Set It Back: Moving Levees to Benefit Rivers, Wildlife and Communities

Removing dams is one thing, but thousands of levees also restrict rivers in the United States — and they’re not working as intended.

A female duck rests in the water where Gibbons Creek meets the Columbia River in southwest Washington. The common merganser grooms her rust-colored head in a site that, until recently, didn’t flow freely. But now the fish ladder that blocked salmon from spawning for decades is gone, and so is the levee that had held the Columbia back from spilling onto its historic floodplain since 1966.

In the largest restoration project on the lower Columbia River, crews spent nearly two years removing 2.2 miles of levee, reconfiguring Gibbons Creek, and realigning two new levees at Steigerwald Lake National Wildlife Refuge. The new levees — which total 1.6 miles and serve as public trails — reconnect the river to 965 acres of floodplain. They sit perpendicular to the Columbia, rather than lining its banks, giving the river and Gibbons Creek room to flow messily across the refuge, which is located just east of Vancouver and northeast of Portland.

This May visitors started exploring the newly reopened U.S. Fish and Wildlife refuge, considered the gateway to the Columbia River Gorge, after its intermittent two-year closure. Tractor tire imprints covered the muddied former levee. Hundreds of newly planted willows, cottonwoods and wapato grew nearby.

The project has already benefited local wildlife — and not just the ducks. Soon after the levee was removed last summer an American dipper visited the refuge for the first time. Salmon returned to spawn last fall in an unfettered Gibbons Creek.

“It’s a big chunk of new floodplain,” says Chris Collins of the Lower Columbia Estuary Partnership, a nonprofit that worked on the $31 million project. “But it’s also in a part of the river that’s important to try to reestablish what we can.”

Just upriver, where steep basalt cliffs border the water, migrating salmon have few places to rest and eat. Downriver, miles of levees line the Columbia’s banks from Portland to Astoria.

Now, at Steigerwald, salmon have 19% more floodplain habitat between Bonneville Dam and the Willamette River confluence, Collins says.

And the refuge is not alone.

Steigerwald Lake is among dozens of projects in the Northwest where levees have been realigned or moved back to give rivers room to meander unconfined by the artificial walls that have tightly lined their banks and transformed ecosystems since Europeans arrived. As debates continue around removing dams to restore salmon runs, experts say levee removals and setbacks help threatened and endangered species, among other ecological and community benefits.

Although similar projects nationwide are few, Northwest tribes, nonprofits and government agencies have been buying land, acre-by-acre, to piece together restored floodplains.

Despite many successes, these projects often face political barriers and involve costly and time-consuming private land acquisition, pitting agriculture and development against conservation.

Rethinking the Levee

Levees built throughout the 1800s and 1900s along the country’s major rivers blocked rivers from their floodplains and turned the ecosystems into farms or neighborhoods. Prior to levees, the once vast landscapes were messy, complex and full of food for birds, fish and invertebrates. Their slow-moving, shallow channels meandered through native grasses and willows and provided critical resting and rearing sites for young salmon before they headed to sea.

They are among the most biologically rich freshwater systems that clean water and control floods, but few healthy floodplains are left.

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers built levees close to rivers to turn braided waters into straight channels. They hoped to gain as much farmland as possible, but some early Corps engineers also believed that they could train rivers to run like canals, making them essentially flood proof, says Nicholas Pinter, a professor and associate director of the Center for Watershed Sciences at the University of California, Davis. Thousands of miles of levees nationwide restrict rivers, protecting millions of acres of farmland and cities. Across the country, Pinter says, new development and levee construction continue within floodplains.

“And that’s the challenge,” he says. “We have engineered enough of our river systems to within an inch of their lives, and now stepping back from that is difficult. It’s a political challenge more than an engineering or technical one.”

Water flows through a gap in a levee as construction equipment continues removal efforts.
The Army Corps of Engineers partnered with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to restore wetlands at the Julia Butler Hansen Wildlife Refuge in Washington in 2014. After constructing a new setback levee the Corps notched the original levee, allowing the Columbia River to flow in. The rest of the original levee was allowed to erode naturally.

When levees fail, the Corps typically rebuilds them higher, often at a steep cost, Pinter says. But his research shows that when levees are moved roughly half of a mile to a mile away from river banks, they require less maintenance and better protect communities. With more territory, rivers can rechannelize during floods, which slows their energy, spreads water across more land and moves sediment down river.

Levee setback projects in Northern California, such as those along the Cosumnes River, decreased flood risk to communities and helped recharge aquifers, Pinter says. Fish came back.

“If the water gets there, the fish will get there,” Pinter says. “Nature seems to be grateful for these little bits that we give back.”

Set It Back

Moving levees even 100 feet back benefits communities and ecosystems, says Ian Sinks, the stewardship director for Columbia Land Trust, a conservation nonprofit.

Since the early 2000s, Sinks has led more than a dozen levee removal and setback projects. He’s pieced together floodplains throughout the Columbia River estuary, especially along the Grays River in southwest Washington.

Columbia Land Trust acquired properties after some residents retired and couldn’t maintain their land. Other plots became too wet for farming, while some sat on the market, Sinks says. Over the years, the nonprofit purchased several hundred acres.

The organization preserved some of the last remaining Sitka spruce swamps that once covered large areas of the river’s estuary before levees destroyed the ecosystems. The habitats that remain, and which are now protected, provide abundant food for animals, lower water temperature, absorb floodwater, and give threatened chinook, coho, chum and steelhead safe rearing sites.

“You have to get the water back and the dynamics of the water back on the land,” Sinks says. “Once you do,” he adds, the ecological changes are “nearly instantaneous.” By the following spring, native plants and juvenile salmon return.

Piecemeal Projects

Although setback levees are cheaper to maintain over the long term than repairing existing levees, these projects are initially expensive. Organizations often must buy property, then remove and realign a new levee. Bonneville Power Administration paid most of Steigerwald’s $31 million cost as part of the agency’s required habitat mitigation under the 1980 Northwest Power Act for operating Columbia River Basin dams that have decimated fish runs.

Other regional projects are also largely funded by state and federal grants, but many grant programs fund restoration work project-by-project — a patchwork system that doesn’t view rivers and flood management from a broader watershed scale.

That’s somewhat changing in Washington, says Brandon Parsons, who leads floodplain restoration in the Puget Sound and Columbia River Basin for the nonprofit American Rivers.

Since 2013 Floodplains by Design, a state-run grant program in partnership with American Rivers, Bonneville Environmental Foundation and The Nature Conservancy, has secured $215 million to reconnect more than 7,200 acres of floodplains in 59 flood-prone communities across Washington.

Many of the state’s rivers begin in the alpine, descend thousands of feet quickly, and bring loads of gravel and wood that don’t flow well in confined, leveed systems, often causing flooding.

“We’ve fought the river system for so long that finally we realized it wasn’t working,” Parsons says. “We’re investing billions of dollars to straighten rivers, and it’s not working. So we had to change.”

Parsons and other experts say similar floodplain restoration projects would benefit ecosystems and communities elsewhere across the nation — if the politics align. The Atchison County Levee District in Missouri, for example, realized it needed a new approach after a devastating 2019 flood breached 100 levees along the Missouri River, forcing 278 people to evacuate and caused millions of dollars in damage. The district worked with landowners to buy their land and build new setback levees along a five-mile stretch of the river, reconnecting 1,040 acres of floodplain and better protecting the community.

Northwest tribes are also trying to bring floodplains back to pre-colonization conditions. For nearly two decades, the Stillaguamish Tribe of Indians has removed levees and pieced together bits of floodplain along the Stillaguamish River in Washington.

When Tribal leaders first approached neighbors about salmon recovery, everyone asked how they could help, says Jason Griffith, the Tribe’s environmental program manager.

“So, you start going down the list,” he says. “You need to stop farming the land, you need to plant these natives, remove the levee, take out the bank armory, stop killing the beaver. And they were like ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. That’s not what we’re gonna do.’ ”

The Tribe then decided to purchase its own land. Once they buy a parcel, they place deed restrictions on it that prohibit any future development.

So far they’ve acquired 1,200 acres, mostly along the heavily farmed estuary north of Everett. Chum, Chinook and other fish can now use habitats that levees blocked for 150 years, Griffith says. Their goal is to restore about 7,000 acres, from spawning grounds to the estuary.

“The literature is pretty clear from across the range of Pacific salmon that these are the kinds of projects that will, in time and with enough of them, move the needle toward more abundant wild salmon,” Griffith says.

But it won’t be easy — or necessarily fast.

“It’s taken 150 years to get to this point,” he adds. “It’s going to take decades to get out.”

Previously in The Revelator:

Let Rivers Flood: Communities Adopt New Strategies for Resilience

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14 New Environmental Books to Kickstart Your Summer Reading List

Writers like Kim Stanley Robinson, Barry Lopez, Sy Montgomery and others celebrate the fragile beauty of this modern world — and address how to help save it.

Summer is normally beach-read season, the time of year when publishers pump out potboilers and steamy romances to fill the sun-drenched days.

revelator readsBut what if your local beach is polluted, flooded, plagued with invasive species or just too darn hot?

No matter where you find the time and place to read this summer, let’s make it a season of protecting those beaches — and other important sites and species around the planet.

We’ve got the word on 14 new environmental books — all released in May or June of this year — by an astounding collection of writers. They celebrate the natural world and cover some tough topics, but they offer you the insight and inspiration to keep you focused on making this a better, safer Earth — whether you’re on the beach this summer or not.


The High Sierra: A Love Story

by Kim Stanley Robinson

High Sierra book coverOur take: Sometimes we need a science fiction writer to remind us of the beauty (and fragility) of reality. This book doesn’t focus as much on the threats of climate change as Robinson’s recent articles and novels, but it serves as a celebration of what we could lose.

From the publisher: “Over the course of a vivid and dramatic narrative, Robinson describes the geological forces that shaped the Sierras and the history of its exploration, going back to the indigenous peoples who made it home and whose traces can still be found today. He celebrates the people whose ideas and actions protected the High Sierra for future generations. He describes uniquely beautiful hikes and the trails to be avoided. Robinson’s own life-altering events, defining relationships, and unforgettable adventures form the narrative’s spine. And he illuminates the human communion with the wild and with the sublime, including the personal growth that only seems to come from time spent outdoors.”


The Hawk’s Way: Encounters With Fierce Beauty

by Sy Montgomery

Hawk's Way book coverOur take: Few things fill me with more joy than the sight of a hawk slowly circling overhead, hunting for something to eat. This book will help you see the world through a bird of prey’s eyes and remind you what’s worth saving.

From the publisher: “[Hawks] are deeply emotional animals, quick to show anger and frustration, and can hold a grudge for years. But they are also loyal and intensely aware of their surroundings. In this mesmerizing account, featuring sixteen pages of gorgeous color photographs, Sy passionately and vividly reveals the wonderous world of hawks and what they can teach us about nature, life and love.”


Generation Dread: Finding Purpose in an Age of Climate Crisis

by Britt Wray

Dread book coverOur take: Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh wrote, “The only way to ease our fear and be truly happy is to acknowledge our fear and look deeply at its source. Instead of trying to escape from our fear, we can invite it up to our awareness and look at it clearly and deeply.” This book aims to help readers turn their fear of climate change into positive action.

From the publisher: “The first crucial step toward becoming an engaged steward of the planet is connecting with our climate emotions, seeing them as a sign of humanity, and learning how to live with them. We have to face and value eco-anxiety, Wray argues, before we can conquer the deeply ingrained, widespread reactions of denial and disavowal that have led humanity to this alarming period of ecological decline.”


Red Leviathan: The Secret History of Soviet Whaling

by Ryan Tucker Jones

Red Leviathan book coverOur take: From death comes life? I picked up this book ready to find another reason to dislike Russian government — and I got it, as Soviet whaling in the last century pushed many species closer to extinction — but I also learned how scientists and the public helped turn things around, from wholesale slaughter to critical conservation.

From the publisher: “Jones compellingly describes the ultimate scientific irony: Today’s cetacean studies benefited from Soviet whaling, as Russian scientists on whaling vessels made key breakthroughs in understanding whale natural history and behavior. And in a final twist, Red Leviathan reveals how the Soviet public began turning against their own country’s whaling industry, working in parallel with Western environmental organizations like Greenpeace to help end industrial whaling — not long before the world’s whales might have disappeared altogether.”


A Clouded Leopard in the Middle of the Road: New Thinking About Roads, People and Wildlife

by Darryl Jones

Clouded Leopard book coverOur take: Road ecology is having its moment. As new roads carve scars through the Amazon, Africa and at-risk habitats around the world, books like this help us to understand the damage they do — and the ways we can mitigate the problems they create.

From the publisher: “One of the most ubiquitous indicators of human activity, roads typically promise development and prosperity. Yet they carry with them the threat of disruption to both human and animal lives. Jones surveys the myriad, innovative ways stakeholders across the world have sought to reduce animal-vehicle collisions and minimize road-crossing risks for wildlife, including efforts undertaken at the famed fauna overpasses of Banff National Park, the Singapore Eco-Link, ‘tunnels of love’ in the Australian Alps and others.”


The Greatest Polar Expedition of All Time: The Arctic Mission to the Epicenter of Climate Change

by Markus Rex

Polar Expedition book coverOur take: The closest thing to a traditional beach read on our list, this book offers a thrilling and harrowing account of a dangerous mission to discover the information we need to save the planet.

From the publisher: “Rex begins with life aboard the Polarstern, a powerful icebreaker ship that is frozen into fragile ice and carried across the Arctic by the Transpolar Drift. Away from the rest of the world, the team prepares for life under brutal conditions, constructing ‘cities’ and ‘towns’ on the ice where they will study the Arctic ecosystem, its atmosphere, ocean, sea ice and more. A terrifying feat that had never been attempted before, the team of hundreds of scientists perform their research during terrifying storms, cracking ice floes, frostbite, and even quarantines as Covid-19 sweeps the globe.”


Wild by Design: The Rise of Ecological Restoration

by Laura J. Martin

Wild by Design book coverOur take: As efforts to protect 30-50% of the planet move forward, restoring the damage we’ve done is more important than ever.

From the publisher: “Restoration’s past provides vital knowledge for climate change policy. But Martin also offers something more — a meditation on what it means to be wild and a call for ecological restoration that is socially just.”

Read our interview with Martin here.


A Road Running Southward: Following John Muir’s Journey through an Endangered Land

by Dan Chapman

Book cover shows city street image next to image of treesOur take: Muir has a troubled legacy, but this book is less about him and more about the environmental scars running through the modern U.S. South, damage that stands in stark contrast to the region’s unparalleled biodiversity.

From the publisher: “Veteran Atlanta reporter Dan Chapman, distressed by sprawl-driven environmental ills in a region he loves, recreated Muir’s journey to see for himself how nature has fared since Muir’s time. Channeling Muir, he uses humor, keen observation and a deep love of place to celebrate the South’s natural riches. But he laments that a treasured way of life for generations of Southerners is endangered as long-simmering struggles intensify over misused and dwindling resources. Chapman seeks to discover how Southerners might balance surging population growth with protecting the natural beauty Muir found so special.”

Read an excerpt.


Embrace Fearlessly the Burning World

by Barry Lopez

Embrace Fearlessly book coverOur take: This posthumously published essay collection cements Lopez’s legacy as one of nature’s most important voices — and he still has a lot to teach us.

From the publisher: “An ardent steward of the land, fearless traveler, and unrivaled observer of nature and culture, Barry Lopez died after a long illness on Christmas Day 2020. The previous summer, a wildfire had consumed much of what was dear to him in his home place and the community around it — a tragic reminder of the climate change of which he’d long warned.”


Why Sharks Matter: A Deep Dive With the World’s Most Misunderstood Predator

by David Shiffman

cover of book with two sharks swimming under waterOur take: Because they’re cool? Shiffman, a shark scientist and frequent Revelator contributor, delivers the book he was born to write.

From the publisher: “Exploring the core tenets of shark conservation science and policy, Shiffman synthesizes decades of scientific research and policymaking, weaving it into a narrative full of humor and adventure. Touching on everything from Shark Week to shark fin soup, overfishing to marine sanctuaries, Shiffman reveals why sharks are in trouble, why we should care and how we can save them.”

Read an exclusive excerpt.


National Parks Forever book coverNational Parks Forever: Fifty Years of Fighting and a Case for Independence

by Jonathan Jarvis and T. Destry Jarvis

Our take: Painful history + a roadmap for change = a compelling book.

From the publisher: “Two leaders of the National Park Service provide a front-row seat to the disastrous impact of partisan politics over the past 50 years — and offer a bold vision for the parks’ future.”


The World As We Knew It: Dispatches From a Changing Climate

World As We Knew It book coverEdited by Amy Brady and Tajja Isen

Our take: This anthology collects stunning and heartbreaking first-person accounts of a world in crisis. We should all join these authors in sharing stories of the Anthropocene in our backyards.

From the publisher: “Nineteen leading literary writers from around the globe offer timely, haunting first-person reflections on how climate change has altered their lives. With essays by: Lydia Millet, Alexandra Kleeman, Kim Stanley Robinson, Omar El Akkad, Lidia Yuknavitch, Melissa Febos and more.”


Tree Thieves: Crime and Survival in North America’s Woods

by Lyndsie Bourgon

Tree Thieves book coverOur take: Elephants aren’t the only living things killed and stolen by poachers. This deep dive of investigative journalism takes us into the forests and a crisis that receives far too little attention — but also shines a light on the people that protected territories often leave behind.

From the publisher: “Bourgon takes us deep into the underbelly of the illegal timber market. As she traces three timber poaching cases, she introduces us to tree poachers, law enforcement, forensic wood specialists, the enigmatic residents of former logging communities, environmental activists, international timber cartels and Indigenous communities along the way.”


Bitch: On the Female of the Species

by Lucy Cooke

Our take: Provocative title, stunning book.

From the publisher: “Since Charles Darwin, evolutionary biologists have been convinced that the males of the animal kingdom are the interesting ones — dominating and promiscuous, while females are dull, passive and devoted. In Bitch, Cooke tells a new story. Whether investigating same-sex female albatross couples that raise chicks, murderous mother meerkats, or the titanic battle of the sexes waged by ducks, Cooke shows us new evolutionary biology, one where females can be as dynamic as any male. This isn’t your grandfather’s evolutionary biology. It’s more inclusive, truer to life and, simply, more fun.”

Previously in The Revelator:

Ten New Environmental Books Offering Inspiration, Insight and Ideas

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How We Got Here: Ecological Restoration’s Surprising History

A new book uncovers the development of the world’s most widespread environmental management practice.

Rising carbon emissions. Heatwaves and wildfires. Supercharged storms. Environmental headlines these days can be bleak — and with good reason. But a new book proposes an antidote.the ask

“There is hope to be found in ecological restoration,” writes Laura J. Martin in Wild by Design.

If we want to save threatened species or ecosystems on the brink, we’ll need to get our hands dirty. Across the world billions are being spent on restoration projects — like reforestation efforts or reintroducing extirpated species — to try and undo some of the harm we’ve done to the natural world.

How well we do those projects, and what science and ethics guide them, is critically important to the future of life on this planet. But to plot the best path forward, it helps to understand how we got here. Wild by Design provides that roadmap by tracing the history of ecological restoration in the United States and the emergence of the scientific field of ecology.

It’s a book that should be required reading for anyone trying to understand our current environmental challenges. But it’s also not the book Martin thought she’d write. Now an environmental historian and professor at Williams College, she initially worked as a wetland ecologist.

In trying to understand why we manage invasive species the way we do, she needed to better understand the bigger picture of natural resources management. And that led her to dig deeper and deeper into the past — and eventually to a career shift.Book cover, dark green background with lighter green leaves

Her pivot helped unearth a story that’s both troubling and inspiring — and undoubtedly necessary.

The Revelator spoke to her about how restoration ecology began, a surprising moment that led to an important breakthrough, and whether it taught us any key lessons.

We have a lot of environmental problems in front of us. Why is it important to understand the history of restoration?

Because ecological restoration is currently the most widespread and influential mode of environmental management in the world. Governments and public and private organizations are spending billions of dollars a year on restoration, whether that’s invasive species removal or endangered species breeding or planting trees for carbon offsetting.

I wanted to put the history of ecological restoration in dialogue with the future of ecological restoration. There are so many times I’ve heard people say, “It’s been done this way for decades.” But when I dug into the archives I found that wasn’t always the case.

I also wrote this book now because, as a professor, I was finding in my environmental studies classes that I was spending 95% of my time talking about doom and the end of the world and that left students feeling disenfranchised and disempowered.

I really wanted my students to see themselves as agents of political change. And restoration is really active. It’s a choice to intervene in ecosystems, a choice to do something, a choice to try and undo harm. That’s a political action. It’s also a hopeful story. I think that the book is full of examples where policies and individuals really made a difference in saving particular species and ecosystems.

There is hope in restoration, but as you write in the book, it’s also been a fraught process. How did it begin?

I was specifically interested in ecological restoration informed by the science of ecology, which didn’t really take off until the 20th century. But there were restoration movements that predated that, and those included big game restoration. So I decided to start the book with bison restoration, which is often celebrated as this story of incredible success. Bison were almost extinct, and they were brought back from the brink and are now flourishing.

But it’s a well-known fact that many of the big game conservationists in the early 20th century were eugenicists and white supremacists. I knew that these perspectives deeply influenced how these conservationists thought about the relationship between animals and society. What I didn’t know until I got into the research was just how direct a project of settler colonialism bison restoration was.

Of course bison extirpation was a key strategy of white settler colonization. The federal government and states intentionally killed bison to erode Tribal sovereignty. But I found that bison restoration was also a strategy of further colonization. When the federal government was dismantling Indian reservation land under the Dawes Act, bison restorationists realized that they could get cheap land that was being parceled out by the federal government.

Time and time again restorationists have failed to zoom out and look at the larger picture of the politics of restoration. And that in this case, what was framed as a quite narrow project of setting aside land for bison and other large game was, in fact, a tool for dispossessing people of their homelands.

Historians have told the story of how Tribes were forcibly and violently removed from their homes in order to create national parks. Wild by Design tells a parallel story of how these bison restoration sites [that were taken from Tribes] became some of the first areas in what is now the national wildlife refuge system.

Women played a key role in the early years of restoration. Why is their story overlooked?

Head shot of author
Laura J. Martin. Photo: Permission of the author

Often when people talk about the history of ecological restoration, they credit Aldo Leopold as the sole inventor or founder of restoration ecology. But there was a whole network of mostly women ecologists who were working on methods to propagate and restore native plant species for decades before Leopold and his colleagues conducted their famous restoration work at the University of Wisconsin.

Indeed, they were drawing upon the research and methods of these women.

One reason that this history has been kind of hidden is that the Ecological Society of America, which was run by men, forcibly took over the Wildflower Preservation Society in the 1920s [which had been run by women].

The person who led this takeover was an anti-suffragist and argued that women ecologists were radicals who were feminizing the study of botany and that the Wildflower Preservation Society should move away from restoration work and toward preservation work. The people who engineered this takeover argued that setting aside large areas for the recovery of wildflowers was the best way to protect wildflowers, rather than these more active interventionist methods that women ecologists like Edith Roberts and Elsa Rehmann were developing.

There’s an interesting shift that happened after the development of nuclear weapons. How did ecologists begin to realize that people could do irreparable harm to the environment?

Ecologists in the early 20th century generally believed that ecological harm could be reversed if the action that was causing harm ceased. They argued, for example, that in order to allow an area to recover people should stop hunting or logging, et cetera, on that land.

But by the 1960s, ecologists were starting to write about the idea that an ecosystem can be so damaged that it loses the ability to repair itself. I found that much of the ecological literature on ecosystem damage and the idea of a threshold of damage beyond which ecosystems can’t repair themselves came from research funded by the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission and DARPA [the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, which is part of the Department of Defense].

Beginning in the 1960s, the Atomic Energy Commission contracted ecologists to simulate World War III — to place radiation sources in forests and to study how wild plants and animals responded.

There were simulations and there were also actual detonation sites that ecologists studied.

Beginning in 1945 the United States detonated 215 aboveground and underwater atomic weapons, primarily in the colonized Marshall Islands. Ecologists were tasked with studying the ecological impacts of these weapons.

Through these experiments and simulations, they developed the idea of a homeostatic threshold — that there’s this point at which ecosystems are so damaged that they can’t repair themselves. And they also developed the diversity-stability hypothesis, which today guides most environmental management around the world. This is the idea that ecosystems that have a greater number of species are better able to withstand disturbance than ecosystems with a fewer number of species.

Over the last hundred years we seem to repeat a cycle of doing harm and then trying to undo it. We have a federal policy of killing predators, then we attempt to restore their populations. We systematically drain wetlands, and then spend billions of dollars trying to recreate them. Have we learned anything or are we still repeating that cycle with climate change?

I think historians of the future will look back at this time and tell a similar story of the federal government supporting fossil fuel burning and extraction for decades before reversing course and trying to undo that harm. I don’t think with climate change we’re at that shifting point yet.

I do believe that much environmental and ecological damage can be undone both by individuals and by governments, but I worry that some of the restoration actions that are being proposed as antidotes to climate change are distracting people from the real work of reducing our burning of fossil fuels — such as forest-based carbon offsetting.

Such large-scale restoration projects are often used by governments and other entities as a justification for kicking people out of their communities and restricting traditional access to natural resources. I worry that forest-based carbon offsetting in particular stands to further harm the very people who are already being disproportionately harmed by climate change.

“Carbon colonialism” is one term that a group of researchers are using to describe this phenomenon.

There’s so much money being put toward ecological restoration around the world and the United Nations recently declared this to be the decade of ecosystem restoration. So it’s a really important moment to be thinking about how to better align the goals of ecological restoration with the goals of social justice.

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Previously in The Revelator:

The Fight Against Extinction Requires Biocultural Restoration

 

The English Volunteer Group Changing How We Study Animals at Night

How can we research animals in the darkness of night, when we can’t even see them properly?

In April 2016, among the spring blossoms in the West Midlands of England, an idea came to Ben Dolan and Paul Hopwood. As certified ringers belonging to the West Midlands Ringing Group — volunteers who mark birds’ legs with bands and unique ID numbers so that researchers can study and track them over time — they were out looking for lapwing chicks. Although they’d managed to find 10 or so birds by eye, others eluded them. Thinking there had to be a better way of locating the chicks, Dolan and Hopwood wondered if thermal imaging might allow them to find birds based on their body heat.

They returned another afternoon with a borrowed thermal camera in hand and tried it out. This time they found more than twice as many of the baby birds.

Inspired, they acquired access to a thermal camera they could use regularly and, the following winter, decided to try using the technology at night.

It was during these dark winter days that they realized how useful thermal could really be.

thermal example
A bird shows up on thermal imaging. Photo courtesy West Midlands Ringing Group

Dolan says thermal imaging can help solve an important conservation problem: If field ecologists don’t see wildlife when they survey during the day, they can declare fields ecological wastelands, leaving the regions open to development without the relevant mitigation strategies to reduce harm to native species.

“And then on the night, we find at times significant numbers of winter migrants utilizing the fields for feeding and roosting,” he says. “So it’s a bit of a worry when daytime surveys are done and nothing of ‘value’ is found, and then on the night we find that actually it is one of the most valuable fields [for local wildlife].”

Waking Up to the Nocturnal

Since they embraced the technology, the West Midlands Ringing Group — which Dolan and Hopwood help run — has pushed the use of thermal imaging for the study of farmland birds. In 2021 they won an award for pioneering the use of the technology in the field.

And it’s not just birds, either: Running ecological surveys, people routinely ignore the needs of all kinds of animals that are active at night.

This bias toward animals who share our circadian rhythm is common throughout the ecological sciences. As it stands, there’s no comprehensive field of study dedicated to nocturnal animals. With up to 30% of vertebrates and 60% of invertebrates predicted to be nocturnal, however, this leaves a massive gap in our understanding of the biosphere — a strange problem to accept in the ongoing global mass extinction.

The lack of study in nocturnal ecology isn’t necessarily due to a lack of trying. More than 70 years ago, American ecologist Orlando Park identified the need to deal with the “nocturnal problem” — to recognize and understand the different needs of nocturnal animals. Even though some humans may consider themselves night owls, human bodies are not really adapted for life under the moon. And that’s always made the study of nocturnal animals difficult.

So how did we study animals at night when we couldn’t even see them properly?

“You just kind of had to infer what animals had done at night based on what you could see, like counting footprints or seeing some of the marks they left behind,” says Wesley Payne, a Ph.D. student in ecology at the University of Hull in Yorkshire, England.

Like the West Midlands Ringing Group, Payne has been using thermal imaging to study the nocturnal behavior of over-wintering waders as part of his doctorate.

“Essentially, thermal just makes it much easier to find whatever you’re looking for,” he says.

Thermal also has some benefits for the birds.

“You’re reducing disturbance because you’re not walking all over the field,” says Dolan. “You can actually see these birds from quite a distance.”

And the benefits of thermal extend far beyond the avian world. Zoologist Priscillia Miard, founder of the Night Spotting Project in Malaysia, has used it to study nocturnal mammals like the slow loris. She has had similar experiences to Dolan’s and Payne’s and says thermal has provided new insights.

“A lot of things we thought about [slow loris] were actually wrong,” she says. “They are more social than we thought, so it really helped research specific behaviors.”

Spreading the Science and the Benefits of Volunteerism

Communicating how thermal has improved their fieldwork has now become a key part of the Ringing Group’s mission. They work directly with other volunteer groups and landowners in England to show them how to use thermal imaging and have set up a global network of interested ringers.

Volunteer ringers play essential roles in conservation. Driven by a passion like birdwatching, they often act as citizen scientists and collect data over many years in their local areas. Professional ecologists, on the other hand, are paid to run surveys to determine the worth of land. This has to be done if someone wants to convert that land to agriculture or housing, for example. The ecologist’s job is to come up with mitigation strategies for protecting local wildlife.

These may appear to serve different roles, but the Ringing Group has started to build a presence in the scientific community, showing that the lines between groups can sometimes blur.

“We’ve written our first paper on thermal and submitted it, and we’re going to write several more as well,” Dolan says. “If you look at academia, there’s not a lot around about thermal imaging for this type of work, so it’s an opportunity for us to share even further.”

Heat Gaps

Even with its wide array of benefits, most ecology companies still don’t seem to be picking the technology up.

“I’m personally not aware of any consultancies that are introducing it as standard practice for breeding and wintering bird surveys,” says Jess Stuart-Smith, an associate ecologist at Focus Environmental Consultants, based in Worcester, England. They use thermal, she says, for studying bats and other consultancies might use thermal for completely nocturnal species, but there are no guidelines for studying birds who may use different land depending on the time of day. Her first experience of using thermal in this capacity came through volunteering for the Ringing Group, and she has slowly been introducing it into her professional work.

Stuart-Smith suggests a lack of awareness explains why nocturnal surveys haven’t become standard practice yet.

“My long-term goal is to get some actual guidelines out there for wintering bird surveys that people can use and implement because you just get a better-rounded picture of land use if you’re looking at it at nighttime as well as daytime,” she says.

But there are also limitations associated with thermal. Miard says research-grade thermal equipment can cost up to $2,000 — an outlay many research-funding agencies aren’t willing to make.

“I think people are interested in thermal, but the price is a big factor that a lot of people here cannot afford,” she says.

Another downside is that the data retrieved can often be quite poor. “What I get mostly is a silhouette of the bird, which has some variation in color, but it can be difficult to tell the species apart,” says Payne.

Where people can’t get close enough to the animal they’re studying — for geographical reasons, for example — thermal becomes less useful. “If you get a dense group of birds, you can’t tell them apart. You just get one blob of heat, because all of the thermal signatures overlap.”

To gather better data, Payne has started using thermal in combination with infrared imaging. Although both technologies detect infrared radiation, they do so at different frequencies, which means the data they generate is completely different. Infrared provides a much more detailed picture of the birds being studied, making it easier to accurately assess the species.

Side-by-side images show the difference in thermal and infrared technologies.
A red-legged partridge in thermal (l) and infrared (r). Photo courtesy West Midlands Ringing Group.

Even so, it’s still a lot harder to find the birds using infrared, as it provides less contrast between the animals and their surroundings than thermal. In that way, the technologies complement one another: One can be used to find the birds, where the other gives more accurate information.

Following his own experience of nocturnal ecology, Payne says the field has a brighter future.

“I think it’s going to grow as equipment becomes cheaper and more portable,” he says. “I really hope it’s going to help conservation and maybe make it more targeted, so that any money going in focuses on where it’s actually going to be most important.”

Meanwhile, Dalton hopes that their work at the Ringing Group shows the value volunteer groups can bring to conservation.

“What we’d like to see is ecology companies, when they speak to landowners, ask if they have volunteer groups on your land surveying? And can you link us with them?” he says. “Groups like ours can offer a hell of a lot to ecology companies — we have that baseline data, which they haven’t got.”

Stuart-Smith has similar thoughts.

“At the end of the day, we’re all doing it for the same goal,” she says. “It’s all about biodiversity net gain. It’s absolutely critical that we’re all interacting with one another.”

Previously in The Revelator:

A Move to Preserve the Night Sky

Creative Commons

The South’s Hidden Climate Threat

It’s not just the coastlines that are recording climate change. Even the mountains of North Carolina are feeling the heat — including some endangered plants.

Excerpted from A Road Running Southward: Following John Muir’s Journey Through an Endangered Land by Dan Chapman. Copyright © 2022 by the author. Reproduced by permission of Island Press, Washington, D.C.

Editor’s note: Atlanta reporter Dan Chapman retraced John Muir’s 1867 trek through the South, including the naturalist’s troubling legacy, to reveal environmental damage and loss that’s been largely overlooked.

Boone, North Carolina — It’s a wonder anything survives the ice, snow, and winds that pummel the ridge, let alone the delicate-seeming yellow flowers known as spreading avens. The lovely, long-stemmed perennials are exceedingly rare, officially listed as endangered, and found only in the intemperate highlands of North Carolina and Tennessee. They sprout from shallow acidic soils underlying craggy rock faces and grassy heath balds. At times blasted with full sun, but mostly shrouded in mist, the avens are survivors, Ice Age throwbacks that refuse to die. Geum radiatum is only known to exist in fourteen places, including hard-to-find alpine redoubts reached via deer trail or brambly bushwhacking.

And that is where I find Chris Ulrey, the world’s preeminent spreading avens expert. Granted, not a lot of botanists devote their professional lives to spreading avens. And Chris, a plant ecologist with the National Park Service, doesn’t focus solely on that particular flower, aka Appalachian avens and cliff avens. Yet I know of no other Geum aficionado who, over two weeks each of the last twenty summers, has scoured the highest peaks of the Blue Ridge monitoring the elusive flowers. He has also written a series of authoritative reports on the plant’s status and prospects, all of which underscore that avens are heading down the extinction highway. The culprit? Climate change. Avens, after all, move higher and higher up the mountains in search of cooler climes. So what happens when there’s nowhere else to go? I’d come to this off-piste mountaintop — whose name Chris requests I not mention so rare-plant hunters and rock climbers don’t destroy the remaining avens — to find out.

But Chris is busy, dangling from a hundred-foot rope attached to a vertiginous cliff, rappelling between clumps of avens. At least, I’m told by a colleague that he is. I can’t see Chris. He’s shrouded in thick fog on the other side of a fifty-foot ravine that promises, with one slippery misstep, a most painful death. Occasionally, I can hear Chris. He chirps out the statistics of the latest avens colony — length, width, number of rosettes — either marveling at their hardiness or lamenting their fragility. The colleague duly takes notes and quickly compares them to the flower’s status the previous year. A full scientific accounting will come later. Today is all about the search, and the scenery.Book cover shows city street image next to image of trees

Chris is in his element.

“This is awesome,” he yells skyward, a break in the fog allowing a glimpse of the beatific botanist, head thrown back, arms outstretched, beseeching the heavens.

_______

Most Southerners, if they think about climate change at all, think about the weather. They know about record-breaking temperatures and increasingly nasty storms. They’ll mention droughts or rising seas. They may even connect wildfires and flooding to a warming world. Yet there’s a widespread perception that climate change is mainly a coastal phenomenon. Seventy percent of Americans who live within twenty-five miles of a coast say the changing climate affects their local community, according to a 2020 Pew Research Center survey. Of those who live more than three hundred miles from the coast, only fifty-seven percent say it affects them.

Perhaps the findings aren’t that surprising. After all, if you witness ever-higher tides and more frequent coastal floods, you’re more likely to believe that something strange is going on. The changes are more subtle, and longer range, across the mountains. But those same climatic forces — higher temperatures, more (and less) precipitation, extreme weather — that hammer the lowlands bedevil every region and ecosystem in the world. And, make no mistake, a warming world portends drastic and irreparable harm to the southern Appalachians, which Muir labeled “the most beautiful deciduous forest I ever saw.”

He never made it to this corner of North Carolina, crossing the Old North State’s southwestern corner instead. The same hills and vales that so entranced Muir during his post–Civil War trek kept a grip on his imagination for the rest of his life. It would take three decades, but Muir eventually returned to the verdant, botanically rich forests of the South. By then he was the nation’s most famous naturalist, his name synonymous with mountains, glaciers, Yosemite, Alaska, and the Sierra Club. In an 1898 letter to Charles Sprague Sargent, the Harvard professor and the nation’s top tree expert, Muir wrote: “I don’t want to die without once more saluting the grand, godly, round-headed trees of the east side of America that I first learned to love and beneath which I used to weep for joy when nobody knew me.”

That fall, Muir joined Sargent and William Canby, a banker and well-regarded amateur botanist, on a month-long tour of the southern Appalachians.  They visited Roan Mountain, the five-mile-long massif of alpine grasslands that explode in a riot of red, pink, and white rhododendrons each spring. Muir, under the weather from days of heavy travel, reposed at the Cloudland Hotel, which straddled the North Carolina–Tennessee line and afforded magnificent views. “All the landscapes in every direction are made up of mountains, a billowing sea of them without bounds as far as one can look,” he wrote to wife Louie, “and every mountain hill & ridge & hollow is densely forested with so many kinds of trees their mere names would fill this sheet.”

Muir made no mention of the spreading avens. Other botanical luminaries did. André Michaux, the famed French botanist, visited Roan in the late eighteenth century and shipped specimens back to Paris. Asa Gray, the ensuing century’s botanist extraordinaire, found avens atop Roan “in the greatest profusion.”

Chris Ulrey has studied Roan’s avens every July for two decades. Compared to The Unnamed Mountain (TUM) that I promised to not identify, Roan is a walk in the park. Motorists can practically drive to the top of the 6,300-foot mountain. Its accessibility, though, makes it an imperfect barometer of the plant’s health. Hikers who leave the AT and other trails trample or pick the flowers. Rock climbers, acid rain, second homes, and ski resorts harm avens elsewhere. But TUM, perhaps more than any other remote mountaintop, offers a truer — and scarier — barometer of the changing climate’s impact on avens and mountain ecology.

Man in helmet and climbing gear hang from the side of a rock face inspecting plants growing on the rock
National Park Service’s Chris Ulrey inspecting a spreading avens clump. Photo: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (CC BY 2.0)

“It’s pristine; nobody comes out here. There are no recreational impacts,” Chris says. “It’s one of the largest populations. We haven’t recorded many deaths. But we rarely see any young plants, which is a concern. If it wasn’t a long-lived plant, it definitely would’ve gone extinct long ago.”

Avens, most likely, were more abundant at the end of the last Ice Age 10,000 years ago. As the glaciers retreated, and the South warmed, the plants were trapped, unable to migrate farther north. So they crept up the mountains in search of cooler, wetter locales. They settled in their alpine homes above 4,500 feet surrounded by spruces and firs and, in the case of TUM, red oaks. They thrive in humid places with annual temperatures averaging forty-five degrees. Rain and snow amounts may top one hundred inches a year. Most avens face north or northwest, avoiding direct sunlight. Fog is a constant companion. They grow in very shallow soil, as little as two centimeters deep.

Avens made the endangered species list in 1990. A Fish and Wildlife Service “recovery plan” three years later tallied eleven distinct populations of avens; five other groupings had already been extirpated. And eight of the remaining eleven had undergone moderate or significant damage during the previous decade. “Populations are declining and vanishing for reasons that are, in many cases, not clearly understood,” Service biologists wrote.

Chris has a pretty good idea why. In 2016, he authored “Life at the Top: Long-Term Demography, Microclimatic Refugia, and Responses to Climate Change for a High-Elevation Southern Appalachian Endemic Plant,” which appeared in the journal Biological Conservation.  Chris wrote that “climate in the southern Appalachians is projected to rapidly change over the coming few decades [and] is likely to be particularly threatening to rare plants because of their narrow distributions, small population sizes, and specific habitat requirements.”

He’s blunter on top of TUM.

“At the pace we’re going,” he says, “they will not be able to adapt and move — they’ll just blink out.”

Copyright © 2022 by Dan Chapman

Previously in The Revelator:

Move or Change: How Plants and Animals Are Trying to Survive a Warming World

 

Wind Power Is (Finally) Having a Moment

A surge in offshore wind projects has helped make wind power a renewable force.

Wind sweeps across the plains of north-central Oklahoma, spinning the blades of 356 turbines at the Traverse Wind Energy Center. The 998-megawatt facility — the largest wind project built all at one time in North America — came online in March.

It’s a sign of the times, as wind power continues to grow across middle America.

Last year wind was the fourth largest source of electricity generation in the United States — following gas, coal and nuclear — and the largest source of renewable energy. On March 29 it even briefly shot into second place behind gas.

Onshore wind dominates … for now. Texas leads the nation in wind and produces 20% of its generated electricity. In Iowa wind generates 57% of the state’s electricity, with Kansas (44%) and Oklahoma (36%) following.

The pandemic didn’t slow wind development much. The past two years have seen record-breaking installation. In 2020 turbine capacity increased 14.2 gigawatts, with another 17 gigawatts following in 2021. This year 7.6 gigawatts are expected to come online — with half of that capacity coming from Texas.

Utility-scale facilities like Traverse steal the headlines, but much like rooftop solar, there’s also big promise with small-scale, distributed projects. A report from the National Renewable Energy Laboratory found that projects ranging from a 1-kilowatt off-grid turbine to a 10-megawatt community-scale project could make a big contribution to the country’s energy needs. In fact half of our annual electricity consumption could come from smaller, distributed wind capacity, especially when paired with solar or battery storage.

Right now, though, the biggest focus is on large projects — in the water.

a large green house with five small turbines on the roof
A house in Portland, Oregon with wind turbines. Photo: Mark McClure (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

 

Offshore Potential

Last year President Joe Biden announced a U.S. goal of adding 30 gigawatts of offshore wind power capacity — enough to power 10 million homes — by 2030.

After decades when offshore wind stagnated in permitting and political tangles, the Biden administration approved the first two commercial-scale offshore wind projects — Vineyard Wind off Massachusetts and South Fork in the waters between Rhode Island and New York. Nearly a dozen more projects are moving through the permitting pipeline.

Northeast states have jumped to the forefront of the push. New York announced plans to build 9 gigawatts of offshore wind capacity by 2035, and about half of that is already under development.

The densely populated region is likely to be a hotspot for wind development.

An auction in February drew $4.37 billion in bids for wind development rights off New York and New Jersey in an area known as the New York Bight. “That is more than three times the revenue received from all U.S. offshore oil and gas lease auctions over the past five years,” reported Reuters.

Close-up view of five offshore turbines in choppy water
The Block Island Wind Farm off the coast of Rhode Island. Photo: Dennis Schroeder / NREL (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

There’s interest farther south, too.

In May TotalEnergies and Duke had the winning bids of a combined $315 million for two lease areas in federal water off the Carolinas. If fully developed, the projects could generate 1.3 gigawatts of offshore wind energy.

The Gulf of Mexico, where thousands of oil platforms dot the waters, may soon be home to offshore wind turbines as the Biden administration reviews 30 million acres of Gulf waters off Texas and Louisiana for possible wind projects.

The Interior Department’s Bureau of Ocean Energy Management is expected to release a draft environmental assessment this summer on how offshore wind development would affect the region. Offshore wind jobs are also touted by the administration as a “just transition” for oil and gas workers in the Gulf who are already experienced working on offshore platforms.

Louisiana Gov. John Bel Edwards obviously expects good news from BOEM: He’s pushing to add 5 gigawatts of offshore wind by 2035.

Floating Turbines

In California wind generates 7% of the state’s electricity. That all comes from turbines on land, but in May the California Energy Commission recommended building 3 gigawatts of offshore wind by 2030 — and growing that to 10 to 15 gigawatts by 2045.

The federal government has also taken a step toward a lease sale in federal waters off California. Expected in the fall, it would be the first along the Pacific Coast. At the end of May the Department of the Interior issued a proposed sale notice for three possible areas of offshore wind development — one in the Morro Bay Wind Energy Area off central California and two in the Humboldt Wind Energy Area off Northern California.

This opens a 60-day public comment period on the proposed lease areas. If they’re approved their eventual auction could lead to projects that generate 4.5 gigawatts of offshore wind energy — enough to power 1.5 million homes.

one floating turbine in gray sea
A test floating wind turbine in Castine, ME in 2013. Photo: Green Fire Productions (CC BY 2.0)

Offshore wind development in the Pacific will look different than in much of the Atlantic. Because the waters are much deeper, turbines off California will be floating instead of fixed to the ocean floor. The technology is new to the United States but has been in use in European waters for years.

It’s likely to catch on. Oregon officials plan to announce a goal of 3 gigawatts of floating turbines, and Washington could add 2 gigawatts.

It’s not just the West Coast; Maine hopes to explore the possibilities, too. The state has submitted an application to the Bureau of Ocean Energy Management for a 15-square-mile floating offshore wind research site to refine the technology in the deep waters of the Gulf of Maine.

The Road Ahead

Wind’s progress over recent years is likely to face some speed bumps that could slow — but not halt — the pace of development. Projects will need to be cited and managed to minimize environmental harm. Migratory birds are a particular concern with the development of offshore facilities; so are marine mammals that could become entangled in cables from floating turbines. Other ocean users — like fishers — have pushed back against coastal offshore wind projects.

Supply chain disruptions, rising interest rates and economic unease could also affect growing clean energy companies. But experts say renewables are in a better position now than ever before to ward off a downturn.

What could help ensure favorable winds, though, would be strong policy supporting clean energy — something Congress has yet to deliver. Of particular concern is the fate of the Build Back Better Act, which has been stalled by holdout Democratic Sen. Joe Manchin (and a slew of Republicans). If passed, though, it would extend wind and other production tax credits for another decade and help support manufacturing credits for components like wind blades and offshore foundations. That would add more fuel to the fire.

“If it is somehow revived, the clean energy tax title contained in the stalled ‘Build Back Better Act’ would represent one of the largest investments in low carbon and carbon-free energy deployment in the nation’s history,” reported E&E News.

Democrats haven’t given up on the effort yet. If successful, it would give a big boost to the wind industry at a time when the United States desperately needs to make up ground in the climate fight.

As does the rest of the planet. The Global Wind Energy Council — which projects that the world will add more than 110 gigawatts of wind installations each year through 2026 — warns that growth still needs to triple if we hope to avoid climate catastrophe.

That growth could be on its way. The European Union expects to add a record amount of offshore wind this year, while Chile signed a deal in April for three offshore wind developments and a new wind one just started construction in Japan. Meanwhile Taiwan’s biggest offshore wind facility went online April 21, and the first in the Mediterranean started generating electricity the same day.

Those are favorable winds. Whether they’re strong enough remains to be seen.

Creative Commons

Previously in The Revelator:

Offshore Wind Power Is Ready to Boom. Here’s What That Means for Wildlife

Can Species Have ‘Agency’ in Their Own Conservation?

New research suggests understanding species’ social learning and adaptive strategies can make them partners in their salvation.

Animals have individual personalities, can adapt to changing conditions, and can make decisions based on social learning in ways that shape shared human-wildlife spaces. That means they can play an active influence in their own conservation, argues a new paper published in Conservation Biology.

According to the authors, wildlife conservation and management could improve the outcomes of interventions such as translocations, reintroductions and resolving human-wildlife conflicts by explicitly acknowledging these traits — described as “animal agency.”

“Animal agency is an emerging way of seeing animals as ‘helpers’ in their own conservation efforts,” says Matthew Hayek, assistant professor of environmental studies at New York University and the paper’s senior author. “Rather than working against their own idiosyncratic behaviors, conservationists are paying attention to individual animals’ quirks, seeing differences between small groups, and increasingly working with them and achieving better outcomes.”

An Open Mind

But according to the paper, wildlife conservation management usually overlooks the concept of animal agency and prioritizes, as the authors put it, “metrics that treat animals primarily as quantifiable stock.”

To understand this gap, the authors reviewed 190 published evaluations of policies and programs and identified three underlying assumptions that may undermine their results.

First, the policies presuppose that animals from the same species all “behave uniformly” and that behavior mostly remains the same in different contexts.

Second, they assume that animals will revert to an “idealized state of wildness” when they are placed in appropriate wild habitats.

Third, the policies conceive of relationships between humans and wildlife in a narrowly biological or economical way and downplay cultural relationships between humans and animals.

But animals are not mathematical formulae that provide the same answer every time. If they deviate from wildlife managers’ assumptions, they can inadvertently undermine human-established conservation goals.

A wildlife manager overlooks a small beaver in a wire cage
Adam Hundley with a juvenile beaver captured in a live trap at FE Warren Air Force Base. The beaver was released, as nuisance adult beavers were the target of the live trapping. Photo: Alex Schubert/USFWS

The paper lays out several documented cases where animals acted in unanticipated ways, demonstrating their agency and thwarting management efforts in the process.

For example, elephants in Kenya had been detusked to prevent them smashing fences, but they devised new ways of breaking through barriers. Leopards in India were translocated to a protected nature reserve but soon returned to the edges of an urban area, where they conflicted with humans. And in the United States, kangaroo rats that had been translocated to newly restored habitat ended up losing previously established social connections, which resulted in low reproduction and survival rates.

A leopard crowches among the rocks in a waterway
Photo: Joris Komen (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Survival rates can also suffer when “misbehaving” animals earn themselves the label of “problematic” — which can result in their relocation or even their extermination.

But those are reversible problems. The paper also highlights how integrating animal agency in wildlife management and conservation can shift priorities and help policymakers and practitioners shape and implement conservation plans.

To take one aspect of animal agency — personality — bold individuals are more likely to tolerate human disturbance, use conservation infrastructure, or colonize new areas. This has implications for interventions like wildlife-corridor planning, the authors argue, because the scientific models for how animals use corridors present “strikingly different results when different behavioral characteristics are included.”

As another example, accounting for social learning among groups can shift conservationists’ focus from preserving the reproductive potential of younger group members to preserving a group’s culture and generational knowledge. As the case of the kangaroo rat shows, maintaining social ties for some species can matter more for the survival of individual animals than placing them in an ecologically correct habitat.

Collective Agency

This kind of approach can save not just individual animals but whole animal communities.

In the United Kingdom, the success of vaccinating badgers against bovine tuberculosis as an alternative to culling requires engaging with their agency — something I’ve experienced as a badger vaccination volunteer for the past two years. The badgers must be habituated to taking bait — peanuts — and going in and out of traps over a period of about two weeks. For each badger community, volunteers use their own knowledge and that of landowners — such as how bold or shy the animals are, how they behaved during previous vaccination rounds, and how they use the land around their dens — to determine where to set bait and assess the likelihood they will be trapped successfully.

protest art
Badger cull protest art. Photo: Maureen Barlin (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

A more famous example occurred in the Dutch city of Leiden in 2014, where conservationists saved gulls from a proposed cull by helping the city implement measures to change the behavior of both humans and birds.

The gulls, lured to cities by the destruction of their natural coastal habitats and the promise of easy meals, began nesting noisily on rooftops, tearing open garbage bags, and stealing food. Some species, like the black-headed gull and common gull, are in decline, but one Dutch politician proposed lifting their legal protections and shooting them.

That met with opposition from De Vogelbescherming, a bird-protection organization, which offered several alternative interventions. These included using ropes to make rooftops unsuitable for breeding, using stronger garbage bags that could not be torn open, educating people against feeding the birds, creating nesting islands by the coast, and observing which places the birds preferred.

This approach, philosopher Eva Meijer wrote in the 2016 book Animal Ethics in the Age of Humans, “illustrate[s] how we can experiment with interspecies decision-making … When conflicts arise, there needs to be communication [between species] about who can live where.” Without the agency-based methods of conservationists, culling as a management strategy might have prevailed and undermined efforts to preserve dwindling gull populations.

Solving Problems

While many management policies contain shortcomings when it comes to thinking of animals as agents, “on the ground, there are people seeing these phenomena regularly,” says Hayek. This means that knowledge of animal agency may inform decisions made by wildlife managers even when it’s not officially part of policy.

One example cited in the paper comes from a 2016 study on human-bear cohabitation in the Colorado Front Range of the Rocky Mountains. In 1985 Colorado Parks and Wildlife introduced a management policy known as the “two-strike directive” to manage so-called “nuisance bears.” One strike for nuisance behavior, such as breaking into a house to find food, gets a bear trapped, tagged and relocated; a second strike gets them killed. The study explained that the directive — which is still in place — is based on assumptions about bears adapting their behavior in a predictable way to the cues given to them by humans about where they are and are not welcome, such as relocating them to “‘prime’ bear habitat.”

 A bear cub rummages around in a dumpster
A bear cub rummages in a dumpster at Hotchkiss National Fish Hatchery during the spring. Photo: Craig Eaton/USFWS

But when bears interpret the cues differently, or behave in some unexpected manner, the wildlife managers who implement the directive learn and adapt their methods accordingly.

“The wildlife managers I spoke to over there acknowledge that these bears have agency, they are individuals, they have a certain way of behaving,” says Susan Boonman-Berson, a co-author on the study and a researcher in human-wildlife conflict, who spent two months in Colorado in 2012 observing the interactions between black bears and wildlife managers. “They want to understand these specific animals, and they don’t see them just generally as bears.”

One manager Boonman-Berson interviewed described how different bears have their own “methods” of getting into people’s property. The manager had to observe and understand the signs they left behind at the site of a break-in to determine the best management strategies. For example, a bear who broke into a car because it still smelled like the owners’ recently purchased cantaloupes could be lured to a trap with fresh fruit.

This also helps managers avoid trapping the wrong bear, perhaps one who might simply wander into a trap set for the “problem” bear. Ironically, this can earn the wrong bear a strike because, by entering the trap, they’re considered to have become more habituated to accessing “easy food.” Recognizing animal agency can also challenge the idea of “problem” or “nuisance” animals that policies like the two-strike directive seek to address. Humans can inadvertently attract animals by providing easy access to food, making urban spaces more attractive than the prime habitat.

“When we attract them and feed them and are really actually inviting them to come closer,” says Boonman-Berson, “I think we should not speak about the ‘problem animal’ because the animal is not a problem.”

The answer, she says, often involves focusing on educating humans rather than managing animals.

“They also call it people management [in Colorado],” says Boonman-Berson. “It’s not black bear management, it’s people management.” The wildlife managers she observed educated residents by encouraging them to secure their trash, keep doors locked, and not grow fruit trees inside areas where they didn’t want bears to venture. This is an example of how humans and animals both contribute to shaping shared environments — one of the tenets of animal agency.

Barriers Remain

These examples show some of the possibilities for integrating the concept of animal agency into wildlife management — but also the challenges. Different aspects of animal agency — personality, social learning, adaptability, and relationship with humans — may be more or less relevant depending on the species and contexts, Hayek and his coauthors argue in their paper. They also acknowledge that there are barriers to a more widespread integration of animal agency into conservation practices, since it introduces “nonuniformity, uncertainty and complexity at the modeling, planning and implementation stages” and might require “more complex, expensive and computationally intensive simulations.”

Indeed, the integration of animal agency into conservation plans has so far been “piecemeal, temporary, and not very popular,” Hayek says.

But, he adds, acknowledging the diversity of behaviors and experiences among animals of the same species can at least start to challenge the assumptions that guide much wildlife management and conservation.

“We can find plenty of examples of animals and humans actually learning from one another in a pretty rich way,” says Hayek. “And that is kind of a mark against the top-down nature of some conservation programs that don’t look to animals for direction.”

Previously in The Revelator:

The Surprising Clue to Reducing Human-Elephant Conflict: Minerals

Creative Commons

On the Clean Water Act’s 50th Birthday, What Should We Celebrate?

Some rivers and lakes wouldn’t be swimmable today without this critical law. But it could use a refresh to help meet our current challenges.

The Clean Water Act came to life the same year I did, kicking and screaming and full of promise. Now we’re both turning 50 — me and the law formally known as the Federal Water Pollution Control Act Amendments of 1972.

The half-century mark is a good time to take stock of one’s performance, and it’s fair to say that, like me, the Clean Water Act has some wrinkles and blemishes. As a longtime environmental journalist covering the Chesapeake Bay, I’ve seen the Act struggle as it reached middle age. At times, it hasn’t been all it could be, or all it should be.

It tackled the easy problems first, like factory pollution and sewage discharges, while putting off the harder lifts like agriculture and stormwater. And it’s become weak in the face of problems it doesn’t regulate, like manure runoff from small operations. It can seem, well, tired. As if it’s lost its fight, its verve, and it’s still following routines that don’t quite get the job done. We’re still wrangling over what waters fall under its jurisdiction, and what we define as a waterway. At 50, we should know what we are, right?

But I’ve seen major improvements that wouldn’t have happened without the law. So even if a blowout party is unwarranted (it’s still Covid times, after all), I think the Act is entitled to at least a nice glass of clean H20.

Fifty years after its passage, the Clean Water Act has restored fisheries in many rivers, lakes and estuaries. In Chicago, Pittsburgh, Chattanooga and Washington, D.C., residents can kayak on rivers that were once so fetid no one would dare go near them. Bostonians have taken clean water a step further; they can swim in the Charles. Musicians Randy Newman and Michael Stipe immortalized the burning smell of Cleveland’s Cuyahoga River in their songs; today, largely thanks to the Act, the river has a state scenic river designation and has become a centerpiece of Cleveland’s downtown.

Kayakers on river with downtown buildings in the background
Kayakers on the Cuyahoga River in downtown Cleveland, Ohio. Photo: Erik Drost (CC BY 2.0)

With its cousin, the Clean Air Act, regulators forced polluters to stop emitting nitrogen, phosphorus, mercury and other pollutants into the air. Steel production, coal mining, oil and gas drilling, nuclear power generation — all these industries were put on notice. If they polluted the water, they wouldn’t be in business long. The government and citizens could file suit under the Clean Water Act. Not wanting to face the negative publicity or the fines, many industries worked with regulators to clean themselves up.

The Clean Water Act doesn’t celebrate its 50-year-milestone alone. It had help. On June 14, 1972 — the day I was born — the administrator of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency banned the use of the pesticide DDT, which was killing eagles and ospreys in massive numbers. That October, Congress passed the Marine Mammal Protection Act to safeguard ocean mammals from poaching and other threats.

Thanks to these efforts, Chesapeake Bay now has more nesting pairs of bald eagles than any other place on the U.S. East Coast. The nation’s bird soars at Conowingo Dam, a power-generating station on the Susquehanna River, and at Aberdeen Proving Ground, which was once on the nation’s list of most hazardous sites for its legacy of pollution from munitions testing. Crabbers ply the waters from Baltimore to Norfolk; oyster dredgers work steadily in the Tangier Sound.

No species could thrive without clean water — nor could the fishers whose livelihoods depend on it. Aquaculture, too, has taken a hold in the Chesapeake. The most important consideration for where to locate an oyster farm or hatchery? The water’s salinity, and its cleanliness.

Eagle taking flight from dock on the bay
A bald eagle works on a mid-day fish along a dock pile at Mill Creek in Hampton, Virginia. Photo: Aileen Devlin/Virginia Sea Grant (CC BY-ND 2.0)

I’ve long admired the fortitude of the bipartisan Congress that overrode President Richard Nixon’s veto and passed the law to forever protect the waters of the United States. It wasn’t the first law to do it — the Rivers and Harbors Act of 1899 made it illegal to discharge refuse of any kind into navigable waters, and it later required federal permits to put structures in the water. But the Clean Water Act expanded protections to all waterways.

Monumental as it was, though, now the Clean Water Act at 50 needs a bit of a refresh, since the pollution it’s meant to stop has changed. In the Chesapeake Bay, our problem today is largely not industrial smokestacks but rather the detritus of how we live our lives. The Act doesn’t regulate these “nonpoint sources,” as we call them: the pesticides coming off our lawns, the motor oil and mercury in our stormwater, the nitrogen and phosphorus from the manure that farmers apply to their fields. We’ve made huge strides in sewage treatment, in standards for nitrogen emissions that end up in our waterways from cars, and in regulations for large animal facilities. But we have yet to figure out how to regulate the pollution that doesn’t come out of a tailpipe or a smokestack.

Another area that needs improvement: EPA officials regularly pass most of the Act’s enforcement to states, and states chronically understaff inspection units. Earlier this year Maryland Environment Secretary Ben Grumbles promised the legislature he would ramp up efforts, but only after lawmakers reviewed reports of how much the situation had deteriorated. If enforcement is lousy in a blue state bordering Washington, D.C., imagine how it looks in other states. All of them need to look at the teeth in their laws.

Laws like the Clean Water Act are good at stopping bad things, but they’re not always up to date for allowing good things. And that’s what we need now, whether it’s large-scale wind turbines in our oceans or manmade islands to protect crucial habitat for shorebirds. We need to eliminate barriers to beneficial uses of natural material, such as living shorelines, and not make the process of farming oysters so onerous. We need developers to understand that filling a wetland and creating another is nothing like no-net-loss; it’s a capitulation of everything we hold dear. Water ecosystems take decades to evolve and grow; laws that protect them must take into account the importance of legacy plants that hold roots together and protect land and water.

Despite the wear and tear, the Clean Water Act is holding up. The women’s magazines keep telling us 50 is still young and vibrant. And I hope that’s true for this law. There’s a lot more to do.

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Previously in The Revelator:

Scientists Find New Way to Reduce Marine ‘Dead Zones’

Building Climate Equity From the Ground Up

We can’t achieve a just clean energy transition if people are struggling to pay their bills and stay in their homes, says equity expert Carmelita Miller. 

Carmelita Miller recalls the black cloud of smoke she saw in the sky the evening of Sept. 9, 2010, when she stepped out of the train station in South San Francisco. Her phone lit up with messages from concerned friends and family. She’d soon learn that a gas pipeline owned by the local power company, PG&E, had exploded in a residential neighborhood a few miles from her home, killing eight people.

Just two years later an explosion across the bay, at a Chevron refinery in Richmond, sent another black cloud of toxic chemicals into the air — and 15,000 people to the emergency room.the ask

“It’s so easy to be cynical about climate justice when things like that are so close to your family,” she says.

Since then she’s seen a growing concern in California over wildfires and heatwaves, situations exacerbated by climate change and fossil fuels. At the same time, Covid hardships have pushed energy utility debt in California to nearly $3 billion, and many families have increasingly struggled to pay their utility bills.

And low-income communities and communities of color are disproportionately affected — by both climate threats and energy debt.

black smoke at refinery
A fire at Chevron’s Richmond, CA refinery in 2012. Photo: Nick Fullerton, (CC BY-NC 2.0)

Miller, who was born in the Philippines and grew up in South San Francisco, has spent the past decade trying to get regulators and policymakers to address this burden, and make sure that these same communities aren’t left behind in the clean energy transition. After receiving a law degree, she joined the Greenlining Institute in 2013, eventually becoming the senior director of climate equity. Last month she was hired as the first director of energy equity strategies at the nonprofit RMI. The organization has spent 40 years creating global programs to help speed the transition to clean energy, and her new position will address equity across all of the institute’s programs.

The Revelator spoke to Miller about climate inequities, why the issue is personal for her, and how to best support communities.

You studied the classics in college, before getting a law degree. How did you get involved in climate equity issues?

I always knew that I was going to end up in a form of racial justice advocacy. Even in law school I focused on issues like immigration and employment. It was very natural for me to find programs that weren’t benefiting communities or were harming them.

At Greenlining I was energy counsel and then, eventually, director of the energy and climate team. I worked on low-income proceedings of the California Public Utility Commission and demand-side or customer programs.

It became very clear to me that not a lot of people were paying attention to the heavy financial burden that many community members — even my own family members — were carrying in terms of paying for their energy bills.

Energy equity is personal for you?

I’m way too familiar with it because I grew up poor. I grew up in a household where [making sure we had] housing was primary. But then everything else was a constant negotiation, every paycheck, and every month. Do you get to see the dentist this time around or do you pay your energy bills?

When I joined the Greenlining Institute we were seeing the energy burden in California was so high that many Californians were getting disconnected [from energy services]. That was exacerbated by the recession in 2007 and 2008.

When you overlay those people losing their energy services with those communities impacted by climate change, many are the same. They’re low income communities, vulnerable communities.

We saw people who were going to be disconnected from their power, which could cause them to get evicted, which could cause them to lose their children to Child Protective Services. And then at the same time, those same people are also at risk of being surrounded by wildfire and dealing with extreme heat. That was a very real scenario. It still is a very real scenario.

[A couple of years ago] we were advocating for decarbonizing buildings and transportation to plan for a just transition to clean energy. And then when Covid hit we saw that people couldn’t even keep their homes. California still has a lot of folks who are in debt for energy because Covid just devastated lives and finances.

It became so clear to us that we couldn’t really advocate for energy efficiency, electrification and all the components that will decarbonize our built environment if folks can’t even pay their bills.

What have you seen change in the last decade you’ve been doing this work?

When I started at Greenlining almost 10 year ago, energy and climate justice were separate issues. Now things look different.

We know that energy can be a contributor [to our climate problems], but also a source of benefit and solutions. Companies and governments are beginning to see that and act on it.

Even those who have been afraid to touch the climate issue — banks, the financial sector — we’re showing them that not only is it worth investing in [climate solutions], but we’ll soon be at a time when we won’t have a choice not to.

As RMI’s first director of energy equity strategies, what are your goals?

RMI saw that it had a gap in focusing on residents and particularly frontline communities. In bringing me in, our goal is to create strategies for RMI moving forward that embeds [climate equity] from the get-go.

We hope to lean into our partnerships with organizations on the ground, environmental justice and equity organizations, to ensure that we’re contributing and not taking on someone else’s role. We’re going to figure out what supporting environmental justice and BIPOC communities is for RMI, which focuses on energy transmission and the way we consume energy.

What would success look like?

In the past couple of years, especially because of Covid, it’s hard to feel hopeful and find silver linings. We had people stuck at home and surrounded by wildfire, but it also pushed them to speak out and say, “This ‘business as usual’ — that can’t continue. Let’s talk about what clean energy hasn’t done for me in the past. And let’s talk about what it should do for me and my family.”

Ten or 20 years from now, if I can see that community members are able to show up to whatever forum is happening with knowledge handy so they can advocate for whatever kind of future they want to have for the families, that would be huge.

What’s your advice for others interested in climate equity?

Let’s take the idea of self-determination very seriously. People know what they want for their families. What can we do as advocates, as think tanks, as governmental entities to support that?

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Previously in The Revelator:

Justice First: How to Make the Clean Energy Transition Equitable

 

Why It’s Time to Include Fungi in Global Conservation Goals

Without fungi life on Earth would be unrecognizable. Yet these valuable organisms remain overlooked.

It’s no secret that Earth’s biodiversity is at risk. According to the International Union for the Conservation of Nature, 26% of all mammals, 14% of birds and 41% of amphibians are currently threatened worldwide, mainly due to human impacts such as climate change and development.

Other forms of life are also under pressure, but they are harder to count and assess. Some scientists have warned of mass insect die-offs, although others say the case hasn’t been proved. And then there are fungi — microbes that often go unnoticed, with an estimated 2 million to 4 million species. Fewer than 150,000 fungi have received formal scientific descriptions and classifications.

If you enjoy bread, wine or soy sauce, or have taken penicillin or immunosuppressant drugs, thank fungi, which make all of these products possible. Except for baker’s yeast and button mushrooms, most fungi remain overlooked and thrive hidden in the dark and damp. But scientists agree that they are valuable organisms worth protecting.

As mycologists whose biodiversity work includes studying fungi that interact with millipedes, plants, mosquitoes and true bugs, we have devoted our careers to understanding the critical roles fungi play. These relationships can be beneficial, harmful or neutral for the fungus’s partner organism. But it’s not an overstatement to say that without fungi breaking down dead matter and recycling its nutrients, life on Earth would be unrecognizable.

Healthy Ecosystems Need Fungi

The amazing biological fungal kingdom includes everything from bracket fungi, molds and yeasts to mushrooms and more. Fungi are not plants, although they’re usually stocked near fresh produce in grocery stores. In fact, they’re more closely related to animals.

But fungi have some unique features that set them apart. They grow by budding or as long, often branching, threadlike tubes. To reproduce, fungi typically form spores, a stage for spreading and dormancy. Rather than taking food into their bodies to eat, fungi release enzymes onto their food to break it down and then absorb sugars that are released. The fungal kingdom is very diverse, so many fungi break the mold.

Fungi play essential ecological roles worldwide. Some have been forming critical partnerships with plant roots for hundreds of millions of years. Others break down dead plants and animals and return key nutrients to the soil so other life forms can use them.

Fungi are among the few organisms that can degrade lignin, a main component of wood that gives plants their rigidity. Without fungi, our forests would be littered with huge piles of woody debris.

a cluster of small beige mushrooms on green moss
Fungi growing on woody debris. Photo: ramendan (CC BY-ND 2.0)

Still other fungi form unique mutualistic partnerships with insects. Flavodon ambrosius, a white rot decay fungus, not only serves as the primary source of nutrition for certain fungus-farming ambrosia beetles, but it also quickly out-competes other wood-colonizing fungi, which allows these beetles to build large, multigenerational communities. Similarly, leaf-cutter ants raise Leucoagaricus gongylophorus as food by gathering dead plant matter in their nests to feed their fungus partner.

A Mostly Unknown Kingdom

We can only partially appreciate the benefits fungi provide, since scientists have a narrow and very incomplete view of the fungal kingdom. Imagine trying to assemble a 4-million-piece jigsaw puzzle with only 3% to 5% of the pieces. Mycologists struggle to formally describe Earth’s fungal biodiversity while simultaneously assessing various species’ conservation status and tracking losses.

The International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List of Threatened Species currently includes 551 fungi, compared to 58,343 plants and 12,100 insects. About 60% of these listed fungal species are gilled mushrooms or lichenized fungi, which represent a very narrow sampling of the fungal kingdom.

Asked what a fungus looks like, the average person will probably imagine a mushroom, which is partly correct. Mushrooms are “fruiting bodies,” or reproductive structures, that only certain fungi produce. But a majority of fungi don’t produce fruiting bodies that are visible to the eye, or any at all, so these “microfungi” go largely overlooked.

Many people see fungi as frightening or disgusting. Today, although positive interest in fungi is growing, species that cause diseases — such as chytrid fungus in amphibians and white-nose syndrome in bats — still receive more attention than fungi playing essential, beneficial roles in the environment.

Protecting Our Fungal Future

Even with limited knowledge about the status of fungi, there is increasing evidence that climate change threatens them as much as it threatens plants, animals and other microbes. Pollution, drought, fire and other disturbances all are contributing to losses of precious fungi.

red spiky fungus in tree branch
A cedar-apple rust fungus in an Eastern red cedar tree. Photo: Matthew Beziat (CC BY-NC 2.0)

This isn’t just true on land. Recent studies of aquatic fungi, which play all kinds of important roles in rivers, lakes and oceans, have raised concerns that little is being done to conserve them.

It is hard to motivate people to care about something they do not know about or understand. And it’s difficult to establish effective conservation programs for organisms that are mysterious even to scientists. But people who care about fungi are trying. In addition to the IUCN Fungal Conservation Committee, which coordinates global fungal conservation initiatives, various nongovernment organizations and nonprofits advocate for fungi.

Over the past two years, we have seen a surge of public interest in all things fungal, from home grow kits and cultivation courses to increased enrollment in local mycological societies. We hope this newfound acceptance can benefit fungi, their habitats and people who study and steward them. One measure of success would be for people to ask not just whether a mushroom is poisonous or edible, but also whether it needs protection.

Delegations from most of the world’s countries will meet in China this fall for a major conference on protecting biodiversity. Their goal is to set international benchmarks for conserving life on Earth for years to come. Mycologists want the plan to include mushrooms, yeasts and molds.

Anyone who takes their curiosity outdoors can use community science platforms, such as iNaturalist, to report their observations of fungi and learn more. Joining a mycology club is a great way to learn how to find and harvest fungi responsibly, without overpicking or damaging their habitats.

Fungi are forming important networks and partnerships all around us in the environment, moving resources and information in all directions between soil, water and other living things. To us, they exemplify the power of connection and cooperation – valuable traits in this precarious phase of life on Earth.The Conversation

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Previously in The Revelator:

Are Wildlife Identification Apps Good for Conservation?