Sometimes I like to spend my idle hours wandering Google Maps. Maybe I’ll hunt for a remote chunk of the Great Wall of China, or look for that mountain in the Adirondacks I hiked back in 2007, or wonder what’s up with a tiny village with dirt roads in Greenland.
But my favorite tourism-by-satellite locale is North Korea. Car traffic on North Korean streets is extremely sparse, even in the country’s biggest cities, giving them an eerie feel, as if they’ve been abandoned. At least you can often make out small blurry smudges that are almost certainly people going about their day, unaware that Google is letting some American in a cozy dining room eyeball them from afar.
Of course, the quilt of satellite photos that make these maps is a recent phenomenon. Old world maps, for which crafters had to mix stories from travelers with their own imaginations are even more enchanting.
“Hey, Baby! I’m Feeling Great!” *cough cough* “Really!”
For the first half of the above video, a sick male zebra finch sits quietly on the floor of his cage. He’s not feeling so great, trying to rest and keep quiet while his immune system is in hyperdrive. But half an hour later, shown in the second half of the video, an unfamiliar female has entered the cage. To the male bird, that changes everything. He hops around with excitement and interest as if he didn’t feel sick at all.
Behavioral biologist Patricia Lopes of the University of California, Berkeley, and her colleagues injected this finch and others with bits of E. coli bacteria — triggering their immune systems without actually infecting them. They watched the birds as they lay sick, then compared how it behaved when a female was thrust into the picture, counting its hops and the time it spent resting. They found the male birds’ behavior changed completely, acting as if they weren’t sick in an effort to court the female.
I’ll just say it. Contact with aliens? I don’t think it’s gonna happen.
I mean ever. And I don’t even think it’ll be our fault. Cultures across the globe could join together in common humanity, throw all nuclear weapons in the waste bin, and pour all our efforts into a singular, courageous, global effort to travel through space and find an alien civilization. But it won’t work, because some things are just impossible. Space is just too big. The distance between star systems is just too far. The speed of light is too unbreakable. The fuel for energy it would take to get through space is just too much. And finally, our biology is too connected to gravity — not to mention air, warmth and all the other things you don’t find much of in interstellar space.
All these earth-like exoplanets we keep finding offer at best the teeniest, tiniest sliver of hope. So they probably have liquid water? Cool. But we don’t even know yet if any of those worlds have, say, a magnetosphere — yet another wonderful thing that helps make life possible on Earth. It’s perfectly reasonable to wonder if Earth-like worlds with magnetospheres are kind of rare. After all, Venus and Mars don’t have one.
The best-laid plans of lab mice and science writers often go awry.
OK, that’s a tad hokey maybe. To the point: The Sieve began about a year-and-a-half ago as a way for students in the full-time science writing program at Johns Hopkins University to test the waters of blogging. It was a fun way to practice our writing, interact lightly with the rest of the science writing community on the Web, and learn what it’s like to obsess over pageviews and reshares. We even passed the blog on to the science writing class that came after us, and it seemed like it could become a long-lasting fixture of the program.
Then, to our bewilderment, the university closed the program this year. Many of us who graduated from the program had become attached to it. Ann Finkbeiner, who ran the program, is an amazing instructor who never failed to challenge our bad writing habits. Also, the classes were small: The number of grad students ranged from four to six, each class soldiering through one intense year of a ton of writing, workshopping, rewriting, more workshopping, and more rewriting. You would graduate with a feeling that this unique program that had only shaped a few careers in its 30-year history had become a piece of you. So its closure left much of us feeling dumbfounded, no matter the rationale.
On top of the dumbfounded feeling, there was another thing. Our poor little blog was bobbing along at the surface without its anchor. (I’ve used that metaphor maybe three times now in private emails. I guess once more can’t hurt.) What could we do with it? Well, we couldn’t save the Hopkins program. But we could save the blog. So a few of us, mostly relatively recent graduates of the program, have stepped in to do just that.
Really, the blog is only changing in one way. It remains what it was before in that it’s a place to tell stories about science. All that’s changed is that This Is Not A Drill. We’re science writers with a bit of experience under our belts, with jobs or freelance careers or both.
As we start off on the new phase, we’ll be making at least one new post every week. We’ll probably make some other changes along the way, perhaps a visual redesign (I’m an ex-newspaper guy and I think the current design reflects those slightly aged sensibilities. It’s probably due for something more fresh). Anything is possible. In the meantime, just as before, we have stories we want to tell, and here is where you can find them. In the coming weeks, you can look forward to posts from Gabriel Popkin, Alex Kasprak, Emily Mosher, me, Jay Thompson, Helen Thompson, Kelsey Calhoun and Rachel E. Gross.
(Image: Rama/Wikimedia Commons)
The four of us — Emily, Sara, Jay and myself — started this blog so we could enjoy a little freedom to write what stories we pleased. We also wanted to get a taste of having our science writing out where more people could see. It worked out pretty well. Sure, our activity has come in peaks and valleys as we’ve balanced the blog with work and school. But now that we are all in the early stages of life after grad school, I think we can all look back on this blog and see writing to be proud of.
We also hoped the blog could be one more thing. Wouldn’t it be cool if The Sieve could become a mainstay of science writing at Johns Hopkins? At the start of 2012, it was hard to say whether our little trial run would become a budding tradition. But that likelihood seems to be growing, because four new science writing students have agreed to take the blog on for the 2012-13 academic year.
So this post is to pass The Sieve to the next generation of Hopkins science writers. From this point forward, the blog is theirs to do with as they please. I looking forward to seeing posts from Alex, Kelsey, Gabe and Jean as they navigate the blogging waters!
Keep on Siftin’!
I was one of a lucky few at CERN this past Wednesday, when they announced the discovery of a shiny new particle that validates physicists’ best guess on the origin of mass. I won’t play it down: It was exhilarating, both to be present for a historical moment and to see years of hype reach a triumphant climax. I’m also a former political journalist and copy editor, now working as a science writer for a public information office. So I felt something peculiar: like I was watching science and storytelling collide from a neutral spot.
Unless you’ve been sleeping for two or three days, you’ve probably caught wind of the Higgs boson discovery news. But here’s a quick rundown just in case. The Higgs boson is a particle first proposed in the 1960s. Physicists have long had a hunch it’s there because the standard model of particle physics predicts it should be there, bestowing mass unto all the other particles. But it is impossible to see the Higgs directly, because it only exists for the fraction of a fraction of a blink of an eye.
The only way to pinpoint the Higgs is to look for what it decays into — for simplicity’s sake think of decaying as a transformation. But there are a lot of other particles that are unstable like the Higgs and decay really fast. These particles often decay into the same particles the Higgs decays into. So the wild world of decaying particles is full all sorts of ruckus and noise, making the Higgs really difficult to find. Physicists have to calculate the details of the noise so they can filter it out and find anything hiding inside — like you might use a sieve (hey!) to find gold nuggets in the dirt.
So the scientists sifted out all the Higgs-impersonators and found a bump in the remaining data from a particle that looks a hell of a lot like the Higgs ought to look. It walks like a Higgs. It quacks like a Higgs. It must be the Higgs! Right?
Probably. But it could be a variation on Higgs boson that isn’t exactly like the standard model predicts. They have yet to find out. But one thing is for certain, they’ve got a new particle and it fits the Higgs picture. And even if it doesn’t fit nice and snuggly into the standard model, it’s still something new, interesting and Higgslicious.
I was there for the announcement because I currently work at the International Centre for Theoretical Physics, a research institute in Italy that helps scientists from developing countries. They also have some researchers working on the ATLAS project, one of the Large Hadron Collidor’s detectors. So they sent me to CERN for the big news event.
From what the CERN physicists told me, the previous few hours had resembled the madness surrounding the opening of a blockbuster movie. Some scientists even camped out overnight outside the seminar room to get the best seats for the big announcement. Everyone who wasn’t willing to sacrifice their comfort to that extreme had to watch the seminar from elsewhere on the CERN site. That’s where I wound up. I joined a pack of about 150 young physicists gathered in one of several basement rooms to watch the seminar on a projector screen. When each detector project revealed the Higgsy-looking bump in their data, the room burst into hooting and applause. So did the official seminar room where the hardcore Higgs fans were watching. It was about as close to the Super Bowl as physics can get.
When the seminar was done I migrated to the press conference. Even if you’re not into physics in particular, but curious about the relationship between science and journalism, I recommend you watch it. For one thing, you’ll see an excellent cross-section of questions ranging from thoughtful to pretty weak. You’ll also see the somewhat-differing interests of science journalists and scientists at play. Up on stage were the folks who want the discovery to be known as precisely as possible. Out in the crowd were the folks who want to tell a good, important, enticing story to their audiences.
The strangest moment is when a reporter asks, “For the other laymen out there, about SIX BILLION OF THEM, what does this mean?” (I’m pretty sure he hit a mental caps lock key as he was speaking.) There was also the dreaded justify-your-funding question, a brief appearance by the graviton, some questions about what’s next, and a little (perfectly fair) pleading to Peter Higgs to say something, anything to quote.
The “God Particle” term also made its inevitable appearance as part of a general question asking for more metaphors. My favorite part of the whole press conference was CERN physicist Joe Incandela’s response: “I don’t know that I have metaphors exactly. But as I said before the interesting thing about this particle is it’s different from any other. It has a different place. It actually has a relationship to the state of the universe, and so it’s very profound.”
The funny thing is, watch the video, and you’ll see that several metaphors get lobbed out there before the question even came up. As science writers it’s easy to love metaphors. They have a poetic quality, and they are a direct route to bridging the gap between the technical stuff and familiar things. But sometimes we love them too much. The wise thing to recognize here was that any more metaphors would have been gratuitous. Sometimes, to say something simply, all you really need to do is say it simply.
So we’ve been posting again at a pretty steady pace! If you missed it, here’s what we wrote about the last two months. Apparently, we’ve been in the mood for wildlife.
- Jay’s nature photos, let him show you them!
- What’s thinking outside of the box compared to thinking outside of your scale?
- Parrots like their food rancid and nasty. (Emily’s post incidentally caught a rather radical wave on Facebook!)
- Everything awesome you ever needed to know about those alien-looking Horseshoe Crabs.
- A colorful fireworks show courtesy of fireflies.
- Why a sustainable economy isn’t automatically a sustainable ecology.
- What massive patience it takes to hunt for meteorites in the scalding sun.
In Bristol Bay, Alaska, fishermen catch and export about 70 percent of the wild salmon in the bay migrating inland to spawn. In recent years, the numbers of salmon that migrate into these Alaskan waters have remained stable. So, that must mean fishermen are harvesting this food resource sustainably, right?
Not necessarily, writes Joseph Burger, Jim Brown and others from the University of New Mexico in an essay published today in PLoS Biology. The fishery still affects the greater ecosystem. For example, the authors point out, fewer salmon in Alaska’s waters means less food for natural predators such as grizzly bears and bald eagles. Also, fewer salmon will die naturally in these waters, robbing the soil and waters of other nutrients the rest of the ecosystem depends on. So, while the commercial harvest of salmon may be sustainable from year to year, the fishery still has many indirect impacts on other resources.
It may seem obvious that ecologists have a vital role to play in building a sustainable globe. But as Burger and other scientists argue in several papers contained in the new PLoS Biology Sustainability Collection, ecology, especially the large-scale approach called “macroecology,” has played a smaller role than economics in building a vision of a viable “green economy.” They are calling for the inclusion of ecological principles in discussions on sustainability science both throughout the field and at this week’s Rio+20 sustainability conference.
Rio+20 is a global conference in Rio de Janeiro in which scientists and government representatives from throughout the world discuss how to create a world in which resources can continuously support future generations, while helping people in developing countries rise out of poverty. The first conference was held 20 years ago, and this week’s conference will be a discussion of both the progress made since and what steps come next.
The key, says Burger, is to get economists to think in terms of physics and ecology as well as economics. That means adding more natural sciences to the education economists receive as well as bringing more natural scientists, such as ecologists, into discussions on sustainability. “One could go through an entire bachelor’s or even Ph.D. program in economics and not have any exposure to basic principles like the physical laws of thermodynamics,” he says, “or the biological laws of population growth.”
John Matthews and Frederick Boltz of Conservation International say in their perspective piece that ignoring the dynamic nature of biology is dangerous and will hinder sustainability efforts. But they add that there is room for “cautious optimism.” Matthews and Boltz say scientists can draw from recent efforts to curb climate change for inspiration on how advancing technology can help create a more sustainable world. “Many developing countries understand that Western models of development are inappropriate if not impossible to achieve. We believe that these and other positive trends are both accelerating and permeating local, national, and global economies quickly and permanently,” they write.
Sustainability must be viewed in the context of the environmental sciences, says population biologist Georgina Mace of Imperial College London. She says that the perspectives offered by Burger and colleagues and Matthews and Boltz represent two extremes of “ecological pessimism” and “technological optimism.” But these extremes are sometimes needed, especially regarding resources that may run out entirely. “When resources are close to being depleted or exhausted, prices rise, pressures may increase, and complete collapse of the resource becomes more likely,” she writes. “In some other cases, such as the extinction of species or the loss of biomes and biodiversity, the loss is irreversible.”
These scientists argue that the current model for creating a sustainable Earth is too short-sighted, and overly focused on balancing specific sectors of economies while ignoring the intricate web of subtle effects that environmental scientists specialize in puzzling out.
Burger says the ultimate goal however is to get policymakers and environmental scientists working with a mutual framework, and he believes the best way to begin is by increasing education between fields. “We must get everyone on the same page,” says Burger. “Policymakers and economists have much to benefit from understanding the ecology of our own species and we need them to make our science actionable by implementing policy that considers the core ecological principles that govern all life.”
Like many kids in the ’80s, I spent way too many hours camped in front of the TV. My grandparents had a TV set that was practically a piece of furniture. It was heavy, cumbersome and encased in polished wood to match the bookcases and coffee table. It also had two gray dials — one that went no further than 13 and another that went higher but turned up nothing but static.
This old TV spewed electrons like crazy. When you turned it on, it crackled with electricity as an image inflated from a tiny square to its full size. I used to crawl up to the screen when my family wasn’t watching and touch the glass to feel the static electricity tingle around my fingers. It was like a fuzzy layer of air. Sometimes, to the dismay of the adults, I would even press my face up against it and watch the characters from Duck Tales break down into a crystalline pattern of red, green and blue rectangles.
Finding the three colors from which the images on TV emerged is the oldest memory I have of anything vaguely scientific popping into my head. I had no concept of what a cathode ray tube was, or how it was channeling photons and electrons. But I knew something whole was being made up of simpler bits, and you could only see those simpler bits if you were willing to get up close and personal.
Emergence is the idea that small things give rise to bigger things, often with different rules, and it’s prevalent throughout science. Everything is made up of tiny bits called particles. These particles stick together and make bigger particles, which stick together and make atoms. Atoms then stick together to make molecules, which stick together in fabulous chains to create DNA. The DNA guides other molecules into becoming cells. Enough cells stick together in the right pattern and you get creatures with brains, in which a pattern emerges into that we call a mind, from which arises language, knowledge and consciousness. It’s tempting to look at ourselves as the ends of this continual emergence, but the world is also full of non-living molecules too. Water and minerals emerge into oceans, glaciers, deserts, mountains, climates and weather patterns. It keeps going, and eventually we get the whole Universe out of it.
We’re stuck somewhere in the middle, peering in two directions at once, toward the tiny bits we are made of and the vast Universe we’re a piece of. Entire scientific fields often focus in on a level of emergence and study the rules that sliver of reality operates under. But most of us stick to the slim, everyday level of reality we’re best at — where buildings, work, pets, trees and other people exist.
The most fun part of science writing for me is also the toughest part: Applying our familiar, cozy mid-sized ideas to Realities Of Unusual Size and seeing how well those ideas stick. It’s a relief to think of the galaxies residing on an expanding balloon because, darn it, at least we have a reference point. On the tiny scale, when physicists found the force that sticks quarks together into becoming protons and neutrons, they found a new kind “charge,” only instead of coming in pairs, like negative and positive, this charge comes in threes. They needed a metaphor to help this relationship make sense, so instead of positive and negative, they called the quarks red, green and blue. The labels are perhaps fitting. Maybe scientists were also once kids who liked crawling into an unfamiliar space only to discover that Saturday morning cartoons are made of brightly-colored rectangles.
Students in the Johns Hopkins science writing program dedicate much of their second semester to this 40-page thesis. In journalism terms, it can be thought of as a very long feature or a series. We do a lot of research and interview tons of people and try to cobble together a long narrative.
The thesis has a sort of all-consuming quality. It’s a rare opportunity to deeply engage a scientific topic that fascinates us, and we live and breathe our projects for most of the spring semester. Our thesis topics this semester include: the hairy nature of hydrology in California, the relationship between chiropractors and mainstream medicine, the plebians of the rocket science field, bacteria that make a squid glow, and the cutting-edge science of regrowing body parts.
You’ll probably hear a little more about these projects in the coming weeks. For now, here’s a quick run-down of what we featured on the blog this past April:
- A conga line of rockets that spewed a chemical into the night-time sky.
- The real reason fingers wrinkle when they get soaked in water.
- How “star parties” can excite young minds about astronomy.