Hi, welcome to my blog! For the last several years, I have been gathering stories about science and society, nature and people, oceans, diseases, cities, forests, and so much more. This is a place where I can share some of those stories with the world. I hope that, while you explore these pages, you find something wonderful or interesting that catches your eye. Thanks for reading!
Range Edges of Northeast Pacific Marine life
Click the image above or click here to visit the map.
Intertidal Entanglements
Take a look at my newest story, published by the Center for Humans and Nature:
"At the seaward fringe of my coastal city, there is a place that defies the rigidity of hard edges and boundary lines. In this place, where the ocean licks the land, a colorful and lively community thrives in an ecological borderland.
In tune with the clockwork of the moon and sun, the ocean pulls herself back twice each day. In doing so, she unveils the microcosmic worlds of urban tidepools—worlds that occupy the liminal spaces between land and sea and between city and submarine wildlands.
It is within this marginal strip of waterlogged earth that I find myself, ankle-deep in a Central California tidepool, probing a melon-sized sea anemone with my pointer finger.
How does my skin taste? I wonder..."
Read the rest at City Creatures
"At the seaward fringe of my coastal city, there is a place that defies the rigidity of hard edges and boundary lines. In this place, where the ocean licks the land, a colorful and lively community thrives in an ecological borderland.
In tune with the clockwork of the moon and sun, the ocean pulls herself back twice each day. In doing so, she unveils the microcosmic worlds of urban tidepools—worlds that occupy the liminal spaces between land and sea and between city and submarine wildlands.
It is within this marginal strip of waterlogged earth that I find myself, ankle-deep in a Central California tidepool, probing a melon-sized sea anemone with my pointer finger.
How does my skin taste? I wonder..."
Read the rest at City Creatures
I am incredibly grateful to PhD candidate Samuel Bedgood for anemone insight and to Julia Mason, Chapin Dorsett, and Dr. Gavin Van Horn for editorial assistance.
Scientist Solidarity drive
I am a member of Free Radicals, an incredible community of scientists, science educators, activists, and community organizers who operate at the intersection of science and social justice. We are currently calling on scientists to support #BlackLivesMatter and the abolition of our anti-Black policing system, critically consider their roles in the struggle for Black liberation, and donate.
Learn More About The Project
Also, follow Free Radicals on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook for daily content updates. I hope that you consider reading through our social media threads and/or donating — Free Radicals is matching donations to $6000+!
Learn More About The Project
Also, follow Free Radicals on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook for daily content updates. I hope that you consider reading through our social media threads and/or donating — Free Radicals is matching donations to $6000+!
photo feature
One of the anemone photos from my photo series "Between Tides" was featured by Inverse.com as one of their "Coolest Science Photos of the Week!"
Take a Look at the Article Here
Take a Look at the Article Here
AN Owl Limpet's Garden
Today’s urban tidepool exploration begins as I kneel next to a patch of barren rock occupied solely by a squat, snail-like creature. She is a female Owl Limpet (Lottia gigantea), with ridges and barnacles texturing the top of her conical, chicken-egg-sized shell.
As I rub my inquisitive fingers along her serrated upper surface, I notice a green hue and slimy texture—a layer of algae, I deduce—growing upon the surrounding rock. The algal layer is arranged in a striking patchwork pattern, as if a miniature lawn mower had been haphazardly dragged across an overgrown, slippery lawn.
Read the rest at The Urban Field Naturalist Project
As I rub my inquisitive fingers along her serrated upper surface, I notice a green hue and slimy texture—a layer of algae, I deduce—growing upon the surrounding rock. The algal layer is arranged in a striking patchwork pattern, as if a miniature lawn mower had been haphazardly dragged across an overgrown, slippery lawn.
Read the rest at The Urban Field Naturalist Project
Pandemic Planet: How We Built a Disease-Friendly World
The emergence of the COVID-19 pandemic reveals fundamental insights into the structure of our planetary community; we have created a disease-friendly world.
As of Tuesday morning, May 12, the novel coronavirus (SARS-CoV-2) has infected over four million people in at least 187 countries. More than 285 thousand people have died. And while many countries and U.S. states have begun to reopen public life, it is decidedly clear that COVID-19 will not fade away in the immediate future. The coronavirus is still moving swiftly and silently to new people and communities, threatening to overwhelm medical facilities across the globe.
In response to the infection’s continued spread, we humans are forced to confront several new realities for our interconnected planet. One of those realities is a phenomenon called zoonosis.
Read the rest at Mangoprism
As of Tuesday morning, May 12, the novel coronavirus (SARS-CoV-2) has infected over four million people in at least 187 countries. More than 285 thousand people have died. And while many countries and U.S. states have begun to reopen public life, it is decidedly clear that COVID-19 will not fade away in the immediate future. The coronavirus is still moving swiftly and silently to new people and communities, threatening to overwhelm medical facilities across the globe.
In response to the infection’s continued spread, we humans are forced to confront several new realities for our interconnected planet. One of those realities is a phenomenon called zoonosis.
Read the rest at Mangoprism
For this piece, I had a lot of fun digging into the many many great stories on the topic. Here are some of the best resources that I gathered:
For clear, concise, and entertaining science writing that is reputable and well-researched, I have been reading Ed Yong's stories in The Atlantic. These include Why the Coronavirus Has Been So Successful, How the Pandemic Will End, Our Pandemic Summer, and Why The Coronavirus Is So Confusing.
For more information on zoonosis, our best resource is David Quammen and his book "Spillover". He was recently featured in the Emergence Magazine Podcast and also has recently written a piece in the New Yorker and a piece in the New York Times.
Another great resource on the connections between human health and ecosystem health is the EcoHealth Alliance. Unfortunately, the government recently cut the EcoHealth Alliance's funding for bat virus monitoring in China. These are the kinds of programs we need to prevent future pandemics!
For content focusing on racism and zoonosis, I recommend Looking Beyond Pangolins and Chinese ‘Wet Markets’ to a Culture of Racial Bias, Why We Shouldn’t Push for a Closure of China’s ‘Wet Markets’, and I Am Not Your Peril.
The UN Environment Programme also put together a short video about zoonotic diseases.
More resources to come! If you find any great stories or videos for me to include, send them my way — frankiegerraty [at] gmail [dot] com
For clear, concise, and entertaining science writing that is reputable and well-researched, I have been reading Ed Yong's stories in The Atlantic. These include Why the Coronavirus Has Been So Successful, How the Pandemic Will End, Our Pandemic Summer, and Why The Coronavirus Is So Confusing.
For more information on zoonosis, our best resource is David Quammen and his book "Spillover". He was recently featured in the Emergence Magazine Podcast and also has recently written a piece in the New Yorker and a piece in the New York Times.
Another great resource on the connections between human health and ecosystem health is the EcoHealth Alliance. Unfortunately, the government recently cut the EcoHealth Alliance's funding for bat virus monitoring in China. These are the kinds of programs we need to prevent future pandemics!
For content focusing on racism and zoonosis, I recommend Looking Beyond Pangolins and Chinese ‘Wet Markets’ to a Culture of Racial Bias, Why We Shouldn’t Push for a Closure of China’s ‘Wet Markets’, and I Am Not Your Peril.
The UN Environment Programme also put together a short video about zoonotic diseases.
More resources to come! If you find any great stories or videos for me to include, send them my way — frankiegerraty [at] gmail [dot] com
guppy evolution
Seven humans, six cats, and one thousand fish are at work in a dilapidated shack. The space is shared, but their motives are various.
The six humans are biologists who have traveled from various regions around the world to attend to a common project; they are gathered in the mountains of the Caribbean island of Trinidad. Driven by curiosity and carried by plane, they seek scientific insight into the ways that groups of living beings change over time. The cats are also guided by curiosity, which generally leads them to kill other living beings that live around the property. Precisely what drives the fish is anyone’s guess.
The shack is a forty-minute drive from Trinidad’s regional airport into the rainforested mountains of the Northern Range. It sits at the edge of a secondary rainforest, nestled into a hillside behind a small-scale chicken farm. No telephone. Wireless internet sketchy at best. Metal grates cover the shack’s numerous un-glassed window frames, letting the tropical humidity seep into the house and cover the walls in a permanent sheen of moisture.
Inside the shack the biologists congregate in a cement-floored room. The room is strewn with extension cords, tape, plastic water bottles, tiny slips of paper, injection needles, test tubes, two microscopes, scales, a few digital cameras, and a robust collection of dirty coffee cups.
A resident cane toad hops around the shack during the evening. One time, a boa constrictor was discovered underneath a table in the living room.
One of the walls of the cement-floored room, which the biologists generously call a “lab,” is lined by metal racks that hold a few dozen plastic fish tanks. PVC piping and flexible plastic tubes, zip-tied to the metal framework, deliver air to the fish-filled tanks and provide an ambient bubbling noise for the biologists at work. With unexpected aggression, perhaps from too much time immersed in each others’ company, the researchers yell numbers and letters to their teammates at a rip-roaring pace.
Their research examines the evolution of guppies, a type of stream-dwelling fish that lives in the mountains of Trinidad, and their experiment involves conducting a monthly census of every guppy that lives in a given segment of stream. The rainy season has been drier than is typical for the Trinidadian rainforest, which means that the guppy populations are booming, which means that the researchers have a lot of work to do.
The six humans are biologists who have traveled from various regions around the world to attend to a common project; they are gathered in the mountains of the Caribbean island of Trinidad. Driven by curiosity and carried by plane, they seek scientific insight into the ways that groups of living beings change over time. The cats are also guided by curiosity, which generally leads them to kill other living beings that live around the property. Precisely what drives the fish is anyone’s guess.
The shack is a forty-minute drive from Trinidad’s regional airport into the rainforested mountains of the Northern Range. It sits at the edge of a secondary rainforest, nestled into a hillside behind a small-scale chicken farm. No telephone. Wireless internet sketchy at best. Metal grates cover the shack’s numerous un-glassed window frames, letting the tropical humidity seep into the house and cover the walls in a permanent sheen of moisture.
Inside the shack the biologists congregate in a cement-floored room. The room is strewn with extension cords, tape, plastic water bottles, tiny slips of paper, injection needles, test tubes, two microscopes, scales, a few digital cameras, and a robust collection of dirty coffee cups.
A resident cane toad hops around the shack during the evening. One time, a boa constrictor was discovered underneath a table in the living room.
One of the walls of the cement-floored room, which the biologists generously call a “lab,” is lined by metal racks that hold a few dozen plastic fish tanks. PVC piping and flexible plastic tubes, zip-tied to the metal framework, deliver air to the fish-filled tanks and provide an ambient bubbling noise for the biologists at work. With unexpected aggression, perhaps from too much time immersed in each others’ company, the researchers yell numbers and letters to their teammates at a rip-roaring pace.
Their research examines the evolution of guppies, a type of stream-dwelling fish that lives in the mountains of Trinidad, and their experiment involves conducting a monthly census of every guppy that lives in a given segment of stream. The rainy season has been drier than is typical for the Trinidadian rainforest, which means that the guppy populations are booming, which means that the researchers have a lot of work to do.
Above: a research technician, Miriam, smiling after taking measurements of light penetration through the forest canopy at a field site.
“Three green; six violet” hollers Andy, a coordinator for the project who has been studying Trinidadian guppies for six years. His eyes remain glued to the microscope eyepieces while communicating with the data recorder.
“Take a sexy” responds the data taker, a science writer and biologist who is new to the research team. In a few short weeks, the new research technician has already learned to communicate in laboratory lingo with ease. A “sexy,” referring to the fish’s photograph, directs the photographer to splay out the guppy’s dorsal and anal fins for morphometric analyses. The photo will be later used to compare the sizes and shapes of guppy bodies between different populations.
“Three green; six violet” hollers Andy, a coordinator for the project who has been studying Trinidadian guppies for six years. His eyes remain glued to the microscope eyepieces while communicating with the data recorder.
“Take a sexy” responds the data taker, a science writer and biologist who is new to the research team. In a few short weeks, the new research technician has already learned to communicate in laboratory lingo with ease. A “sexy,” referring to the fish’s photograph, directs the photographer to splay out the guppy’s dorsal and anal fins for morphometric analyses. The photo will be later used to compare the sizes and shapes of guppy bodies between different populations.
A field site in the Guanapo River basin in Trinidad, with a transect measuring different segments of the stream.
The Trinidadian guppy system has been used over the last forty-five years to reveal novel and groundbreaking insights into the ever-transforming processes of the natural world. David Reznick, the primary researcher who hired the seven field biologists and rented the aforementioned shack, began studying guppies in 1977 as a graduate student at the University of Pennsylvania. Now he is an evolutionary ecologist at UC Riverside who studies questions like, How do natural populations evolve in response to changing environmental conditions? and What are the rates and drivers of placental evolution? Reznick discovered that a placenta has evolved at least eight times in the Poeciliidae, a family of freshwater fishes which includes Trinidad’s guppies. On a lucky day, field biologists in the Trinidad research station might see a pregnant guppy give live-birth to free swimming micro-guppies.
In 1997, Reznick and three collaborators revealed that male guppies evolve rapidly in response to the introduction of a predatory fish species; the age and size of mature male guppies shifted over the course of only four years. The paper was titled “Evaluation of the Rate of Evolution in Natural Populations of Guppies (Poecilia reticulata)” and published in the highly acclaimed journal Science. Female guppies, who had considerably less genetic variation in the original experimental population, took seven and a half years to evolve in response to the predators. Still, this breakthrough revealed that the process of evolution was happening in natural systems at a rapid and unprecedented pace.
Evolution, once considered a process so slow that it could only be seen by looking into the fossil record across the longue durée of deep time, was happening at a timescale relevant to human lives and to the studies of ecology and conservation biology.
The Trinidadian guppy system has been used over the last forty-five years to reveal novel and groundbreaking insights into the ever-transforming processes of the natural world. David Reznick, the primary researcher who hired the seven field biologists and rented the aforementioned shack, began studying guppies in 1977 as a graduate student at the University of Pennsylvania. Now he is an evolutionary ecologist at UC Riverside who studies questions like, How do natural populations evolve in response to changing environmental conditions? and What are the rates and drivers of placental evolution? Reznick discovered that a placenta has evolved at least eight times in the Poeciliidae, a family of freshwater fishes which includes Trinidad’s guppies. On a lucky day, field biologists in the Trinidad research station might see a pregnant guppy give live-birth to free swimming micro-guppies.
In 1997, Reznick and three collaborators revealed that male guppies evolve rapidly in response to the introduction of a predatory fish species; the age and size of mature male guppies shifted over the course of only four years. The paper was titled “Evaluation of the Rate of Evolution in Natural Populations of Guppies (Poecilia reticulata)” and published in the highly acclaimed journal Science. Female guppies, who had considerably less genetic variation in the original experimental population, took seven and a half years to evolve in response to the predators. Still, this breakthrough revealed that the process of evolution was happening in natural systems at a rapid and unprecedented pace.
Evolution, once considered a process so slow that it could only be seen by looking into the fossil record across the longue durée of deep time, was happening at a timescale relevant to human lives and to the studies of ecology and conservation biology.
David Reznick, fishing for guppies. Pic: The Guppy Project
Dr. Reznick and his guppy-minded companions had stumbled upon a gold mine; the ecosystems of Trinidad’s streams provided a previously unparalleled opportunity to conduct experiments in the wild. Rivers on the island are numerous but short, and usually stocattoed by large waterfalls and rapids. The geographic ranges of guppies and their predators is restricted by these swiftwater barriers, and tinkering biologists have moved species outside of their natural ranges to reveal how fish populations and ecosystems respond. These experimental introductions are duplicated in several streams across the island to ensure that the scientific conclusions are replicable, and can therefore be generalized to describe fundamental truths about the system and about the processes of nature itself.
For the field biologists, waterfalls are both blessing and curse. Whitewater slides and rock-jumping opportunities abound, but rapids must also be climbed with precision and skill to access many of the research sites.
Dr. Reznick and his guppy-minded companions had stumbled upon a gold mine; the ecosystems of Trinidad’s streams provided a previously unparalleled opportunity to conduct experiments in the wild. Rivers on the island are numerous but short, and usually stocattoed by large waterfalls and rapids. The geographic ranges of guppies and their predators is restricted by these swiftwater barriers, and tinkering biologists have moved species outside of their natural ranges to reveal how fish populations and ecosystems respond. These experimental introductions are duplicated in several streams across the island to ensure that the scientific conclusions are replicable, and can therefore be generalized to describe fundamental truths about the system and about the processes of nature itself.
For the field biologists, waterfalls are both blessing and curse. Whitewater slides and rock-jumping opportunities abound, but rapids must also be climbed with precision and skill to access many of the research sites.
A Trinidadian waterfall. Pic: The Guppy Project
Fieldwork in evolutionary biology is not all binoculars and safari-pants; it is not all machetes on jungle single-tracks and SCUBA diving with sharks. Add in a few other factors—face deforming insect stings, moldy socks, torrential rain, foot rot, crotch rot, hordes of disease-carrying mosquitoes, instant coffee, tarantulas, fear of stepping on a bushmaster of fer-de-lance, fear that the ill-equipped field vehicles will not make it back to the shack, fear of running into illegal poachers on the trails, fear that the weather might turn and that rising water levels would trap the team in the field—and a more accurate mental image of what fieldwork in evolutionary biology can look like starts to emerge.
Back in the lab, Andy and his research team’s work is tedious; the crew “processes” thousands of fish per month. This process involves marking each fish with fluorescent dye, taking DNA, capturing an photograph of the fish above a ruler, measuring the fish’s mass, taking note of its location in a given stream, and doing so with enough care so as to not hurt the fish and with enough haste so as to prevent back to back to back twelve hour days of monotony.
Through this tedium, the researchers quantify their population of guppies into a string of numbers and letters. The DNA that they collect, when it is sequenced in the California-based project headquarters, will also be translated into a string of numbers and letters. With quantification comes a certain level of reduction; through science, life’s ineffable diversity is translated into decimal points. Populations and living systems are observed and quantified. The natural world is reduced to a rough sketch itself.
Fieldwork in evolutionary biology is not all binoculars and safari-pants; it is not all machetes on jungle single-tracks and SCUBA diving with sharks. Add in a few other factors—face deforming insect stings, moldy socks, torrential rain, foot rot, crotch rot, hordes of disease-carrying mosquitoes, instant coffee, tarantulas, fear of stepping on a bushmaster of fer-de-lance, fear that the ill-equipped field vehicles will not make it back to the shack, fear of running into illegal poachers on the trails, fear that the weather might turn and that rising water levels would trap the team in the field—and a more accurate mental image of what fieldwork in evolutionary biology can look like starts to emerge.
Back in the lab, Andy and his research team’s work is tedious; the crew “processes” thousands of fish per month. This process involves marking each fish with fluorescent dye, taking DNA, capturing an photograph of the fish above a ruler, measuring the fish’s mass, taking note of its location in a given stream, and doing so with enough care so as to not hurt the fish and with enough haste so as to prevent back to back to back twelve hour days of monotony.
Through this tedium, the researchers quantify their population of guppies into a string of numbers and letters. The DNA that they collect, when it is sequenced in the California-based project headquarters, will also be translated into a string of numbers and letters. With quantification comes a certain level of reduction; through science, life’s ineffable diversity is translated into decimal points. Populations and living systems are observed and quantified. The natural world is reduced to a rough sketch itself.
A subtle yet spectacular flower growing on the banks of a survey stream.
Importantly, the scientists must ensure that the data they collect is accurate and also meaningful; are differences in the coloration of guppies in different streams actually the product of variation in sunlight penetration through the forest canopy, or are some other ecological factors at play? Other considerations are even more threatening to the scientific enterprise—do slight variations in the researchers’ methods cause changes in the system itself? Brightly colored guppies, for example, are easier for the biologists to see and catch. Could the researchers, who accidentally kill guppies with more regularity that they would like to admit, be driving the process of evolution itself? Are dull-colored guppies being favored by (un)natural selection?
The science writer sometimes ponders these questions as he plows through the laboratory routine. Each fish’s mass continues to be scribbled into the log. Each photograph is captured and compiled onto external hard drives at the end of the day. Later, from the disordered jumble of scribbled numbers, someone will deduce a meaning.
The ponderous researchers know that the system, and the peculiarities of the guppy populations, may not be accurately described by their accumulated spreadsheets of data. Through their work, abstraction and quantification intersect with the unmeasurable and ineffable. The researchers wonder if the certainty of their science is illusory. Still, they work on.
The writer ponders further: could anyone do better?
Importantly, the scientists must ensure that the data they collect is accurate and also meaningful; are differences in the coloration of guppies in different streams actually the product of variation in sunlight penetration through the forest canopy, or are some other ecological factors at play? Other considerations are even more threatening to the scientific enterprise—do slight variations in the researchers’ methods cause changes in the system itself? Brightly colored guppies, for example, are easier for the biologists to see and catch. Could the researchers, who accidentally kill guppies with more regularity that they would like to admit, be driving the process of evolution itself? Are dull-colored guppies being favored by (un)natural selection?
The science writer sometimes ponders these questions as he plows through the laboratory routine. Each fish’s mass continues to be scribbled into the log. Each photograph is captured and compiled onto external hard drives at the end of the day. Later, from the disordered jumble of scribbled numbers, someone will deduce a meaning.
The ponderous researchers know that the system, and the peculiarities of the guppy populations, may not be accurately described by their accumulated spreadsheets of data. Through their work, abstraction and quantification intersect with the unmeasurable and ineffable. The researchers wonder if the certainty of their science is illusory. Still, they work on.
The writer ponders further: could anyone do better?
For this piece, I was conducting an author emulation practice of David Quammen, a stellar science writer and the author of The Boilerplate Rhino (the book I am currently reading) plus a lot of other (better) books. All credit goes to him for any similarities in style.
Ecologies Of silence
With time, granite cliffs will crumble away into smaller stones. Freezing and thawing, year after year and ice age after ice age, shards of stone are shaken loose from granite monoliths and accumulate on the slopes below. This rubble, when it has piled up with the proper shape and size, is known as "talus" and is the site of an ecological drama playing out in real time: the rapid disappearance of the American pika (Ochotona princeps).
Pika Photo: J. Jacobson, Beever et al (2017)
Pikas (yes, someone long ago decided that the plural of "pika" should be "pikas") are hamster-sized mammals that live in cool climates around the world. Apart from an anomalous low-elevation population in the Columbia River Gorge, pikas in North America are mountain-dwellers that spend their lives on high-elevation talus slopes across the American West and Canada.
For the last couple months, I have been traversing this broad range of pika habitat with a four-person research team. Our research, which builds upon a twenty-five year dataset, documents long-term changes in the abundance and density of pikas and other talus-associated plants and animals.
Luckily for us, pikas occupy some incredibly scenic landscapes.
Pikas (yes, someone long ago decided that the plural of "pika" should be "pikas") are hamster-sized mammals that live in cool climates around the world. Apart from an anomalous low-elevation population in the Columbia River Gorge, pikas in North America are mountain-dwellers that spend their lives on high-elevation talus slopes across the American West and Canada.
For the last couple months, I have been traversing this broad range of pika habitat with a four-person research team. Our research, which builds upon a twenty-five year dataset, documents long-term changes in the abundance and density of pikas and other talus-associated plants and animals.
Luckily for us, pikas occupy some incredibly scenic landscapes.
Although pikas occupy an expansive range as a species, an individual pika is unlikely to move farther than one kilometer in her lifetime. She will forage vigorously throughout the snow-free summer in order to collect a cache of vegetation, which she will defend territorially in order to sustain herself through the winter.
Above, an example of a pika "haypile." Pikas do not hibernate; they spend the summer collecting grasses and forbs that will serve as their food supply while they are trapped under snow through the winter.
Important to the plight of the pika, they are highly susceptible to extreme temperatures. A three degree Celsius rise in internal temperature will cause a pika to overheat and die. For this reason, pikas find refuge in pools of cold air that accumulate in the interstices of talus rock formations. Their low thermal tolerance makes them highly susceptible to changes in regional and local climate; pikas are regarded as a poster child for wildlife vulnerability to climate change.
Important to the plight of the pika, they are highly susceptible to extreme temperatures. A three degree Celsius rise in internal temperature will cause a pika to overheat and die. For this reason, pikas find refuge in pools of cold air that accumulate in the interstices of talus rock formations. Their low thermal tolerance makes them highly susceptible to changes in regional and local climate; pikas are regarded as a poster child for wildlife vulnerability to climate change.
Pikas can moderate body temperature through posture, as demonstrated above, and behavior, such as spending more time at greater depths in talus formations. Photo: J. Jacobson, Beever et al (2017)
On an early morning in the Great Basin desert, Nevada, the stirrings of waking bodies shift in their tents in preparation for a 5 AM pika monitoring start time. Field guides, clipboards, and granola bars are stuffed into backpacks. As the first rays of light begin to loom over the flat horizon, the team quickens their pace. Binoculars? Check. GPS units? Check.
It is a short walk from the makeshift parking area to the nearest talus patches, and the team begins their survey before the sun begins to rise. In the early hours, the survey site is filled with an eery silence.
After seven hours of intense searching, an unsettling realization spreads across the research team: this is the first year that there are no pikas left at this study site.
It is a short walk from the makeshift parking area to the nearest talus patches, and the team begins their survey before the sun begins to rise. In the early hours, the survey site is filled with an eery silence.
After seven hours of intense searching, an unsettling realization spreads across the research team: this is the first year that there are no pikas left at this study site.
The Great Basin, from the outset, does not seem like ideal pika habitat. Much different from the cold and productive "mainland" habitats of the Rocky and Sierra Nevada Mountain Ranges, where pika populations are much more stable and robust, many talus patches in the Great Basin are exposed to extreme summer heat and surrounded by cactus gardens or sagebrush prairie. Sub-talus ice and pools of cold air have helped to provide refuge for pikas underneath the rocks, but it seems that these microrefugia may not provide a sufficient buffer for pikas in an era of rapid global temperature changes.
One half of the historic locations of pika occurrence (recorded in field notes collected in the late 19th and early 20th centuries) that my team drove across the Great Basin to monitor are currently unoccupied. These pika populations have either moved upslope, when possible, or disappeared into thin air.
One half of the historic locations of pika occurrence (recorded in field notes collected in the late 19th and early 20th centuries) that my team drove across the Great Basin to monitor are currently unoccupied. These pika populations have either moved upslope, when possible, or disappeared into thin air.
Talus patches, often high on mountain slopes, are commonly separated by deep valleys that create impassible barriers between pika populations.
As pikas and other animals who are unprepared for future thermal challenges have begun to respond to a changing climate, the ecological consequences are playing out in real time. Wildlife must either evolve, adapt (such as changing behavior or habitat), move, or perish. Because of the pace of temperature changes, many wildlife populations must either migrate northward or, such as is the case of pikas, upward, to escape the heat.
This upslope migration might work out for pikas in the immediate future, but the long-term prospects of this coping mechanism are somewhat bleak. As pikas move towards the tops of mountains, they become isolated onto geographic "islands." Small portions of pika populations, called "metapopulations," become separated by a sea of inhospitable conditions as the connectivity between potential habitats is fragmented.
The crux of the pika's conundrum is this: as they move upwards towards the mountaintops, they are no longer able to move northwards along wildlife corridors to the cooler regions that may support sustainable population numbers in the future.
Pikas are territorial, and they defend a "home range" with a radius of about twelve meters. Range contraction from upslope migrations would significantly limit the amount of home ranges available to a population and consequently drive down population numbers. This gradual loss in potential mates, from the perspective of conservation genetics, is doomed to enter into what geneticists call the "extinction vortex." Perhaps as sinister as it sounds, the extinction vortex is a one-way track of population decrease and consequent inbreeding, resulting in a loss of evolutionary fitness that drives further population losses.
As pikas and other animals who are unprepared for future thermal challenges have begun to respond to a changing climate, the ecological consequences are playing out in real time. Wildlife must either evolve, adapt (such as changing behavior or habitat), move, or perish. Because of the pace of temperature changes, many wildlife populations must either migrate northward or, such as is the case of pikas, upward, to escape the heat.
This upslope migration might work out for pikas in the immediate future, but the long-term prospects of this coping mechanism are somewhat bleak. As pikas move towards the tops of mountains, they become isolated onto geographic "islands." Small portions of pika populations, called "metapopulations," become separated by a sea of inhospitable conditions as the connectivity between potential habitats is fragmented.
The crux of the pika's conundrum is this: as they move upwards towards the mountaintops, they are no longer able to move northwards along wildlife corridors to the cooler regions that may support sustainable population numbers in the future.
Pikas are territorial, and they defend a "home range" with a radius of about twelve meters. Range contraction from upslope migrations would significantly limit the amount of home ranges available to a population and consequently drive down population numbers. This gradual loss in potential mates, from the perspective of conservation genetics, is doomed to enter into what geneticists call the "extinction vortex." Perhaps as sinister as it sounds, the extinction vortex is a one-way track of population decrease and consequent inbreeding, resulting in a loss of evolutionary fitness that drives further population losses.
Above, a high-elevation site in the Great Basin where I did not find any pikas. I did, however, surprise a bobcat who was napping in a shaded cave. The surprise was mutual; I hollered in fear when I saw it jump out of the cave two feet below me. My teammate heard my yell from across the basin.
Pika calls are distinct. Described as a bark or a chirp, a trained ear can pick out a pika call with relative ease. There are regional dialects in pika calls; in the Great Basin, calls have a distinct metallic trill. Unfortunately, these metallic calls were few and far between during our ten-day expedition.
After returning from the field I was stunned by the the lack of pikas in the Great Basin. This eery emptiness of talus sounds is what my research advisor has begun to call ecological silence.
With some reflection, I began thinking seriously about changing soundscapes and the importance of our (human) auditory sense in shaping relationships with the more-than-human world. Why have we evolved the capacity to listen? In what ways does listening differ from our other senses? Why is sound such a profound driver of human emotions? How have our relationships with sounds changed in an era when audio can be recorded and preserved in our cell phones and computer hard drives?
An important question that emerged from my pondering asks about the significance of my fieldwork experience in the Great Basin: why does ecological silence matter?
Pika calls are distinct. Described as a bark or a chirp, a trained ear can pick out a pika call with relative ease. There are regional dialects in pika calls; in the Great Basin, calls have a distinct metallic trill. Unfortunately, these metallic calls were few and far between during our ten-day expedition.
After returning from the field I was stunned by the the lack of pikas in the Great Basin. This eery emptiness of talus sounds is what my research advisor has begun to call ecological silence.
With some reflection, I began thinking seriously about changing soundscapes and the importance of our (human) auditory sense in shaping relationships with the more-than-human world. Why have we evolved the capacity to listen? In what ways does listening differ from our other senses? Why is sound such a profound driver of human emotions? How have our relationships with sounds changed in an era when audio can be recorded and preserved in our cell phones and computer hard drives?
An important question that emerged from my pondering asks about the significance of my fieldwork experience in the Great Basin: why does ecological silence matter?
A male bighorn sheep, encountered while hiking in Glacier NP.
When listening to a biotic soundscape, the distinct sound signature conveys important information about the ecosystem and habitat. A visual analysis is rarely sufficient for effectively analyzing ecosystem health, and new research has begun to reveal the potential for using sound as a tool to learn about changing ecologies.
While a visual survey of talus may provide some level of confidence for assessing pika population numbers, close listening allows a pika researcher to much more accurately estimate the population size and density of pikas at a given site.
The disappearance of pika sounds, I now realize, is an important warning. Our ecosystems are becoming so radically transformed that they are turning silent.
When listening to a biotic soundscape, the distinct sound signature conveys important information about the ecosystem and habitat. A visual analysis is rarely sufficient for effectively analyzing ecosystem health, and new research has begun to reveal the potential for using sound as a tool to learn about changing ecologies.
While a visual survey of talus may provide some level of confidence for assessing pika population numbers, close listening allows a pika researcher to much more accurately estimate the population size and density of pikas at a given site.
The disappearance of pika sounds, I now realize, is an important warning. Our ecosystems are becoming so radically transformed that they are turning silent.
A hoary marmot, lounging.
As pika densities dwindle and creep towards the mountaintops, it may also become less beneficial and more risky for a pika to call out to others. With a loss in density, there will be fewer pikas to receive the call. Calls may also be increasingly used by predators to track down individuals, since there is no protection as a result of collective vocalizations (like you might find with frogs, for example. Because there are often hundreds of frogs croaking on a given streambank, it is very hard to determine the precise location of a given frog). With pikas and frogs and people, there is safety in numbers and in speaking out as part of a larger collective.
As pika densities dwindle and creep towards the mountaintops, it may also become less beneficial and more risky for a pika to call out to others. With a loss in density, there will be fewer pikas to receive the call. Calls may also be increasingly used by predators to track down individuals, since there is no protection as a result of collective vocalizations (like you might find with frogs, for example. Because there are often hundreds of frogs croaking on a given streambank, it is very hard to determine the precise location of a given frog). With pikas and frogs and people, there is safety in numbers and in speaking out as part of a larger collective.
Before my trip to the Great Basin, I never realized that silence can be heavy. The silence of logged forests and warming mountaintops is laden with ghosts. These silent places bear the weight of histories, of rambunctious and noisy lives and spirits that have already slipped away.
A deep sense of sorrow fills my consciousness as I remember a lone pika, perched on a mountaintop, calling out into the growing nightfall. I wonder if she was the last one left on her mountain. I imagine her call as hopeful, still clinging to the wish that her message might meet a companion:
"Hello! I am still here. Is anyone out there? Can anybody hear me?"
A deep sense of sorrow fills my consciousness as I remember a lone pika, perched on a mountaintop, calling out into the growing nightfall. I wonder if she was the last one left on her mountain. I imagine her call as hopeful, still clinging to the wish that her message might meet a companion:
"Hello! I am still here. Is anyone out there? Can anybody hear me?"
Photo: Will Thompson / USGS
"We’ve begun to talk about living in the Anthropocene, a world shaped by humans. But E.O. Wilson, the naturalist and prophet of environmental degradation, has suggested another name: the Eremocine, the age of loneliness." -Brooke Jarvis
"We’ve begun to talk about living in the Anthropocene, a world shaped by humans. But E.O. Wilson, the naturalist and prophet of environmental degradation, has suggested another name: the Eremocine, the age of loneliness." -Brooke Jarvis