Wednesday, February 17, 2021
They noted, for example, that there are now fewer days when daytime temperatures never go above freezing; fewer days when nighttime temperatures dip below freezing; and fewer days when temperatures sink below 0 F. They also concluded that the cold period of the year is now three weeks shorter than it used to be.
For some of us, that’s something to celebrate. Fewer days of mind-numbing cold, snowy roads and frost-covered windows are a welcome respite from our winters of old. But not all creatures would agree.
Snow cover provides an insulating blanket on top of the soil, keeping it from freezing too deeply and enabling some soil processes to continue unabated. Snow cover also provides important wildlife
These revelations made me wonder whether it might be worthwhile to identify and protect refugia of coldness, places where cold-loving species can thrive. Are there locations on the landscape that are more likely to retain cold conditions and snow cover for longer periods? Can we manage a few nooks and crannies of the Ocean State as islands of coldness?
It may sound at first like a strange concept, but it’s worth considering. If we want to continue to have black spruce trees in Rhode Island, for instance, we may need to preserve a few pockets of coldness. We’re at the southern end of the range of this cold-loving conifer, and as temperatures warm, the local conditions will likely soon become inhospitable to its growth.
There are bound to be other species whose survival may be compromised by a reduction in cold conditions. A scan of the Rhode Island Natural Heritage Database would probably find other species that are barely hanging on in the state and may be pushed over the edge by too much winter warming.
Identifying refugia of coldness shouldn’t be too difficult. Television meteorologists often mention the coldest places in the state during their forecasts, places like the valleys and north-facing slopes in the northwest corner of Rhode Island. There are plenty of cold pockets and frost hollows elsewhere in the state, too, locations where the first frost comes days or weeks before sites nearby.
My friend David’s house in Wakefield is one such place. It sits in a broad valley where cold accumulates, and on some chilly mornings when he leaves his house and drives up a short rise in the road just past his driveway, he experiences a noticeable temperature increase.
Someone with expertise in Geographic Information Systems would have no difficulty identifying other such areas. These sites don’t necessarily have to be the coldest places in the state, where the lowest low temperatures occur, however. It may be useful to also identify those places defined by temperatures that are simply less warm than elsewhere. Either way, it would be a worthwhile exercise, even when there are plenty of other factors to consider when deciding what lands to preserve.
For it’s easy for humans to come in from the cold, but harder and harder for some species to find enough of it.
This article first appeared in The Independent on Feb. 6, 2021.
Monday, February 8, 2021
Yet through it all, the research team – including five scientists from the Graduate School of Oceanography – persevered and completed most of what they set out to accomplish.
“This project was 10 years in the making,” said Brice Loose, GSO associate professor and one of the organizers of the expedition. “There was a recognition among many disciplines within the Arctic
sciences that there had been an extreme regime shift in the way the ocean and atmosphere were working. What we thought we knew about the Arctic didn’t necessarily apply anymore.”
The $150 million MOSAIC expedition (Multidisciplinary Drifting Observatory for the Study of Arctic Climate) sought new insights from the epicenter of the changing climate as well as some of the first oceanographic data gathered from the region during winter. To collect a baseline understanding of what some are calling the New Arctic required an interdisciplinary approach and a year of continuous data collection to enable scientists to observe the complete life cycle of plankton and the physical processes taking place from month to month and season to season.
But why get trapped in the ice? In part, it was the most practical solution, Loose said. It’s not feasible to navigate the ice flows throughout the winter, and it allowed scientists to use the ice as a platform for conducting their studies.
“The atmosphere is moving at one speed and direction, the ice is moving at a different speed and direction, and the ocean is moving at a third speed and direction,” he said. “We just had to pick a frame of reference and stick with it.”
Aboard ship at various times during the year, Marine Research Scientist Robert Campbell, Marine Research Specialist Celia Gelfman and Postdoctoral Fellow Katy Shoemaker studied the feeding, growth, reproduction and respiration of the Arctic zooplankton community.
“We focused on a few key species throughout the drift and tried to get a better understanding of
their complete life cycles,” said Campbell, who spent several months on the ship last winter and again this fall. “We’re using the measurements we made to better understand the Arctic planktonic food web and to quantify energy flow and nitrogen and carbon transformation processes throughout the planktonic ecosystem.”
A typical day for Campbell started with experimental readings before breakfast and often didn’t conclude until well after midnight. He worked from the ship three or four days each week deploying CTDs to collect water samples as deep as 4,000 meters and to measure salinity, pressure, depth and other variables. They also deployed net systems, cameras and particle counters to collect and count plankton from different depths. During other days he worked from the ice, drilling and collecting ice cores for other studies or sampling plankton with small nets from a hole in the ice.
“On Saturdays we got to use the ‘Beast’, an ROV that has its own container on the ice away from the ship and is equipped with plankton nets,” he said. “We used it to collect plankton samples directly under the ice.”
For Gelfman, the hardest part of the expedition was just getting to the ship. By the time her leg of the expedition was approaching, the pandemic was in full swing. After more than a month of delay, she, Shoemaker and Postdoctoral Fellow Alessandra D’Angelo flew to a hotel in Germany for two weeks of isolation, then boarded a ship to Svalbard where the Polarstern exchanged personnel after leaving the icepack. The entire process took more than a month.
Once the ship was back in the ice, Gelfman fell into a similar routine as Campbell had before her. But rather than extreme cold and near total darkness all day long, she enjoyed round-the-clock daylight and temperatures that hovered around freezing.
“For me, what was most interesting to think about was that we were on a boat moving with a flow of ice, so every time we put our nets in the water, the ice itself was always the same but the water underneath was always different,” she said. “We were moving through seasonal time, but also through geographic space. As a result, there’s going to be a lot of stuff we’re going to have to correlate in our analysis.
“We also experienced a freshwater lens from the meltwater on the ice,” Gelfman added. “As the ice melted, it made a layer of freshwater on the surface, and it seemed like we had a plankton bloom that was related to that freshwater melt and release of nutrients. We sampled during those conditions, and I’m excited to see the progression of young stages of copepods feeding during that part of the year.”
Loose’s research examined the occurrence of a group of microorganisms that produce or consume methane and their role in mitigating the release of large quantities of methane from the ocean bottom, which is hypothesized will take place as a result of the changing climate.
“A tremendous amount of methane is trapped in the seafloor, more than you’d ever want to have get into the atmosphere,” Loose said “It’s trapped in one kind of ice or another, and that ice is stable at certain temperatures and pressures. But if the temperature or pressure changes, a lot of that methane could be released into the water column. Our question is, will that methane make it to the atmosphere, or will the microbes eat it first?”
Since Loose didn’t spend any time aboard the ship, most of his data collection was left to D’Angelo, the team leader for all of the biogeochemical studies during the expedition. She collected ice core and seawater samples every week to analyze their methane and carbon dioxide concentrations and isotopic ratios.
“We want to know the rate of oxidation or production of methane by the microbes so we can understand how much might be released into the atmosphere,” she said. “The more sea ice there is, the less methane will be exchanged with the atmosphere because the ice blocks the exchange.”
All of the GSO participants in the expedition had joined many previous Arctic research cruises, but the total number of scientists involved in the MOSAIC expedition and the variety of disciplines they represented made this one special.
“I really appreciated the effort everyone put into building new research ideas and new collaborations,” D’Angelo said. “We were very, very busy, so you don’t expect to have extra time to work on other research projects, but we were very willing to do it anyway. We created new research activities in parallel with our work. It was a good way to develop new ideas, new networks, and new collaborations for future proposals.”
One variable in the daily activity that was impossible to predict was the presence of polar bears. While Gelfman, D’Angelo and Shoemaker were aboard, they saw polar bears nearly every day, and if the bears approached too closely, research activities on the ice had to be curtailed. “It was very nice to see polar bears when we were on the ship,” D’Angelo quipped, “but not so nice when we were on the ice.”
While pandemic protocols made it difficult for the scientists to get to the ship and back home again – and many scientists never made it to the ship at all due to restrictions in their home countries – the virus wasn’t something they thought much about while at sea. “The coronavirus didn’t touch us on the ship, but now that we’ve come back it seems strange to have to wear a mask,” said D’Angelo. “Everything is so different and new.”
Although there is still a great deal of data analysis to be done with the samples collected during the expedition, the scientists have already made some interesting observations.
“We found that most animals in winter were found at depth, 500 to 2,000 meters in diapause, and some of these were already producing eggs in December that would float to the surface so that their offspring would be ready to feed on the spring bloom once it started in late spring,” Campbell said. “This is a very important life cycle strategy given the short growing season. We also found that some animals remain active in the surface during the winter. How were they fueling this activity during the polar night when food is so limiting? We hope to find this out from our analysis of the DNA of the prey items in their stomach contents.”
On the last day of her quarantine after returning home from the Arctic, Gelfman said that one of the things she most appreciated during the MOSAIC cruise was the opportunity to walk around on the ice on a regular basis.
“It’s a place that not many people get to see, and it’s so diverse and different every week,” she said. “There would be surface melting that would refreeze at night, and the ice crystal formations were always interesting. Like most cruises, it was wonderful to spend every day focused on your work and not everything you usually have to juggle in your life. But this one was special in so many ways – great people, great science, great place.”
This article first appeared in the winter 2021 issue of Aboard GSO.
Friday, February 5, 2021
The dolphin deaths have some people worried and wondering what could be killing the animals. Might there be something unhealthy in Rhode Island waters?
Scientists don’t think so. Instead, they believe the dolphin mortalities are probably due to natural
|Common dolphin found on Block Island (Kim Gaffett)|
attrition in a large population of dolphins that is typically most active in southern New England waters in fall and winter.
Three of the four dead dolphins were common dolphins, a species that University of Rhode Island oceanographer Robert Kenney, writing in a blog in 2017, described as “the most abundant cetaceans off the Atlantic coast, with perhaps 240,000 or more between Florida and Labrador.” They also occur in tropical and temperate waters elsewhere around the world, and they sometimes aggregate into extremely large herds.
Kim Gaffett, a naturalist with The Nature Conservancy and a board member of the Rhode Island Natural History Survey, was on hand when the aquarium volunteer responded to the Block Island dolphins. She said that common dolphins are regularly observed around the island in winter – and occasionally in summer – with most sightings coming from passengers on the Block Island ferry. She said dead dolphins are observed on the island shoreline about every other year.
Neither of the dead Block Island dolphins had any visible signs of injury, according to Gaffett. Based on photos of the animals Gaffett provided, Kenney believes the animals were relatively old in age.
The aquarium did not conduct a necropsy – an animal autopsy – on any of the recently reported dolphins, so their cause of death is unknown. Animals that appear to have died more than 24 hours previously are usually left to drift back out to sea, said Sarah Callan, assistant manager of the aquarium’s Animal Rescue Program, since the decomposition process would make their tissues too deteriorated to be useful in determining cause of death. Since necropsies require several people working in close proximity, the aquarium is conducting fewer necropsies during the COVID19 pandemic to reduce the risk to its staff and volunteers.
Callan wouldn’t speculate about the cause of death of the dolphins found recently in Rhode Island waters, though she said it could be from any number of factors, including disease, respiratory infections, vessel strikes, fishing gear entanglements or various natural causes. She also noted that it isn’t uncommon for as many as 10 dolphins to strand in local waters in a typical year.
“Every year is different,” she said. “Often when animals die, whether from natural causes or something else, where they wash up depends a lot on the weather and currents. It could be a fluke of the currents that pushed those two dolphins to Block Island. Animals that died on Cape Cod can even end up here. There are so many factors involved. It doesn’t necessarily indicate something has happened off our shoreline.”
Data from an April 2020 assessment of common dolphins in the western North Atlantic by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration estimated that 419 common dolphins are killed as fisheries bycatch each year. The same report indicated that 28 common dolphins were found stranded on Rhode Island beaches between 2013 and 2017 and 359 on Massachusetts beaches during the same period, including 166 in 2017 alone.
Kenney said that when individual dolphins are found dead, it is typically because the animal was sick or injured. And while there are occasionally spikes in mortality due to disease, which the federal government labels an “unusual mortality event,” no such event has been declared for common dolphins anywhere on the East Coast in recent years.
Kenney isn’t concerned about the health of the common dolphin population in southern New England, despite the number of animals found dead this winter.
“If a marine mammal population is stable, an equal number of animals should be expected to die and be born every year,” he said. “Given that the current estimate for common dolphin abundance in the regional population is 172,825, if natural mortality is only one or two percent a year, there should be 2,000 to 3,000 dead ones every year.”
In addition to common dolphins, Callan said that mid-winter is also a common time for gray seal pups to be found washed up on area beaches, both dead and alive, some of which may have originated as far away as Canada or Greenland. Anyone who finds a stranded marine mammal should call the Mystic Aquarium hotline at 860-572-5955, extension 107.
This article first appeared on EcoRI.org on February 4, 2021.
Monday, February 1, 2021
And yet most invasives are here to stay; it’s almost impossible to eradicate them.
“Because they’re not from around here, they don’t have the typical predators and diseases that keep them in check in their native land,” said Dave Gumbart, director of land management for the Connecticut office of The Nature Conservancy. “Once they’re established, they’re very capable of spreading and becoming aggressive.”
At the Conservancy’s properties, Gumbart and his staff deploy a variety of tactics to fight the worst invaders. They manually cut them back, dig them out, and apply targeted herbicides, but it seems to be a never-ending battle.
One step they haven’t tried, however, is eating them, and yet many chefs are taking that unusual step.
Bun Lai, the chef and owner of Miya’s Sushi in New Haven, has been doing just that for nearly 20 years, ever since he was flipping rocks along the shoreline in Branford with a friend and started to see
|Fried Asian shore crabs prepared by Bun Lai (Eric Heimbold)|
“I was just starting to promote sustainable seafood, and it dawned on me that maybe we should start thinking about invasive species as an alternate food source,” he said. “Slowly we started getting into it.”
Today, Lai is among the national leaders of this growing movement. His restaurant’s menu features an extensive variety of invasive species, from pickled burdock root and garlic mustard falafel to Asian shore crabs caught in Long Island Sound. He even serves a saké drink made with the berries of the invasive autumn olive shrub. And although he will be closing his restaurant at the end of the year, Lai will continue to serve invasive species at Miya’s pop-up restaurants around the region, and he plans to market other invasive species-based food products.
“Many of these plants are exponentially more nutritious than anything you can grow on an organic farm,” Lai said, “because they’re wild plants. Over 16,000 years we’ve cultivated for flavor, size, beauty and resilience but not for nutrition.”
That’s not to say that they don’t taste good, especially when cooked by an expert like Lai. He said that invasive Japanese knotweed, a large abundant perennial that causes millions of dollars in damage to native environments around the country each year, is every bit as tasty as rhubarb. He serves it in multiple ways, including pickled and as a tea.
He noted that invasive dandelion flowers also make an excellent tea and an even better liqueur that tastes like butterscotch candy. And mugwort, an Asian member of the daisy family, tastes like a powerful sage that he purees into rice.
“Invasive garlic mustard tastes exactly the way it’s named – like garlic and mustard,” Lai said. “It’s pungent, and the leaves are very hardy. We put it in salads, sauté them, or put them in a soup with a bunch of other foraged weeds. I really think you can’t eat anything healthier.”
James Wayman agrees. The executive chef at The Oyster Club in Mystic uses the root of garlic mustard as a horseradish substitute. “But my favorite part is that they have these lovely florets, almost like a broccoli or flowering kale, that I turn into pesto,” he said.
Wayman became interested in eating invasive species while foraging for mushrooms and other edible wild plants. He said he doesn’t necessarily seek out plants because they are invasive. Instead, he selects invasive plants largely because they are abundantly available and delicious. He especially likes cooking with Japanese knotweed, which he pickles, uses as a vegetable or makes into a syrup that he serves over ice cream. He also makes autumn olive berries into a caramel.
Both chefs get their invasive ingredients simply by walking around their own properties, at partner farms, and while enjoying nature. “We have everything I need right nearby,” Lai said. “I just step outside my door and pick it.”
Customer reaction to seeing invasive species on the menu can vary, but once people taste them, they become believers. “We’ve done some foraged dinners and had a great response,” Wayman said. “My customers really become interested in it because they’re flavors that are different from what they’re used to.”
Unfortunately, even if the consumption of invasive species became trendy, it’s not likely that it would have much of an impact on the abundance of invasives on the landscape. But that doesn’t make the effort any less worthwhile.
“We’re not going to eat our way out of the invasive species problem,” Lai concluded. “We’ll never be able to turn the ecosystem around to what it was before. But the reality is that invasive species aren’t all bad, and eating them is part of the solution to the bigger problem of trying to make our food system sustainable.”
Tuesday, January 26, 2021
Traveling via kayak, John Crockett will search for evidence of muskrats, beavers and river otters in waterways of southwestern Rhode Island this winter before expanding his search to other areas of the state in the coming years.
“The main goal of the study is to get a good sense of the distribution of each species across the state,” said Crockett, a native of Fort Collins, Colorado, who is collaborating on the study with URI
|John Crockett surveys for muskrats, beavers, otters|
All three species have been the target of trappers in Rhode Island for many years – though the state legislature banned the trapping of river otters in the 1970s – and most of what state wildlife officials know about the animals is derived from trapping data. But since trapping has been decreasing in popularity in recent years, less and less data about the animals is being collected.
“We want to make sure we have a good assessment of where these mammals are found,” said Gerber. “It’s been 10 or 15 years since anyone has spent much time looking for them, and we want to see if we find any changes in their distribution since those earlier surveys.”
Muskrats are in decline across much of their range in the United States, according to Crockett, and now they are difficult to find. The decrease in trapping activity has made it difficult to tell whether the animals are in decline in Rhode Island or if the lack of trapping just makes it appear to be so.
Since river otters have not been trapped for 50 years, very little is known about their distribution and population in the state. “Ever since the ‘70s, we’ve been mostly in the dark about where they are and how many there might be,” Crocket said.
Beavers are believed to have recovered well after being extirpated from the area due to unregulated trapping and forest clearing in the 1800s. “Now they are creating conflicts with their dams causing flooding in some places,” Gerber said. “We’d like to be able to identify the habitat features where beavers are doing well and those areas where they are likely to cause conflict. To do that, we need distribution data.”
Crockett expects to conduct his surveys from December through March for the next three years, as well as periodic summer surveys. He eventually hopes to be able to estimate the probability that any of the three species will be found in a given habitat.
“Part of what we’re doing is trying to relate their distribution to changes in land use,” he said. “We have pretty good data on how these wetlands have shifted over time, so hopefully we can find some hint of an answer about why these animals’ populations are changing.”
The URI scientists are working closely on the project with wildlife biologists at the Rhode Island Department of Environmental Management so the data can be used to help prioritize habitat for protection and inform management decisions on trapping limits.
This is one of two research projects Gerber is leading that focus on learning more about Rhode Island’s mid-sized predators. The other is investigating the distribution and movement patterns of fishers in the state.
Thursday, January 21, 2021
“Soil is easily overlooked and taken for granted because it’s everywhere,” he said. “We walk all over it and think of it as dirt that we can manipulate at our will. But the secret of soil is what’s happening with soil organisms and what’s happening with their interactions below ground that help regulate our earth’s ecosystems.”
Byrne contributed a chapter about urban soils to a report, State of Knowledge of Soil Biodiversity, issued last month by the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization. He discussed how the ecology of the soil changes as it is compacted during construction, paved over, chemically treated for lawns, and dug up and carried away.
“The main takeaway is that urbanization can potentially harm biodiversity, but our biggest current
threat is ignorance,” he said. “We don’t understand enough about soil biodiversity in urban environments, so we may not be able to manage it in ways to provide the benefits that are possible.”
Soil is the foundation for terrestrial life, according to Byrne, not only because it is the medium in which plants are grown but because it regulates the nitrogen cycle, sequesters carbon and manages the flow of water. He thinks soils are fascinating because they contain the full range of life on earth, from single-celled bacteria and fungi to animals of all varieties.
“If you’re patient enough to get down on your hands and knees and pull up some soil, you’ll see mites, springtails, isopods, millipedes, centipedes, spiders, ants, beetles,” he said. “Some of them have negative popular connotations, but ecologically, if we can see them as having value, then that will help us maintain more sustainable landscapes.
“Changing our perspectives of what these organisms are doing in the ecosystem is important,” Byrne added. “They perform beneficial functions, like decomposition. I tell my students that if it wasn’t for this whole suite of biodiversity in our soils, we’d literally be up to our necks in dead stuff.”
Although it may seem counterintuitive, Byrne said that urban soils contain the full range of biodiversity that is found in natural soils, and some research shows that they contain more organisms and a greater diversity of organisms than agricultural soils.
“A lot of urban habitat types, like lawns and little forest patches, are perennial, so they don’t face the same level of annual disturbance as agricultural fields,” he said. “And they have more organic matter in them, so that allows the food web to become more complex. Urban soils are home to a lot of organisms.”
He noted, however, that there is also a massive volume of degraded soil in urban areas that is compacted, trampled, over-fertilized, and removed and replaced with lower quality soil.
“It’s a very interesting dichotomy,” Byrne said. “There are some high-quality soils and other locations that have been severely negatively impacted where we would want to somehow improve them.”
How to improve degraded soils is the topic of Byrne’s latest research. Decompacting the soil and remediating pollution are important steps, but the key is the addition of organic matter.
“There’s been a wide diversity of organic matter sources that have been investigated, from basic garden compost to sewage sludge to bio-char, which is a burned organic matter that, when added to soil, provides good surfaces for microbes to live on,” he said. “But you have to be very careful about what you’re using and in what contexts and the source, because not all organic matter is the same.
“A lot of research has shown that adding organic matter will help remediate the soils in various ways. Organic matter holds onto water, so it helps with water issues, for instance,” Byrne added. “But in locations that are already prone to water-logging, adding organic matter could be a bad thing. So context matters. You need to be familiar with site specific issues to come up with a good management plan.”
Byrne focuses a great deal of his research attention on lawns, which he calls a “human created ecosystem.” While he noted that a lawn provides a nice place for a picnic and is better than pavement, he said installing a lawn is the least biodiverse way of improving urban landscapes.
“The goal with a lawn is often one grass species that’s bright green and isn’t growing or reproducing, which is the exact opposite of what life wants to do,” he said. “In the grand scheme of all life, a place becomes more diverse over time, it grows and reproduces, and humans are trying to stop all of that in a lawn.
“The problem isn’t so much the lawn itself as the monoculture, pesticide-managed lawn. A lot of what ecologist’s advocate is a more biodiverse lawn where we let the so-called weeds grow and let the grass grow a little taller. That’s good for the soil ecosystem because a higher variety of plants and no chemical pesticides will allow more soil organisms to thrive.”
To create a more sustainable urban landscape, Byrne advocates for what some have called freedom lawns – a mowed lawn that maintains a high diversity of grasses and weeds and good soils.
“If we can convince people that it’s more patriotic to shift to freedom lawns, it will be more sustainable,” he said. “And if we can shrink the area of lawn by creating more biodiverse habitat through shrubs and wildflowers, that’s another step toward sustainability and biodiversity.”
This article first appeared on EcoRI.org on January 21, 2021.
Thursday, January 14, 2021
We occasionally see a bright spot amid the grays and browns in the coldest months of the year – a few purple berries left uneaten by the birds, for instance, or the occasional sighting of a cardinal. But mostly we’re left with muddy ground, dormant trees, and wildlife wrapped in their dullest colors to match their surroundings.
And then a blue jay jets into our yard and reminds us that another color of the rainbow hasn’t
|Blue jay (Paul Dacko)|
Except that blue jays aren’t really blue.
You read that right. The first time I heard about it – in my college ornithology class – I didn’t believe it either. Blue jays aren’t blue? How can that be? I can see their blue feathers with my own two eyes! And yet every scientific reference I’ve checked in the last 35 years – and I double-check every year or so, including this week – tells me it’s still true.
In the natural world, there are red feathers and white feathers and yellow feathers and black feathers. There are green feathers and brown feathers and even a few purple feathers and orange feathers. But there are no blue feathers. They don’t exist. Anywhere.
That means that blue jays aren’t blue, and neither are bluebirds. And if you think that an indigo bunting is actually indigo, you’d be wrong about that, too.
According to every ornithologist and scientist I’ve spoken to – and there have been many – blue feathers are a figment of our imagination. Or as one birder called it, “a pigment of our imagination.” What looks to our brains to be a blue feather is, in fact, a blue-looking color generated by white light interacting with the three-dimensional architecture of the feather. It’s what scientists call a structural color, rather than a pigment.
Most birds get their colored plumage from pigments in the foods they eat. That’s why many pink flamingos at zoos aren’t very pink – because they don’t get their natural diet of algae and crustaceans that results in their pink feathers. Blue pigments, like those in blueberries, are destroyed when digested by birds.
According to a Yale University ornithologist, blue feathers are created when the cells inside the growing feather dry up, leaving behind an architecture made of keratin molecules – the same material as our fingernails – containing air pockets like a sponge. When white light strikes it, the keratin structure somehow amplifies the blue wavelengths while canceling out the red and white wavelengths, making the feather look blue. Even though it isn’t.
Take it away from a white light source or mess with that architecture, and the feather won’t look blue any more.
Now that I’ve explained the bizarre science behind blue feathers, my advice is to ignore it and appreciate the beauty of those blue feathers – regardless of how they’re formed. We need those splashes of color to help us get through the bleak winter days, and I wouldn’t want to take anything away from your enjoyment of our local blue jays.
And if you can’t find a blue jay, point your eyes skyward on a cold clear day and take in the bright blue sky. As far as I know, it’s really blue. But don’t quote me on that.
Monday, January 11, 2021
It’s mud season in Central New York, and along the edge of a pond created by a massive beaver dam, patches of melting snow are interspersed with ankle-deep mud and seeps of water streaming down from a hemlock-covered hillside. Recently arrived red-winged blackbirds continuously call as Scott Smith slogs along the trail looking for any indication that river otters are in residence.
“Raccoons are the bane of my existence when looking for otter sign,” says the wildlife biologist for the New York Department of Environmental Conservation, noting the similarity in their tracks after the mud and snow have thawed and refrozen multiple times. But raccoon tracks aren’t the only mammal sign he finds. Beaver are clearly quite active around the impoundment, as are mink, muskrat, deer, fox and coyote.
At an opening beneath an alder thicket, Smith finds what he’s looking for. What looks to the uninitiated like a two-day-old pile of vomit is in fact what Smith calls an otter toilet – piles of fish
|River otter eating a fish (Mary Holland)|
“I’ve seen enough of them that this situation usually means a toilet,” he says. “I’ll look at 47 of these and not find anything, and then there it is. It’s a pull-out area to rest, eat, toilet. Often I’ll find a half-eaten fish in there.”
During the next half hour, Smith finds additional otter toilet sites at similar locations around the pond, as well as on top of fallen logs and on several beaver lodges and muskrat dens. “There’s an advantage for otters living around beavers because it provides them with habitat, den sites, and resting sites,” he says. “I’m not sure there’s an advantage to the beavers, other than that otters are alert for predators and chirp a lot.”
Smith’s hunt for signs of river otter activity is part of a region-wide survey to learn how well the animals have re-established themselves in central and western New York after reintroduction efforts in the early 1990s. Otters were extirpated from much of the region in the 1800s and early 1900s due to unregulated trapping, the clearcutting of forests for farming, and the growth of industrial activity that degraded water quality. In the years since, forests in the region have rebounded and water quality has improved.
Although transient otters from nearby Pennsylvania – or perhaps from the Adirondacks or Catskills regions – would occasionally find their way to the area, Smith says it would have taken a century for the animals to re-colonize the area on their own. To speed up the process, a group of private citizens worked with the state legislature to establish the New York River Otter Project and fund the reintroduction of otters. Nearly 280 river otters were captured in the Adirondacks and Catskills and relocated to 15 sites in central and western New York over a three-year period in the 1990s. Twenty-five years later, Smith and his colleagues conducted two years of monitoring surveys at 1,200 sites across the state to assess how well the population was doing.
“River otter are not easy to count because of the habitat they’re in and their elusive nature,” he says. “With fisher, you can throw a hunk of meat on a tree trunk and put a camera trap up and document them easy. We can’t do that with otter. And you can’t see them with aerial surveys.”
It took several years of trial and error to find an adequate survey method, but once they did, they found that otters had successfully re-colonized most of the available habitat in the survey area.
“We realized that river otters are misnamed,” says Jacqueline Frair, a professor at the SUNY
|Scott Smith searches for signs of otters (Todd McLeish)|
Smith agrees, though he adds that forests are critical otter habitat, too. “Forests help filter out contaminants before they get into the wetlands. And otters travel a lot through forests. They go up one watershed, take off cross country over hill and dale and drop into the next watershed.”
According to Frair, the river otter survey was launched to collect data so a statewide wildlife management plan could be prepared for the species. Because trapping of otters is prohibited in the area where the animals were relocated, harvest data was unavailable to compare with other parts of the state.
“We wanted to figure out whether they’ve recovered, and if so, what should our management goals be for them,” she says. “The state is responsible for opportunities to use these resources wisely, so one underlining question is whether they’ve gotten to the point where there are opportunities for trapping, or at least, can we release some of the restrictions we’ve put on beaver trapping in the area because otter can handle incidental losses.” (Beaver trappers occasionally capture otters by mistake.)
The otter recovery took longer than most people would have guessed. Some thought the animals would be highly visible everywhere they looked by now, but otters typically avoid areas where human populations and road density are high, Still, the scientists believe otters have reached the carrying capacity of their habitat across much of the region.
River otters are larger than most people imagine, growing to 4 feet long (including their tail) and weighing more than 25 pounds. Despite their name, they spend only about half their time in the water but are seldom far from it. They feed primarily on fish, frogs and crayfish, though they’ll consume almost any marine invertebrate, and they den in banks along rivers, especially sites with entrances below water. Females give birth to three or four pups every year in late April or early May, and the pups are independent within six months, though some will remain with their mother through the winter and disperse the following spring.
They are tenacious animals that can defend themselves against most aggressors. “Coyotes could pick off a few, bobcats maybe too, but the young are the most susceptible,” Smith says. “Once an otter becomes an adult, they’re pretty resistant to most predation. The bigger threat is roadkill. They don’t seem to have the gift to look both ways before crossing the road.”
Despite facing similar issues as the otters in central and western New York, river otters in most of the rest of the Northeast never disappeared entirely – though their numbers were depressed in many places in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Now they are somewhat common just about everywhere. In the Adirondack region of New York, the ample protected habitat and limited timber harvesting kept river otter numbers high even during the population declines in other parts of the region. The rugged terrain reduced opportunities for farming and development, so water quality has remained high for otters that are known to have a low tolerance for polluted water.
“The big difference between the Adirondacks and the rest of the state is that we’ve just got so much habitat,” says Tim Watson, the state biologist who monitors river otters in much of the Adirondacks. “We’ve got lakes and rivers and beaver ponds spread out all through our 6 million acres, so we have a lot of habitat that can support higher densities of otters. And we’ve got a lot of areas that are inaccessible to trappers.”
The situation in northern New England is similar, with the state biologists there declaring their otter populations abundant thanks to plentiful undeveloped river systems, lakes and tributaries. Along the Maine coast, river otters have even been observed preying on rare seabirds on coastal islands in recent years, proving that the animals occasionally spend time in salt water.
“River otters are a fascinating species,” says Patrick Tate, a wildlife biologist for the New Hampshire Fish and Game Department. “They seem to thrive in dark tannic water where they hunt bottoms and edges using their whisker sets located on their chin and nose area. While some otter are taking advantage of our dark-watered – though clean – beaver flowages, others have occupied New Hampshire’s largest lakes and river systems.”
Southern New England experienced considerable deforestation for farming, as well as industrialization, in the 1800s that affected water quality, and while otter numbers declined precipitously a century ago, they aren’t believed to have ever been extirpated. Today they can be commonly found in most available habitat. As elsewhere, they have benefitted greatly from the presence of beavers and beaver ponds and whatever other waterways support their preferred prey.
Every state in the region except Rhode Island uses trapping as a way of managing and monitoring river otter populations. Harvest numbers are relatively low in most areas, ensuring that the harvest is sustainable. Massachusetts reported just 35 animals trapped in all of 2019, and the average otter harvest in Maine over the last 10 years has been approximately 600 animals. Because fur prices vary considerably from year to year, which causes great fluctuations in trapper effort, biologists in Maine are seeking new tools for assessing otter numbers and managing the population of furbearing animals, including camera traps, environmental DNA surveys and citizen science projects.
The trapping situation in Rhode Island is unique. Trapping of river otters in the state has been prohibited since 1970, when a state legislator apparently observed the illegal shooting of an otter and subsequently succeeded in passing legislation to ban otter trapping. Despite several efforts to overturn the ban through the years, it remains in place, making Rhode Island the only state east of the Mississippi to prohibit river otter trapping, according to state biologist Charles Brown.
Whether trapping will be permitted in the coming years in central and western New York, where the animals were reintroduced in the 1990s, will depend on the outcome of the management plan being prepared by the state.
“They’re very cautious about saying ‘otter are recovered, so let’s hunt them,’” Frair says. “But collectively we’re comfortable with the comparisons we’ve made about where they’ve recovered and where they’ve had sustainable harvests. We know populations can sustain harvest, but we’re not going to immediately open the area to harvest. They’ll probably monitor them again first. We want to see how sensitive our methods are to being able to detect changes in the population.”
Back at the beaver pond in central New York, Scott Smith stands atop the sturdy beaver dam and gazes across the water at an abandoned beaver lodge, which he believes is where the family of otters is living. Judging by the number of otter toilet sites he found during his survey, he guesses that a family unit of otters – a female with kits – is spending the winter there.
“They’ve probably been hunting here all winter,” he says. “Fewer toilets would mean that this is probably just a travel link between other habitats. But I think we’ve got a family here. The fish scales we’re seeing are small, so they’re probably eating minnows, but larger scales might indicate they’re eating bass or carp or sunfish. You can tell their main prey base by looking at the scales in their scat.”
Smith drives a quarter mile north to more stream-like habitat leading into the beaver impoundment, where he finds several muskrat dens, each topped with otter scat.
“We definitely have a good conservation success story to tell here,” he says.
This article first appeared in the Winter 2020 issue of Northern Woodlands magazine.
Friday, January 8, 2021
A new technology on the horizon may help to reduce one of those threats, however. A smart camera system invented by a team of scientists and engineers at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution is being tested in local waterways and could be deployed on vessels traversing the East Coast to reduce the threat of ships striking right whales.
“The idea is simple,” said Woods Hole Assistant Scientist Daniel Zitterbart, who is leading the
|North Atlantic right whales (WHOI)|
project. “We took a commercial thermal imaging camera, highly stabilized for roll and pitch, and a computer algorithm that looks at images and tries to tease out what’s a whale compared to what’s a wave or a bird or whatever.
“The key part is, if you’re in a large vessel and you know there’s a whale 300 yards in front of you, it’s probably too late for you to turn away from it,” he added. “Our aim is to push the detection range as far as we can, which makes things difficult on a rocking boat. But getting the range we need to make a difference for the animal is the objective.”
A prototype of the smart camera system was tested last summer on a research vessel in Stellwagen Bank National Marine Sanctuary in Massachusetts Bay, about midway between Gloucester and Provincetown, where humpback whales congregate to feed each year. A similar land-based installation was also deployed at a busy shipping channel in British Columbia traversed by endangered Southern Resident killer whales. The initial tests were promising.
“If you’re talking about very large vessels like tankers or cargo vessels, they may not be maneuverable enough for the detection ranges we get, but for cruise vessels, ferries and fishing vessels that are more maneuverable, it definitely can make a difference,” Zitterbart said.
A little larger than a half-gallon milk carton, the camera system must be installed at least 15 feet above the water line to be effective. Within seconds, it can detect the presence of whales a mile or more away and alert the captain in time for the vessel to slow down or change course.
Unlike human observers or spotter planes, which are occasionally used in the U.S. and Canada to watch for right whales and alert nearby ships, the camera system can spot whales in daylight and darkness with little effort.
James Miller, an ocean engineering professor at the University of Rhode Island, invented a forward-looking sonar device about 20 years ago that could be used to detect whales, reefs and other obstacles to navigation beneath the water’s surface. He commercialized the product by founding FarSounder, a Warwick-based company with clients around the world. The company’s sonar devices can scan up to 1,000 meters in front of a ship moving at speeds of up to 25 knots to detect underwater obstacles.
“Dr. Zitterbart's technology for detecting whales at the sea surface can be an important part of the solution for reducing ship strikes, one of the leading causes of death for large whales,” said Miller.
Zitterbart said that sonar is a better detection method for sensing static objects beneath the water’s surface, but he believes his thermal camera system is more effective at detecting moving objects like whales that may only be noticed for a few seconds. Both technologies can be hampered by challenging environmental conditions.
The recipient of the 2019 Young Investigator Award from the U.S. Office of Naval Research for his work on whale detection, Zitterbart previously developed a thermal imaging system for protecting whales and other marine mammals from underwater noise produced by the air guns used in seismic surveys.
Assuming his tests are successful this year, Zitterbart plans to deploy his camera system on a number of vessels without his development team aboard to ensure that remote troubleshooting can be conducted effectively. Eventually, he hopes to find a company interested in commercializing the technology.
“Thermal imaging systems are a powerful new tool in real-time whale detection,” he told Ocean Insights. “Used alone or in conjunction with acoustic monitoring, this technology could significantly reduce the risk of vessel strikes.”
This article first appeared on EcoRI.org on January 7, 2021.