The end of a field season can yield a suite of emotions. For some, the transition from field settings to temperature and humidity-controlled data organization and refinement centers (namely, our homes, offices, and corner coffee joints) brings unfettered joy. In others, the changing gears reminds us of the time we spent waist-deep in high alpine streams, breathing in the subtle Sugar Pine’s aroma, and crossing over wooden bridges, as ospreys floated over cool-water eddies. Regardless of how you presently feel about that transition, it is here (unless you are one of those lucky, around-the-clock data collectors, who has friends that owe you something. Please know, I envy you, or maybe I should make more friends). With my unbiased and impartial thoughts aside, now is the time to settle in and travel to a trend-identifying place, full of analytical paradises. Make certain to dust those descriptive statistical devices you used last summer, and if you’re exceedingly fortunate, the ones in the back of the shed, the inferential tools. Who doesn’t love running variance tests?
In my field, outdoor recreation and applied conservation, researchers spend busy sampling seasons in the field, gradually amassing data through various processes. Whether measuring how stream-obligate plant communities react to shoreline hiking or interviewing river visitors about their connection to flowing water, both strategies satisfy a common goal: information extraction. After happily collecting data that (hopefully) embodies the initial research aim, the evaluation and analysis stage arises. This faction of research likely involves the deployment of models, equations, and codes to capture what I like to call data stories. Analytical tools can help data stories to emerge, which brim with hidden and sometimes, more easily identifiable messages.
For example, I recently discovered that my loudest field sites had 70% fewer intact native plant species and animal species than sites that failed to cross a decibel threshold (Figure 2). The mechanism of noise delivery included shoreline outdoor recreationists and roadway traffic. Crossing this sound threshold has implications for wildlife communities that are dependent on quieter conditions. Some wildlife species do not require quietness, but human-dominated soundscapes can quickly overtake natural noises. Many species rely on wind, water, and other animal noises to navigate habitats and engage in critical moments such as seeking prey.
An acceptable sound threshold for temperate North American mountain ecosystems does not formally exist because nobody can agree on a widely supported value. It is important to acknowledge that a widely supported value would not necessarily be effective because species have unique hearing ranges. Beyond fundamental hearing ranges, each species is likely to express an aversion or affinity toward diverse sounds.
After having carefully reviewed the literature, it seems that 70 dB, or the noise you would encounter during a moderate to loud conversation, comprises that critical value for mountain ecosystems. Natural soundscape elements (e.g., wind, water, biological noises) can produce noises exceeding 70 dB, although this value reflects those unnatural, artificial sounds. Unnatural noises in mountainous and alpine environments stem from a variety of activities, ranging from off-road vehicle usage to ski resort structural maintenance. At this point, less-than-positive impacts gather, and those species dependent on communication suffer consequences, such as birds, black bears, insects, and others.
Let’s briefly transit Idaho and delve into the watery Western Oregon landscape to highlight a soundscape dynamic example.
In 2022, I conducted a field ecology and recreation study in a Western Oregon protected park with complex backwater ecosystems. During the study, I tracked how freshwater turtles’ behavior changed around different outdoor recreation activities. Fairly quickly into the season, I divided turtle behavior into two categories dominated by the following characteristics, (1) non-native, aggressive, and tolerant, and (2) native, docile, and intolerant. Native turtles tolerated fewer outdoor recreationist noise intrusions, meaning their behavior abnormally changed when faced with this disturbance. Non-native individuals tolerated more noise intrusions, and they normally behaved, raising a key question about community ecosystem dynamics well into the future. Will noisier, more human-dominated soundscapes result in native freshwater turtle decline, and hence, allow for non-native and aggressive turtle populations to take hold?
Surgically probing my data pressed an important story to the surface, one which lightly played in the background as I actively collected information in the field. Scrutinizing and probing the data with descriptive statistics resulted in the manifestation of an idea! After all, watershed stewardship project leaders and future researchers might want to start cataloging dB levels, and associated plant and wildlife patterns, while of course considering how river visitor behaviors influence natural soundscapes. The retention of natural soundscapes is exceptionally important for watershed ecosystem health and for those recreationists drawn to areas dominated by natural symphonies.
It is also imperative to consider how our work fits into the larger picture, or rather, if it has a place. While all data stories are important and should be valued, they do not necessarily chart the greatest courses of action. Centering the ‘has a place’ comment is vital because research in this field has implications for communities of humans and species. We must uphold high ethical standards and compassionately listen to community perspectives. Our research and data stories might contest local community perceptions, like whether nature conservation trumps fishing access along freshwater shorelines. Conversely, we may recommend that stewards funnel river visitors into a cluster of areas instead of dispersing use across larger landscapes. In this case, the ecological communities of those clusters will likely be displaced.
I am a transient researcher. I undeniably invest myself in the conservation work I care for. Regardless of the most appropriate method, I unfailingly befriend locals, doing what I can to gauge the intricacies of their place-based connection. Communities drive stewardship forward, and the most meaningful contributions come from the heart. I can joyously say I have witnessed this uninhibited love. Whether watching someone release juvenile green sturgeon into tidal rivers or hearing why suburban waterfalls quell their anxiety, love diffuses from the core. Unfiltered love for people and nature unifies members of this field, and it propels our desire to form long-lasting change.