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Point Reyes' historic dairies ousted after legal battle. Locals say it's conservation gone mad

News Feed
Friday, March 21, 2025

POINT REYES STATION, Calif. — With fog-kissed streets featuring a buttery bakery, an eclectic bookstore and markets peddling artisanal cheeses crafted from the milk of lovingly coddled cows, Point Reyes Station is about as picturesque as tourist towns come in California.It is also a place that, at the moment, is roiling with anger. A place where many locals feel they’re waging an uphill battle for the soul of their community.The alleged villains are unexpected, here in one of the cradles of the organic food movement: the National Park Service and a slate of environmental organizations that maintain that the herds of cattle that have grazed on the Point Reyes Peninsula for more than 150 years are polluting watersheds and threatening endangered species, including the majestic tule elk that roam the windswept headlands. Locals in Point Reyes Station say a legal settlement that will force out historic family dairies shows no understanding of the peninsula’s culture and history. In January, the park service and environmental groups including the Nature Conservancy and the Center for Biological Diversity announced a “landmark agreement” to settle the long-simmering conflict. The settlement, resolving a lawsuit filed in 2022, would pay most of the historic dairies and cattle ranches on the seashore to move out. The fences would come down, and the elk would roam free. Contamination from the runoff of dairy operations would cease. There would be new hiking trails. More places to camp. More conservation of coastal California landscapes.“A crucial milestone in safeguarding and revitalizing the Seashore’s extraordinary ecosystem, all while addressing the very real needs of the community,” said Deborah Moskowitz, president of the Resource Renewal Institute, one of the groups that sued. She added that the deal “balances compassion with conservation” while also “ensuring that this priceless national treasure is preserved and cherished for generations to come.”As news of the settlement spread, however, it quickly became clear that many in the community did not agree. In fact, they thought it showed no understanding at all of this place and its people.A rarity for the National Park Service, the Point Reyes National Seashore has, since its founding in 1962, encompassed not just pristine wilderness but also working agricultural land. Those historic dairies have supplied coveted milk products to San Francisco for well more than a century, and today play an outsize role in California’s organic milk production. Why would anyone want to destroy one of the most preeminent areas for organic farming in the country in the name of the environment? What’s more, the closing of the historic dairies means not just that legacy families and their cows will have to leave, but so will many dairy workers and ranchhands who have lived on the peninsula for decades. An entire community, many of them low income and Latino, are poised to lose their jobs and homes in one fell swoop. In the weeks since the settlement was announced, there have been a spate of heated community meetings. At least two lawsuits, one from tenants being displaced and one from a cattle operation, have been filed. “It’s a big blow to the community,” said Dewey Livingston, who lives in Inverness and has written extensively about the history of Point Reyes. He said he believes the environmental harms wrought by the cows have been exaggerated. And moving the cows out, he said, will irreparably harm the local culture. “It will turn what was once a rural area into a community of vacation homes, visitors and wealthy people.”Environmental groups say they are sympathetic to these concerns, but that it is the duty of the National Park Service to protect and preserve the land — and that the land is being degraded. “This degree of water pollution, which threatens aquatic wildlife habitat and public health, shouldn’t be happening anywhere, and definitely not in a national park,” said Jeff Miller, of the Center for Biological Diversity.“If you listen to the rancher narrative, it makes it sound like ranching has always been this environmentally sustainable activity that serves all,” said Erik Molvar, of the Western Watersheds Project, another of the groups that sued. “But what we’re seeing was this herd of elk, locked up, having massive die outs. We had severe water pollution, some of the worst water pollution in California.” A road leads to Historic C Ranch at Point Reyes National Seashore. About 20 miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Point Reyes Peninsula rises up, a paradise of ocean, dunes, cliffs and grassland that feels delivered from another time and place. Whales and elephant seals glide through the shimmering water, while bears and mountain lions patrol the misty headlands. There are pine forests, waterfalls, wildflowers and more than 50 species of endangered or threatened plants, along with the colorful flickers and chirps of more than 490 species of birds. And, of course, there are thousands of acres of green and golden hills, their grasslands softly rolling in the coastal breeze.Intensive dairy ranching began here more than 150 years ago, spawned by the Gold Rush population explosion in San Francisco.By the late 1850s, two brothers, Oscar Lovell Shafter and James McMillan Shafter, had established a large operation to produce butter and cheese, and ferried their goods to San Francisco on small schooner ships. By 1867, Marin County was producing more butter than anywhere else in California: 932,429 pounds a year.Bob McClure’s ancestors arrived in 1889. His great-grandfather emigrated from Ireland and worked on the dairies. In 1930, the family acquired a ranch known — as are almost all the ranches on Point Reyes — by a letter.“The I ranch,” McClure said. “I grew up here my whole life.” Like his father and grandfather before him, he watched over his cows as the fog rolled in and out over pastures that stretched from the hills to the sea. It was relentless work. “The cow has this; the cow has that,” McClure explained, “and out of bed you go.” And yet, he loved it. Historic C Ranch is seen from a hillside at Point Reyes National Seashore. As the decades went by, other immigrant families, many of whom started out as dairy workers, purchased land from the remnants of the Shafter dairy empire. The Nunes family came in 1919. The Kehoe family took over the J Ranch in 1922. Eventually, the area became a mecca not just for milk and butter, but also for some of the fanciest cheeses in America: Cowgirl Creamery with its Mt. Tam brie and Devil’s Gulch triple cream; Point Reyes Farmstead Cheese Co., with its blue cheese and Toma; Marin French Cheese Co., with its Rouge et Noir camembert.Over the decades, other entities also had eyes on the peninsula. By the late 1920s, developers had swallowed up much of the Eastern Seaboard and were pursuing properties on the Pacific and Gulf coasts. Conservationists pushed to preserve Point Reyes, worried it would be recast as yet another coastal resort, with hotels and arcades marching along the shoreline. In 1935, an assistant director of the National Park Service recommended that the government buy 53,000 acres on Point Reyes, but the purchase price of $2.4 million was considered too steep.The dream persisted, and in 1962, thanks to a boost from President Kennedy, the Point Reyes National Seashore was authorized, with land purchases continuing through the early 1970s. A view of the Point Reyes Lighthouse. Today, the park encompasses about 70,000 acres, and is visited by about 2 million people a year. But woven into its creation was an understanding that the livestock and dairy operations would be allowed to continue.Under an agreement with the Department of the Interior, ranchers conveyed their land to the federal government and in exchange were issued long-term leases to work that land. For many visitors, the cows — quiet herds of Devons, Guernseys and Jerseys happily munching on the flowing grasses — are just one more piece of the picturesque landscape.But behind the scenes, tensions were brewing almost from the beginning. McClure was only 10 years old when the park was created, so he wasn’t aware of the legal intricacies. But he recalls that his family wasn’t wild about the sale.“Nobody really wanted to,” he recalled, but the government “could have eminent-domained it,” so the families took what they could get.Laura Watt, a retired professor of geography at Sonoma State University whose book, “The Paradox of Preservation: Wilderness and Working Landscapes at Point Reyes National Seashore,” chronicles the history, said many of the old ranching families were discomfited by the notion of their home becoming a wilderness playground. A cow eyes a visitor at Historic C Ranch at Point Reyes National Seashore. The families, she noted, were “a freakish embodiment of the classic American dream.” Most had come to the U.S. as immigrants, worked as tenant farmers for the Shafter dairy empire, and eventually managed to buy land and make a go of it, passing their enterprises on to their children.Then along comes the federal government, saying their land should be set aside as a park. “That was part of what rubbed them the wrong way,” Watt said. The ranching families had “worked so hard to be able to get this land and take care of this land” and now suddenly it was “for other people to go and play?”Enter the elk. In the late 1970s, the government moved a dozen or so tule elk to Tomales Point at the northern end of the peninsula. The animals had once roamed the area before being hunted to extinction there; scientists were seeking to reestablish the species.At first, the arrival of the giant mammals was not terribly controversial. The herd was small, and stayed at the top of the peninsula, where a long strip of land juts into the water between Tomales Bay and the Pacific Ocean.Before too long, however, the herd multiplied, eventually outgrowing its range on Tomales Point. Some animals were moved south, where they began to compete with cows for pasture. Even as the elk moved in, many ranching families were beginning to chafe at what they said was government red tape that made it hard to run their operations. “They will force us out with all the paperwork we have to fill out,” one rancher, Kathy Lucchesi, complained to the Los Angeles Times in 2014. “By the time they approve a project it’s too late.”Still, the park service superintendent at the time, Cicely Muldoon, insisted the agency was committed to maintaining the ranches. “The park service has always supported agriculture, and will continue to do so,” she said in 2014.Ranchers and the park service discussed updated leases, which would enable the ranches to make investments and long-term plans.Environmentalists, however, were aghast, especially after word spread that the park service planned to shoot some of the elk to curb the population. In 2016, three groups — the Resource Renewal Institute, the Center for Biological Diversity and the Western Watersheds Project — filed a lawsuit, asking a federal judge to require the park service to prepare a new general plan for the seashore, one that analyzed “the impacts of livestock ranching on the natural and recreational resources.”The suit alleged that the ranching operations were harming coastal waters, and cited examples from the park service’s own studies that found fecal pollution in some areas. The suit alleged a long list of harms. Among them: degradation of salmon habitat; threats to the habitat of the California red-legged frog, Myrtle’s silverspot butterfly and western snowy plover; plus, members of the public reported “unpleasant odors” from the cows and their manure.In 2017, the park service settled the suit by agreeing to draft a new plan, which it did in 2021. That plan offered ranchers new long-term leases. The park service said it would authorize the culling of elk herds, to keep them separate from the cows.In 2022, the same groups that sued in 2016 filed suit again, this time challenging the park’s new management plan.Molvar, of the Western Watersheds Project, said the groups feared an environmental catastrophe. “We had cattle pastures where the native grasslands had been so completely destroyed only the invasive species survived,” he said. Combine harvesters had been spotted mowing over baby deer and baby elk. He said he had seen videos that showed flocks of ravens hovering behind the harvesters so they could “feast on the carnage.” “The national seashore, from an ecological standpoint, was a train wreck,” he said. After the lawsuit was filed, the park service and environmental organizations entered discussions. Eventually, the Nature Conservancy, which was not a party to the suit, agreed to raise money to try to buy out the dairies and ranching operations. The amount has not been officially disclosed, but is widely reported to be about $30 million. The parties involved are barred from discussing financial details because of non-disclosure agreements. Many ranchers reached by The Times said they were heartbroken, but felt they had no choice but to capitulate, because it had become too difficult to continue operations. People stroll through the Cypress Tree Tunnel in Inverness. On Jan. 8, the parties announced the settlement, and said the ranchers, their tenants and workers would have 15 months to move out. Two beef cattle operations would be permitted to stay in the park and seven ranches would remain in the adjoining Golden Gate National Recreation Area.“It’s very hard,” said Margarito Loza Gonzalez, 58 and a father of six, who has worked at one of the ranches for decades and now wonders how he will support his family. He added that it feels as though the people who crafted the settlement “didn’t take [the workers] into account.”The settlement contains some money to help workers and tenants make the transition; it has been reported to be about $2.5 million, but many in West Marin think that is insufficient to replace people’s homes and livelihoods. Jasmine Bravo, 30, a community organizer whose father worked at a dairy and who lives with her family in ranch housing, has been organizing tenants facing displacement. “This huge decision that was going to impact our community was just made without any community input,” she said. “They thought we were going to be complacent and accepting,” she added. But “there are tenants and workers who have been here for generations. We’re just not going to move out of West Marin and start over. Our lives are here.”On March 11, the Marin County Board of Supervisors voted to declare an emergency shelter crisis to make it easier to construct temporary housing for displaced workers. Many residents showed up to applaud it — and also to say it wasn’t nearly enough.Albert Straus, whose legendary Straus Family Creamery sources organic milk from two of the local dairies, said that the organic operations in Marin and Sonoma counties “have become a model for the world,” and that the ousted dairies are family operations that worked in concert with the community and the land. He recently published an op-ed calling on the Trump administration to reverse the decision. “The campaign to displace the ranchers reflects a misguided vision of nature as a pristine playground suitable for postcards and tourists, with little regard for the community or the planet,” Straus wrote. In an interview, he said that the issue feels “very raw, and we’re trying to change that direction to save our community, our farms and our food.” He added: “I never give up.”

Environmentalists are celebrating a legal settlement that will close historic family dairies they say are degrading Point Reyes National Seashore. Locals say the settlement shows no understanding of this place and its people.

POINT REYES STATION, Calif. — With fog-kissed streets featuring a buttery bakery, an eclectic bookstore and markets peddling artisanal cheeses crafted from the milk of lovingly coddled cows, Point Reyes Station is about as picturesque as tourist towns come in California.

It is also a place that, at the moment, is roiling with anger. A place where many locals feel they’re waging an uphill battle for the soul of their community.

The alleged villains are unexpected, here in one of the cradles of the organic food movement: the National Park Service and a slate of environmental organizations that maintain that the herds of cattle that have grazed on the Point Reyes Peninsula for more than 150 years are polluting watersheds and threatening endangered species, including the majestic tule elk that roam the windswept headlands.

A patron places an order at a rustic coffee bar.

Locals in Point Reyes Station say a legal settlement that will force out historic family dairies shows no understanding of the peninsula’s culture and history.

In January, the park service and environmental groups including the Nature Conservancy and the Center for Biological Diversity announced a “landmark agreement” to settle the long-simmering conflict. The settlement, resolving a lawsuit filed in 2022, would pay most of the historic dairies and cattle ranches on the seashore to move out. The fences would come down, and the elk would roam free. Contamination from the runoff of dairy operations would cease. There would be new hiking trails. More places to camp. More conservation of coastal California landscapes.

“A crucial milestone in safeguarding and revitalizing the Seashore’s extraordinary ecosystem, all while addressing the very real needs of the community,” said Deborah Moskowitz, president of the Resource Renewal Institute, one of the groups that sued. She added that the deal “balances compassion with conservation” while also “ensuring that this priceless national treasure is preserved and cherished for generations to come.”

As news of the settlement spread, however, it quickly became clear that many in the community did not agree. In fact, they thought it showed no understanding at all of this place and its people.

A rarity for the National Park Service, the Point Reyes National Seashore has, since its founding in 1962, encompassed not just pristine wilderness but also working agricultural land. Those historic dairies have supplied coveted milk products to San Francisco for well more than a century, and today play an outsize role in California’s organic milk production. Why would anyone want to destroy one of the most preeminent areas for organic farming in the country in the name of the environment?

What’s more, the closing of the historic dairies means not just that legacy families and their cows will have to leave, but so will many dairy workers and ranchhands who have lived on the peninsula for decades. An entire community, many of them low income and Latino, are poised to lose their jobs and homes in one fell swoop.

In the weeks since the settlement was announced, there have been a spate of heated community meetings. At least two lawsuits, one from tenants being displaced and one from a cattle operation, have been filed.

“It’s a big blow to the community,” said Dewey Livingston, who lives in Inverness and has written extensively about the history of Point Reyes. He said he believes the environmental harms wrought by the cows have been exaggerated. And moving the cows out, he said, will irreparably harm the local culture. “It will turn what was once a rural area into a community of vacation homes, visitors and wealthy people.”

Environmental groups say they are sympathetic to these concerns, but that it is the duty of the National Park Service to protect and preserve the land — and that the land is being degraded.

“This degree of water pollution, which threatens aquatic wildlife habitat and public health, shouldn’t be happening anywhere, and definitely not in a national park,” said Jeff Miller, of the Center for Biological Diversity.

“If you listen to the rancher narrative, it makes it sound like ranching has always been this environmentally sustainable activity that serves all,” said Erik Molvar, of the Western Watersheds Project, another of the groups that sued. “But what we’re seeing was this herd of elk, locked up, having massive die outs. We had severe water pollution, some of the worst water pollution in California.”


A road cuts through hilly green pastures at Point Reyes National Seashore.

A road leads to Historic C Ranch at Point Reyes National Seashore.

About 20 miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Point Reyes Peninsula rises up, a paradise of ocean, dunes, cliffs and grassland that feels delivered from another time and place. Whales and elephant seals glide through the shimmering water, while bears and mountain lions patrol the misty headlands. There are pine forests, waterfalls, wildflowers and more than 50 species of endangered or threatened plants, along with the colorful flickers and chirps of more than 490 species of birds. And, of course, there are thousands of acres of green and golden hills, their grasslands softly rolling in the coastal breeze.

Intensive dairy ranching began here more than 150 years ago, spawned by the Gold Rush population explosion in San Francisco.

By the late 1850s, two brothers, Oscar Lovell Shafter and James McMillan Shafter, had established a large operation to produce butter and cheese, and ferried their goods to San Francisco on small schooner ships. By 1867, Marin County was producing more butter than anywhere else in California: 932,429 pounds a year.

Bob McClure’s ancestors arrived in 1889. His great-grandfather emigrated from Ireland and worked on the dairies. In 1930, the family acquired a ranch known — as are almost all the ranches on Point Reyes — by a letter.

“The I ranch,” McClure said. “I grew up here my whole life.” Like his father and grandfather before him, he watched over his cows as the fog rolled in and out over pastures that stretched from the hills to the sea. It was relentless work.

“The cow has this; the cow has that,” McClure explained, “and out of bed you go.” And yet, he loved it.

Mist hangs over green pasture at Point Reyes National Seashore.

Historic C Ranch is seen from a hillside at Point Reyes National Seashore.

As the decades went by, other immigrant families, many of whom started out as dairy workers, purchased land from the remnants of the Shafter dairy empire. The Nunes family came in 1919. The Kehoe family took over the J Ranch in 1922. Eventually, the area became a mecca not just for milk and butter, but also for some of the fanciest cheeses in America: Cowgirl Creamery with its Mt. Tam brie and Devil’s Gulch triple cream; Point Reyes Farmstead Cheese Co., with its blue cheese and Toma; Marin French Cheese Co., with its Rouge et Noir camembert.

Over the decades, other entities also had eyes on the peninsula. By the late 1920s, developers had swallowed up much of the Eastern Seaboard and were pursuing properties on the Pacific and Gulf coasts. Conservationists pushed to preserve Point Reyes, worried it would be recast as yet another coastal resort, with hotels and arcades marching along the shoreline. In 1935, an assistant director of the National Park Service recommended that the government buy 53,000 acres on Point Reyes, but the purchase price of $2.4 million was considered too steep.

The dream persisted, and in 1962, thanks to a boost from President Kennedy, the Point Reyes National Seashore was authorized, with land purchases continuing through the early 1970s.

A white lighthouse with a red roof rises above the ocean on a rugged peninsula.

A view of the Point Reyes Lighthouse.

Today, the park encompasses about 70,000 acres, and is visited by about 2 million people a year. But woven into its creation was an understanding that the livestock and dairy operations would be allowed to continue.

Under an agreement with the Department of the Interior, ranchers conveyed their land to the federal government and in exchange were issued long-term leases to work that land. For many visitors, the cows — quiet herds of Devons, Guernseys and Jerseys happily munching on the flowing grasses — are just one more piece of the picturesque landscape.

But behind the scenes, tensions were brewing almost from the beginning.


McClure was only 10 years old when the park was created, so he wasn’t aware of the legal intricacies. But he recalls that his family wasn’t wild about the sale.

“Nobody really wanted to,” he recalled, but the government “could have eminent-domained it,” so the families took what they could get.

Laura Watt, a retired professor of geography at Sonoma State University whose book, “The Paradox of Preservation: Wilderness and Working Landscapes at Point Reyes National Seashore,” chronicles the history, said many of the old ranching families were discomfited by the notion of their home becoming a wilderness playground.

A cow eyes a visitor on a gated dirt lot on a ranch.

A cow eyes a visitor at Historic C Ranch at Point Reyes National Seashore.

The families, she noted, were “a freakish embodiment of the classic American dream.” Most had come to the U.S. as immigrants, worked as tenant farmers for the Shafter dairy empire, and eventually managed to buy land and make a go of it, passing their enterprises on to their children.

Then along comes the federal government, saying their land should be set aside as a park. “That was part of what rubbed them the wrong way,” Watt said. The ranching families had “worked so hard to be able to get this land and take care of this land” and now suddenly it was “for other people to go and play?”

Enter the elk. In the late 1970s, the government moved a dozen or so tule elk to Tomales Point at the northern end of the peninsula. The animals had once roamed the area before being hunted to extinction there; scientists were seeking to reestablish the species.

At first, the arrival of the giant mammals was not terribly controversial. The herd was small, and stayed at the top of the peninsula, where a long strip of land juts into the water between Tomales Bay and the Pacific Ocean.

Before too long, however, the herd multiplied, eventually outgrowing its range on Tomales Point. Some animals were moved south, where they began to compete with cows for pasture.

Even as the elk moved in, many ranching families were beginning to chafe at what they said was government red tape that made it hard to run their operations. “They will force us out with all the paperwork we have to fill out,” one rancher, Kathy Lucchesi, complained to the Los Angeles Times in 2014. “By the time they approve a project it’s too late.”

Still, the park service superintendent at the time, Cicely Muldoon, insisted the agency was committed to maintaining the ranches. “The park service has always supported agriculture, and will continue to do so,” she said in 2014.

Ranchers and the park service discussed updated leases, which would enable the ranches to make investments and long-term plans.

Environmentalists, however, were aghast, especially after word spread that the park service planned to shoot some of the elk to curb the population.

In 2016, three groups — the Resource Renewal Institute, the Center for Biological Diversity and the Western Watersheds Project — filed a lawsuit, asking a federal judge to require the park service to prepare a new general plan for the seashore, one that analyzed “the impacts of livestock ranching on the natural and recreational resources.”

The suit alleged that the ranching operations were harming coastal waters, and cited examples from the park service’s own studies that found fecal pollution in some areas. The suit alleged a long list of harms. Among them: degradation of salmon habitat; threats to the habitat of the California red-legged frog, Myrtle’s silverspot butterfly and western snowy plover; plus, members of the public reported “unpleasant odors” from the cows and their manure.

In 2017, the park service settled the suit by agreeing to draft a new plan, which it did in 2021. That plan offered ranchers new long-term leases. The park service said it would authorize the culling of elk herds, to keep them separate from the cows.

In 2022, the same groups that sued in 2016 filed suit again, this time challenging the park’s new management plan.

Molvar, of the Western Watersheds Project, said the groups feared an environmental catastrophe.

“We had cattle pastures where the native grasslands had been so completely destroyed only the invasive species survived,” he said. Combine harvesters had been spotted mowing over baby deer and baby elk. He said he had seen videos that showed flocks of ravens hovering behind the harvesters so they could “feast on the carnage.”

“The national seashore, from an ecological standpoint, was a train wreck,” he said.


After the lawsuit was filed, the park service and environmental organizations entered discussions. Eventually, the Nature Conservancy, which was not a party to the suit, agreed to raise money to try to buy out the dairies and ranching operations. The amount has not been officially disclosed, but is widely reported to be about $30 million. The parties involved are barred from discussing financial details because of non-disclosure agreements.

Many ranchers reached by The Times said they were heartbroken, but felt they had no choice but to capitulate, because it had become too difficult to continue operations.

People stroll along a dirt path under the spreading branches of cypress trees.

People stroll through the Cypress Tree Tunnel in Inverness.

On Jan. 8, the parties announced the settlement, and said the ranchers, their tenants and workers would have 15 months to move out. Two beef cattle operations would be permitted to stay in the park and seven ranches would remain in the adjoining Golden Gate National Recreation Area.

“It’s very hard,” said Margarito Loza Gonzalez, 58 and a father of six, who has worked at one of the ranches for decades and now wonders how he will support his family. He added that it feels as though the people who crafted the settlement “didn’t take [the workers] into account.”

The settlement contains some money to help workers and tenants make the transition; it has been reported to be about $2.5 million, but many in West Marin think that is insufficient to replace people’s homes and livelihoods.

Jasmine Bravo, 30, a community organizer whose father worked at a dairy and who lives with her family in ranch housing, has been organizing tenants facing displacement. “This huge decision that was going to impact our community was just made without any community input,” she said.

“They thought we were going to be complacent and accepting,” she added. But “there are tenants and workers who have been here for generations. We’re just not going to move out of West Marin and start over. Our lives are here.”

On March 11, the Marin County Board of Supervisors voted to declare an emergency shelter crisis to make it easier to construct temporary housing for displaced workers. Many residents showed up to applaud it — and also to say it wasn’t nearly enough.

Albert Straus, whose legendary Straus Family Creamery sources organic milk from two of the local dairies, said that the organic operations in Marin and Sonoma counties “have become a model for the world,” and that the ousted dairies are family operations that worked in concert with the community and the land.

He recently published an op-ed calling on the Trump administration to reverse the decision. “The campaign to displace the ranchers reflects a misguided vision of nature as a pristine playground suitable for postcards and tourists, with little regard for the community or the planet,” Straus wrote.

In an interview, he said that the issue feels “very raw, and we’re trying to change that direction to save our community, our farms and our food.”

He added: “I never give up.”

Read the full story here.
Photos courtesy of

As Norway Considers Deep-Sea Mining, a Rich History of Ocean Conservation Decisions May Inform How the Country Acts

In the past, scientists, industry and government have worked together in surprising, tense and fruitful ways

As Norway Considers Deep-Sea Mining, a Rich History of Ocean Conservation Decisions May Inform How the Country Acts In the past, scientists, industry and government have worked together in surprising, tense and fruitful ways A variety of marine creatures and unique features can be found in the deep sea off Norway, including the dumbo octopus, colorful anemones and venting chimneys. Illustration by Emily Lankiewicz / CDeepSea / University of Bergen / ROV Aegir6000 At the Arctic Mid-Ocean Ridge off the Norwegian coast, molten rock rises from deep within the Earth between spreading tectonic plates. Black smoker vents sustain unique ecosystems in the dark. Endemic species of long, segmented bristle worms and tiny crustaceans graze on bacteria mats and flit among fields of chemosynthetic tube worms, growing thick as grass. Dense banks of sponges cling to the summits and slopes of underwater mountains. And among all this life, minerals build up slowly over millennia in the form of sulfide deposits and manganese crusts. Those minerals are the kind needed to fuel the global green energy transition—copper, zinc and cobalt. In January 2024, Norway surprised the world with the announcement it planned to open its waters for exploratory deep-sea mining, the first nation to do so. If all went to plan, companies would be issued licenses to begin identifying mineral deposits as soon as spring 2025. To some scientists who’d spent decades mapping and studying the geology and ecology of the Norwegian seabed and Arctic Mid-Ocean Ridge, the decision seemed premature—they still lacked critical data on the area targeted for mining. The government’s own Institute of Marine Research (IMR) accused it of extrapolating from a small area where data has already been collected to the much larger zone now targeted “Our advice has been we don’t have enough knowledge,” says Rebecca Ross, an ecologist at IMR who works on Norway’s Mareano deep-sea mapping initiative. She says the decision was based solely on the geology of the area. Taking high-resolution scans of the seabed and sampling its geology is the first step when research ships enter a new area, but critical biological and ecological research is more difficult and tends to come later—which is the case on the ridge area targeted for mining. Ross says it’s certain that area contains vulnerable marine ecosystems that would be affected by the light and noise pollution and sediment plumes generated by mining. The IMR estimates closing the knowledge gap on the target area could take ten years. The same conflict, with a partial scientific understanding misinterpreted and used to justify resource extraction, is playing out in the Pacific, where mining pilot projects are already underway in international waters. Years before, scientists funded by industry scouted the seabed there, discovering both valuable minerals and new forms of life. “I remember them being of two minds due to the fact they realized they were laying the ground for future exploitation and mining, but at the same time, they were learning so much about the environments that were down there,” says University of Tromso natural resource economist Claire Armstrong, who studied their work. “So, it’s clearly a balancing act.” Research in the deep sea is difficult—it requires lengthy, expensive research cruises and specialized machinery, often planned many years in advance. Scientists frequently work for industry—oil, fisheries, mining—and the government for a chance to access the seabed on shorter time scales and with better equipment. But that relationship between science and industry can lead to conflicts of interest. Mareano, now in its 20th year, is among the world’s largest and most systemic efforts to map a single nation’s seabed geology and ecology. It’s an outgrowth of a United Nations pact that allows countries to extend their waters to the limits of their continental shelf, which sparked an international seabed mapping race starting in the 1980s. Where the research ships go to map is determined by the government’s resource priorities, to inform oil, gas, wind and fisheries management. Ross, the ecologist, knows her participation makes resource extraction possible, sometimes at the expense of marine ecosystems. But if ecologists aren’t involved in such efforts, who would collect the data needed to adequately assess the environmental impacts of industry? Answering questions about how scientists can best work with industry when the groups have different aims in mind isn’t always easy. But Norway’s history is an instructive example of how scientists can work with universities, industry environmentalists and the government to find a way forward that satisfies all parties. With deep-sea mining on the horizon, some researchers say Norway would be wise to look to its own past. Reefs in the deep In 1982, geologist Martin Hovland sat aboard a research ship owned by the Norwegian oil company Statoil (now Equinor) in the Barents Sea. As he peered at a sonar screen, he saw something strange—a mound 150 feet wide rising 50 feet above the flat seabed. “And I said, ‘Stop, stop, stop the boat, we need to find out what that thing is,’” he recalls. “And we took a coring device and we sent it down to the structure at 280 meters [around 900 feet] water depth. And when it came up, it was muddy, and the pieces that fell out of the core went onto the steel floor and sounded like glass.” Confused, Hovland lowered an early remotely operated vehicle (ROV) into the water and took the first color photo ever of a cold-water coral reef—a rare ecosystem scientists now know exists throughout the Norwegian Sea. A cross section of a manganese crust at the bottom of the Norwegian Sea. CDeepSea / University of Bergen / ROV Aegir6000 Over the next ten years, Hovland’s constant access to the deep sea gave him a rare opportunity to collect data on those reefs, often collaborating—with Statoil’s permission—with university and government scientists back on land who, he says, envied Statoil’s ROV. He experienced some award snubs and disrespect for working for the oil industry. But then, in 1991, he ran into a real problem. A proposed natural gas pipeline route on the Norwegian continental shelf crossed directly through a particularly stunning reef. Engineers wanted to go forward with the project as planned. Hovland balked. “If you had seen this coral reef on land, you would have been amazed,” he recalls telling them. “It’s like being in an aquarium; it’s like coming into a Garden of Eden.” A sample of the coral Lophelia pertusa he collected from the reef turned out to be 8,600 years old—it started growing not long after the first humans came to Norway. These reefs may lack legal protections now, Hovland argued to his superiors, but once the public learned about them, regulations would surely follow. And in the court of public opinion, Statoil would be judged in the future for destroying them now. So, despite the potential for increased costs, the company changed the pipeline route to avoid the reef. Hovland even convinced them to follow guidelines for coral protection he drafted, which included regular visits to monitor the corals. Bottom trawling begins While Hovland balanced his industry job and coral science in the deep sea, bottom trawl fishing was exploding in popularity in Norway. Wheeled “rock hopper” gear allowed ships to pull nets over rocky terrain, bulldozing the seabed and catching all the fish—and other life—in their wake. Small-scale coastal fishermen immediately noticed something was wrong—the fishing hot spots near cold-water coral reefs they had long frequented with gillnets (which hang in the water column like huge, undersea volleyball nets) and longlines (which drag behind ships like undersea clotheslines covered in baited hooks) were coming up empty. “They realized the trawlers had been there and trawled over some of the cold-water coral in the area,” says Armstrong, the economist. “And they notified the Institute of Marine Research.” Collaboration between scientists and the fishing industry is older than the independent Norwegian state, says Mats Ingulstad, a historian at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology. Government-funded research at universities led to a ban on whaling in 1904 when biologists found the whales drove fish to important coastal fisheries. In this case, deep-sea ecologists at the IMR already suspected trawl fishing operations were damaging reefs, but they couldn’t prove it—they didn’t even know where most of the reefs were. So, they teamed up—coastal fishermen helped identify reef locations for the researchers, and, in at least one case with an ROV borrowed from Statoil and Hovland, they headed out to sea in search of crushed coral. “And it was in this process they got these very visual pictures of coral trawled over, and it came on national television in Norway and created quite a stir,” says Armstrong. The Norwegian public had just been enthralled by Hovland’s coral imagery on TV—scientists knew images of coral rubble fields would strike a chord. Under public pressure, the Norwegian parliament reacted remarkably fast, closing major areas to all fishing after just nine months of deliberation. Satellite tracking technology, which arrived around the same time, made enforcement possible. In the end, the trawling industry supported the legislation. Like the oil companies, “the trawl organizations clearly realized they would be on the bad side of history if they went against it,” says Armstrong. The deep-sea mining dilemma Deep-sea mining isn’t a new idea. The HMS Challenger research expedition discovered polymetallic nodules—the metal lumps mining operations are now targeting in the Pacific—in the 1870s. Scientists first found deep-sea vents and their resulting massive sulfide deposits nearly a century later. Around that time, the idea circulated around the world—starting in the U.S.—that the ocean contained endless mineral resources, says Ingulstad, who works on a multidisciplinary project studying deep-sea mining. Demand for minerals was high, thanks to the Korean War. The U.S., facing domestic shortages of metals needed for the war effort, invested heavily in foreign mining operations on land. At the same time, a CIA cover story for a secret operation to recover a sunken Soviet submarine featured a flashy (and fake) deep-sea mining test funded by billionaire inventor Howard Hughes. Suddenly, Ingulstad says, commercial deep-sea mining seemed imminent. Some theorized the world economic order would reshuffle based on who controlled minerals at sea. “Where this fits into a longer historical trajectory in Norway, and elsewhere in the world, is thinking of the ocean as a provider of resources, essentially solutions to contemporary problems and shortfalls on land,” says Ingulstad. “If you lack food, you go to the ocean, you fish. If you lack minerals, the ocean will provide.” But as suddenly as it coalesced, interest dissipated as mineral prices dropped. The U.S. investment in foreign mines was so successful, strategic mineral reserves were overflowing and the government had to sell off its excess supply. Then, in the early 2000s, when China entered the global market and mineral prices skyrocketed again, Norwegian scientists mapping the Arctic Mid-Ocean Ridge discovered black smoker vents there, including the group known as Loki’s Castle. Ever since, media and industry have created what Ingulstad calls a “really inflated idea” of the economic and security benefits to be reaped from the ridge’s mineral wealth—a “treasure on the seabed” available at the cost of potentially destroying a unique ecosystem. The Norwegian research vessel G.O. Sars ventured out to the deep ocean to explore Loki’s Castle, an area of black smoker vents, using an ROV. Sveter via Wikipedia under CC By-SA 3.0 Norwegian politics are a “many-headed troll,” a saying goes—some politicians see mining as a question of European security, others a new industry for coastal jobs as oil and gas inevitably decline. Deep-sea mining has been something that could happen “soon” for so long that university departments have trained a generation of specialized researchers, some of whom now work for the industry, says Ingulstad. The basic tools and technologies of the trade are well developed, just sitting on the shelf. At this point, mining is technically possible—what’s in question is whether society and the government will tolerate it. After Norway announced it planned to open a licensing round for the initial step of exploratory deep-sea mining in early 2025, it opened a public comment period—an opportunity for scientists to identify vulnerable areas that shouldn’t be considered for exploitation, like active hydrothermal vents. That sparked backlash from researchers—for one thing, the data to identify where vulnerable ecosystems are just doesn’t yet exist. Assessing ecology requires extensive video surveys with ROVs and physical sampling. For another, it’s hard for scientists to even determine if a given hydrothermal vent is active—they reactivate from dormancy unpredictably and on time scales scientists don’t yet understand. The overall approach—making scientists prove why mining shouldn’t happen in specific parts of a huge area, without the data to do so—frustrated scientists. Exploration doesn’t mean commercial mining will happen—after companies locate minerals on the seabed, another parliamentary vote followed by extensive environmental reviews would be required before full-scale extraction is allowed. Industry involvement and funding may be the only way to get significant investment in detailed seabed mapping and studies on how sediment plumes from mining could affect ecosystems—studies the government would likely require before mining goes forward. Plenty of opportunities remain for authorities to hit the brakes. But once companies invest in finding good spots to mine, says Ingulstad, the history of oil extraction, which also went through an exploratory phase, shows the government would likely move forward with permitting commercial-scale mining. But in December 2024, Norway surprised the world when the government canceled the planned licensing round for the exploratory mining phase after the Socialist Left party blocked the country’s budget in general opposition to deep-sea mining. The scientific backlash, lawsuits and international coverage of Norway’s decision to mine the seabed likely played a role in the government making the decision it did, as in the case of the oil and fishery industries and cold-water corals. The final call on opening Norway’s water for mining is delayed indefinitely for now—at least until the next election. But if the past is any indication, Norway may be uniquely positioned for industry, government and university researchers to work together to make an informed decision about deep-sea mining—whether it’s necessary at all and, if so, how it can be done in a sustainable way. Ross, the IMR ecologist, says the data scientists collect is critical to informing the public debate and government decisions, no matter who pays for it—just think of Hovland and his corals. “If it’s inevitable that we have to [start deep-sea mining], at least we can regulate it and have half an eye on what’s going to happen in the future,” Ross says. “It’s about the sustainability of the industry as well as the sustainability of the biodiversity.” Get the latest Science stories in your inbox.

Meet the seed collector restoring California’s landscapes - one tiny plant at a time

Native seed demand far outpaces supply for the state’s ambitious conservation plan. This group combs the landscape to address the deficitDeep in California’s agricultural heartland, Haleigh Holgate marched through the expansive wildflower-dotted plains of the San Luis national wildlife refuge complex in search of something precious.She surveyed the native grasses and flowering plants that painted the Central valley landscape in almost blinding swaths of yellow. Her objective on that sweltering spring day was to gather materials pivotal to California’s ambitious environmental agenda – seeds. Continue reading...

Deep in California’s agricultural heartland, Haleigh Holgate marched through the expansive wildflower-dotted plains of the San Luis national wildlife refuge complex in search of something precious.She surveyed the native grasses and flowering plants that painted the Central valley landscape in almost blinding swaths of yellow. Her objective on that sweltering spring day was to gather materials pivotal to California’s ambitious environmental agenda – seeds.“Over there it’s a brighter yellow, so I know those flowers are still blooming, rather than going to seed production,” she noted. “Versus over here, it’s these hues of deeper reds and deeper gold. That seed is ready.”As a seed collection manager with the non-profit Heritage Growers native seed supplier, Holgate is tasked with traveling to the state’s wildlands to collect native seeds crucial for habitat restoration projects.The need has become particularly acute as California aims to conserve 30% of its land by 2030, with the governor pledging to restore “degraded landscapes” and expand “nature-based solutions” to fight the climate crisis. And as the Trump administration systematically rolls back efforts to reduce greenhouse gas emissions and protect public lands, the state’s goals have taken on even greater importance.But the rising demand for seeds far outpaces the available supply. California faces an “urgent and growing need” to coordinate efforts to increase the availability of native seeds, according to a 2023 report from the California Native Plant Society. There simply isn’t enough wildland seed available to restore the land at the rate the state has set out to, Holgate said.The Heritage Growers farm in Colusa, California. Photograph: River PartnersBridging the gap starts with people like Holgate, who spends five days a week, eight months of the year, traveling with colleagues to remote spots across the state collecting seeds – an endeavor that could shape California’s landscape for years.That fact is not lost on the 26-year-old. It’s something she tries to remind her team during long, grueling hot days in the oilfields of Kern county or the San Joaquin valley.“What we do is bigger than just the day that we live. The species that we collect are going to make impacts on the restoration industry for decades to come,” Holgate said.Seeds play a vital role in landscape recovery. When fires move through forests, decimating native species and leaving the earth a charred sea of gray ash, or when farmlands come out of production, land managers use native seeds to help return the land to something closer to its original form. They have been an essential part of restoring the Klamath River after the largest dam removal project in US history, covering the banks of the ailing river in milkweeds that attract bees and other pollinators, and Lemmon’s needlegrass, which produces seeds that feed birds and small mammals.California has emphasized the importance of increasing native seed production to protect the state’s biodiversity, which one state report described as “the most imperiled … of any state in the contiguous United States”. Three-quarters of native vegetation in the state has been altered in the last 200 years, including more than 90% of California wetlands, much of them here in the Central valley.For the state to implement its plans, it needs a massive quantity of native seeds – far more than can be obtained in the wild. Enter Heritage Growers, the northern California-based non-profit founded by experts with the non-profit River Partners, which works to restore river corridors in the state and create wildlife habitat.The organization takes seed that Holgate and others collect and amplifies them at its Colusa farm, a 2,088-acre property located an hour from the state capital. (The ethical harvesting rules Heritage Growers adhere to mean that they can take no more than 20% of seeds available the day of collection.)Workers dry the seeds collected in the wild over several weeks, clean them and send them off to a lab for testing. The farm cultivates them to grow additional seeds, in some cases slowly expanding from a small plot to a tenth of an acre, and eventually several acres. The process – from collection to amplification – can take years. Currently, the farm is producing more than 30,000lbs of seeds each year and has more than 200 native plant varieties.A family watches the removal of the Iron Gate dam, near Hornbrook, California, on 28 August 2024. Photograph: San Francisco Chronicle/Hearst Newspapers/Getty ImagesThe goal, general manager Pat Reynolds said, is to produce source-identified native seed and get as much of it out in the environment as possible to restore habitat at scale. The group has worked with federal agencies such as the National Parks Service, state agencies and conservation organizations, and provided seed for River Partners’ restoration efforts of the land that would become California’s newest state park, Dos Rios.The benefit of restoring California’s wildlands extends far beyond the environment, said Austin Stevenot, a member of the Northern Sierra Mewuk Tribe and the director of tribal engagement for River Partners.“It’s more than just work on the landscape, because you’re restoring places where people have been removed and by inviting those people back in these places we can have cultural restoration,” Stevenot said. “Our languages, our cultures, are all tied to the landscape.”He pointed to Dos Rios, where there is a native-use garden within the park where Indigenous people can collect the plants they need for basketweaving.“It’s giving the space back to people to freely do what we would like for the landscape and for our culture,” he said.skip past newsletter promotionThe planet's most important stories. Get all the week's environment news - the good, the bad and the essentialPrivacy Notice: Newsletters may contain info about charities, online ads, and content funded by outside parties. For more information see our Privacy Policy. We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.after newsletter promotionJust three farms in California produce thousands of pounds of native seed each year, including Heritage Growers, Reynolds said, meaning that restoration efforts take significant long-term planning. In the case of the Klamath River project, it took at least five years of work – collecting the seed, cleaning it and amplifying it at multiple farms – to obtain the seed necessary to use for river restoration.But before Heritage Growers can amplify seed, Holgate has to gather materials in the wild. Holgate, a sunny and personable seed collector who studied environmental science and management with a focus in ecological restoration, has developed Heritage Growers’ program over the last two years.A field at the Heritage Growers farm. Photograph: Dani AnguianoIn late March, she headed out to scout the Arena plains area of the Merced national wildlife refuge, more than 10,200 acres of protected lands, including wetlands and vernal pools, in the San Joaquin valley. Her winter break had come to an end and collection season was kicking off again, meaning months of travel and logging upward of 1,000 miles a week as she and a group of wildland seed collectors visited dozens of sites across the valley and in the foothills. Collection days typically start when the sun rises, and stretch until it gets too hot to work.In recent weeks, Holgate’s team had planned their collection strategy and surveyed sites to see what plants were available. Getting to the Arena plains area required a 30-minute drive down a bumpy dirt road.In a large white pickup, she passed a large owl perched in a tree and navigated a narrow creekside lane. From her vehicle, Holgate often performs what she describes as “drive-by botany”, quickly scouting the land to see what’s available.She maneuvered through a herd of curious, but cautious, calves before trudging through thick mud and carefully slipping through barbed wire fencing to take in the scene.Equipped with a bucket, a sun hat and a backpack, Holgate was eager to observe the landscape, noting what was seeding and what needed more time. The work is simultaneously thrilling and sometimes tedious, Holgate said as she compared two plants that looked identical but were in fact different species. Seed collectors must be able to distinguish between species to ensure the materials they collect are genetically pure, she noted.The temperature climbed to 89F as she meandered across the plains, noting which species were available and how ripe the seeds were.Holgate monitored a herd of cattle approaching. When she began working in the area, Holgate viewed the creatures and the way they trampled through the vernal pools and chomped on the vegetation as a significant impact to the landscape, she said. But she later learned how grazing can benefit this ecosystem. The depressions cattle make as they move through the area allow seeds to nestle further into the ground, and their grazing reduces invasive grasses, allowing flowers to receive more sunlight and giving them space to bloom, Holgate noted.Chasing down seeds is a nomadic lifestyle in which one has to be OK with long stretches away from home, and an inordinate amount of prepared road food, like bacon and gouda sandwiches from Starbucks, Holgate said, pausing as a coyote and its pup ran through nearby flowers, winding through the cows and heading just out of sight. Along with travel to distant locations from the wildlife refuge to Kern county in the south, Holgate has to return any seeds collected to the Heritage Growers farm within 24 to 48 hours.But the mission is worthwhile, Holgate said. The seeds she collects are expensive, but if they can be amplified and expanded, native seeds will become more abundant and restoration projects can happen more quickly.Haleigh Holgate working in the San Luis national wildlife refuge complex. Photograph: Dani Anguiano“We can restore California faster,” she said. “It’s the only way we are going to be able to restore California at the rate we want to.”The seed collection team has 35 sites they will return to this season. Spending so many hours on the same swaths of land has allowed Holgate and her colleagues to know the areas on a far deeper level than they would if they were just hiking through. It’s left her with a familiarity she can’t shake – that dainty grass isn’t just grass, it’s hair grass, the lighter spots are Hordeum depressum, a type of barley, and the dots of yellow are lasthenia. Sometimes the plants seep into her dreams.“I know that when I’m dreaming about a certain species, I should go check that population and see what’s happening. And normally there’s something going on where it’s like grasshoppers came in and ate all the seed, or the seed is ripe and ready, and I gotta call in a crew,” she said.“I’ve really put my whole heart into this job. I realize it’s more than just getting a paycheck – and it’s more than just doing this restoration for the land. It’s doing restoration for people.”

Conservation group names Mississippi River 'most endangered,' cites proposed FEMA cuts

A conservation group on Wednesday named the Mississippi the “most endangered river of 2025,” citing threats to abolish the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), which plays a key role in federal flood management. American Rivers, a nonprofit environmental advocacy group, said the Mississippi River in recent years has faced “increasingly frequent and severe floods,” which...

A conservation group on Wednesday named the Mississippi the “most endangered river of 2025,” citing threats to abolish the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), which plays a key role in federal flood management. American Rivers, a nonprofit environmental advocacy group, said the Mississippi River in recent years has faced “increasingly frequent and severe floods,” which have damaged homes and businesses and worsened the health of the river, which provides drinking water for 20 million people. The organization said the federal government plays a key role in protecting the river and helping homeowners prepare for, and rebuild after, major flooding. Amid concerns about further layoffs at FEMA and as government officials — including Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem, who oversees FEMA — threaten to abolish the agency, the conservation group said the risk to the Mississippi River is exceptionally high. “Communities along the river need significant support for disaster prevention and response, as well as river restoration – but the fate of the Federal Emergency Management Agency hangs in the balance,” the report read. The group called on the Trump administration to “modernize FEMA to improve river health and maximize the safety, security, and prosperity of Mississippi River communities.” “The Mississippi River is vital to our nation’s health, wealth and security. We drink from it, we grow our food with it, we travel on it, we live alongside it, and simply, we admire its beauty,” Mike Sertle, American Rivers’ central region director, said in a statement. “We cannot turn our back on Mississippi River communities or the health of the river millions depend on at this critical time when they need unified direction instead of uncertainty at the national level,” Sertle added. A press release from Americans Rivers stressed FEMA’s role in preparing for potential flood damage, not just responding to it, saying the agency develops minimum standards for construction in floodplains and helps relocate flood-prone homes to higher ground. “The most cost-effective way to reduce disaster response costs is to invest in mitigating the impacts of disasters before they happen. Every $1 spent on flood mitigation yields $7 in benefits,” the press release read.

Endangered greater gliders recorded in proposed great koala national park in NSW as logging continues

Conservation groups call for immediate action to protect wildlife as two-year wait for Labor’s promised creation of park continuesGet our afternoon election email, free app or daily news podcastGovernment surveys have found tens of thousands of endangered greater gliders could be living within the proposed area for a great koala national park in New South Wales, prompting new calls for the area to be quickly protected from logging.Data from aerial drone and ground-based surveys at 169 sites within the proposed park were used to model the likely presence of Australia’s largest gliding possum across the entire 176,000 hectares the NSW government is considering for protection.Sign up for the Afternoon Update: Election 2025 email newsletter Continue reading...

Government surveys have found tens of thousands of endangered greater gliders could be living within the proposed area for a great koala national park in New South Wales, prompting new calls for the area to be quickly protected from logging.Data from aerial drone and ground-based surveys at 169 sites within the proposed park were used to model the likely presence of Australia’s largest gliding possum across the entire 176,000 hectares the NSW government is considering for protection.The Minns Labor government promised to create a koala national park before the state election more than two years ago, but has not taken a decision on the boundaries and has allowed logging to continue.A greater glider in flight. Photograph: Sami Raines/WWFBetween April and July 2024, the surveys detected greater gliders at 82 sites. The government’s analysis estimated the planned park has between 29,693 and 44,211 gliders, with a mean estimate of 36,483. Some survey sites in the north-west recorded “extremely high detections” of the species, according to the new report.“This puts paid to any argument that this is not an environmentally significant area and endorses the protection of the complete 176,000 hectares in a national park,” Justin Field, spokesperson for the Forest Alliance NSW and former independent member of the NSW upper house, said.A great koala national park in in the state’s north was NSW Labor’s key environmental commitment at the 2023 election, but two years on, the government has given no indication of when it will announce how much of the 176,000 hectares it plans to protect.“The politically pointed question is: why is Chris Minns allowing the great potential legacy of this park to be undermined by a slow decision?” Field said.A NSW government spokesperson said the creation of the park was “one of our key election commitments, and it will be delivered soon”. “Creating this park will protect koalas, and that protection will extend to other important species including gliders.”Community groups and conservation advocates have grown increasingly frustrated as the government has allowed logging to continue within the proposed park instead of declaring a moratorium until assessment is complete.“These gliders do not tolerate logging and this report should motivate the Minns government to immediately end logging in the proposed great koala national park,” the chief executive of the Nature Conservation Council of NSW, Jacqui Mumford, said.“In fact, logging should cease in all state forest areas identified as containing greater gliders.”skip past newsletter promotionSign up to Afternoon Update: Election 2025Our Australian afternoon update breaks down the key election campaign stories of the day, telling you what’s happening and why it mattersPrivacy Notice: Newsletters may contain info about charities, online ads, and content funded by outside parties. For more information see our Privacy Policy. We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.after newsletter promotionEndangered yellow-bellied gliders and the tradie keeping watch over them – videoKita Ashman, a threatened species and climate adaptation ecologist at WWF Australia, said the report highlighted the significance of the proposed park for multiple species.“That’s the crux of the whole story,” she said.“Yes, we’re calling it the great koala national park. But you could easily call it the great greater glider national park – although it doesn’t have the same ring to it.”The forest alliance, made up of community and state environment groups focused on forest conservation, said it was also concerned about the findings of the government surveys for another glider species, the vulnerable yellow-bellied glider.The report found yellow-bellied gliders were less abundant than other species assessed, with the drone and on-ground surveys detecting the animals at only 21% of the sites.Because of the low number of observations, the government was unable to estimate an overall population number for the species within the park area.Field said this highlighted a need for further investigation to understand its conservation status.

UK's rarest wildlife being 'pushed to extinction' by grass fires

Wildfires could spell the end for rare species like water voles and hen harriers, conservationists warn.

UK's rarest wildlife being 'pushed to extinction' by grass firesSteffan MessengerEnvironment correspondent, BBC Wales NewsClare HutchinsonBBC Wales NewsGaran ThomasThis blaze on the Rhigos Mountain in south Wales in June 2023 destroyed an area the size of 140 football pitchesSome of the UK's rarest wildlife is being "torched alive" and pushed closer to extinction after weeks of intense grass fires, conservationists have warned.They include endangered birds like hen harriers and water voles, which are now the UK's fastest declining mammal.The National Trust said it believed ongoing wildfires at Abergwesyn common in Powys had destroyed "the last remaining" local breeding habitat for golden plovers - considered one of the most beautiful birds of the British uplands.So far this year 110 sq miles (284 sq km) of land has been burnt by wildfires around the UK - an area larger than Birmingham.Figures obtained by the BBC show that in Wales, fire crews have battled almost 1,400 wildfires already this year, leading fire services to urge people to "act responsibly" and report any suspicious behaviour to the police.The National Trust said 2025 was "turning out to be the worst year ever for these human-caused fires across the country"."We're extremely worried, this is looking like it's going to be the worst year for seeing our wildlife going up in flames," said Ben MacCarthy, the charity's head of nature conservation.A record dry spell and unusually high temperatures in March are believed to have contributed to the fires. A low number of blazes in 2024 also left more vegetation to fuel them.Getty ImagesWater voles are already on the UK's Red List for endangered animals due to loss of habitatCoed Cadw, the Woodland Trust in Wales, said an "irreplaceable" area of temperate Atlantic rainforest had been affected at Allt Boeth near Aberystwyth, with damage to protected bluebells too.Also known as Celtic rainforest, the habitat harbours scarce plants, lichens and fungi, and is considered more threatened than tropical rainforest.In England, the National Trust said several thousand newly planted trees at Marsden Moor, in West Yorkshire, had gone up in flames.While on the Morne Mountains, in Northern Ireland, invertebrates and ground dwelling animals like reptiles were "simply being torched alive"."That then cascades through the food web because without the invertebrates you don't get the birds who are reliant on them for food," Mr MacCarthy said.He said government funding to help farmers and land managers restore peat bogs in the uplands, to prevent fires while also soaking in planet-warming carbon and providing habitat, was essential.National Trust/PAThe hen harrier nests in upland moorlands and is one of the most endangered breeding birds of prey in the UKConservation charities including The Wildlife Trusts and the Initiative for Nature Conservation Cymru (INCC) also voiced fears for the future of the water vole, which is already under serious threat from habitat loss and predation by American minks.Small animals like water voles and shrews, which live in burrows, can survive fast-moving fires but their habitats and the food they rely on are destroyed.Water voles are "the fastest-declining mammal ever" according to Rob Parry of the INCC."Their last foothold [in Wales] is in the uplands so when those sites are burned it is awful for that particular population, but from a UK point of view we are one step closer to the extinction of an entire species," he said.Rob ParryThe scorched burrow of a water vole, following grass fires in CeredigionThe INCC is also monitoring five breeding pairs of barn owls in the Amman Valley in south Wales, where wildfires have destroyed huge areas of habitat. "A few weeks ago they had all of this area to find food for their chicks and suddenly they don't have that any more," said Mr Parry."I don't know how they are going to cope. A wildfire just makes that habitat disappear overnight."Other rare birds are also affected, including hen harriers, which have been subject to recent conservation efforts to increase their numbers in the Welsh uplands, and skylarks, which have declined in huge numbers since the 1970s."We're worried enough as it is about wildlife," said Mr Parry."We're one of the most nature-depleted countries in the world and wildfires every spring at the worst possible time is a burden that wildlife and the environment just can't cope with."Eddy BlancheFire crews have reported more than 1,100 wildfires in Wales so far this year - including this one near in Merthyr Tydfil in MarchThe INCC has called for closer oversight of controlled burns by farmers and better monitoring of the impact of wildfires on the environment.Natural Resources Wales (NRW) said wildfires were a "massive issue", particularly in south Wales, where Welsh government figures showed more than half of wildfires in Wales took place last year.Becky Davies, a senior officer at NRW, said: "In the last three days we've had over 75 fires in the south Wales valleys alone."We have a lot of hillsides that are linear, the valley side has a lot of bracken, a lot of heathland, grassland and coal spoil and that is the sort of hillside that goes up in flames."The environmental impact of wildfires can also be felt more widely.When it rains after a fire, the newly bare soil and the phosphates that were trapped inside it can wash off into streams and rivers, affecting water quality.'Deliberate fire setting is a crime'Numbers of wildfires vary year-on-year depending on when spells of dry weather happen.But figures obtained by the BBC show that in south Wales, grassfires have increased by 1,200% from the same time period last year.In north Wales, crews have attended 170 fires this year, and Mid Wales Fire and Rescue said it had tackled 772 blazes.Wildfires are also up in England and Northern Ireland compared to last year, while the fire service in Scotland has issued an extreme wildfire alert covering the whole country.Statistics show the majority of wildfires are started by people, including accidental fires from disposable BBQs or controlled burns that get out of hand.Firefighters and police are teaching children in schools about the damage wildfires can cause to wildlifeIn south Wales, firefighters are going to primary schools to teach children from a young age about the devastating impact.At Pontnewydd Primary School in Cwmbran, staff from South Wales Fire and Rescue Service and Gwent Police brought along animals like snakes, hedgehogs and foxes for children to meet.Station manager Mark Bowditch said his crews saw the damage to wildlife from wildfires first-hand."We see the death of local wildlife, we see the destruction of their habitat," he said."We accept that some fires can be accidental, but deliberate fire setting is a crime and that's the message we'd like to get out."Additional reporting by Dylan Greene.

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