I remember how much it stung. I was still peddling but slowed to an abrupt stop after I looked down and saw the sienna-colored ooze emanating from my knee, dripping down to my ankle. I had been riding on my mountain bike through one of the world's greatest single-track amidst the muted, earth tone ruffles of coastal sage scrub plants that nestled in the foothills of the Santa Ana Mountains of southern California. The scrubland that transitioned into chaparral when I climbed and stood out of the saddle; the reprieve of shade from the oaks when a long descent made me drop, aerodynamically, behind the seat; and the preserves, state parks, and Cleveland National Forest whose trails and colors I had memorized by heart—these were the wild places that comprised the laboratory of my childhood. That I needed to give ample space between my peddling legs and the saw-toothed, spiny leaved artichoke thistle was just not in my muscle memory. I plucked out unidentifiable plant organ parts, one-by-one, painfully from my knee. But this was not the only intrusion. There were hillslopes with cover crops of the exotic mustards, horehound along trail edges, and tobacco weed along the streams. But the exotic grasses—the wild oats and bromes—these were different strangers. The grasses were everywhere. Recreating in the remnant patches of shrublands that had been pardoned from suburban development, I knew from a young age that I lived somewhere special: a biodiversity hotspot. Despite the known threat of exotic invasive grasses I learned by name, I had solace in that it appeared a laborious, but manageable, gardening effort. And, I grew exceedingly more fascinated with true nature—the natural processes within these semiarid ecosystems not modulated by humans. As an undergraduate, I came across Carla M. D'Antionio and Peter Vitousek's review, “Biological Invasions by Exotic Grasses, the Grass/Fire Cycle, and Global Change.” I read how this conversion was not just happening in my ochre and celadon foothills—this was systemic. It was the first time I read the term “global change” and the radicle of a burden to do something emerged, competing for space with my desires to study a more pure ecology after the early works of Ehleringer and Mooney. Carla and Peter's paper would set the framework for my master's research that revealed disturbances of biological soil crust in coastal sage scrub increases emergence of exotic vascular plants, particularly annual grasses from the Mediterranean Basin. Their review connected my work to the next dot, “Grasses have long been recognized as good competitors against herbaceous and woody species.” And, like an omen, the paper came to mind when my entire field experiment burned in the Santiago Fire of 2007. Their paper would also weave into my decision to be among the ten individuals comprising the first cohort of Earth System Science Ph.D.'s at Stanford University. There, I gained more confidence in my ability to contribute to a global synthesis of ecological knowledge. I also grew more comfortable as a 21st century ecologist: studying an ecology in aridlands familiar to those who came before but also engaged in solving applied problems addressing nexus-type issues with data-intensive experiments related to energy generation, land, and global change. I have begun to understand that it is difficult, if not impossible, for 21st century ecologists to emulate identical paper trails left by the great naturalists that came before us; not because there is nothing left to discover, instead it is because now there is too much to save. As a new Assistant Professor at UC Davis, I reread Carla's paper again with equal parts awe and nostalgia, knowing those who traverse down my paper trail will experience a different journey, but hoping it equally influential for the century I live in.
Read full abstract
Jul 31, 2024
Shane E Jordan + 1
Open Access