Feet on the Ground, Head in the Sky: Drones in Biodiversity Work - By Jackson Robinson

Bird walks taught me that understanding biodiversity begins on the ground, with careful observations and local knowledge.

While Melville Pond has always been a peaceful place I could go to appreciate nature during my time at St Andrews, my perspective broadened once I saw it from above. My understanding of what was already pleasant from the ground deepened as I saw the whole area for what it was, a complex patchwork of water, reeds, worn footpaths, trees, and tall grass. The pond had not changed, but rather my way of looking at it had.

That shift in perspective has been a valuable part of my time in the Biodiversity Literacy VIP. Because I have not lived in Scotland all my life, part of what drew me to the VIP was the chance to become more familiar with the species and habitats around me. Through bird walks, camera trapping, species recording, mapping and video work, biodiversity has begun to feel less like a list of names and more like a living pattern that becomes visible when you pay careful attention to the world around you.

Learning to See from Above

On a technical level, a drone used in this kind of work is referred to as a UAV or “unmanned aerial vehicle”. In practice, though, I think it is better understood simply as another way of seeing. A drone does not replace fieldwork, local knowledge, or patient observation. Rather, it adds to them by offering a wider view. It lets you step back from a site and notice shape, scale, and change in a way that is hard to do when you are standing inside the habitat itself. That detail was what struck me when I started using a drone for the VIP.

After acquiring my drone certification, I began asking what a view from above could add to the work I was already doing on the ground. That question led me to survey Melville Pond, where I produced an overhead map and later returned to create a plant-health image of the site. It also led me to map the Botanic Garden and to think more seriously about how aerial surveys could support future projects beyond the university campus.

My drone gear set up at Melville Pond

From the ground, Melville Pond is simply a pleasant place to pass. From above, its intricacies become easier to read as details like the shape of the pond, the paths cut by repeated footfall, the edge habitats around the water, and the broader layout of the whole site are clearly defined. Some of the images also hint at how the vegetation itself is faring. A multispectral camera on the drone can pick up kinds of light that our eyes cannot, and that information can be turned into a rough picture of how active or stressed plants may be. With the proper paired ground data, these multispectral images can even be used to estimate the number of different plant species that may be in a given area. This method is not totally comprehensive, but it can reveal differences that are easy to miss at ground level and potentially seasonal patterns if the surveys are conducted regularly.

Melville Pond from above. On the top is the stitched drone map; on the bottom is a plant-health style view that highlights differences that are easy to miss from ground level.

This matters because many conservation questions are really questions about pattern and change. Where is habitat concentrated? Which parts of a site stay greener across the season? Where are paths wearing down vegetation the most? Which areas might need closer attention in the future? A drone does not answer those questions on its own, but it helps frame them more clearly.

From St Andrews to the Wider World

The more I worked with this kind of imagery, the more I realised that the value of drones is not limited to a university campus. Researchers around the world have already shown how useful drones can be when used appropriately. In a 2016 study of colony-nesting birds, drone images produced much more precise counts than traditional counts made from the ground. In 2019, researchers working in tropical forests used a consumer drone to assess how heavily tree canopies were infested by lianas, the woody vines that can reduce tree growth and carbon storage. More recent work from 2023 on intertidal coasts has used drones to map oyster reefs and estimate their condition by combining surface shape with colour and texture. The same basic idea that a view from above can make ecological patterns easier to measure keeps appearing across a host of diverse locations.

I find that sentiment particularly exciting because it matches my own experience closely. Using a drone has been most useful not when it does something flashy, but when it helps me understand a place I already know from the ground. Bird walks have sharpened my ability to notice species by movement, shape, and call. Camera trapping along the Kinnessburn has made me think more carefully about the animals that move through familiar places late at night or just out of sight of people. The drone then adds another layer to that same process. It does not tell a different story so much as adds a chapter to the story that is already around me. To me, that is the broader promise of technology in biodiversity conservation work. Useful technology like drones should not pull us away and isolate us from the natural world, but rather it should send us back to it with better questions and key insights.

It should also make biodiversity easier for other people to engage with. Many people are never going to fly a drone or process aerial imagery, and they should not have to. The point is not for everyone to become a specialist. The point is to make ecological information clearer and easier to share. A stitched aerial map, a simple comparison between seasons, or a clear visual summary of habitat change can help students, volunteers, land managers, and local communities understand what is happening around them and the context in which they exist.

Plant health map of the St Andrews Botanics. A map such as this one is easy to share and provides a concise summary of key informative metrics.

This is one reason I have also been interested in how the same approach could be scaled up. In a research proposal for another module, I explored how drones might help monitor restored Scottish oyster reefs based on the recent research carried out on the matter. At low tide, a drone could map the size and shape of a reef from above while field teams record oysters and other life on the ground. Repeating those surveys over time could help show whether restoration is really rebuilding healthy habitat, where recovery is strongest, and which sites need more attention. Just as importantly, the end result does not need to and should not remain buried in a technical paper. Instead, it can become a clear picture of reef health that managers and local communities can understand and use.

The same logic can scale up. I created this illustration for my oyster reef proposal, where drone mapping would be paired with field ecology to turn complex monitoring into something clear and useful for site managers and local communities.

Responsibility in the Air

Drones widen our field of vision, but they also place real responsibility on the person using them. A drone should not be flown simply because it can be. In all cases, it should be flown with a clear purpose, with the right permissions, and with constant attention to what that flight might do to wildlife and to others sharing the space. Even when used carelessly, drones can disturb animals, especially during sensitive periods such as breeding or nesting. There is no single rule that works for every species as some are not impacted, while others are much more sensitive. Responsible use means planning before take-off rather than improvising in the air. Factors that should be considered include but are not limited to choosing the right season, keeping flights short, avoiding repeated passes, flying at heights that reduce disturbance, and accepting that sometimes the best decision is not to launch at all. Responsibility use also involves trust. In public spaces, drones can make people uneasy if they appear without explanation. People who may be in a focal area deserve to know why a survey is happening, what is being recorded, and how the information will be used. Sensitive ecological information requires care too. A detailed map can support conservation, but if shared without consideration it can also expose vulnerable locations like nests, roosts, or dens. Proper usage of technology in conservation therefore requires restraint and proper judgement as much as capability.

A New Way of Noticing

For me, that is why the phrase “feet on the ground, head in the sky” still feels right. The drone matters, but so do the boots, the binoculars, the muddy edges of ponds, the slow bird walks, the camera traps, and the time spent learning about the wildlife of a place by first-hand experience. Technology in conservation work only becomes meaningful when it grows as a result of attention to detail rather than replacing it.

My experience in the VIP has convinced me that the best biodiversity work helps us see more clearly, tread more lightly, and care more deeply, all at the same time. The next time I pass Melville Pond, I will not see just a pond. I will see paths cutting through habitat, vegetation changing through the season, birds in the reed beds, and all the things I still have not noticed yet. That, to me, is the real value of technology like drones in biodiversity research and conservation. Not that they make nature feel more high-tech or flashy, but that, when used well, they make it much harder to overlook the life around us.

That sentiment is something that should matter to everyone, not just specialists in the field. The natural world around us is full of patterns that are easy to miss until something helps bring them into focus. Sometimes that means a bird walk. Sometimes it means a camera trap. Sometimes it means a drone. But the goal ultimately remains the same across the aforementioned cases: to learn how to look closely enough that care follows naturally.