They kill lambs, don’t they?

History is a notoriously unreliable chronicler. But if history is to be believed, a running battle between cattle rustlers and local clansmen in 1602 – or possibly 1606 – spread violence across the slopes below the Cairnwell Pass in Glenshee, ending with the death of dozens of ‘Cateran’ raiders at the hands of a renowned local archer, Cam Ruadh.

The Caterans were infamous cattle thieves who preyed upon Strathardle, Glenshee and Glen Isla throughout the Middle Ages and beyond. Today, the raiders are long gone, but the Cateran Trail remains, meandering between the Perthshire and Angus glens, and passing my front door along the way. Following the trail north, it climbs out of Enochdhu and snakes out over open moorland to pass between the rounded peaks of Ben Earb and Meall Uaine, before descending to the Spittal of Glenshee.

Like the Caterans themselves, many of the cattle once fiercely fought over have disappeared from this landscape, replaced by sheep. But signs of the past remain, from old shielings to standing stones, and there’s still some wildlife to be found. On a recent walk to the Spittal, I spotted numerous small groups of fallow deer grazing in the sheep fields of Strathardle, several larger parcels of red deer on the high moor, two roe deer and one red squirrel (raiding a bird feeder). I also counted two meadow pipits, ten black cock, two red grouse, an oystercatcher, half a dozen curlews, several buzzards, lots of ravens and a red kite. Crossing the high saddle between Starthardle and Glenshee, I saw the tracks of a single fox etched in the snow.

Which truth should we recognise: is Scotland nature-depleted, or is it still home to lots of wildlife?

Some might point to this tally as evidence that Scotland still supports plenty of wildlife. Others might list the notable absentees, the lost animals once found here: the extirpated wolves, bears and lynx, the elk and wild boar, or the wildcat now stuffed and confined to a glass cabinet at the Dalmunzie Hotel, its fusty face frozen in a grimace of faded feline fury. Even mountain hares were noticeably absent from my hike along the Cateran Trail, despite locals remembering these same hills hopping with their white forms not long ago. So, which truth should we recognise: is Scotland nature-depleted, or is it still home to lots of wildlife?

Two things can be true at the same time, but in the era of alternative facts, the truth is contested like never before. When Shooting Times & Country Magazine posted a link on social media to research revealing how trout can successfully navigate beaver dams, ‘in defiance of many people’s expectations,’ it prompted much scepticism. ‘Just like the same “researchers” that still say white tails (sea eagles) don’t kill lambs,’ wrote one commenter. Distrust bleeds from one issue into another.

Interestingly, the research in question had been done in collaboration with the Game and Wildlife Conservation Trust – normally a preferred authority among shooting and fishing enthusiasts. But their involvement wasn’t clear unless you read the article. Crucially, the headline didn’t fit the sceptics’ existing narrative.

The need for nuance

Leaning into our preferred narratives is part of being human. Our instinct is to dismiss anything that challenges what we already believe, especially if it relates to beliefs we hold dear. Perhaps that’s why rewilding can feel particularly prone to polarised debate.

Rewilding addresses subjects people care deeply about, promising (or threatening) profound changes to the world we share, so campaigners on every side tend to seek out and promote anything that supports their views. From beaver impacts on fish or flooding, to muirburn and the risk of wildfires. From salmon and the threats they face, to whether lynx can change deer behaviour. The list feels endless.

Most issues are complicated, but as humans we prefer simplicity. With limited time and personal biases aplenty, we rarely allow much room for nuance. Instead, our reaction to anything new tends to be prejudiced by our thoughts on a host of related subjects, forming a lens through which we filter everything.

Many factors contribute to our individual perspectives: who we talk to, what we read, what we experience, where we live, even our age and sex. There’s no escaping these biases. The best we can hope for is to be aware of them, to guard against their influence. But even then, we probably all believe some things that simply aren’t true, whether common misconceptions or personal beliefs.

The certainty trap

In a thought-provoking TEDx Talk, Marketing Professor Philip Fernbach explores why people often believe things that aren’t true. He criticises the rise of science denialism and the growing scepticism around phenomena such as global warming. But he also warns against complacency in our own imagined knowledge. According to Philip, we need to look harder at why any of us believe anything.

When we do that, we quickly discover that none of us knows enough to justify many of the things we hold true. We might mock flat earthers or vaccine conspiracy theorists, but how many of us can really explain the detailed astronomical observations that inform our modern understanding of the universe, or the complex microbiology that underlies our immune systems? The world is far too intricate for any one person to understand in detail. How much then, do any of us really know?

The world is far too intricate for any one person to understand in detail.

Not much, Philip argues. He cites one study that attempted to quantify our brains’ ability to store information. The result? About one gigabyte – less than is found in most smart phones. Still, if we make poor computers, we make excellent collaborators. No single engineer or scientist understands all the workings of a scanning electron microscope or the large hadron collider, and yet together we make these things work. Science – and human collaboration – has unlocked marvels. Understanding is contagious.

A polarised world

But if understanding is contagious, so is misunderstanding. And when our vulnerability to misunderstanding is paired with our individual ignorance of most things, the resulting combination can be dangerous. Among like-minded people, we feel we’re on firm ground simply because we keep hearing our misunderstandings echoed back to us.

The uncomfortable truth? We hardly ever verify our beliefs. Instead, we depend on trusted third parties. This is efficient, and there is wisdom in crowds, but there is also foolishness. Except in the rare circumstances where we have genuine, extensive and well-supported expertise of our own, we are all just channelling what Philip Fernbach calls our ‘communities of knowledge.’ That doesn’t just make us vulnerable to false beliefs – it also makes us prone to misjudging people we disagree with.

Since we all imagine our own beliefs are rational, we tend to assume that those who disagree with us are irrational, stupid, disingenuous or a combination of all three. And this problem is getting worse. In recent years, political scientists have recorded a rise in what they call ‘affective polarisation.’ This means people don't just disagree about things, they strongly disapprove of the people with opposing views.

Sacred cows

We are guilty, too, of oversimplifying. Journalist Sophie Yeo spent three years researching a book on popular environmental ideas and found that ‘simplicity and romance usually won out over complexity and nuance.’ There is even a clinical term for this: ‘complexity phobia.’ It’s characterised by the discomfort we feel when dealing with nuanced information, and encourages us to resist any evidence that disrupts our preferred worldview.

Hunters, for example, often claim to be conservationists. In America, ‘hunting is conservation’, or so the slogan goes. And certainly, hunting yields many benefits for conservation. But hunting also continues to threaten some species while constraining the recovery of others, from over-exploited quarry species like turtle doves to unwanted competitors, like hen harriers and lynx. Hunters rarely acknowledge these negative impacts, and neither critics nor defenders of the sport like to engage with much nuance. Hunting is too emotive. Opinions are too entrenched. You’re with us or against us.

‘People no longer just disagree about things, they strongly disapprove of people with opposing views.’

It’s not just hunters who prefer dogma to detail. Consider the popular belief that wolves can bring about a landscape of fear with ‘cascading’ ecological effects. The supporting evidence for this is actually very mixed. The full story is complicated. But for many, this complexity has been reduced to an ecological fable and a five-minute YouTube video.

In his paper ‘Is science in danger of sanctifying the wolf?’, legendary wolf biologist David Mech criticised how ‘wolf advocates eagerly seize on any study they consider favourable to wolves.’ Of course, predators can affect prey populations, but their influence depends on many variables. Outside Yellowstone’s relatively natural environment, Mech argues that wolves may have little impact, due to ‘overriding anthropogenic influences.’ The world is much more complicated than the plug-and-play ecological solutions we love to reach for.

Confirmation bias

When we encounter stories that confirm our world view, we tend to adopt them as true, reserving our more critical thinking for anything that contradicts our preferred narrative. If we want to see wolves reintroduced, we embrace research that supports any benefits they may bring. But we’re much slower to grapple with the potential costs. If we depend on muirburn for our jobs or pastimes, we’re quick to welcome research that details its benefits and reluctant to acknowledge the negatives.

Even when we do try to understand what’s really going on, there are many factors conspiring to influence or mislead us – from our own internal biases to external forces like algorithms, special interest groups and even unscrupulous journalists. Conflict sells after all. TV and radio have long profited from a good row, but social media’s ‘rage machine’ has only taken it up a notch. Identifying the truth has never been harder.

Not black and white

With so many interests profiting by exaggerating conflict and inciting outrage, it can feel impossible to tell what’s real and what’s not, especially when media narratives or our own trusted ‘communities of knowledge’ push us towards quick conclusions. In 2020, a survey by the National Farmers Union Scotland found that 20% of 132 respondents believed badgers were attacking their livestock. But a follow-up study on 27 farms which had specifically reported badger issues, conducted by Science and Advice for Scottish Agriculture, found badger DNA on just 2 out of 39 lambs submitted for analysis, and no clear evidence that either lamb had been killed rather than merely scavenged.

Meanwhile fox DNA was identified on 87% of carcasses, including all those lambs confirmed to have been predated. So the study could find no definitive evidence that badgers were attacking live lambs. NatureScot concluded that the density of badgers on these farms ‘could explain why they are sometimes suspected of lamb predation.’ Farmers were seeing lots of badgers and lots of dead lambs, and had drawn their own conclusions. But the DNA evidence told a different story, revealing that foxes were far more likely to be responsible.

Soon after these results were published, fresh claims emerged from an Aberdeenshire farmer who said he had camera footage of badgers attacking ewes – but the footage was never released, and debate continues. Similar arguments surround the impact of sea eagles and wild boar. Farmers are certain they are suffering predatory attacks on their livestock, but incontrovertible evidence is hard to find, while identifying the true scale of these problems is harder still. Getting at the full and often complicated truth remains difficult. And whatever the evidence, people will often continue to believe what they want.

A way forward

As humans, we’re primed to make connections and spot patterns, even where they may not exist. Those of our ancestors who assumed that a suspicious rustling in the bushes was a predator were more likely to survive than those who hung around until definitive evidence emerged – sometimes it was a predator. The cost of waiting for suspicion to become certainty was potentially extreme. The cost of running away from an imagined threat was low.

But in today’s world, this primal vigilance has left us prone to exaggerating everyday conflicts. The cost of jumping first and judging later is often much higher, with hasty judgments polluting public discourse and polarising society. Meanwhile, the cost of taking time to verify threats should be lower, but we seem to struggle to shake off our palaeolithic hardwiring.

Getting at the truth remains difficult. And whatever the evidence, people will often continue to believe what they want.

So how might we do better? Identifying our personal prejudices and then guarding against confirmation bias is a good start. We might also look for evidence that contradicts as well as supports our beliefs, before weighing up all the competing evidence as objectively as we can. Science offers a uniquely powerful way to approach the truth, provided we use it for genuine enlightenment, and resist the temptation to just cherry pick those bits which support what we already believe.

Of course, even scientists make mistakes. But when new evidence emerges, the scientific consensus moves on – and we’d be wise to follow. Perhaps what we need more than anything is humility. To accept how little we know, to recognise complexity, nuance and the limits of our own experience. Maybe then we’ll come closer to understanding the truth – and each other.