality of the book publishing industry for popular science, which is perhaps more obvious to someone who has done extensive research on coyotes over the last half-decade. And it’s also what I tell myself to explain why none of my work was cited in the book.
Why this book:
Elizabeth Kolbert has been on my radar since the fall of 2011 when her New Yorker article on Human/Neanderthal hybridization–a topic she returns to in the book at hand–was assigned for my college seminar on global change, the sort of hybrid biology and anthropology class you’d expect at any halfway respectable liberal arts school in the Northeast. At the time, I wouldn’t have classified the article as a profound moment in my career development. In hindsight, however, this was the first time I was introduced to the concept of admixture. This word would eventually become so integrated into my vocabulary that I’d forget it wasn’t “normal” to use it conversationally. I went on to study inter-species hybridization during my Ph.D., which at the genetic level leads to “admixed” offspring with genes from both parent species, precisely the phenomenon Kolbert describes in Neanderthals and humans.
The following year of my undergrad, Kolbert’s first book from 2006, Field Notes from a Catastrophe, was assigned for my science writing course, and my enthusiasm for Kolbert’s work faltered. I admit to having no specific memories of the book thinking back to spring 2013, but I recall being excited to read it, and then felt somewhat blah about it. The Sixth Extinction was published in 2014, won the Pulitzer in 2015, and has been sitting on my bookshelf since 2016. For a brief period, I even had two copies of it. I made one previous attempt to read it, but due to the ever-present “grad student burnout,” I didn’t get beyond the first chapter.
Mindset going in:
I have controversial opinions on wildlife conservation. Or, to phrase it more diplomatically, I enjoy spirited and intellectually challenging conversations with conservation biologists.
For example, in reference to controversies related to invasive species, I may ask how long a species must be established in a particular area before it can be considered native. Then, depending on the answer, I might ask if all species that have expanded their range (i.e., every species that’s ever existed) could be considered invasive at one point in their evolutionary history. Or, if humans are above this distinction even though our species evolved in Africa and expanded elsewhere. What the term “natural” even means. And so on.
To be clear, I am not at all anti-conservation. But I do believe that conservation approaches should be rooted in ecological and evolutionary principles rather than emotional connections to wildlife, which are all too easy to get caught up with.
How the book stacked up:
While I was genuinely interested in what Kolbert had to say about human-driven biodiversity declines, I was also concerned that the book might lean towards the emotional and call on the decline of charismatic megafauna to tug at the heartstrings of readers. This perception wasn’t entirely wrong. There is a chapter on Suci, the resident female Sumatran Rhino at the Cincinnati Zoo, and the unsuccessful attempts to get her pregnant through artificial insemination. Most of the book, however, dealt with plenty of less charismatic species, many of which I had not previously heard of. These species included those that are long-extinct (graptolites from the Ordovician), those recently departed (Great Auks from the 19th century), and those declining right before our eyes (Acropora corals of the Great Barrier reef).
Though deconstructing the argument is beyond the scope of this blog post, Kolbert does provide an answer to one of my go-to questions for conservation biologists: Why is the involvement of humans in the decline of other species fundamentally different from the other ecological interactions that may lead to biodiversity decline?
For Kolbert, it’s a two-part answer: speed and scope. To illustrate this point, Kolbert first calls on the example of the spread of the deadly chytrid fungus in frogs in Central America. Although humans didn’t directly cause the fungus (it evolved in the usual way), humans have spread it across the globe at an unprecedented rate as an indirect result of other activities. Kolbert argues that in a world without widespread and rapid human activities, deadly diseases would still inevitably evolve. The total global impact on biodiversity, however, would be less severe, as infections are far more likely to remain geographically restricted and spread at a much slower rate. This same sentiment is also echoed later in the book with the rapid spread of the similarly devastating white-nose syndrome in bats. It is then further extended to other examples of the indirect consequences of human activities, such as ocean acidification, over-hunting, and so on.
In summary, according to Kolbert, human-driven biodiversity decline is fundamentally different from other ecological forces because it occurs more quickly and over more extensive geographic areas. Species simply don’t have the opportunity to adapt to the changing conditions.
An inevitable reoccurring theme in popular science writing is that it’s tough to tell compelling science stories to general or even specialist audiences. I love science, and I still find myself occasionally bored by science writing (see above comment about Kolbert’s first book). The Sixth Extinction, however, was an impressive comeback. The one-species per chapter format helped to create a sense of novelty every 15 or so pages, and I never felt fatigued reading about the same thing for too long. While I’m not about to stop having spirited conversations with those who work directly in applied conservation, Kolbert’s eloquent perspective on the scale and scope of human-driven biodiversity decline was well-received.
Part writing exercise, part communication initiative, and part motivation for me to finally make some progress on the backlog of books I have on my shelf, I’ve decided to repurpose my research website as a popular science book blog.
Prior to beginning my Ph.D. in Fall 2014, I was a huge fan of popular science books. Partly inspired by a science writing course I took as an undergrad, and partly a natural extension of my interest in the life sciences, I read and analyzed popular science books with some frequency. When I began my Ph.D., however, I found it difficult to spend all day reading scientific papers and technical protocols, and then come home are read more about science. To be clear, I enjoyed my Ph.D. research immensely and was exceptionally lucky to have a fantastic advisor. I never spent more than an average 8 or 9-hour workday in the lab, and more often than not, was able to take weekends off. Still, a sense of scientific knowledge overload persisted, and all my non-fiction science books went unread.
For better or worse, my enthusiasm for buying popular science books never faded, only the brain energy to actually read them. This habit is not without physical consequences; I’ve moved four times since 2014, and books are pretty freaking heavy. It’s been exactly one year since I defended my dissertation, and as I’m once again about to pack up my apartment and move, I’ve decided my brain is ready for more scientific knowledge. That, and there’s a global pandemic preventing me from hanging out in bars in my free time.
Each post will be 500 words or under and cover my experiences with reading a non-fiction science-related book written for a general audience. As a starting point, these books will have been purchased before starting this blog, hence, the backlog. Comments, dank memes, and book recommendations are welcome.