Cookies help us run our site more efficiently.

By clicking “Accept”, you agree to the storing of cookies on your device to enhance site navigation, analyze site usage, and assist in our marketing efforts. View our Privacy Policy for more information or to customize your cookie preferences.

Restoring coastal habitat boosts wildlife numbers by 61% – but puzzling failures mean we can still do better

News Feed
Friday, April 19, 2024

Chris BrownHumans love the coast. But we love it to death, so much so we’ve destroyed valuable coastal habitat – in the case of some types of habitat, most of it has gone. Pollution, coastal development, climate change and many other human impacts have degraded or destroyed swathes of mangrove forests, saltmarshes, seagrass meadows, macroalgae (seaweed) forests and coral and shellfish reefs. We’ve lost a staggering 85% of shellfish reefs around the world and coral is bleaching globally. When healthy, these coastal habitats help feed the world by supporting fisheries. They are home to more than 100 species of charismatic marine megafauna, ranging from sharks to dugongs. They sequester carbon, thus helping to slow climate change. The list goes on. Restored wetlands provide vital habitat for waders like red-necked stints and curlew sandpipers, which are in sharp decline. Michael Brown Healthy coastal habitats are the gift that keeps on giving. We need them back, so there’s a lot of enthusiasm for restoring these habitats. For example, we can plant mangroves, build new shellfish reefs and reduce pollution to help seagrass grow back. But we want to recover more than just the habitats. We want the animals they support too. We need to know if restoration is helping animals. We analysed restoration projects around the world to assess how animals are benefitting. Compared to degraded sites, restored habitats have much larger and more diverse animal populations. Overall, animal numbers and the types of animals in restored habitats are similar to those in natural habitats. So restoration works. But outcomes for animals vary from project to project. Not all projects deliver the goods. As a result, resources are wasted and humanity misses out on the huge benefits of healthy coastal habitats. Coastal habitats are home to more than 100 large marine animals, including these rays. Michael Sievers Read more: Global coral bleaching caused by global warming demands a global response Animals can respond well to restoration We collated over 5,000 data points from 160 studies of coastal restoration projects around the world. Excitingly, animal populations and communities were remarkably similar to those in comparable undisturbed natural sites. For example, restoring seagrass off Adelaide’s coast brought back invertebrates, which are food for many fish species Australians love to catch, such as Australasian snapper. Invertebrate numbers here were comparable to nearby natural seagrass meadows. Restored seagrass habitat along Adelaide’s coast supports populations of invertebrates that provide food for fish. Read more: From sharks in seagrass to manatees in mangroves, we've found large marine species in some surprising places Overall, our review found animal populations in restored coastal habitats were 61% larger and 35% more diverse than in unrestored, degraded sites. So restoration produces serious benefits. Some projects recorded dramatic increases. For instance, after oyster reefs were restored in Pumicestone Passage, Queensland, fish numbers increased by more than ten times. The number of fish species increased almost fourfold. Most of the world’s shellfish reefs have been lost. Chris Brown And animals can occupy newly restored sites surprisingly quickly. Fish and invertebrate numbers in restored seagrass and mangroves can match those in natural sites within a year or two. This happens even though the vegetation is far sparser in restored areas. Our study shows that efforts to restore coastal habitat certainly can help animals thrive. Read more: Once the fish factories and ‘kidneys’ of colder seas, Australia’s decimated shellfish reefs are coming back Results are not guaranteed Although restoration generally helped animals, good outcomes are not guaranteed. We found many projects where animal numbers or diversity barely increased. It was not clear why some projects were great for animals and others had lacklustre results. The mangrove golden whistler depends on mangroves, but much of its habitat has been degraded or lost. Michael Brown Some restoration sites could be in places where animals cannot easily find them. In other cases, actions to restore the habitat may simply not work. Despite our best efforts, we failed to create suitable environments. It could be that animals are returning to restored habitats, but we’re not capturing them with our monitoring. We sorely need more consistent restoration outcomes. We may lose community support for restoration if, for example, it doesn’t deliver on promises of improved fisheries. We are still working out how to restore coastlines effectively. Clearly, more work is needed to improve techniques and the monitoring of animal numbers. Global alliances and groups are developing standardised frameworks to guide restoration practice and to report on project designs and outcomes. Such strategies and co-ordination promise to deliver more consistent benefits. The black-fronted dotterel is one of many bird species that benefit from restoring saltmarshes. Michael Brown Read more: If we protect mangroves, we protect our fisheries, our towns and ourselves New technologies can improve monitoring Monitoring animals and restoration outcomes in coastal habitats is challenging. These aquatic habitats are structurally complex, often impenetrable and hard to navigate, and can be dangerous. New technologies, such as artificial intelligence (AI) and environmental DNA (eDNA), allow us to collect more and better data on which animals are present and how they use these habitats. We’re rapidly becoming less reliant on hauling in nets or diving down to count animals. Artificial intelligence (AI) can be used, for example, to extract information from underwater cameras. We can monitor animals more often, in more places, for less cost. AI algorithms were recently used to automatically identify, size and count fish in videos taken on restored oyster reefs in Port Phillip Bay, Melbourne. These data were then used to calculate increased fish productivity due to restoration efforts. And what an increase it was – over 6,000 kilograms of fish per hectare per year! Combining underwater videos with automated data extraction provides a new, reliable and cost-effective method for surveying animals ethically and efficiently. Restoring shellfish reefs greatly increased fish numbers in Port Phillip Bay, Melbourne. Read more: It sounds like science fiction. But we can now sample water to find the DNA of every species living there We still face major barriers to scaling up restoration to even get close to reversing our environmental impact on the coasts. Key concerns include ongoing climate change and policies and laws that hamper restoration efforts. It can be difficult, for example, to get permits to restore habitat, with complex systems involving multiple organisations and arms of government. Still, our synthesis shows some light at the end of the tunnel. Coastal restoration efforts are having substantial benefits for animals around the world. The evidence supports ambitious restoration targets and action. Michael Sievers receives funding from the Australian Research Council, project DE220100079, the National Environmental Science Program, and philanthropic foundations.Christopher Brown receives funding from the Australian Research Council (grant FT210100792) and the World Wildlife Fund. He is affiliated with the Global Mangrove Alliance, an organisation that promotes mangrove restoration and conservation. Rod Connolly receives funding from the Australian Research Council, National Environmental Science Program, philanthropic foundations, Fisheries Research and Development Corporation.

Overall, coastal habitat restoration greatly increases animal numbers and diversity. But not all projects deliver the goods and we need to find out why.

Chris Brown

Humans love the coast. But we love it to death, so much so we’ve destroyed valuable coastal habitat – in the case of some types of habitat, most of it has gone.

Pollution, coastal development, climate change and many other human impacts have degraded or destroyed swathes of mangrove forests, saltmarshes, seagrass meadows, macroalgae (seaweed) forests and coral and shellfish reefs. We’ve lost a staggering 85% of shellfish reefs around the world and coral is bleaching globally.

When healthy, these coastal habitats help feed the world by supporting fisheries. They are home to more than 100 species of charismatic marine megafauna, ranging from sharks to dugongs. They sequester carbon, thus helping to slow climate change. The list goes on.

a flock of red-necked stints and a couple of curlew sandpipers in flight
Restored wetlands provide vital habitat for waders like red-necked stints and curlew sandpipers, which are in sharp decline. Michael Brown

Healthy coastal habitats are the gift that keeps on giving. We need them back, so there’s a lot of enthusiasm for restoring these habitats. For example, we can plant mangroves, build new shellfish reefs and reduce pollution to help seagrass grow back.

But we want to recover more than just the habitats. We want the animals they support too. We need to know if restoration is helping animals.

We analysed restoration projects around the world to assess how animals are benefitting. Compared to degraded sites, restored habitats have much larger and more diverse animal populations. Overall, animal numbers and the types of animals in restored habitats are similar to those in natural habitats.

So restoration works. But outcomes for animals vary from project to project. Not all projects deliver the goods. As a result, resources are wasted and humanity misses out on the huge benefits of healthy coastal habitats.

A school of rays swims in shallow waters
Coastal habitats are home to more than 100 large marine animals, including these rays. Michael Sievers

Read more: Global coral bleaching caused by global warming demands a global response


Animals can respond well to restoration

We collated over 5,000 data points from 160 studies of coastal restoration projects around the world.

Excitingly, animal populations and communities were remarkably similar to those in comparable undisturbed natural sites. For example, restoring seagrass off Adelaide’s coast brought back invertebrates, which are food for many fish species Australians love to catch, such as Australasian snapper. Invertebrate numbers here were comparable to nearby natural seagrass meadows.

Restored seagrass habitat along Adelaide’s coast supports populations of invertebrates that provide food for fish.

Read more: From sharks in seagrass to manatees in mangroves, we've found large marine species in some surprising places


Overall, our review found animal populations in restored coastal habitats were 61% larger and 35% more diverse than in unrestored, degraded sites. So restoration produces serious benefits.

Some projects recorded dramatic increases. For instance, after oyster reefs were restored in Pumicestone Passage, Queensland, fish numbers increased by more than ten times. The number of fish species increased almost fourfold.

An underwater colony of mussels
Most of the world’s shellfish reefs have been lost. Chris Brown

And animals can occupy newly restored sites surprisingly quickly. Fish and invertebrate numbers in restored seagrass and mangroves can match those in natural sites within a year or two. This happens even though the vegetation is far sparser in restored areas.

Our study shows that efforts to restore coastal habitat certainly can help animals thrive.


Read more: Once the fish factories and ‘kidneys’ of colder seas, Australia’s decimated shellfish reefs are coming back


Results are not guaranteed

Although restoration generally helped animals, good outcomes are not guaranteed. We found many projects where animal numbers or diversity barely increased. It was not clear why some projects were great for animals and others had lacklustre results.

a golden bird with a black head and collar around a white throat perches in a mangrove tree
The mangrove golden whistler depends on mangroves, but much of its habitat has been degraded or lost. Michael Brown

Some restoration sites could be in places where animals cannot easily find them.

In other cases, actions to restore the habitat may simply not work. Despite our best efforts, we failed to create suitable environments.

It could be that animals are returning to restored habitats, but we’re not capturing them with our monitoring.

We sorely need more consistent restoration outcomes. We may lose community support for restoration if, for example, it doesn’t deliver on promises of improved fisheries.

We are still working out how to restore coastlines effectively. Clearly, more work is needed to improve techniques and the monitoring of animal numbers.

Global alliances and groups are developing standardised frameworks to guide restoration practice and to report on project designs and outcomes. Such strategies and co-ordination promise to deliver more consistent benefits.

A small waterbird in a patch of restored saltmarsh
The black-fronted dotterel is one of many bird species that benefit from restoring saltmarshes. Michael Brown

Read more: If we protect mangroves, we protect our fisheries, our towns and ourselves


New technologies can improve monitoring

Monitoring animals and restoration outcomes in coastal habitats is challenging. These aquatic habitats are structurally complex, often impenetrable and hard to navigate, and can be dangerous.

New technologies, such as artificial intelligence (AI) and environmental DNA (eDNA), allow us to collect more and better data on which animals are present and how they use these habitats. We’re rapidly becoming less reliant on hauling in nets or diving down to count animals.

Artificial intelligence (AI) can be used, for example, to extract information from underwater cameras. We can monitor animals more often, in more places, for less cost.

AI algorithms were recently used to automatically identify, size and count fish in videos taken on restored oyster reefs in Port Phillip Bay, Melbourne. These data were then used to calculate increased fish productivity due to restoration efforts. And what an increase it was – over 6,000 kilograms of fish per hectare per year!

Combining underwater videos with automated data extraction provides a new, reliable and cost-effective method for surveying animals ethically and efficiently.

Restoring shellfish reefs greatly increased fish numbers in Port Phillip Bay, Melbourne.

Read more: It sounds like science fiction. But we can now sample water to find the DNA of every species living there


We still face major barriers to scaling up restoration to even get close to reversing our environmental impact on the coasts. Key concerns include ongoing climate change and policies and laws that hamper restoration efforts. It can be difficult, for example, to get permits to restore habitat, with complex systems involving multiple organisations and arms of government.

Still, our synthesis shows some light at the end of the tunnel. Coastal restoration efforts are having substantial benefits for animals around the world. The evidence supports ambitious restoration targets and action.

The Conversation

Michael Sievers receives funding from the Australian Research Council, project DE220100079, the National Environmental Science Program, and philanthropic foundations.

Christopher Brown receives funding from the Australian Research Council (grant FT210100792) and the World Wildlife Fund. He is affiliated with the Global Mangrove Alliance, an organisation that promotes mangrove restoration and conservation.

Rod Connolly receives funding from the Australian Research Council, National Environmental Science Program, philanthropic foundations, Fisheries Research and Development Corporation.

Read the full story here.
Photos courtesy of

Antarctica's Ozone Hole Is Persisting Later Into the Year, Raising Concerns for Wildlife

As a result of the longer-lasting hole, harmful ultraviolet radiation is reaching Earth during a time when young penguins and seals are more vulnerable, scientists say

While penguins have feathers that shield their skin from radiation, their eyes remain unprotected. Increased ultraviolet radiation exposure could also have harmful effects for Antarctic organisms like seals, krill and plankton, per a new paper. Wolfgang Kaehler / LightRocket via Getty Images A hole in the ozone layer that appears annually over Antarctica is persisting later into each year, and biologists say this puts wildlife at risk. The gap allows more ultraviolet B radiation onto the planet, which threatens animals with eye damage and other health impacts, per a paper published last week in the journal Global Change Biology. Each year, the ozone hole typically peaks in size between September and October, when ice coverage reflects much of the sun’s harmful ultraviolet rays away. But in the last four years, the hole has remained into the Southern Hemisphere’s summer in December, in part due to climate change-fueled bush fires in Australia and natural volcanic eruptions. As a result, more radiation from the sun is reaching Earth’s surface at a time when snow and ice is melting, leaving more plants and animals exposed. “Whilst ozone is recovering, we’ve seen these four years of ozone holes that have been large but also have [stayed open] into December, which is the thing that’s most concerning for us as biologists,” Sharon Robinson, first author of the study and a climate change biologist at the University of Wollongong in Australia, tells the Sydney Morning Herald’s Bianca Hall. “Because that’s when most of the life comes to life in Antarctica each summer. In the winter, everything’s under snow and ice.” The ozone layer is a thin blanket in the stratosphere made of molecules with three oxygen atoms. It absorbs harmful UVB light from the sun, which can cause cancer and eye damage in humans, according to the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA). Scientists realized in the 1970s that this protective sheen was wearing away as a result of human activity. The ozone “hole” isn’t a total absence of ozone—it’s a spot in the layer where concentrations of the protective gas have dropped below a certain historical level. In 1987, countries around the world adopted the Montreal Protocol, agreeing to phase out the use of chemicals harmful to the ozone layer, including chlorofluorocarbons, used in aerosol sprays, firefighting foams, refrigerants and other materials. This agreement was highly effective—the ozone hole reached its peak size in 2006 and has been shrinking since then. Now, scientists think the ozone layer could fully recover by the middle of the century. “When I tell people I work on the ozone hole, they go: ‘Oh, isn’t that better now?” Robinson tells BBC News’ Victoria Gill. But the fact that the hole is lasting longer provides “a wake-up call,” Jim Haywood, an atmospheric scientist at the University of Exeter in England who did not contribute to the findings, tells the publication. “Society cannot be complacent about our achievements in tackling it.” A diagram showing how organisms are affected by lower levels of ozone in the summer, when the sun is higher in the sky and less ice exists to reflect radiation away. Robinson et al., Global Change Biology, 2024 While the ozone layer is recovering, events on Earth—both human-caused and natural—are still delaying that process. Australian bushfires in 2019 and 2020, which scorched as much as 70,000 square miles of land and impacted nearly three billion animals, released particles called aerosols into the air that can damage the ozone layer. “With climate change, one of the things we’re seeing is more frequent bushfires,” Robinson says to the Sydney Morning Herald. “We’ll always have bushfires, but we’re having more of them because it’s drier and warmer and the weather conditions are more extreme.” The massive Hunga Tonga-Hunga Ha’apai volcanic eruption in Tonga in 2022 also spewed aerosols. Even rocket launches and geoengineering projects using aerosols have the potential to further delay the ozone’s recovery, per the paper. These events have likely contributed to the ozone hole over Antarctica staying open later into the year, the scientists write. Sea ice extent drops by about 25 percent between early October and early December—and since ozone depletion has recently continued into this period of reduced ice coverage, animals are being left more vulnerable, per the paper. Penguins and seals are protected from sunburn because of their feathers and fur, but their eyes have no such shield. However, few studies have examined the impacts of ultraviolet radiation exposure on animals—and the ones that do probe this issue have usually been conducted in zoos, the study authors write in the Conversation. “More UV radiation in early summer could be particularly damaging to young animals, such as penguin chicks and seal pups who hatch or are born in late spring,” they write in the Conversation. Increased radiation exposure can inhibit the photosynthesis of plankton, per the paper. Antarctic krill, which feed on plankton, might dive deeper into the water to escape the harmful rays, and studies have also found increased death rates in krill larvae after ultraviolet radiation exposure. These organisms form the basis of the Antarctic food chain, and impacts to them could in turn affect seabirds, seals, penguins and whales, per BBC News. Additionally, more sea ice is melting in the Antarctic due to global warming, making the ozone hole more harmful, the study authors note. “The biggest thing we can do to help Antarctica is to act on climate change—reduce carbon emissions as quickly as possible so we have fewer bushfires and don’t put additional pressure on ozone layer recovery,” Robinson tells BBC News. Get the latest stories in your inbox every weekday.

If Corporations Are People, Then Animals Should Be Too

The terrifying truth of the climate and mass extinction crises is that we don’t understand all that we stand to lose. And without extraordinary acts of imagination and foresight, as a society, we won’t understand what’s being lost till it’s too late—at which time we’ll have to look back at what we might have done with a heartbreak and remorse that have no remedy. So we need to protect the living world with the best tool we have: the law.Evolution is slow, while the climate is changing at a breakneck pace. For organisms like elephants and whales, who can live as long as we do, or trees, who live much longer, both the path to potential adaptation to this rapidly morphing planet and the path to our understanding may stretch beyond any time frame that could help us to save them before the clock strikes midnight. Small animals, whose lives and reproductive cycles tend to be shorter, can be more readily studied across generations. Some researchers have seen signs of resilience: Mother zebra finches in Australia, one scientist found, warn the embryos inside their eggs of warming conditions outside by uttering certain calls. The chicks those embryos hatch into have lower birth weights than those who weren’t exposed to the mothers’ calls, which helps the young birds stay cool in hot weather. Lizards in Miami appeared to lower their cold-tolerance thresholds in response to a cold snap in 2020, which might defend against future environmental fluctuations; certain male dragonflies grow paler in warmer weather, losing some of the bright ornamentation that attracts females but making them less vulnerable to overheating.But examples of seemingly speedy accommodation are tiny flags fluttering on a battlefield where the overwhelming outlook for biodiversity is catastrophic. Instead of shifting gradually over thousands or even millions of years, environments are being transformed so fast that adaptive mechanisms don’t have the opportunity to kick in. In many cases, due to human-caused habitat loss and other pressures, of which the unstable climate is a massive threat multiplier, strategies that may have saved other life forms historically are no longer available to them: Pikas, for instance—cute little squeaking mammals native to western North America and Asia—may be able to move up a mountain to reach colder climes as the lower elevations get too hot, but if they reach the peak and it gets hot too, well … there’s nothing left for that wingless pika but the bare blue sky. The desert where I live is getting too hot even for arid-adapted wildlife—a lizard that had thrived in Arizona’s Mule Mountains for three million years is now newly believed extinct, and plants from the small acuña cactus to the Seussian Joshua tree are struggling to hang on.Cases abound of creatures and plants whose biological profiles appear to be setting them up for climate-driven oblivion: Crocodilians and most turtles don’t have sex chromosomes, so whether they’re born male or female depends on the temperature of the sand surrounding their eggs. A study of green sea turtles in the Great Barrier Reef in 2018 found that 99 percent of hatchlings were female, as opposed to 87 percent of adults—a ratio that could mean there already aren’t enough males for reproduction. Reef-building corals with low resistance to bleaching and death, such as staghorn and elkhorn, are at extremely high risk, and though corals occupy less than 1 percent of the ocean floor, they’re home to one-quarter of global marine diversity. Shrimplike krill, whose Antarctic habitat is projected to shrink up to 80 percent by 2100, feed most of the larger denizens of the Southern Ocean, from fish to seabirds like penguins to seals and cetaceans, and account for 96 percent of some species’ diets. The total biomass of krill is greater than that of any other multicellular animal, and these animals are a key storage bank for carbon dioxide. The humble freshwater mussels who make up the most endangered group of U.S. organisms help keep our rivers clean, but warming waters magnify the myriad threats they already face; three-quarters of flowering plants depend on pollinators, currently in decline around the globe, who happen to be critical to one out of three bites of our food. And though some plant species can migrate to escape inhospitable conditions, that migration occurs—since individuals don’t move—over generations via seed dispersal. The list of our dependencies on the other beings with whom we’ve coevolved is nearly infinite. So visionary policy is called for to protect those other beings and systems—not only for their intrinsic and cultural value but because they’re our life support, worth far more to our continued welfare intact than liquidated for short-term profit. If the goal is a livable future, for which we need to achieve a paradigm shift from exploitation to conservation, the services these networks of life supply need to be fully and properly valued. Their right to exist has to be enshrined in law.Both domestically and internationally, species and ecosystems need to be endowed with legal standing to give local and native stewards the tools to save them from the depredations of industry in the short term and sustain them over the long. Luckily, bestowing legal standing on extra-human parties isn’t a fanciful idea: The U.S. Supreme Court did exactly that in the 2010 case known as Citizens United, when it declared that corporations were legal persons—a decision that hobbled American democracy but also set a neat precedent for extending legal personhood to nonhuman entities. And corporations are clearly more abstract and disembodied than animals: Just a couple of weeks ago scientists and philosophers from many nations published the New York Declaration on Animal Consciousness, which argues for the likelihood of consciousness in all vertebrates and many invertebrates, including cephalopods and insects.  In New Zealand, a river and a rainforest have been awarded personhood; the people of Ecuador, in 2008, voted to modify their Constitution to recognize the right of nature to exist and flourish; in the United States, the Yurok tribe gave personhood to the Klamath River under tribal law in 2019; and in 2010 Pittsburgh became the first major city to recognize the rights of nature. Those rights have also been enacted into law or invoked by courts in Bolivia, Panama, and India. A summit held in mid-April at Brown University was aimed at elevating the agency and visibility of the more-than-human world in climate negotiations. And if species and ecosystems are recognized as entities with rights, their destruction can become a prosecutable offense. Accountability for the violence of what some call “ecocide” should be embedded in international law and civil and criminal codes. Here too, early inroads are being made, for example by the European Union, countries like Finland and Sweden, and the International Criminal Court. Establishing the responsibility of both private and public actors for the lives and natural systems they destroy—for deforestation, deadly heat domes, red tides, mountaintop-removal coal mining in Appalachia, or cobalt mining in Congo, to name only a few culprits—is reasonable and fair. And the prerequisite to that is affirming in our legal codes that all of the life forms surrounding us have value. They’re connected to each other and to our own survival in ways we’ve just begun to fathom. And unless we act swiftly, we may never have the chance to learn more.

The terrifying truth of the climate and mass extinction crises is that we don’t understand all that we stand to lose. And without extraordinary acts of imagination and foresight, as a society, we won’t understand what’s being lost till it’s too late—at which time we’ll have to look back at what we might have done with a heartbreak and remorse that have no remedy. So we need to protect the living world with the best tool we have: the law.Evolution is slow, while the climate is changing at a breakneck pace. For organisms like elephants and whales, who can live as long as we do, or trees, who live much longer, both the path to potential adaptation to this rapidly morphing planet and the path to our understanding may stretch beyond any time frame that could help us to save them before the clock strikes midnight. Small animals, whose lives and reproductive cycles tend to be shorter, can be more readily studied across generations. Some researchers have seen signs of resilience: Mother zebra finches in Australia, one scientist found, warn the embryos inside their eggs of warming conditions outside by uttering certain calls. The chicks those embryos hatch into have lower birth weights than those who weren’t exposed to the mothers’ calls, which helps the young birds stay cool in hot weather. Lizards in Miami appeared to lower their cold-tolerance thresholds in response to a cold snap in 2020, which might defend against future environmental fluctuations; certain male dragonflies grow paler in warmer weather, losing some of the bright ornamentation that attracts females but making them less vulnerable to overheating.But examples of seemingly speedy accommodation are tiny flags fluttering on a battlefield where the overwhelming outlook for biodiversity is catastrophic. Instead of shifting gradually over thousands or even millions of years, environments are being transformed so fast that adaptive mechanisms don’t have the opportunity to kick in. In many cases, due to human-caused habitat loss and other pressures, of which the unstable climate is a massive threat multiplier, strategies that may have saved other life forms historically are no longer available to them: Pikas, for instance—cute little squeaking mammals native to western North America and Asia—may be able to move up a mountain to reach colder climes as the lower elevations get too hot, but if they reach the peak and it gets hot too, well … there’s nothing left for that wingless pika but the bare blue sky. The desert where I live is getting too hot even for arid-adapted wildlife—a lizard that had thrived in Arizona’s Mule Mountains for three million years is now newly believed extinct, and plants from the small acuña cactus to the Seussian Joshua tree are struggling to hang on.Cases abound of creatures and plants whose biological profiles appear to be setting them up for climate-driven oblivion: Crocodilians and most turtles don’t have sex chromosomes, so whether they’re born male or female depends on the temperature of the sand surrounding their eggs. A study of green sea turtles in the Great Barrier Reef in 2018 found that 99 percent of hatchlings were female, as opposed to 87 percent of adults—a ratio that could mean there already aren’t enough males for reproduction. Reef-building corals with low resistance to bleaching and death, such as staghorn and elkhorn, are at extremely high risk, and though corals occupy less than 1 percent of the ocean floor, they’re home to one-quarter of global marine diversity. Shrimplike krill, whose Antarctic habitat is projected to shrink up to 80 percent by 2100, feed most of the larger denizens of the Southern Ocean, from fish to seabirds like penguins to seals and cetaceans, and account for 96 percent of some species’ diets. The total biomass of krill is greater than that of any other multicellular animal, and these animals are a key storage bank for carbon dioxide. The humble freshwater mussels who make up the most endangered group of U.S. organisms help keep our rivers clean, but warming waters magnify the myriad threats they already face; three-quarters of flowering plants depend on pollinators, currently in decline around the globe, who happen to be critical to one out of three bites of our food. And though some plant species can migrate to escape inhospitable conditions, that migration occurs—since individuals don’t move—over generations via seed dispersal. The list of our dependencies on the other beings with whom we’ve coevolved is nearly infinite. So visionary policy is called for to protect those other beings and systems—not only for their intrinsic and cultural value but because they’re our life support, worth far more to our continued welfare intact than liquidated for short-term profit. If the goal is a livable future, for which we need to achieve a paradigm shift from exploitation to conservation, the services these networks of life supply need to be fully and properly valued. Their right to exist has to be enshrined in law.Both domestically and internationally, species and ecosystems need to be endowed with legal standing to give local and native stewards the tools to save them from the depredations of industry in the short term and sustain them over the long. Luckily, bestowing legal standing on extra-human parties isn’t a fanciful idea: The U.S. Supreme Court did exactly that in the 2010 case known as Citizens United, when it declared that corporations were legal persons—a decision that hobbled American democracy but also set a neat precedent for extending legal personhood to nonhuman entities. And corporations are clearly more abstract and disembodied than animals: Just a couple of weeks ago scientists and philosophers from many nations published the New York Declaration on Animal Consciousness, which argues for the likelihood of consciousness in all vertebrates and many invertebrates, including cephalopods and insects.  In New Zealand, a river and a rainforest have been awarded personhood; the people of Ecuador, in 2008, voted to modify their Constitution to recognize the right of nature to exist and flourish; in the United States, the Yurok tribe gave personhood to the Klamath River under tribal law in 2019; and in 2010 Pittsburgh became the first major city to recognize the rights of nature. Those rights have also been enacted into law or invoked by courts in Bolivia, Panama, and India. A summit held in mid-April at Brown University was aimed at elevating the agency and visibility of the more-than-human world in climate negotiations. And if species and ecosystems are recognized as entities with rights, their destruction can become a prosecutable offense. Accountability for the violence of what some call “ecocide” should be embedded in international law and civil and criminal codes. Here too, early inroads are being made, for example by the European Union, countries like Finland and Sweden, and the International Criminal Court. Establishing the responsibility of both private and public actors for the lives and natural systems they destroy—for deforestation, deadly heat domes, red tides, mountaintop-removal coal mining in Appalachia, or cobalt mining in Congo, to name only a few culprits—is reasonable and fair. And the prerequisite to that is affirming in our legal codes that all of the life forms surrounding us have value. They’re connected to each other and to our own survival in ways we’ve just begun to fathom. And unless we act swiftly, we may never have the chance to learn more.

In South Africa, Tigers and Other Captive Predators Are Still Exploited for Profit. Legislation Offers Pitiful Protection

The captive predator industry threatens the welfare of thousands of big cats kept for entertainment, hunting, and commercial trade of live animals and their body parts. The post In South Africa, Tigers and Other Captive Predators Are Still Exploited for Profit. Legislation Offers Pitiful Protection appeared first on The Revelator.

In South Africa, an insatiable desire for lions — whether to view the big cats in captivity, interact with cubs, hunt them for sport, or trade in their body parts — has created an explosion in their captive populations. Approximately 8,000-10,000 lions are now kept in captivity across the country, compared to the estimated 3,490 wild lions across our reserves and national parks. Activists and the media have given extensive attention to this cruel, inhumane industry, but significantly less is known about the other exotic cat species bred, kept, traded, and even hunted for this burgeoning industry built on greed and cruelty. For instance, in 2022 the Minister of Forestry, Fisheries and the Environment confirmed that at least 70 captive facilities kept 463 tigers across South Africa. Yes, tigers — the same endangered Asian big cats subject to intense conservation efforts, with a wild population estimated at just 5,500 animals. Those of us working against this captive trade suspect the actual number of tigers in the country is much higher, as the department does not require captive facilities to register the big cats. The data provided by provincial authorities is only as accurate as the information provided by willing facilities. And tigers are just one element of this industry. Across the country approximately 400 captive facilities keep indigenous and exotic cats of multiple species for tourism activities, breeding, trading in live animals and their body parts, and hunting. Captive African lion. Stephanie Klarmann, Blood Lions The Blood Lions documentary and subsequent campaign — I’m part of the team and the campaign coordinator — has been instrumental in exposing the cruel realities of the captive predator industry. Our work focuses on conducting research and lobbying in both public and government spheres to influence policy. An important and necessary challenge we now face is not only pushing against the captive lion industry and all its associated activities, but also addressing the proliferation of other big cat species in captivity for commercial gain. South Africa’s Contribution to the Legal and Illegal Trade in Body Parts Tigers bred in South Africa don’t always stay here. From 2012 to 2022[1], South Africa exported a minimum of 397 live tigers and 101 tiger body parts and hunting trophies, according to the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species trade database.[2] And that’s just the so-called legal trade. I recently spoke with Karl Ammann, an environmental photographer and investigative filmmaker who has spent years uncovering the ties between South Africa and the international wildlife trade. Through his work in Vietnam, he’s interviewed dealers who sell tiger “cake” (boiled-down tiger bone) for use in traditional medicine. They’ve revealed that their stock is primarily imported from South Africa. Some were even able to provide shipment dates when they expected stock to arrive, all without legitimate documentation. The demand for wildlife products like this threatens multiple species. With tiger bone supplies dwindling and an ever-increasing demand for bones for medicinal purposes, traffickers have turned to lion bones sourced from captive-bred lions in South Africa as substitutes. Meanwhile the trade in live tigers bred in South Africa and destined for Southeast Asia is thriving, according to Ammann. His investigations show that Southeast Asian breeding farms lose a significant number of cubs to inbreeding, making the live trade from South Africa necessary to supplement the captive gene pool. This shouldn’t be allowed, as tigers are protected under CITES Appendix I, which restricts virtually all trade in the species. But exporters game the system by using the CITES Z code, which declares the animals they’re shipping are destined for zoos and public display. “The fact is, they are all for primarily commercial purposes, which should not be possible,” says Ammann. Concurrent Legislation Hampers Regulation of the Captive Industry South African authorities have announced their intent to close the commercial captive lion industry. But conservationists and welfare advocacy groups remain concerned. We worry that this will turn increased attention to the breeding, keeping, and trading of exotic big cats like tigers, jaguars, black leopards and pumas. South African law currently considers these big cats “alien species” due to their natural occurrence outside of South Africa; but possessing, breeding, trading, and controlling these species is still considered a restricted activity under Chapter 7 of our Threatened or Protected Species Regulations (TOPS). Dr. Louise de Waal, campaign manager of Blood Lions, highlights that this is a gray area, as South Africa’s provinces have the autonomy to implement national legislation differently regarding exotic species. Provinces may or may not implement national legislation concurrently with their own local laws; it’s up to them. For example, provincial authorities in Gauteng, Limpopo and Eastern Cape do not require permits to possess exotic animals in captivity. However, owners in these provinces must still hold permits for other restricted activities, such as transport, for exotic species to move within and between provinces, although violations have been reported. This issue has become prevalent in Gauteng, where several instances of inappropriate, negligent, and cruel tiger ownership have been exposed by the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and in the media. In January 2023 a privately owned tiger escaped its cage before attacking one person and killing two dogs in Walkerville. Later that same month, a second tiger escaped in a residential area in Edenvale. In 2021 two tigers were found kept in a residential back garden constrained by nothing more than a fence, despite the obvious safety hazards this posed to neighbors and the children. An inbred white tiger. Stephanie Klarmann, Blood Lions As for hunting exotic species, that’s considered a restricted activity under the National Environmental Management: Biodiversity Act and requires a TOPS permit. But communication with the provincial authority in the North West revealed that the province does not issue hunting permits. For exotic big cat species, a hunt can occur if written permission is provided by the landowner. Hunting clientele coming to South Africa for a big game trophy hunt can bag an exotic big cat bred and raised in captivity with nothing more than the landowner’s consent. Even on the national level, the registration and subsequent permitting for exotic species does not provide regulations for the welfare, well-being, and husbandry needs of the animals, according to Karen Trendler, an animal welfare expert from Working Wild and an NSPCA board member. Overall the regulations are completely inadequate, especially for exotic species being kept, bred, traded and hunted in South Africa. False Justifications for the Captive Industry One commonly touted justification for keeping exotic big cats in captivity is that they provide educational and conservation value. Despite these claims, breeding and keeping wild cat species for commercial purposes does nothing to aid their conservation in wild habitats. In fact, many exotic species kept in captivity in South Africa are endangered in their home ranges. Realistically, how can tigers kept in captivity in South Africa contribute to conservation in India or other countries? Due to inbreeding and hybridization (or the breeding of two different species), captive tigers could never be used for wild conservation projects. Given that tigers occupy less than 6% of their historical range, it’s more urgent than ever that genuine conservation be prioritized. As for education, Trendler asserts that “there are better ways of educating than keeping animals in sub-standard welfare conditions.” Although the conditions in public-facing facilities are better than those away from the public eye, Trendler warns that the public are often unaware of an animal’s complex needs and the many ways in which facilities fail to provide for them. All of which makes South Africa’s continued embrace of the trade more perplexing and discouraging. South Africa is a signatory to the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species, which declares that captive facilities holding tigers need to support conservation of wild Asian big cats. But the minister has stated the opinion that we do not need to comply with that, since South Africa is not a range state for Asian cats such as tigers. Captive jaguar. Stephanie Klarmann, Blood Lions Her choice to ignore the CITES decision indicates the industry’s lack of commitment to genuine conservation and prioritizing commercial interests instead. Captive-industry claims regarding educational and conservation value continue to fail and undermine genuine conservation efforts by misdirecting attention and funds away from those working to protect species and habitats on the ground in their native habitats, according to Dr. Ullas Karanth, conservation zoologist and tiger expert. What Does the Future Hold for These Big Cats? The same attention lions have received now needs to be given to all predator species, both indigenous and exotic, that are being exploited in captivity. According to South African law (Section 56 of NEMBA), the minister may declare “any species” — native or not — as “critically endangered, endangered, or vulnerable.” That means it lies firmly within the minister’s power to grant other big cat species increased protection under South Africa’s legislation. According to Trendler, exotic wildlife needs to be recognized as deserving of a high standard of well-being, regardless of their country of origin and conservation status. White tiger cub kept separated from its mother. Stephanie Klarmann, Blood Lions The Department of Forestry, Fisheries and the Environment is in a position to effect change, for once, in the animals’ favor. The minister has the power to prohibit activities that affect “the holistic circumstances and conditions of an animal, which are conducive to its physical, physiological, and mental health and quality of life, including the ability to cope with its environment.” Any animal in South Africa, regardless of its indigenous or exotic status, needs to receive consideration for its well-being in terms of its management, conservation, and sustainable use. The commercial captive predator industry won’t do this on its own. These breeders, owners and traders have continuously demonstrated that commercial gain trumps all welfare and ethical considerations. To them, big cats exist for nothing more than a trophy, bones, or trivial entertainment. It’s past time for that to change. [1] 2022 CITES Trade Data may be incomplete. [2] The CITES Trade Database is subject to the accuracy of submitted forms. Some exported animals and derivatives were not properly declared, so exact numbers were not recorded. Get more from The Revelator. Subscribe to our newsletter.  Previously in The Revelator: The Last Lions of India The post In South Africa, Tigers and Other Captive Predators Are Still Exploited for Profit. Legislation Offers Pitiful Protection appeared first on The Revelator.

How Should Colorado Handle Its Booming Moose Population?

Roughly 3,000 animals now roam the state's mountain ranges

The forest ranger had a troubled look on his face. It was the summer of 2022 and my kids and I were trudging up a steep trail in the Indian Peaks Wilderness, near Denver, when we encountered him. He stood amid a small grove of subalpine fir, clutching a walkie-talkie tightly in his hand. As we came closer, he brought one index finger to his lips and pointed with the other into the distance. “Moose,” he whispered. Below us, perhaps 100 yards away in a flower-strewn meadow, a cow and her calf munched grass without concern. “Cute!” exclaimed my teenage daughter. “Go that way,” the ranger said gruffly, pointing up a steep slope covered in boulders. We walked on, weaving through a crowd of curious onlookers. Some inched closer to the moose for a better look. Others held cellphones, swiping fingers across screens to bring the animals into better view. Few creatures evoke American wilderness like Alces americanus, the American moose. It is the largest member of the deer family and the second largest land animal in North America behind the American bison (Bison bison). Its imposing size is undercut by its goofy countenance—the wide fan of horns, the thin legs that suspend a hefty body, the face like a hand-puppet fashioned from a worn-out sock. Despite their ungainly appearance, moose are formidable and, at times, graceful, reaching speeds of 35 miles per hour at full gallop. Growing up in Colorado in the late 1980s and early ’90s, I took trips with my father into designated wildernesses in the northern part of the state—the Flat Tops, Mount Zirkel, the Rawah—hoping to glimpse a moose. We never did. These days I often encounter them when out hiking. For a while, I thought my luck had changed. But I’ve since learned that these experiences are nothing particularly special. Though moose are notoriously hard to count, the Colorado Parks and Wildlife Department estimates that there are now around 3,000 scattered through the state’s major mountain ranges. That figure, however, does not adequately describe their growing presence here. The comment sections for dozens of hikes in Colorado’s Front Range and the San Juan, Sawatch and Elk Mountains on the popular AllTrails app are a litany of moose sightings. Several moose have even made their way into the suburban sprawl of metro Denver, the state’s capital and largest city, browsing in greenbelts, sauntering across golf courses, loitering in mall parking lots. As Colorado’s human and moose populations have grown in tandem, so have the number of conflicts. Over a two-week span in spring of 2022, moose attacked people in three separate incidents. One of those occurred near the mountain town of Nederland, where a mother moose trampled and severely injured a hiker and a dog; a police officer shot her, and wildlife officials took her calf into custody. In September 2022, a moose gored and nearly killed a bowhunter in northern Colorado after the hunter’s arrow whistled wide of its mark. More often than not, however, moose come out on the losing end of these clashes. According to the Colorado Department of Transportation, cars struck and killed 59 moose in 2022. In 2012, the number was just four. As human and moose populations grow in Colorado, so too have their interactions: Both moose attacks on humans and car strikes on moose have increased dramatically in recent years. David Dietrich Despite the increase in dangerous encounters, the moose has emerged as a potent symbol and ambassador of the wild in a state enamored of its outdoor places—depicted in murals and statues in many mountain towns. A large painting of a moose even graces Coors Field, the home of the Colorado Rockies baseball team. There’s just one problem. As much as Alces americanus seem to belong in Colorado, the species’ native range is in more northerly latitudes and doesn’t extend into the state. Colorado’s wildlife department introduced moose from Wyoming and Utah beginning in the 1970s to put money into its own coffers through the sale of hunting licenses. In that bygone era of wildlife management, the will of a few high-ranking state officials was enough to set a great ecological experiment into motion. To be sure, human values have always helped shape wildlife policy. In Colorado and elsewhere in the American West, game animals, including mountain goats, elk and bison, have been introduced to places where they never lived or have been sustained in unnaturally high numbers to satisfy hunters and wildlife watchers. Those efforts have frequently caused dramatic environmental changes. Indeed, now that moose are flourishing in Colorado, they are behaving in unexpected ways, challenging management paradigms and emerging in new environments. As moose occupy an ever larger part of Colorado’s natural present, biologists are working to understand their effects on native plants and animals. All of which leads to an all-consuming question: In an environment increasingly altered by agriculture, urbanization and the ever-expanding footprint of human infrastructure, do moose have a place in the state’s ecological future? A light dusting of snow covers a moose. David Dietrich In the winter of 1978, a handful of state wildlife staff huddled together one morning in the Uinta Mountains in northern Utah. Led by chief of big game, Dick Denney, the team had traveled there to search for moose, a smallish subspecies known as Shiras (pronounced SHY-rass) found in the Rocky Mountains. Deep snows coated the peaks and filled the valleys. To fight off the chill, the officials wore government-issue olive drab winter gear—all save one, an older gentleman with a pompadour of white hair in a bright red snowsuit. This was the signature attire of Marlin Perkins, zoologist and co-host of “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom,” who had traveled to Utah to capture the event for an episode called “Moose Airlift.” As the capture got underway, a pair of helicopters cruised over the landscape. A man with a rifle under his arm sat perched in the smaller of the two aircraft, which descended toward a cow moose and her yearling calf in a snowy meadow. There was a sharp report, not from a bullet but a tranquilizer dart, and the cow took off at a run. Within minutes, her legs went wobbly, and the crew landed and set to work. They placed a blindfold over the animal’s eyes and drew her blood, testing to ensure she was not infected with brucellosis or leptospirosis, two diseases that can pass to (and from) domestic cattle. The team then fitted the cow moose with a telemetry collar and an ear tag, and carefully slid a specially designed sling under her belly, attached by a rope to one of the helicopters. For a moment, as the pilot eased into the air, the moose lurched, drawing her legs upward as her feet left the ground—“a common reflex,” as Perkins described it in his folksy narration. At last, the animal appeared to relax as she soared over the rugged valley, bound for her new home—a vast expanse of sagebrush and willow between two major mountain ranges in northern Colorado, known as North Park. Moose were rarely seen south of Yellowstone National Park before the early 1900s. Their populations grew in Colorado following their airlifted transport to the region in the 1970s.  Courtesy of Denver Public Library She would not, technically, be the first moose to set foot in the state: The animals appear in a few scattered accounts from settlers in the mid-1800s. One of the best-known comes from Milton Estes, a member of the family that founded the northern mountain town of Estes Park, who killed a bull moose in that area in the 1860s as it mingled with a herd of elk. Biologists today believe moose like the one Estes killed were transient, perhaps dispersing juveniles entering the state from Wyoming, and officials generally agree that Colorado never supported a breeding population. To make their case for introducing moose to the state’s mountains, Denney and his colleagues had argued that moose would have eventually migrated to and thrived in Colorado on their own, had people not blocked the way. Settlers and Indigenous hunters were “undoubtedly the primary limiting factor in Colorado moose establishment,” Denney wrote in an article for Colorado Outdoors in 1977. “Practically every moose that has come into Colorado has ended up by being eaten or shot and abandoned.” That’s a plausible explanation, according to noted Colorado State University wildlife conservation expert Joel Berger. Moose were rarely sighted south of the lands that would become Yellowstone National Park, in northwestern Wyoming, before the early 1900s, he said. Then, after settlers extirpated predators from the Yellowstone area, a member of the Shoshone tribe encountered a moose on the east side of the Wind River Mountains, in central Wyoming. “He didn’t know what it was, because they hadn’t occurred there before,” said Berger. The Red Desert, a vast expanse of arid land in southwestern Wyoming, was also likely a formidable obstacle. In total, between 1978 and 1979, Colorado’s wildlife department airlifted a dozen moose out of the Uintas—along with a dozen more from Wyoming’s Tetons—and hauled them to North Park. There, they remained in a small enclosure for several days before being released into the rolling high plains along the Illinois River. A young biologist named Gene Schoonveld was among the officials with the Colorado Division of Wildlife who orchestrated the process. An avid moose hunter, Schoonveld had moved from Canada to Colorado in the late ’60s to attend graduate school at Colorado State University. When he wasn’t in class, he spent days exploring the mountain valleys and basins of the Rockies, marveling over the copious stands of willow and aspen, favorite food sources for moose. After landing a job at the state wildlife department, he immediately pestered Denney, his supervisor, to pursue moose introduction. “I knew that moose could live down here and I let Dick know how I felt,” he told me when I reached him by phone in the fall of 2022, shortly before his death from a long illness. Dick Denney, former Colorado chief of big game, displays the antlers of an adult moose. Courtesy of Denver Public Library The idea of introducing moose to Colorado had been kicked around for decades, but ranchers in rural communities who feared moose would compete with their cattle for forage resisted those plans, and they never materialized. Denney’s 1976 “proposal” to introduce the half-ton animals is a mere 54 pages and includes no comprehensive studies of their potential ecological impacts. And although Schoonveld and Denney interviewed residents of northern Colorado about the releases, they dismissed the opposition as unfounded. After all, moose wouldn’t be feeding on hay bales or grass, Schoonveld said; they’re browsers that subsist almost entirely on willow, aspen and other woody material. “We brought them to Colorado because we could,” he said, “because we had the space and the habitat for them.” Amid North Park’s rich willow stands, the two dozen transplanted moose kicked into reproductive overdrive. In 1980, nearly one in five gave birth to two offspring at once—a phenomenon called “twinning” that often occurs among ungulates when food is especially plentiful. By the winter of 1988, a decade after introduction, the moose population had grown to around 250. The animals proved so successful and so popular with residents and visitors that, between 1987 and 2010, wildlife officials transplanted more moose to other parts of Colorado, where they thrived in a variety of habitats. On the semi-arid slopes of Grand Mesa near the state’s western border, for example, where moose were introduced in 2005, moose subsist mainly on Gambel oak rather than willow. They’ve also adjusted to high-elevation valleys of the San Juan Mountains near Colorado’s southern border, where they were introduced in the early 1990s. That makes them the southernmost moose herd in the world, according to Eric Bergman, a research scientist and moose specialist with Colorado Parks and Wildlife. The species may be pushing still farther southward. Last fall, a moose was spotted in the mountains of northern New Mexico, near Taos, presumably after crossing the Colorado border. “Biologists generally expected them to do well,” Bergman said of the introduction, “and they certainly did.” Dust drifts up between two moose. David Dietrich Rocky Mountain National Park, just east of North Park, is among the places that have witnessed that rapid growth. Park biologists estimate that 40 to 60 moose now wander the western side of the park. On the more touristed east side, moose now inhabit every drainage and are likely increasing. And little wonder: The 415-square-mile preserve has some of best moose habitat in the state, with deep glacially carved valleys and willow-thick stream bottoms. Last April, I sat down with landscape ecologist Will Deacy in his office at Rocky Mountain National Park headquarters as he called up a satellite map on his computer. The park service has fitted 23 moose with telemetry collars, and Deacy showed me one of their routes. The path, transmitted over the course of a season, looked like a child’s scribble, moving to and fro with little regard for the ragged topography. Animals have been known to traverse the entire park in just a few days, hinting at the expansive size of their overlapping ranges, which have been shown elsewhere to cover areas as large as 50 square miles. Deacy next pulled up an infrared image of a mountainside covered in dark trees, gathered by an aircraft mounted with an infrared camera. A closer look revealed several white silhouettes, like small Bullwinkles, scattered amid the pines: moose going about their mysterious business. “They are a new species in a new context,” Deacy said. These supremely adaptable animals could behave very differently in Rocky Mountain than they do in, say, Yellowstone or Glacier National Parks, he explains. “There is so much we just don’t know.” One of those unknowns is just how moose will affect a landscape already heavily browsed by native elk. Settlers once hunted elk nearly to extinction in this part of the state, but in 1913, officials reintroduced them within the protective boundaries of the national park, where hunting was banned. By the latter half of the 20th century, elk here also no longer faced predation by wolves or grizzlies, both of which were extirpated from the state by hunters and trappers. The local herd ballooned to as many as 3,500 animals by the early 2000s—far more than the maximum of 2,100 that the park service deemed sustainable. The elk rapidly chewed through willow stands, particularly along streams, and the park’s mature willow plants declined by 96 percent between 1999 and 2019. Under the auspices of the park’s Elk and Vegetation Management Plan, officials called in sharpshooters to cull some elk and constructed tall fences called “exclosures” around more than 200 acres of sensitive aspen and willows along creeks, wetlands and rivers, to keep large ungulates out. They also set in motion surveys of hundreds of scattered plots to monitor browsing and the health of the park’s willows, foundational plant species along its streams. The fragrant shrubs stabilize soil and prevent erosion, while providing food and sanctuary for hundreds of species of mammals, insects, fish and birds. On a brisk morning during my April visit to the park, I followed Deacy and biological technicians Nick Bartusch and Kim Sutton to one of those plots, in a meadow near the headwaters of the Fall River. Our feet crunched through a thick layer of frost, and deep snow still blanketed the 12,000- to 13,000-foot peaks of the Mummy Range towering above. Sutton swiped a metal detector across the matted grass until she found four markers. Then, Bartusch strung orange thread between them, forming a crude square, and began to evaluate the plants within. Though the spring bloom was approaching, the limbs remained leafless, making evidence of herbivory easier to see. Bartusch looked for signs, gently caressing the plants. The largest in the plot had clearly been browsed, with buds missing and limbs chewed to ribbons. As the team recorded their findings, I wandered around the plot’s perimeter. Impressed into a semi-frozen patch of mud was a single, six-inch-long hoofprint. I showed Deacy. “Looks like moose,” he said. Currently the park has no equivalent of the elk plan for its moose. Though moose arrived here in 1980, just two years after the North Park releases, visitors and researchers rarely encountered them prior to 2015, said Bartusch. “Now it’s almost daily.” That sudden prevalence complicates existing efforts to recover park vegetation. A single adult moose can eat up to 60 pounds of willow per day, far more than an adult elk, which consumes roughly a third of that amount of forage, only a fraction of which is willow. In other words, too many moose could create new problems for the host of other creatures that depend on this critical plant. For example, Berger, the Colorado State University wildlife biologist, conducted research in riparian zones in the Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks and found that neotropical migratory songbirds, such as warblers and flycatchers, occur at much lower densities where there are large populations of moose, particularly where moose don’t face pressure from predators. Four bird species that he expected to see during that study didn’t occur at all, Berger said, “because moose browsing had been so intense.” And because national parks ban hunting, moose tend to congregate within their borders, achieving densities almost five times higher than outside of them, Berger added, meaning Rocky Mountain National Park may see magnified effects over time. Scientists conduct willow surveys to assess the impact of moose populations on park vegetation. Moose can eat up to 60 pounds of willow per day, significantly impacting local plants and other wildlife that rely on them.  Jeremy Miller Meanwhile, the moose here are exhibiting new and surprising behaviors that could affect the park’s ailing vegetation. Moose tend to be solitary animals, said Bartusch. In 2019, however, he had an encounter in the park that challenged that notion. He and a crew member were working on the park’s west side when they spotted a couple of moose in a large meadow. “We weren’t worried about it because they were a long way off,” said Bartusch. “So we went about our business and suddenly we realized we’d somehow managed to get surrounded. My partner and I counted 33 individual moose.” According to Deacy, groups of moose sometimes “yard up” in the winter to stomp out a comfortable spot in deep snow. But such congregations are rare in summer. In this case, said Bartusch, the animals seemed to be moving in a herd. If the behavior became commonplace among Rocky Mountain’s moose, it could concentrate their impacts. “People love their moose,” said Elaine Leslie, former chief of the National Park Service’s Biological Resource Management Division. But too many animals could very well threaten “the primary purpose of the park, which is the preservation of resources.” What might a Rocky Mountain National Park moose management plan look like? First of all it requires sound scientific data on moose populations. If they determine there are too many moose, Leslie said, options include working with the state to increase moose hunting on Rocky Mountain’s periphery. She also mentioned dosing animals with contraceptives delivered via darts. The worst-case scenario, she said, would be having to conduct a moose cull, as other parks have done periodically to bring down their elk populations. Further complicating management is the degree to which Rocky Mountain’s ecosystems have already been modified by people. Before the park was established, ranchers and farmers plowed willows under to provide forage for horses and cows; others dewatered and altered stream channels and meadows to make way for roads, parking lots, visitor centers and other bits of infrastructure. Directly restoring the park’s beleaguered willow stands and wetlands, therefore, would go a long way toward making the environment more resilient against future moose damage. To that end, the park is attempting to coax beaver back within its boundaries from surrounding waterways to build ponds and raise the water table. That, in turn, would help willows regenerate and grow. Park staff are counting on the exclosures to do double duty, protecting beavers and their handiwork from any boost in elk or moose numbers that willow regrowth might bring. Leslie sees another potential solution in Colorado’s wolf reintroduction, which brought ten animals to Grand County, in the Central Rockies, in December 2023. Wolves are the main predator of elk and moose, and they could help ease pressure on the park’s willow and aspen if they recolonize the area and reduce populations or induce herds to keep moving. That’s what happened in Yellowstone after the federal government restored wolves, and as grizzly bear and other struggling predator populations rebounded. A moose wades through the water. David Dietrich On a bright late-July morning last year, I visited State Forest State Park, in the same region where officials originally released moose in 1978. Today, as many as 700 roam the area, comprising nearly one-fourth of the state population. “It’s the last frontier,” said Tony Johnson, a State Forest law enforcement ranger, “where there are no chain stores, but moose on every corner.” I headed to a campground and trail that Johnson identified as a “moose hotspot.” “There is a moose there that goes from being a very neat encounter to a potentially dangerous situation pretty quickly,” he had told me. At the trailhead, as if on cue, a large juvenile male emerged from a stand of pines. It stood mere feet from the dirt path, munching on willows as a procession of ultra-marathoners plodded by. Some stopped to gawk. Others glanced at the animal as if it were a hallucination—understandable, perhaps, given that the runners were about 15 miles into a punishing 65-mile race. Even though moose pose potential threats to native ecosystems and people, local communities are learning to co-exist with the animals. In Walden, 25 minutes north, moose have become such frequent visitors that a sign on the way into town proudly proclaims it “The Moose Viewing Capital of Colorado.” “We have them in town quite often,” said Josh Dilley, State Forest’s park manager, who met me on the trail. They especially like to congregate around the elementary school, Dilley explained, “so we’ll go sit strategically between the moose and the kids while they’re going to school.” When moose loiter too long in front yards and public parks, wildlife officials haze them away with firecrackers or non-lethal rubber buckshot. On rare occasions, they sedate an unruly moose with a dart and transplant it elsewhere by truck. Along the trail, Dilley and I encountered dozens of hikers and several bags of dog poop, which Dilley dutifully retrieved. Dogs, Dilley explained, present one of the greatest sources of conflict with moose. Moose do not distinguish a Pomeranian from a gray wolf. And rather than run away, an adult moose will stand its ground or chase an unleashed dog back to its owner, often attempting to gore a dog with its antlers or crush it with its hooves. A week later, at State Forest’s annual “Moose Fest,” I spoke with Trina Romero, a wildlife viewing coordinator with Colorado Parks and Wildlife, who said that moose attacks in the state now outnumber bear and mountain lion attacks combined, even though moose numbers are significantly lower. Despite growing pains as Coloradans figure out how to co-exist with this large, non-native ungulate, the state has become something of a de facto refuge for the species. Moose populations in much of their native range across the northern U.S. are plummeting. In New Hampshire, they declined by nearly half between the mid-1990s and late-2010s, owing to habitat loss from clear-cutting and warming temperatures, which have triggered a sharp rise in ticks. Wyoming also used to be a moose stronghold, but today Colorado has more moose than its neighbor to the north. And there are signs that Colorado’s moose numbers may be naturally stabilizing. “We have some evidence that our moose population is expressing characteristics of being at or near carrying capacity, such as lower pregnancy rates and animals skipping breeding,” Bergman said. Because biologists don’t have great information on the long-term trajectory of state moose populations, Bergman said, his agency is conservative when it comes to apportioning moose tags to hunters each year. “We could probably use [hunting] as a tool to bring down density … but we also face social pressure to maintain high densities of animals. People love seeing moose, so it really is about finding trade-offs and middle ground.” Others are not so optimistic. Moose “are one of my favorites,” said Elaine Leslie. “But I’m worried about what is happening at the ecosystem level, especially in Rocky Mountain National Park. That is a very biodiverse area right now.” Moose gather together. David Dietrich For the sake of Colorado’s moose and the ecosystems they inhabit, Leslie said, the state’s ardor must turn to more research, rigorous population counts and science-based management. “You have to look at the big picture, at what happens 20 and 30 years down the road.” Otherwise, Colorado residents may find sorrow after sorrow: increasingly denuded streambanks, more frequent attacks and car collisions, and greater numbers of moose in the crosshairs. “It’s partly everybody’s fault, the state and the feds, because we don’t think into the future very well,” Leslie said. “And we don’t learn from history. Unless everybody gets on the same page, it’s going to get ugly.”This story originally appeared in bioGraphic, an independent magazine about nature and regeneration powered by the California Academy of Sciences. Get the latest Science stories in your inbox.

Scientists Uncover How Saturated Fats Trigger Alzheimer’s

This research, conducted by Universitat Rovira i Virgili, advances our knowledge of how obesity, type 2 diabetes, and Alzheimer’s disease are interconnected. A study conducted...

A recent study by the URV has shown that a diet high in saturated fats accelerates Alzheimer’s development by affecting blood and brain molecules, opening new avenues for treatment and prevention.This research, conducted by Universitat Rovira i Virgili, advances our knowledge of how obesity, type 2 diabetes, and Alzheimer’s disease are interconnected.A study conducted by the URV has uncovered the process by which a diet high in saturated fats contributes to Alzheimer’s disease. This research centered on the impact of such a diet on specific molecules present in the blood and other tissues like the brain, which serve as indicators and controllers of the disease.The study was headed by Mònica Bulló, professor at the Department of Biochemistry and Biotechnology and member of the Metabolic Health and Nutrition unit and the Environmental, Food and Toxicological Technology Centre (TecnATox) of the URV, in collaboration with the Pere Virgili Health Research Institute (IISPV), CIBERobn and the University of Barcelona. The results have been published in the journal Nutrients.The research was conducted on mice models who developed Alzheimer’s disease in adulthood. Previous studies in these animals had already shown that after a diet high in saturated fats the mice developed Alzheimer’s much earlier than mice on a conventional diet. However, the mechanisms that led to the onset of Alzheimer’s remained unknown. That is, until now. Key Findings on Molecular ChangesThe researchers analyzed the expression of 15 miRNAs, small molecules of RNA that play a crucial role in genetic regulation in both plasma and brain tissues. The team examined changes in insulin-related miRNAs in mouse models predisposed to Alzheimer’s not on a diet low in saturated fats.A picture of the research team. Credit: Universitat Rovira i VirgiliThe results demonstrated that their metabolism worsened after being on this diet for six months: their body weight increased significantly and their response to glucose and insulin decreased. These same characteristics can also be found in people with obesity or type 2 diabetes. Furthermore, researchers found changes to various miRNAs in both the blood and the brain. These changes were related to processes that can cause brain damage, such as the accumulation of β-amyloid plaques (protein deposits that form in the brain and which are markers of Alzheimer’s), excessive production of the tau protein (which can damage brain cells when it gets out of control) and inflammation in the brain.“The results of this study are a step forward in our understanding of this disease and may explain the relationship between obesity, type 2 diabetes, and the onset of Alzheimer’s. The findings also offer new targets for the possible prevention and treatment of the disease”, said researcher Mònica BullóThe study not only provides new data on how a high-fat diet can affect the health of the brain, but also opens the door to future research into dietary strategies as a means of treating Alzheimer’s. The results underline the importance of a balanced diet in preventing neurodegenerative diseases and highlight miRNAs as targets for therapeutic interventions.Reference: “Effects of a High-Fat Diet on Insulin-Related miRNAs in Plasma and Brain Tissue in APPSwe/PS1dE9 and Wild-Type C57BL/6J Mice” by Melina Rojas-Criollo, Nil Novau-Ferré, Laia Gutierrez-Tordera, Miren Ettcheto, Jaume Folch, Christopher Papandreou, Laura Panisello, Amanda Cano, Hamza Mostafa, Javier Mateu-Fabregat, Marina Carrasco, Antoni Camins and Mònica Bulló, 25 March 2024, Nutrients.DOI: 10.3390/nu16070955

Suggested Viewing

Join us to forge
a sustainable future

Our team is always growing.
Become a partner, volunteer, sponsor, or intern today.
Let us know how you would like to get involved!

CONTACT US

sign up for our mailing list to stay informed on the latest films and environmental headlines.

Subscribers receive a free day pass for streaming Cinema Verde.
Thank you! Your submission has been received!
Oops! Something went wrong while submitting the form.