Oysters versus Wilderness: what’s the “right” choice?

Being a nature-lover at heart, most of the time when I hear about a new National Park or designated wilderness area, I’m happy. However, I wasn’t so sure about the recent wilderness designation of California’s Drakes Estero (just north of San Francisco). The problem is not that it’s protected—I’m all for preserving wilderness areas for the purposes of species’ habitat protection, biodiversity, recreation, and just to make sure there’s no development in some of our beautiful natural areas— but rather that in designating it as official wilderness, it necessitated the shut-down of a historic oyster farm (open since 1932) that provides about 40% of California’s commercial oyster supply. The root of the problem, I believe, lies in how we define and view wilderness.

On Nov. 27^th 2012, Secretary of the Interior Ken Salazar gave Drakes Bay Oyster Company 90 days to shut down operations for good, since it lies within Point Reyes National Seashore, and is therefore in violation of the National Park’s mission and regulations. Drakes Bay Oyster Company has been producing commercially-sold oysters since 1932. They pride themselves on being a sustainably-run family business, a model of sustainable local farming. They use no artificial inputs, chemicals, or feed, and are ranked as a “best choice” on the Monterey Bay Seafood Watch list. This does not mean that there are no negative environmental impacts of oyster farming in Drakes Bay—all human activities and interactions with nature come with some associated cost-benefit trade-off. The question is, what is that balance? The United States Wilderness Act of 1964 defines wilderness as “an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammelled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain”—this definition leaves little room for alternative uses of official wilderness. And therefore, when Salazar made the decision to officially turn Drakes Estero into a federally designated wilderness area, the oyster farm had to close.

Clem Miller
(or Bates from Downton Abbey?)

Point Reyes National Seashore was first established in 1962 by Clem Miller, a congressman from Marin County who envisioned an area protected from residential development, but that would keep the historic ranching and oyster farming as part of the multi-use park. (This was one of the reasons that it wasn’t originally designated as a National Park.) Being a scientist, I wanted to understand the science behind these decisions, and whether the environmental benefit of closing the oyster farm outweighed the benefit of maintaining a locally sustainable farm that employed about 30 people and provided almost half of California’s oysters. (And since I’ve only recently come round to realizing that oysters are in fact utterly delicious, it is even more sobering to think that there may be a serious shortage of them in the near future).

Anne and I enjoying the fruits of the sea in Seattle 

So, what are the negative environmental impacts of oyster farming? There have been limited scientific studies done on Drakes Estero and the impact of oyster production, but there are some (as well as many studies on oysters in other systems). One potential problem is increased nutrient load in the sediment as a by-product of filtration. Oysters are filter feeders, gathering particles of phytoplankton and nutrients from the water with their cilia. The problem is that all this particulate matter and nutrients is then transferred (i.e. excreted) into sediment, creating potential anoxic (low oxygen) conditions and smothering native eelgrass beds. However, studies in Drakes Estero have shown high flushing rates with the ocean, so excess/toxic sediment does not seem to be a problem. The presence of the oyster company could also negatively impact California harbor seal populations, which have their breeding grounds in the estuary (20% of CA harbor seal populations comes there to breed). The threat to seals is from human disturbance and the use of company motorboats rather than the oysters themselves—seals will react when humans come within 90 meters. However, this impact is not solely limited to the oyster company—hikers and kayakers could have a similar negative impact. And there are potential ways to mitigate these disturbance impacts, including the creation of large buffer zones or closing specific areas during breeding season (March-June).

California harbor seals

Oysters being transported in Drakes Estero

Colonial sea squirt (Didemnum)

One common complaint about the Drakes Bay Oyster Company is that it farms non-native oysters—the Pacific oyster from Japan (Crassostrea gigas). This species is now prevalent along the west coast, having been introduced in the early 1900s (for aquaculture purposes) after overfishing caused depletion of native Olympic oyster (Ostrea lurida) populations. Introducing one non-native species usually brings others—associated parasites and epibionts—and there is currently a large population of non-native colonial sea squirt (Didemnum vexillum) in Drakes Estero. As with any non-native species, the concern is that the population will reproduce on its own and expand, and may negatively impact (or out-compete) native species. This is a risk associated with the Pacific oyster itself, and the potentially expanding Didemnum population. However, it seems that at the moment, Didemnum is more of a nuisance than anything else, fouling marine equipment and, perhaps its biggest sin, being ugly.

As well as negative impacts, oysters offer significant benefits, both to the local ecosystem and economy. Oysters can increase water clarity by filtering up to 55 gallons of water a day—to put that in perspective, this is ~110 times what the average human drinks in a day, by an organism ~1/680 our size. In fact, many areas including the Chesapeake Bay are working on large projects to re-establish native oyster populations, both for economic and water quality benefits. One potential benefit of oyster aquaculture in Drakes Estero is that it could mimic the historical ecological benefits of the Olympic oyster (i.e. water filtration and creation of substrate habitat for fish and invertebrates). How well they might mimic the native oysters’ benefits depends on their relative abundance and biomass compared to historic populations of Olympic oysters (which is of course not well documented). But native oyster beds were likely integral to the original functioning of Drakes estuary, before they were destroyed by humans (an original alteration of the ecosystem). Which begs the questions… what is “wilderness”? What state exactly are we trying to restore? The “wilderness” of the early 1900s? Or some mythical wilderness of the 1500s that we can merely imagine (but that was managed, and altered, by Native Americans)?

Impressive historic native Olympic oyster reefs

So what is my final take on this issue? I’ve gone back and forth several times. The trade-offs, as I see it, are between deciding to preserve the land as wilderness, thereby prioritizing the value of nature and species protection, or trying to conserve the land while allowing multiple uses. Even full wilderness designation does not completely guarantee that animals will not be disturbed—the National Seashore gets over 2 million visitors a year, and the area relies on revenue from recreation. And there is the additional consideration of the economic benefits of the oyster farm, both in jobs and revenue. Without Drakes Bay Oyster Company, the Bay Area would have to import ~38,000 pounds more oysters each week in order to meet demand, which will in turn generate more carbon. Given all the trade-offs, minimizing the impact of the oyster farm through strict regulations, while allowing it to still provide important jobs and revenue for the region seems like it would be a good, and attainable, solution.

In the end, the decision about whether to close Drakes Bay Oyster Company is not a simple one. It’s a decision that has even divided avid environmentalists in the local community. It’s one of those decisions that should make us pause and re-examine what exactly we are trying to accomplish with designated wilderness areas. We need to protect natural areas for many reasons, but we also need to provide food and jobs for millions of people. And perhaps most importantly, if we want people to want to protect nature (a decision, I believe, that ultimately comes from the heart), then we need to live with nature.

Guilty pleasures: smoked salmon and unagi

Since it’s New Year’s resolution time, I’ve been pondering what this year’s resolution should be. Last year, I borrowed my husband’s idea of resolving to eat only “good” meat (i.e. organic, grass-finished, meat formerly named Polly/Charlotte/etc.). As a fisheries biologist, I try to do the same thing with fish by following the Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch recommendations. However, this can be hard when it comes to occasionally denying myself, especially two particular kinds of fish – salmon and freshwater eel (aka unagi to sushi enthusiasts). While wild Alaskan is a good option for salmon, many places (restaurants especially) carry farmed Atlantic salmon, which is better to avoid. And as for eel, I’ve been putting off (with dread, since I don’t think there are any at this point) looking into unagi alternatives.

Since my favorite food is smoked salmon—and since it also happens to be my study species—I’ve decided to look into the purported ills of farmed salmon. Smoked salmon at the grocery store is often farmed Atlantic salmon. But first, a quick aside to illustrate why this issue (e.g. finding good smoked salmon to eat) is so close to my heart. I was about 9 when I first read C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. In the scene when the White Witch offers Edmund any food he desires, he chooses Turkish Delight, and receives a bottomless tin full of (enchanted) confection. Since, at age 9, I had no idea what Turkish Delight was, I imagined a bottomless tin of smoked salmon – nothing could be better – and to this day, any mention of Turkish Delight automatically makes my mouth begin to water (and not for the candy). So, while I don’t think I’ve actually been enchanted, I find it about as difficult to resist buying a package of smoked salmon as Edmund found it to resist going back to the White Witch for more Turkish Delight.

Edmund fantasizing about Turkish Delight

Turkish Delight (a far cry from smoked salmon)

So what is wrong with farmed salmon? There are several problems with it, ranging from environmental impacts to serious health concerns. As with raising beef cattle, it takes a lot of food to raise meat. But unlike cows, which eat corn (well, not naturally, but that’s a whole other story), salmon eat fish, so there’s a large impact on the marine food chain. It takes about 3 pounds of other fish (mostly small pelagic fish) to produce 1 pound of salmon. In addition, many studies have found that salmon feed is highly contaminated with toxins, including PCBs and mercury, and this high toxin load gets transferred to the farmed salmon (at much higher levels than are found naturally in wild salmon populations).

Most farmed salmon, at this point, come from large aquaculture operations in Norway and Chile. In general, the salmon are raised in large netpens in near-shore ocean, a design resulting in pollution of ocean waters through fish and feed waste. Pens can contain up to 90,000 fish. Overcrowded conditions mean that disease and parasites run rampant, and can then be transferred to wild salmon populations due to the open netpen set-up. In particular, sea lice (a marine copepod) are a major concern (google image search them if you have a strong stomach—I couldn’t bring myself to put the pictures up on my blog). There have been studies showing the transfer of sea lice from salmon farms to wild pink salmon, causing infection and mortality in the wild populations.

However, there are some promising innovations in aquaculture that may mean better farmed salmon in the future. Closed, re-circulating systems prevent many of the environmental problems, such as pollution and disease/parasite transmission to wild salmon. There has also been some success rearing coho in freshwater pens in the US—these farmed salmon are now listed as a “best choice” by Seafood Watch (success!). In addition, innovations in net design are helping prevent some of the disease and parasite problems by using antimicrobial copper alloy netting.

So, after looking into salmon farming, I bit the bullet and did a little research on why freshwater eel are listed as “avoid” by Seafood Watch. After all, the first step to many things is knowledge. It turns out freshwater eel have a fascinating life cycle. They are catadromous—this is the opposite of anadromous (salmon’s life cycle), where the eels spend their life in freshwater, but go to the ocean to spawn. They find their way to rivers as small, immature, transparent eel (referred to as “glass eels”), and it’s at this stage that they are caught in droves in order to supply eel farms raising unagi. Basically, instead of raising eels from scratch (starting with eggs, as salmon hatcheries do), eel farms find it easier to go catch the young wild eels, and use these as a constant supply, thereby continually depleting already declining wild populations.

Glass eel, the life stage when they're caught to bring to eel farms.

Declines in wild eel populations

So, herein lies one of the hardest personal debates about being a good environmental steward. Do I completely deny myself a food I love, or allow myself to have it very occasionally? There is a fine balance between enjoying and living life, and also trying to live according to certain values. Where do you draw the line? As with purchasing carbon offsets for air travel, can we go out and do something proactive to protect fish populations every time we indulge in another round of unagi sushi? This is a balance I, and many people I know, continually struggle with.

What fish want

What do fish want? I thought I would try to focus on a seasonally-appropriate question, but also one that I spend a lot of time these days pondering. You might think that it would be simple to figure out what motivates a fish—after all, they probably aren’t influenced by the complex emotions that drive people. But unfortunately, we can’t just ask them (I have often wished for just one hour as a fish—I would learn… and publish… so much!).

In general, animal behavior is driven by a balance between the drive to maintain/gain energy stores, survive, and ultimately reproduce. So when asking why a fish chooses to inhabit a particular area of the river, we start by looking at the environmental factors (such as water temperature and shelter from potential predators) that might be influencing its behavior. In my research, I’m interested in what environmental factors are influencing juvenile steelhead behavior surrounding coolwater refugia (areas that are cooler than the main river, often because of an incoming cold creek). What causes fish to use coolwater refuges? And when the river is really hot, what causes fish to leave the refuge? In asking these questions, I’m hoping to gain an understanding of when these refugia areas are most important to fish.

Juvenile steelhead being measured

A heat image of a coolwater refugia area on the Klamath River (Image from U.S. Bureau of Rec)

Taking a step back… many rivers are getting hotter, both because of climate change (influence of higher air temperatures), and land use practices such as logging and agriculture. Logging the riparian area next to a stream reduces shading,  causing the water to heat up. Irrigation can lead to hotter water temperatures if water is diverted into shallow, slow-flowing irrigation ditches, then returned to the river. The Klamath River in northern California, where I do my research, can reach 80°F in the summer, which feels like bathwater. On cool mornings I would sometimes even get into the water to warm up.

Salmon are a coldwater fish, and prefer a temperature range of about 10-18°C (50-65°F). This means that during the summer, when the river temperatures reach 80°F, they are under serious thermal stress—the high temperatures increase their metabolism, so they struggle to maintain weight. As a result, fish will seek out areas in the river that are cooler, such as areas where tributaries flow into the river (i.e. thermal refugia). You can sometimes see hundreds of juvenile salmon packed into small coolwater refuges. However, fish sometimes leave the coolwater areas, even when the river is hot. Why? This question forms the root of my research.

Juvenile steelhead in a coolwater refugia area

I’m hypothesizing that it’s a trade-off between water temperature and the need to find sufficient food. While the fish gain a thermal benefit by hanging out in the cooler water, the high densities of fish suggest that there may be competition for food, forcing fish to leave for brief periods in search of prey.

To put this dilemma in a human perspective, imagine that it's 120°F outside, and you are in a nice air-conditioned house… with no food. You have the choice to go out and pick some food from the garden, or just stay inside and feel hungry. It’s a trade-off! At what point do you decide to leave? Now imagine that your body temperature changes to that of the outside temperature—so as soon as you walk out the door, your temperature begins to rise. This is what happens for fish, since they are poikilotherms—cold-blooded animals that do not stay in a temperature-constant environment, so their internal temperature varies over a wide range. While they are adapted to function over a certain range of temperatures, water temperatures may be rising more quickly than fish can adapt, leaving them with a shrinking amount of available habitat.

In order to understand when and where coolwater refugia are most important, we need to figure out what specific environmental factors are driving fish’s decisions to enter and leave refugia. To do this, I conducted behavioral field studies on juvenile steelhead at coolwater refugia sites on the Klamath River for the past 3 summers. I put radio tags into steelhead (see video below), and was able to track their movement and body temperature (pretty cool!) over time. So far, I’ve found some interesting effects of water temperature dynamics on the likelihood of fish using thermal refugia… stay tuned! (And to learn more about how I’m researching this, visit my website!)

Put in a larger (non-fishy) context, refugia habitats such as this will become increasingly important as the climate continues to change. Whether it’s a range shift upwards onto mountaintops for a high altitude terrestrial species, or a fish seeking out cooler water, understanding how animals use refugia and when they are crucial to their survival will be an important aspect of preserving some species.

And now, if you’ve made it this far, enjoy the holidays! I, for one, will be enjoying a taste of the fruits of my labor.

A river running free

Last week I went on a hike along the Elwha River in Olympic National Park, Washington. Not only was I excited to get out and hike (which happens far too infrequently these days), but I wanted to see the Elwha now that it’s a completely free flowing river again. The largest dam removal in the world just took place on the Elwha—the two dams that were located 5 and 13 miles upstream of the Strait of Juan de Fuca are now almost completely gone.

Glines Canyon Dam before removal

Glines Canyon Dam as of 11/6/12

 I hiked through the mossy dripping rainforest up above where the dams had been, imagining (or, let’s be honest, hoping) that I would come across Bigfoot around the next bend and make my millions. The ecosystem there is incredibly verdant — temperate rainforest that gets approximately 150 inches of rain annually—with towering Douglas firs, dripping alders and Bigleaf maples, and plenty of mushrooms pushing their way up through the mossy ground. I kept my eye out for Oyster mushrooms, but no luck. I also stopped frequently to scour the turbid water for salmon, since both Chinook and Pink salmon, as well as steelhead, have already been sighted upriver of the lower dam! (Granted, it would be surprising to find them above the upper dam, which is not yet completely gone… but as with Bigfoot, one can hope).

Olympic National Park forest

... Bigfoot?

 While I am a firm believer in ecological restoration, there are not many restoration stories that have brought tears to my eyes, but hearing that salmon are already returning to parts of the Elwha that have been inaccessible to them for the past century did literally make me tear up. It’s also a nice example of how dam removal can be successful. A few months ago, my friend asked me, “Is dam removal good?” A great question! She had been at a party and gotten into a discussion about dam removal. As a scientist and someone generally in favor of ecological restoration, she felt intuitively that dam removal is a good thing, but when asked why, she wasn’t sure. What really are the benefits of taking out dams? To emphasize the importance of this question, you should know that there are about 75,000 larger dams (over 6ft) in the U.S., and an estimated 2 million total. However, most of these were built with only a 50-year useful life-span, and the number of “high hazard dams” in need of either reinforcement or removal is rising sharply.

Map of major dams in the U.S.

 One of the many exciting aspects of dam removal (and one close to my heart) is the benefit to anadromous fish, such as salmon. (Anadromous fish begin life in freshwater, travel to the ocean to grow, and return to the river to spawn). Salmon rely on large amounts of high quality river habitat for spawning, juvenile rearing, and migration. Large dams without fish ladders are impassible to salmon, cutting off enormous amounts of good river habitat. And the habitat that’s left is often lower quality, in terms of temperature (too hot) and sediment composition. Dams block sediment, meaning that lots of fine sediment that naturally flows downriver is blocked behind dams. The result is that you get huge sediment build-ups behind dams (there are 5 billion tons of sediment behind the Glen Canyon Dam!). The downstream impacts of this sediment blockage include a coarsening of the riverbed sediment (since all the fine sediment is trapped upstream), which decreases the amount of good spawning habitat for salmon. In addition to the impacts on salmon, the lack of natural sediment flow has caused substantial beach erosion, since this sediment is what beaches are made of (California beaches are being reduced by ~2.8 million cubic meters of sand per year). 

Towards the end of my hike along the Elwha, I made my way down to the large rocky expanse where the upper reservoir used to be. It was sobering to stand on the bank of what is now a flowing river, and realize that only a year and a half ago, I would have been deep underwater. The floodplain hasn’t reconnected with the river yet, but with the river’s natural flow regime restored, this should happen in time. (Dams drastically alter a river’s flow regime—the pattern of water flow over time—usually by homogenizing it, so that the water flow doesn’t change much throughout the year.) One of the less widely known benefits of dam removal is the restoration of the flow regime. The animals and plants along a river evolve to take advantage of that particular river’s flow regime. For example, cottonwoods time the release of their seeds with floods, to aid in dispersal, and aquatic insects such as caddisflies synchronize their metamorphosis (from aquatic insect to terrestrial adult) with the average timing of flood season. When flow regimes change drastically over a short time period, as happens when a dam goes up, it can be hard for these species to adapt.

Glines Canyon reservoir bed from the air

On my hike, standing in the Glines Canyon reservoir bed looking downstream

As I’m reminded daily through conversations with my husband, there’s a lot of controversy surrounding dam removal. I’ve seen my share of this during my summers doing research on the Klamath River, where the 4 lowest dams are scheduled to come out in 2020. Many people want to keep dams because they are a symbol of progress (at least, the Greatest Generation feels this way), and because they like boating and fishing in the reservoirs. However, since many of America’s dams are old, it’s worth considering the fact that it may be more beneficial (ecologically and economically) to remove than to restore them.

A sign from near where I work on the Klamath River

Another sign from near where I lived...

There’s a lot more to learn about dam removal, but I hope I’ve given you a few good points to fall back on if you find yourself defending its benefits at a party. And if you haven’t seen it yet, you really need to watch this spectacular video of another Washington state dam removal, the Condit dam on the White Salmon River.

The problem of truth

I read an interesting (and rather infuriating) opinion piece on salmon in the Gridley Herald a few weeks ago, claiming that salmon populations on the Klamath River in northern California are doing just fine. Gridley is a small town in the Central Valley south of Chico. The author, James Finses, based his claim on one good year of salmon returns, as well as bashing the groups he disagrees with (more details below). While making me writhe internally, this piece also got me thinking once again about denial, and how we shape truth.

The problem is that people have different versions of the truth. Scientists version of truth takes the form of testable hypotheses that are “proved” (or fail to be rejected, if you'd prefer), or quantitative models, but that’s not how people work. People, in general, are most likely to believe what they see (first-hand data), and this is tempered by what they want to see (which is where denial comes in). Since I happen to be watching football right now (don’t be too shocked…I was coaxed to the bar by my husband), the analogy that comes to mind is if a team does well the three times in a row you happen to watch them, you’re more likely to believe that they’re good rather than the long-term statistics that tell you they’re terrible. In short, we’re more inclined to believe what we see right in front of us (and especially when we like what we see), rather than trying to put things in the larger context… especially when it’s inconvenient or displeasing to do so. Thus, we can easily create a convenient reality, when so inclined.

This problem of truth extends to opinions surrounding salmon fisheries management. There’s lots of data and scientific papers showing that our salmon populations have crashed in the past century, but there is also tremendous economic, cultural, and social pressure to keep fishing. This creates a situation where there are a lot of people with different opinions and goals searching for a slippery truth (i.e. how do we best restore/maintain salmon populations).

Restoring salmon populations is not an easy or straightforward task, and can demand innovative and sometimes unpopular (with some) approaches, such as dam removal, fishing restrictions, or expensive fish ladders, all of which can inspire heated controversy. This is the case on the Klamath River in northern California where I do my research, and where there are 4 dam removals planned for 2020 in order to help restore fish populations (including ESA-listed Coho). On the Klamath, there are many interest groups who care about both fish and water flows, including fishermen, native tribes, rafting companies, farmers, and fiery locals.

Returning Chinook salmon on the Klamath River

And so when record numbers (~380,000) of Chinook salmon were projected to return to the Klamath River this year — a run size close to historical returns for fall Chinook — it is no surprise that there were people, including James Finses of Gridley CA, eager to jump at the opportunity to claim that salmon populations are doing just fine. In his opinion piece, Finses is quick to point out that the fish are returning despite the fact that we still have dams, and that “the dirty, unscientific data brought forth by the tribes, enviros and other whacko groups was wrong all the time.” The problem with Finses’ argument that one good year of salmon returns means that salmon populations are fine is that salmon populations are incredibly variable year to year, and the success of a particular cohort depends on numerous conditions including favorable river temperatures and ocean conditions (abundant plankton and low predator numbers). In the end, he states that “the salmon are back in record numbers with all the dams to help them.” I find this last sentence particularly interesting, since it reflects the desire to not just disprove undesirable truths, but to use this small piece of evidence (one year of good salmon returns) to reshape the truth (i.e. dams must be helping the fish). Whether Finses actually believes this statement or not, the fact remains that humans are susceptible to incredible willful short-sightedness when it suits us. So in questions relating to fisheries management, the truth very quickly becomes a slippery shadow, swathed in politics and emotion, often taking different forms for different people.

Fish ladder on John Day River dam

My husband came across another example of this truth-shaping during his research on dam removal, when talking to a local about fish ladders. Fish ladders are structures built into some dams that allow for anadromous fish migration – they are usually a series of small steps and pools with sufficient flow to attract fish to them. While having fish ladders is better than providing no fish passage at all, they are only somewhat successful; some problems include increased predation (predators, such as bass or birds, can sit at the end of the fish ladder, picking off a tasty meal as the salmon funnel through), and possible delay and additional energy demand on the fish (especially as they pool up at the bottom, awaiting their turn in the limited space). However, having a fish ladder is somewhat of a band-aid fix, and can make it seem like the fish are doing fine, especially since it often causes the fish to pool up, so that visually it appears that there are a lot of fish. As the local remarked to my husband, ‘the fish are just hanging out below the dam, “taking their time.”’

So will one good year of salmon returns make us forget those that have come before? As scientists, the answer is no. But as humans, we are susceptible to our emotions and personal biases.

Ecological Restoration: Are we in denial?

“I think that if it weren't for denial, I wouldn't be a comedian because to be a comedian you have to go on stage those first few years and bomb. And then walk off stage and think, that went great. Because otherwise you'd never get on stage the next night. You would just think, human beings don't like me. But sometimes denial can kill you.” –Comedian Mike Birbiglia 

Are we in denial about climate change and the state of our earth? Certainly some of this country is... although luckily, on Nov. 6^th the country voted to support the environment (as well as many other important things). But even for those of us who do believe in climate change, and even try to change our day to day actions to help alleviate the problem, a question that haunts me is, “is this enough?” Is biking to work every day and eating organic and buying carbon offsets for travel (and generally acting like we are in Portlandia) really enough? And are current ecological restoration projects and conservation efforts sufficient?

As I was mulling over how to frame this question into a constructive blog post—since it is so easy to debate round in circles on this question, to no avail—I came across a recent paper by one of my advisors that addressed an interesting angle on this question. The paper, “Ecological restoration and enabling behavior: a new metaphorical lens?” by KD Moore & JW Moore, examines how we currently view ecological restoration, and how that perspective might be shaping both our behavior and the way we go about restoration. When we discuss ecological restoration, we usually assume that we are talking about something inherently positive. The paper makes the point that the language of ecological restoration is that of “healing and repairing,” which carries a positive connotation. Who wouldn’t you want to help the environment by restoring it (given unlimited money)?

However, as this paper discusses, there are certain problems with our current approach to restoration. Many restoration projects are not followed by sufficient monitoring (the case with many dam removals), so we are left to wonder how effective the restoration actually was. In addition, Moore & Moore cite several examples where post-restoration monitoring has shown that “restoration effectiveness is questionable.” (This is not to say all projects are ineffective, but rather that we should not assume the effectiveness of our restoration projects).

But besides the problem of monitoring, there is the question of whether we are enabling our energy-hungry habits by convincing ourselves that our restoration projects will take care of the problem. The paper draws an interesting metaphor for this scenario using the co-dependency of addicts (for instance, an alcoholic) and their enablers (e.g. someone who keeps paying the alcoholic’s bills). In this case, Americans are addicted to cheap, abundant energy (which comes at the cost of environmental degradation), and the enablers are the environmental restorationists, who make us feel like we are healing the environment, and who are secured a job in the wake of the destruction. Perhaps this view is too cynical—surely restoration specialists are not voting for Romney or buying SUVs just to ensure their own job security.

But, as the authors explain, we can draw an interesting lesson from this perspective; we can use this “metaphoric lens” to think about whether restoration activities have “opportunity costs”—in other words, are we using funds for restoration that could be better put towards getting rid of the cause of the degradation? We can also use this lens to examine whether these restoration activities “conceal the truth” from ourselves—we want to believe that we can destroy a habitat, extract what we need, and then restore it back to its starting state. But this is rarely the case. Yet we often move forward with restoration projects as if this were true.

 

I am not arguing, by any means, that we should discontinue ecological restoration. Rather, it should be a stepping stone to whatever is next. However, we know from basic physics that systems in motion have momentum, and the momentum to keep going in the direction of motion can be very strong, not to mention easier than applying force to the system to change (yes, I love physics… I even minored in it in college). In other words, we need to work to change our current habits, and along the way, we need to continually evaluate our actions. We do not want to be the ostrich, head stuck in the sand, patting ourselves on the back at all our good environmental work, and meanwhile drowning in the rising ocean.

As the comedian Mike Birbiglia says, “sometimes denial can kill you.” Or, in this case, probably our grandchildren.

So we need to rid ourselves of denial, and ask, does despair begin when denial ends? Or is that when true hope and action are born, out of the “power of outrage and… the wisdom of grief”*?

*Moore & Moore

The Origin of (Exotic) Species

My friend Leighton’s comment on last week’s post – that beaver reintroduction to their native ranges by parachute outdoes dumping fish from airplanes – sparked my idea for this week’s post. Over the course of the past few centuries, there have been many intentional and inadvertent introductions of exotic (non-native) species to areas throughout North America. Some of these exotic species can be beneficial (depending on your viewpoint), some harmless, and some turn into invasives (i.e. non-native species that negatively impact the native ecosystem). Current estimates of the number of exotic species in the U.S. are around 50,000; around 4300 of these are considered invasives.

However, while we often hear about the impacts of exotic species, we don’t usually hear the interesting back-story that brought many of these species to their new homes in the first place. How did they spread? Was it on purpose or by accident? I’ve looked into the stories of several high-impact species that were introduced to North America to find out how they were first introduced, and what their impact has been.

European Honeybees: What’s all the buzz?

Honeybees first arrived in the U.S. in 1622, carried by ship with European settlers determined to have honey in their new home (I don’t blame them there). The only documentation that exists of this first bee introduction is found in a letter from the Virginia Company in London to the Governor of Virginia:

“Wee haue by this Shipp and the Discouerie sent you diurs [diverse] sortes of seedes, and fruit trees, as also Pidgeons, Connies, Peacockes Maistiues [Mastiffs], and Beehives, as you shall by the invoice pceiue [perceive]…”  (Goodwin 1956; Kingsbury 1906:532).

Along with the honeybees, settlers brought many of the agricultural crops that honeybees thrive on and pollinate, thus facilitating a change in the face of the American landscape. As European settlers moved west, many of the plant species with which they were familiar already abounded.  
Honeybees are crucial for pollinating many of the non-native agricultural crops that we rely on today. The advent of Colony Collapse Disorder is therefore extremely concerning, because it threatens the existence of many mainstay crops. However, there are also around 4000 species of (often overlooked) native bees in North America, and many native plants—such as tomatoes, eggplant, pumpkin, blueberries and cranberries—are more efficiently pollinated by these native bees than by honeybees.

Earthworms vs. Ovenbirds

European Earthworms: An Unlikely Suspect

For a species that most of us associate with good garden soil, the earthworm has a surprising dark side to its story. It was first introduced to the U.S. around 1620 in ship ballast (soil and gravel) that was dumped around Jamestown, Pennsylvania to make room for transporting popular American tobacco back to Europe. Earthworms are not native to the post-glacial forests of North America, which are characterized by thick layers of leaf litter. Once introduced to these forests, the silent underground invaders eat their way through the leaf litter, completely changing the face of the forest floor and the entire microbial cycle. This can have serious impacts on everything from native seedling success and tree species composition to native bird populations. One interesting case is the decline of the Ovenbird in the Midwest, which is being blamed on the earthworm; the Ovenbird is a ground-nester, and the decrease in leaf litter abundance is linked to increased predation risk (less shelter) and decreased food availability (bugs in leaf litter) for the Ovenbird. As earthworms continue to spread (mostly through bait-fishing, composting, and other means of human transport), they could potentially have large impacts on our forest ecosystems.

Shakespeare’s Songbirds: The Starling Saga

In 1890 a drug manufacturer (and Shakespeare fanatic) named Eugene Scheiffelin thought it would be romantic to introduce all the songbirds mentioned in Shakespeare’s works to New York City. Over the course of two years, he released 100 European starlings into Central Park. By 1942, their descendants had reached California. (He tried with thrushes and skylarks as well, but these birds failed to thrive).

Starlings are now a common sight in almost every city in the U.S. – they build their nests in cavities and vents, and thrive in urban landscapes. They are now mostly considered pests, and are linked to the spread of various diseases to both livestock and humans, mostly through their droppings. They can also pose serious safety risk to airplanes, as they fly in large murmurations (perhaps the best word ever for a group of animals), which can be quite visually impressive. Efforts to eradicate them have included artificial owls, electric wires, chemicals, broadcasted alarm calls, and recipes for Starling Pie. And yet they remain, perhaps even in your yard at this moment.

“Crazy Jumping Fish” (aka Asian Carp)

Asian Carp were first introduced to the United States by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service – this is an interesting example of how the mission and practices of environmental organizations can change as our understanding of and relationship to the environment changes. These fish were brought to the southern U.S. (Mississippi River in Arkansas) in 1963 as a tool to help aquaculture farms keep vegetation in check. By the 1970s, the carp had escaped the farms and spread northwards into the Illinois River.

Asian Carp jump up to 3m out of the water when startled (often by motor noise)

Asian Carp have become a huge problem in the rivers of the Mississippi basin, and currently threaten to invade the Great Lakes. They have a voracious appetite, and can consume up to 20% of their body weight per day in phytoplankton, which is significant considering they can reach 4 feet and 100 pounds. They also have a high reproduction rate, and compete with native fish species for habitat. In addition, these “crazy jumping fish” can be physically threatening to boaters (see YouTube video). And they have even inspired an important cultural contribution to America, in the form of the Redneck Fishing Tournament of Bath, Illinois.

The possibility of Asian Carp invading the Great Lakes is a serious threat – the Great Lakes support a large commercial fisheries industry – and both government and private agencies are working to come up with solutions to keep them out. One recent innovation is the use of an electrical barrier, implemented by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, to keep the carp out of Lake Michigan. So far it seems to be working, although there have been some reports of DNA evidence for carp above the barrier.

As with the case of the beavers mentioned earlier, a recent phenomenon is the re-introduction of native species back to natural historic ranges from which they have been extirpated (e.g. made locally extinct). The goal of these reintroductions is to restore the natural ecosystem, and often to bring back charismatic species that people feel “belong” in the landscape for sentimental (as well as environmental) reasons. This can become controversial in the case of large predators (wolf reintroduction to Yellowstone National Park, for example). But it has also inspired some interesting studies on the success of these reintroduced species (check out my friend's blog on Fishers in the Sierra), and success stories such as the reintroduction of California Condors to the Big Sur region of California.