By Gracey Kettler ’28

It’s 5:30 a.m. I’m in the middle of the remote Australian bush standing in the rain listening as hard as I can to determine if that last bird call was a Noisy Miner or if I had finally lost it. This was a normal day for me that fall.  

In 2025, I had the opportunity to travel to Far North Queensland, Australia, with the School for Field Studies at the start of my junior year. I got to witness firsthand the beauty and diversity of a small portion of Australia’s unique rainforest. I spent three months fully immersed in environmental learning, improving my education in areas such as biodiversity, tropical biome ecology, and wildlife conservation. My final month there focused on a research project examining biodiversity levels in a small part of the savannah lands that had gained native title. 

What is Native Title?  

In Australia, the Native Title Act was passed in 1993 and grants traditional ownership of land and water to Aboriginal peoples. These communities gain access to their land, but the government retains certain rights to it. This means that if a desirable resource is found, the government can revoke Native Title and reclaim the land. Groups can apply if they can prove a historical connection and that their people were once on the land. The group we were working with was the Mbabaram peoples. They had found traditional artwork on the rocks in this area and were able to apply and receive Native Title. They received only a small section of what was once ancestral land. Aboriginal peoples refer to traditional homeland as Country. With Native Title, Aboriginal peoples are allowed to care for Country using their traditional practices.  

What was I studying?  

My research focused on measuring the biodiversity levels on the main cultural site. The Mbabaram peoples started a company called Rainforest to Bush and offered cultural tours that taught people about their history and lifestyle at the Watsonville Cultural Park. Around the park, the Mbabaram peoples would do prescribed burns and daily maintenance of native vegetation. We camped out for four days and performed different tests to acquire a wide range of data. My group and I had six main tests to determine biodiversity levels.  

The Tests 

Trail cameras  

 At the beginning of the month, we set up trail cameras around the park to capture photos of wildlife at all times. After three weeks, we collected them and went through the footage. After hours of combing through thousands of photos, we realized a piece of grass had triggered two of the cameras. This meant that those cameras were unable to record any animals and all their storage had been taken. However, our other cameras were able to photograph wallabies, a few birds, and wild cats and dogs.  

Spotlighting  

At night we would go out as a group with flashlights and thermal binoculars in search of nocturnal animals. One night, all of our head lamps and flashlights died and we had to navigate through the bush with our iPhone lights. Over the three nights we found sugar gliders, ring-tailed possums, owls, and all kinds of creepy insects. 

Sweep netting  

During the day we would walk around the 57-acre park and catch butterflies. We would take them back to the main camp, identify them, and release any species that had already been documented. New species were brought back to our campus and pinned and added to our collections. We would spend two hours running around swiping at small butterflies and often missing. We found a large number of swallowtails, orange ringlets, dingy bush browns, and other species. 

Lightsheeting  

At night we would set up a big white sheet and point two LED lights at it to attract nighttime insects. Over the course of the night, the sheet would become covered in moths, beetles, crickets, and dozens of other insects, making it difficult to keep up with how many there were. 

Bird Calls 

Every morning, we woke up at 5 a.m. and went out to previously established transects and listened for bird activity. We would walk through the dark, hilly, rocky savannah trying to remember where our transect points were. A few times my group got lost and we had to spend extra time trying to figure out where we were. One of my partners and I both slipped down an embankment right after each other. We spent two hours recording what we heard and saw. Ultimately, 35 different bird species were found and recorded, including some that were rare for this area.  

Dung Beetles 

Our last test was to collect dung beetles using traps we placed at the beginning of our four-day stay. These traps were dug into the ground and filled with an ethanol mixture that killed the beetles. We made our bait out of wallaby poop, bandicoot intestine, and rotted mushrooms. We had to hand collect the wallaby poop to guarantee it was fresh enough to attract beetles. The bandicoot, one of Australia’s cutest marsupials, had been found after being hit by a car and was used to create bait. The traps collected a total of 25 different species. Some were unique to the dry and wet seasons. One was even an introduced species usually found only in agricultural areas of Australia. 

After 

After collecting this data, we compiled it into Excel and compared species diversity at our site to surrounding areas. It turned out that this area was highly diverse. The use of traditional ecological knowledge had allowed it to thrive and begin restoring itself to its historical condition.  

Getting to work hands-on with a project that gauged how ecosystems are affected by management tactics was a unique and wonderful experience. It showed me a side of research that I want to pursue after undergraduate. 

While the research itself was rewarding, I learned so much during my time abroad. I learned about the loss of rainforest in Australia for agricultural use, the possums and bats becoming endangered due to rising temperatures and having nowhere to go, and the invasive species that have taken over much of the continent. While Australia may be known for the Outback and the Great Barrier Reef, its Mabi rainforest and savannah lands hold some of its most unique wildlife. Seeing the biodiversity present on Mbabaram-managed land showed me how much these ecosystems can benefit from careful stewardship. I hope people realize how vital these ecosystems are before it is too late. 

By Tim Smith ’26

Last spring, I had the opportunity to study abroad with the School for International Training (SIT) in their Climate Change program. During this experience, I witnessed firsthand the complexities governments face when tackling conservation work. One unfortunate reality about “going green” is that there isn’t always a perfect or universally “good” solution. Still, even imperfect solutions can reduce environmental burdens or extend the longevity of ecosystems—if we choose to implement them.

One of the first examples we encountered that semester was on Angel Island, where there’s an ongoing debate about the presence of blue-gum eucalyptus trees and whether they help or harm the ecosystem.

Angel Island was one of our first excursions, and it was a beautiful introduction. Located in the heart of the San Francisco Bay, the island is visible from downtown and the Golden Gate Bridge. The lack of buildings makes it feel untouched—especially in contrast to the endless stretches of houses and skyscrapers on the mainland.

Once on the island, we were greeted by a park ranger who manages the grounds. He began by walking us through a brief history of Angel Island State Park and how the land has been used over time. The island was once inhabited by local tribes, who appeared to conduct ceremonial burns of the region’s flora. This practice created a period of ecological stability, as periodic burns reduced wildfire risks and replenished the soil with organic material. However, this coexistence ended when Europeans arrived in the late 1700s. In the early 1800s, Mexico designated the island as private property, and it was used for cattle ranching and logging.

Despite its complicated history, the park today is a beautiful example of how restoration work can transform degraded landscapes into cherished natural spaces. After settlers arrived, the ecosystem suffered: deer were introduced and overgrazed the grasses, while blue-gum eucalyptus and conifers were planted to prevent erosion and beautify the island. The landscape was in poor condition. But San Francisco later recognized the island’s historical significance—especially after it was used as a detention center for Asian immigrants in the early 1900s. This led to its designation as a national park in the 1950s and the beginning of a slow restoration process.

Wait—non-native species helped?

As the ranger led us up the island’s hilly terrain, we saw how the landscape now more closely resembles its historical state. There are more shrubs than trees—plants native to the area. The deer population has also declined since coyotes arrived in 2017, allowing the vegetation to recover. The ranger looked up at the trees and sighed. He believed their removal was for the best. Yet, not everyone agrees. Some argue that the blue-gum eucalyptus trees should remain, claiming their removal could cause more harm than good.

When we reached the island’s other coast, the ranger discussed their conservation efforts. Many non-native plants have been removed through controlled burns, and others were destroyed in an unplanned wildfire that burned 40% of the island in 2008. The fire spread rapidly due to strong winds that made it impossible for fireboats to intervene. Still, only 40% of the island burned. The ranger then led us to buildings near the coast—remnants of the Immigration Station, where immigrants were held until granted entry. The walls still bear poems carved by those who endured hardship and uncertainty. These buildings, which hold the stories of thousands, were actually protected by the very eucalyptus trees the park is trying to eliminate. While eucalyptus often intensifies fires, in this case, their thick trunks and branches were more fire-resistant than the native flora, helping shield the buildings from destruction.

That’s not the only reason blue-gum is seen as a protector.

As we walked further inland, the eucalyptus trees grew denser. The air cooled, and a refreshing, invigorating scent filled the space. The ranger pointed upward. These were the blue-gum eucalyptus trees. They were never meant to be here and pose a fire risk due to their sap, which can fuel flames. Yet, the ranger explained why some groups still advocate for their preservation. These trees have become a favorite resting place for monarch butterflies, which visit the island and other parts of California to feed. As a result, the island has become a sanctuary for this endangered species. Butterfly conservationists often oppose the removal of these trees, fearing it would harm the monarchs. Still, the ranger stood by his position.

But they still need to go, right?

He believes the eucalyptus trees must be removed. Yes, they’re a fire hazard—but more importantly, they disrupt the ancestral environment. These trees and other invasive species have only been here for a few generations, while native species have evolved over thousands of years. We may not yet understand the full consequences of altering the island’s ecosystem. What about the insects, mammals, and microbes that depended on native plants for survival? Nature is incredibly complex. One human intervention can throw an entire ecosystem off balance. Native species have few places left to thrive, while eucalyptus trees flourish in their native Australia. Why prioritize a species that’s doing fine elsewhere over those that are struggling here?

No right answer.

In the end, the ranger brought us back to the port. Like many in his field, he knows that any conservation decision will have consequences. But doing nothing would be far worse. Had they allowed deer to overgraze unchecked, the island’s shrubbery would have vanished. Had they let the eucalyptus spread unchecked, the 2008 wildfire could have been catastrophic. Conservation solutions are rarely perfect. But for the sake of our ecosystems, we must move forward with the solutions that do more good than harm—before the consequences of inaction become irreversible.