On the Importance of Outreach

As a researcher in a natural history museum, I have a couple main ways of sharing my work with others. The first is, naturally, by writing and publishing papers in peer-reviewed journals. The second is through formal or informal events at the museum. And, as rewarding as it is to see your hard work in print, interactions like one I had yesterday at Carnegie Museum of Natural History are truly special. 

Getting ready for Meet-A-Paleontologist, with some Antarctic plesiosaur specimens to share

Matt Lamanna and I were participating in an event at CMNH called Super Science Saturdays. We sat at a table in one corner of the dinosaur hall, behind a sign reading “Meet A Paleontologist” and about a dozen fossils for people to pick up and ask questions about. The main demographic of visitors was elementary schoolers, often wearing dinosaur-themed t-shirts, always keen to pick up and wave around our fossil examples. Matt and I were glad we had chosen robust specimens. There were also plenty of older kids, a few teenagers on dates, and grown-ups. 

As the afternoon wound down and the steady stream of visitors slowed to a more manageable level, a teenager and her mom approached me at the table. The mom spoke first, because the girl was quietly struggling to choke back tears. 
“She wants to be a paleontologist, and she’s just very emotional to meet one in person.” She turned and spoke to her daughter– “Go ahead, talk to her! Ask her all your questions!”
I tried to put on my least intimidating expression, and after a minute the girl and I were chatting about my career path and her plans to go to college next year and study biology and geology. (“I knew it! I told you I should do biology and geology, mom.”) At the end of our conversation, she was once more a little emotional. Her mom handed me the museum guide and map, and whispered, “can we get your autograph, please?” I’m not used to being asked that, but I obliged, and wrote the daughter a note with how to keep in touch. 

This might sound like an exaggerated, ego-padding story from my telling of it. And it did make me feel somewhat proud of my own accomplishments. Beyond that, though, I think it highlights a responsibility that modern scientists have: to connect with students, share advice and empathy, and give effort and personal time to make our work, and our lives, accessible. And it demonstrates that this effort (which sometimes feels exhausting) can be not only rewarding, but also really impactful for the next generation of scientists. 

 

[P.S. My main piece of advice for prospective students is to get involved in scientific research– as an intern or a volunteer, during summers and weekends. The lab you work in doesn’t have to be exactly the area you’re most interested in– it’s to get experience in any kind of science research setting, to build your CV, and to connect with potential mentors. I literally walked in to biology, geology, and anthropology departments as a high schooler and between college semesters, and asked if anyone needed an intern– the answer was often yes, and occasionally there was even grant money to pay that intern. (My advice for people who are already scientists is to remember how intimidating it was to be on the other side of that interaction. We’ve all been there, and have all benefitted from that kindness and mentoring.)]

 

Extreme weather on Vega Island

This week’s post is about one instance of challenging weather conditions faced by the AP3 team. Written by Dr. Eric Gorscak, AP3 team member and titanosaur specialist at the Field Museum of Natural History.

One morning, Chris Torres, Steve Salisbury, Matt Lamanna, and I made the lengthy hike to Sandwich Bluff, only to find our prospecting sites to be covered in snow. The snow coverage prevented us from doing any meaningful prospecting work for the day but we had to make the trek to be sure… we only had so much time during the trip to maximize our exploration.

Image: Two views of the Antarctic Peninsula in radically different conditions. Top: A weather front moving in over the Antarctic Peninsula, as seen from Vega Island on the day of the trek. The peninsula is visible as dark mountains across the channel, with an ominous bank of white snow clouds above. Icebergs are gathering near the shore of the island, pushed there by the wind. Bottom: A view of the peninsula from Sandwich Bluff on a clear, relatively calm, day. Photos copyright Eric Gorscak, 2016.

The weather report had informed us of an incoming front from the west that would last from the afternoon well into the night; it was already gloomy with sporadic winds during our morning trek out but nothing could prepare us for the trip back. This was when the winds really picked up, much earlier than we anticipated given the weather report. Honestly, the winds never stopped… and blowing directly at us the entire way back… on top of a 2-hour hike across harsh terrains (hills, rubble, snow, angry skuas). The winds were strong enough to hold me up as I leaned into them. If I didn’t have my beard, my face would have frozen off.

I guess you could say we walked up hills both ways in the snow and into the wind to and from Sandwich Bluff that day…

A fresh pair of socks and hot cocoa never felt so good afterward.

Image: Scenes from the return trek to camp from Sandwich Bluff. Top, example of the wind affecting the snow, driving it across the ground. Bottom, example of the wind affecting standing water. Normally walking by this 'pond', the water would have been quite still. As you can see, there was plenty of wave action.

Image: Scenes from the return trek to camp from Sandwich Bluff. Top, example of the wind affecting the snow, driving it across the ground. Bottom, example of the wind affecting standing water. Normally walking by this ‘pond’, the water would have been quite still. As you can see, there was plenty of wave action. Photos copyright Eric Gorscak, 2016.