“So you’re an ecologist?” a doctoral student on a field trip asks.
“No, I’m not a scientist,” I hastily reply. “I just want to know my neighborhood better.”
With a patient smile, she informs me that “ecology” comes from the Greek words for “study of” and “home” or “place to live.” By this simple definition, I qualify–at least as an accidental ecologist.
The turf that I claim as home encompasses a mosaic of ecosystems on the Northern California coast: nearshore, tidal zones, sandy beaches, marshes, dunes, grasslands, clutches of ferns and cypresses, hushed cathedrals of soaring redwoods. I share this territory with an astounding array of other-than-human creatures: high-flying, web-footed, deep-diving, microscopic, mammoth, and infinitely intriguing. Diverse as they are, all share one common trait: They are survivors who have evolved customized adaptations to a very tough ‘hood.
Special glands, for instance, allow far-ranging pelicans to drink sea water and excrete excess salt. The jaws of seagulls, winged eating machines, unhinge so they can swallow fish whole. In a waterworld version of chemical warfare, anemones fire toxic torpedoes to ward off foes. On the ocean floor, flounder change the color and pattern of their skin to become invisible to predators and prey.
Yet despite such ingenious strategies, none can survive on its own. Like all living organisms, each coastal creature is part of a larger community, affecting and affected by everyone and everything around it. This is the fundamental principle of ecology, a term that the German biologist Ernst Haeckel applied in 1866 to the study of the complex relationships of organisms within the natural world.
John Muir, an accidental ecologist of the first order, succinctly summed up this interdependence. “When we try to pick out anything by itself,” he wrote, “we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.” Yet it wasn’t until the 1960s that “ecology” entered mainstream vocabulary—thanks in part to Rachel Carson, whose pioneering Silent Spring (published in 1962) revealed the unintended and sometimes catastrophic consequences of human actions.
Ecosystems, we’ve learned, are not static but dynamic and vulnerable. Even ones that seem timeless, such as the lush kelp forests off our shores, can disappear in what feels like an instant. As climate changes accelerate, ecologists are documenting their impact on coastal species and habitats. Joining their ranks are citizen-scientists — many accidental ecologists like myself — who patrol beaches, monitor breeding seabirds and seals, track migrating whales, and explore tide pools and wildlands.
It’s no surprise that our numbers are growing. Once you start looking at the world through an ecologist’s eyes, there’s no turning back. Rather than serving as a scenic backdrop, nature takes center-stage and comes alive, showcasing unexpected drama and daily lessons in strength and tenacity.
In hindsight, my interest in ecology seems more than accidental. As a journalist and author, I’ve always been drawn to stories. Ecology offers a rich supply of chronicles of growth, peril, resilience, destruction, and recovery and of dedicated individuals striving to know more, understand more, do more for our planet.
Ultimately these tales weave together into the vast, ever-unfolding narrative of life — the most important story that any of us may ever tell.
