when i left chicago to embark on a month-long environmental reporting trip to sanibel island, florida, the fact that it is one of the nation’s premier birding destinations wasn’t one of its many appeals. in fact, i knew it would force me to confront my only tangible fear.

it’s a textbook case of childhood trauma. when i was 10, i was sitting on the toilet at home when i felt something rustle against my leg. i looked down to find a mourning dove that had entered the house through the chimney fluttering at my feet. i screamed, slammed the toilet lid closed and jumped on top. i was trapped at the end of my parents’ long and narrow bathroom, the bird flapping in my face every time i tried to step down. after continued wailing, my dad rescued me, scooping me up and carrying me horizontally out of the bathroom like a human battering ram.

needless to say, i wasn’t the biggest fan of birds after that. 

but it seemed like most everyone else on sanibel was. on my first day there, i faced down a gauntlet of squawking parrots lining the entrance to the jerry’s foods shopping center. later, a roseate spoonbill sighting on the side of the road stopped traffic. and at the sanibel-captiva conservation foundation (sccf) and j.n. “ding” darling national wildlife refuge, the organizations whose research i was covering, surveys of bird species shed light on population trends and habitat use to inform conservation efforts. alas, it seemed i had no choice but to face my fear.

for my first bird outing, i joined audrey albrecht, the shorebird biologist at sccf, and shorebird intern elsa wilson as they monitored the nesting activity of sanibel’s five pairs of snowy plovers. in addition to checking on the nests, they hoped to gain insight into the island’s role in sustaining the population of this state-threatened species. fortunately, these fluffy white birds roughly the size of a golf ball are no more scary than, well, a fluffy golf ball. 

at the beach, albrecht and wilson counted the eggs the plovers had laid and made sure the enclosures that protect the nests from people and dogs were still intact. flushing (or chasing away) the adult birds leaves the eggs vulnerable to overheating and being seized or eaten by crows, gulls and ghost crabs. the pair also picked up trash that can attract predators and fishing line that can entangle the birds. beachgoers should “remember that they’re a guest in the home of all the coastal wildlife that lives and nests on the beach,” albrecht said.

as we walked along the beach, albrecht encountered a double-crested cormorant that didn’t fly away as she approached. she was concerned it might be affected by red tide, a harmful algal bloom of the phytoplankton karenia brevis that produces a neurotoxic compound. this species, which fishes all over the region, serves as a canary (or, rather, cormorant) in the coalmine for red tide, albrecht explained. 

as she inspected the cormorant, it flew away, and with it the dilemma of whether to capture the bird and bring it to sanibel’s clinic for the rehabilitation of wildlife (crow) for treatment. when i spoke with breanna frankel, the wildlife rehabilitation manager at crow, in mid-april, she had seen about 112 patients with red tide symptoms so far this year, and all of them were shorebirds. these birds suffer a host of health impacts ranging from loss of function in their legs to tremors and twitching to total disorientation. “it could go either way for every single patient,” she said. “they walk through the door, and they maybe have a 50% chance of survival.”

we were all relieved the cormorant seemed to evade this fate. i was especially relieved to not be anywhere near a large bird being wrestled into a carrier.

as we piled back in the truck after a blissfully uneventful morning, i confessed my fear. “we won’t take you to see the terns,” albrecht replied. “they will dive bomb you.” 

with that very firm boundary established, i continued to join the team as they surveyed less… social… species. one day, i tagged along for a 3.6-mile leg of a monthly shorebird survey of the entire sanibel-captiva coastline and a breeding bird survey for the florida shorebird alliance to better understand declining shorebird populations. as she tallied a cluster of birds dancing in and out of the lapping water, albrecht pointed out the banded sanderling po3. i was immediately drawn to this bird because my french-canadian husband, pierre-olivier, often goes by po. when she told me po3 migrates to sanibel every winter from canada, i couldn’t believe it. 

“i think that birds connects us,” albrecht said. “people come here and they say ‘i’m from michigan,’ and i’m like, ‘okay, well, this little piping plover over here is banded, and it came from michigan, too.’ or our red knots connect us to people in central and south america because the same birds that are visiting our beach are going there. they connect us globally.”

as someone who had just migrated to the island myself, eating dinner alone every night unless my neighbor stopped by to chat through my screened-in porch, it was a comforting sentiment.  

we continued walking along the stretch of sand, which grew increasingly narrow until it gave way to a mangrove forest. “there used to be a beach here,” albrecht said. sea level rise and shoreline erosion are depleting shorebird habitat, and the construction of sea walls to protect infrastructure further restricts their nesting area, she explained.

we had just emerged from the forest when wilson pointed and exclaimed, “a rail!” without another word, she and albrecht took off, crouch-running in the direction of the bird. the clapper rail, i learned upon their return, is a secretive marsh bird that is often heard but rarely seen. “sorry, our bird nerd just came out,” wilson said. she told me she became interested in birding during the pandemic, describing the hobby as “kind of like pokémon go in real life.”

for someone who had actively avoided birds for much of my life, i was unintentionally making decent progress toward “catching ‘em all.” i added many species to my collection when i joined biological science technician avery renshaw for a wading bird survey at the j.n. “ding” darling national wildlife refuge. i could barely keep up with recording the identifications she rattled off as she scanned the landscape with her viewing scope, the far-off blur of feathers crystallizing as tens of distinct birds. as wading birds are an important indicator of the health and function of the estuary, the (hastily scrawled) data can be correlated with water quality measurements to help assess the impact of water management practices on the greater ecosystem, renshaw explained.  

as we strolled through the refuge after the survey, i recognized a lone bird perched on a branch, its wings half-outstretched like a glamorous celebrity being guided down a staircase by two dapper men on either side. in providing directions to her office for a meeting earlier in my stay, a “ding” darling staff member had said the door had an anhinga on it. i’d had to google it, expecting some sort of architectural feature, but instead seeing this bird with its striking stance.

i hesitantly asked renshaw if the bird was an anhinga. when she confirmed, i found myself eliciting a small fist pump. 

“i successfully identified a bird today! what is happening,” i texted my family group chat.

“maybe you’re going to be their friend,” my mom replied.

“next year, the big year!” my dad chimed in.

let’s not get carried away, dad.

i felt another twinge of excitement when albrecht told me the first snowy plover chicks had hatched. the next morning, i accompanied wilson to check on the chicks, whose miniscule size and camouflage against the white sand made them barely visible to the naked eye. many beachgoers were either entirely oblivious or overly eager about the new arrivals, both of which can lead to disturbances during their precarious first weeks of life.

one woman (who i’m fairly certain had come straight from the tipsy turtle bar) stumbled from the dunes at the back of the beach toward the water, threatening to plow through the chicks until wilson diverted her. while the sccf shorebird team erects enclosures around frequented foraging grounds, it’s impossible to rope off everywhere the chicks might go, wilson said. 

moments later, another beachgoer stomped over to the chicks, ogling as she hovered inches away. “ma’am, do you want to look through the binoculars so you don’t have to get so close?” wilson asked artfully. after admiring the newborn snowy plovers through the lenses and talking with wilson, the woman continued on her way, scanning the sand for any chicks that might follow as she walked, her footsteps cautious.

while they’re no match for humans, snowy plovers have the same instinct to protect their offspring. one pair that tried to encroach on another’s nest was promptly shooed away in an adorable little scuffle. “plover drama!” wilson sang, and i couldn’t help but feel a surge of fondness for this feisty, fun-sized bird. 

for my final bird activity, i joined “ding” darling staff members to monitor the nesting efforts of colonial nesting birds on the rookery islands that dot pine island sound. nests on these rookery islands face many of the same threats as those on the beach, as fishermen and recreational boats that get too close can flush the adults, leaving the eggs and chicks susceptible to predators and heat stress. 

at one island, the crew discovered a long trail of fishing line caught in the branches of the mangrove trees. fearing they would discover a bird ensnared by the line during the next survey, they removed it, trying to keep as much distance as possible. one bird started to flap its wings, though, and i immediately cowered.

i wasn’t entirely cured, apparently, and will probably always be afraid of birds flying within my personal bubble. but i made significant progress through this informal exposure therapy, appreciating the unique behaviors, personalities and stories of individual birds — from a distance. 

back in chicago, i descended the stairs into the l station, still giving the flock of pigeons at the entrance a wide berth. i perused twitter as i waited for the train, stopping on a tweet i would have scrolled right past before my time on sanibel. it announced the sudden death of monty, chicago’s beloved piping plover, which has since been attributed to a respiratory infection. 

i learned that monty returned to chicago the week before i did. i thought of all the people who knew this particular bird, who eagerly awaited his arrival at his wintering and breeding grounds, who were connected by his migratory journey. 

i considered the many threats monty faced — exposure to toxic algae fed by nutrient runoff, ingestion of plastic pollutants, shifts in the availability of food in migratory stopover locations due to climate change — and wondered if any might have contributed to his death. 

and i realized that, between the two of us, birds have far more reasons to be afraid.

in 2015, a study published in the proceedings of the national academy of sciences (pnas) unveiled a contradictory pattern of american land protection. most of the nation’s parks, wildlife refuges, and preserves are not in the regions with the most vulnerable species and richest biodiversity.

according to the pnas study, the country’s preservation status quo is quite good at protecting panoramic views, but overlooks the most crucial consideration of truly effective conservation: species vulnerability.

a species is the most vulnerable to habitat loss, climate change and disease when it is endemic, or only lives in one geographic area. of the 1,200 u.s. endemics, the largest concentration is found in the southeast. yet when it comes to the distribution of protected land, the southeast has the least amount of coverage. in fact, the overwhelming majority of america’s preserved lands lie in the west, which has the lowest amount of endemics. 

this mismatch has many causes. large swaths of the west are unsuitable for agriculture, making it less palatable to farmers and private entities. because of this, the u.s. government owns around 47% of western lands. the opposite was true for the south – east of the mississippi, only 4% of land is publicly owned. the rest is divvied up between millions of private landowners and commercial enterprises, making it much harder for the federal government to step in. 

these historic and economic factors are compounded by cultural attitudes. according to a 2015 study published in environmental politics, residents of southern states are less likely to support spending on environmental protection, believe that individual action can affect environmental health, or sacrifice their standard of living in order to protect the environment.

a surprising exception

only one southern state consistently breaks this pattern – florida.  

11.4% of florida’s land is designated for parks and wildlife areas, according to a cliq analysis. it is the 7th largest protector of land out of all u.s. states, and the only southeastern state to rank in the top 15. 

in the environmental politics study, florida was the only state that did not fall in line with its regional neighbors on the questions of efficacy and sacrifice. in another, more recent study on state-level attitudes towards climate change, florida also stood out regionally. 30% of floridians consider global warming “extremely important personally”, compared to the south’s overall average of 23%. 

one manifestation of florida’s outlier status is its above-average state park system. florida state parks has won the american academy for park and recreation administration’s highest annual award on four separate occasions, the most of any state. nicknamed “the real florida”, these state parks encompass over 800,000 acres of protected land. 

patchwork conservation 

nearly half of florida’s state parks has a companion non-profit organization, known as a citizen support organization (cso) or “friends” groups. they raise money, coordinate volunteer services and help manage the natural resources of its affiliate park. 

these csos are independently managed by volunteers, typically members of the very communities the parks protect. for many locals, csos allow them to play an active role in the stewardship of their own backyards. 

“a good way to say it is we speak for the trees,” barb hoffman, one such volunteer, said. “i think csos, they allow the normal citizen to have a voice and to have a chance to help these places. keep them intact.” 

hoffman is the president of the friends of anclote key state park and lighthouse, which supports the island preserve on florida’s gulf coast. the park protects highly vulnerable species like the piping plover, whose continued existence largely depends on ongoing conservation efforts, and the kemp’s ridley sea turtle, the rarest and most endangered type of sea turtle in the world.

the group oversees the park’s largest fundraising venture. twice a month, the anclote key lighthouse is opened for climbing. hoffman and her fellow members coordinate volunteer schedules and recruit local boaters to ferry visitors on and off the island. in return, they ask for a $5 dollar donation. 

in 2021, the friends of anclote key spent over $2,000 on park support. according to hoffman, that money goes for supplies for the park ranger, maintenance vehicles, and park infrastructure. eventually, hoffman dreams of being able to support a dedicated visitor ferry service. 

some csos have amassed even more robust support. the friends of paynes prairie, a cso affiliated with paynes prairie state park, donated $15,000 to the park in 2021, according to the cso audit required by the florida department of parks and recreation. 

the prairie is an utopia of north florida biodiversity. it provides crucial habitats for almost 100 endemics, including over 60 reptiles and amphibians, 29 plants, and four birds.

bubba scales, a member of the friends of paynes prairie, said the cso was able to almost entirely cover a $150,000 renovation of the park’s visitor center. 

“where csos exist and do a good job raising money, it makes it a lot easier for the park to acquire resources for management,” scales said. “especially when there are things that come up that the park administration knows they’ll have a hard time getting funded.” 

grassroots power is real, but not enough

this community-style tradition is lacking in the rest of the south. according to available data provided by state park systems, florida ranks well above its southern peers when it comes to cso presence. florida has 86 such groups while georgia has 50, tennessee has 40, virginia has 34, north carolina has 28 and arkansas has 13. 

while the region could certainly benefit from florida’s model, iron-proof conservation can’t be achieved through grassroots efforts alone. the south’s biodiversity –– and by extension, the entire country’s –– can be saved, but only once it is valued and unilaterally protected in the manner it deserves.

alpine – the day in late january began like any other for a mexican wolf pup living in the spectacular solitude of eastern arizona: searching for food with other wolves in the apache national forest.

then came the terrifying chatter of a helicopter, a dash for cover, a jab in the rump – and a nap, courtesy of the sedative telazol, delivered by dart gun.

after being transferred by helicopter to a remote location just outside alpine, the 10-month old male was rushed into a warm, compact trailer where a team of biologists quickly analyzed him.

what they discovered thrilled them.

the capture of this wolf pup – later named mp-1858 – reaffirmed to the team that a decades-old, multistate, multiagency effort to help save the mexican wolf population has made strides.

the biologists placed so much significance on mp-1858 because he was born in the wild, and he left his pack to tag along with a female and male mexican wolf, possibly laying the foundation of a new pack.

the team has spent years placing new-born wolf pups in wild dens – a practice known as cross-fostering – but team members ultimately hope to see an increase in natural-born mexican wolves, such as mp-1858, to help diversify the wolf population and raise its numbers.

young mp-1858 was a rare find.

“we’ve got a pretty good handle on who’s who, but the individual we caught today is a little different,” said maggie dwire, deputy mexican wolf recovery coordinator for the u.s. fish and wildlife service. “we’re not sure why he was running with the group of wolves that he was with. so that kind of thing is really neat, right?”

because mp-1858 was born in the wild, he’s exactly what those striving to boost the mexican wolf population want to see.

government agencies, including the arizona game & fish department, and the private endangered wolf center in missouri have invested millions of dollars and decades worth of research to save the mexican wolf from extinction. those efforts included breeding and releasing adult wolves into the wild, but that program has been placed on the back burner, replaced over the past six years by the cross-fostering program.

every year, they team up to count wolves to evaluate their progress.

“the primary objective for this operation is to get a good count of the wolves that are out there,” said genevieve fuller, a wolf biologist with arizona game & fish. “secondary objective is to capture any animals that are deemed targets” – meaning any wolf found in a counting area.

to researchers, mp-1858 is a wolf that could symbolize the next phase of wolf rehabilitation.

where it all started
since its doors opened in 1971, the endangered wolf center in eureka, missouri, has played a huge role in saving the mexican wolf, through the release of captive-bred adults and cross-fostering pups into the wild.

biologists traced mp-1858’s roots to the endangered wolf center in eureka, missouri. center officials said he likely is the offspring of adult wolves raised and released by the center or the offspring of cross-fostered wolves born in captivity and placed in dens by biologists.

the center has led the mexican wolf cross-fostering program since it began in 2014. founded almost 50 years ago, it sits on 63 isolated, wooded acres of a former military munitions area southwest of st. louis, and is part of the washington university tyson research center. the center was constructed to match the cold, silent and humanless habitat where mexican wolves live.

the center’s goal is to boost the genetic diversity and population of wolves through cross-fostering, in which 8- to 14-day-old pups born in captivity are placed in a den of similar-aged wild pups in remote areas of the southwest.

“when we are looking at fostering pups to the wild, the captive program has a lot of different genetics than what the wild population has,” said regina mossotti, director of animal care and conservation at the endangered wolf center. “so being able to take puppies from facilities like the endangered wolf center and sneaking them into wild litters is a great way for us to be able to get new genetics out into the wild to help keep that wild population healthier.”

mexican wolves breed in april and may, leaving a narrow window for cross-fostering.

“fostering can be incredibly challenging in its own right,” mossotti said. “the stars, the moon, the planets, everything has to align to make it happen.”

to successfully cross-foster a wolf pup, officials must identify a wild wolf that has given birth about the same time that a female wolf in captivity at the center gives birth.

when that does happen, the clock starts ticking.

“we have to be able to find a flight, the weather has to work and we have to have enough people to do it,” mossotti said. “so all these things, these logistics have to come together to make it happen.”

once the team from the endangered wolf center arrives in arizona, game & fish employees join them on a hike to a specific wolf den, often hidden in the rugged terrain along the arizona-new mexico state line.

the team carefully places the captive wolf pups, fitted with tracking collars, into the wild den and leaves them to their new lives.

being part of the cross-fostering process “is so worth it,” mossotti said. “to know that you’re helping release these puppies in the wild to give them that chance of freedom to help save a critically endangered species, there’s nothing better.”

in 1977, the mexican wolf population in the u.s. was down to just seven. the center initially released adult mexican wolves directly into the wild before adopting cross-fostering in 2014. although the direct-release program was considered a success, biologists don’t plan to resume it unless absolutely necessary.

“we wouldn’t have the mexican wolf program today if it (releasing adult wolves) didn’t work,” mossotti said. “but you are releasing naive adults, and that can take them a little bit of time to get used to the area they’re in and to establish a territory.”

the endangered wolf center opened its doors in 1971 when american zoologist marlin perkins and his wife, carol, set out to address the endangerment of several species of wolves.

virginia busch, executive director of the endangered wolf center, said wolves were a favorite animal of perkins, the longtime host of tv’s “wild kingdom,” who died in 1986.

“we’re really proud that marlin, even before the endangered species act, had the forethought to build such an institution,” she said.

at the time of the center’s opening, the only captive mexican wolves were being held at the arizona-sonora desert museum in tucson. the only remaining captive female, nina, was transferred to missouri after failing to breed with any of the males.

in 1981, nina mated with one of the last wild-caught wolves and gave birth to the first wolf pups conceived in captivity, according to the center.

“our goal at the endangered wolf center as well as through the species survival plan programs is to continue to breed those animals and have a healthy population,” busch said. “for mexican wolves, we are doing just that.”

as of 2020, mexican wolf pups have been cross-fostered from centers across the country, including the wolf conservation center in new york and the sedgwick county zoo in wichita, kansas.

where the program is now
biologists in arizona and new mexico put boots on the ground to study wild mexican wolves that live on both sides of the state line.

nearly 1,250 miles west of the endangered wolf center, the apache national forest in eastern arizona is home to most of the wild mexican wolves in the country.

in late january and early february, officials and biologists from arizona game & fish in alpine capture and examine wild mexican wolves to gain more of an understanding of the current population and the progress of the cross-fostering program.

game & fish monitors 31 wolf packs by helicopter and tracking collars. this allows biologists to track the growth, location and progression of current packs while noting the creation of new packs.

“since 2009, we’ve had an average annual increase of about 12%,” said paul greer, mexican wolf interagency field team leader for game & fish. “the population has been cyclical up and down, but overall it’s an increasing population.”

wolf biologists also have identified successes beyond the numbers. for example, biologists are seeing improvement of survival skills in cross-fostered wolves that they did not see in adult wolves that were released from captivity.

“so far, (cross-fostering) has been a better alternative to the release of adult wolves from captivity into the wild,” fuller said. “we’re seeing a lot more wolves that understand how to be a wolf in this landscape because they were raised by wild parents.”

although the cross-fostering efforts toward growing the mexican wolf population have seen success, some critics of the program believe the process could be accelerated.

sandy bahr, director of the sierra club’s grand canyon chapter, agreed cross-fostering has improved the mexican wolf’s chances for survival, but she believes the introduction of captive adult wolves should resume.

“it (cross-fostering) can only be done on a pretty limited basis, because you have to have pups of the right age in the wild and in captivity,” bahr said. “i agree that like a lone wolf might not be the best way to do it. that’s why we’ve really advocated for bonded packs. they’re much more likely to stay together. they can hunt together.”

bahr said cross-fostering, in tandem with the release of adult wolves in packs, would increase the population more quickly than releasing adult wolves only.

“what (the sierra club) has said is release bonded packs, you know, release an alpha male and an alpha female,” bahr said. “they’re much more likely to stay together, work together and survive versus what we’ve seen like with a lone wolf.”

emily renn, executive director of the grand canyon wolf recovery plan, advocates for releasing adult wolves because they can add to the evolving genetic pool in a more immediate way.

“one of the things with the cross-fostered pups is it’s going to take at least two years before those wolves become adults and potentially become breeding wolves,” renn said. “obviously, it (releasing adult wolves) still needs a lot of consideration into how it’s done, but we want to see that included as an option.”

progress so far
although the recovery program has a long way to go before the biologist will call it a success, progress has been made by the steady increase in the mexican wolf population.

since the cross-fostering program began six years ago, arizona game & fish has had success on multiple fronts.

in may, the field team conducted cross-fostering over six weeks, releasing 20 wolf pups in eastern arizona and western new mexico. in 2019, the team cross-fostered 12 wolf pups across western arizona.

“it was a lucky year (2020),” said jim devos, game & fish assistant wildlife director. “it also took a tremendous amount of effort.”

according to the mexican recovery wolf program, about 50% of cross-fostered pups survive to reach prime breeding age.

the 2019 end-of-year census done by game & fish recorded the population of mexican wolves had increased to 163 from 131. the department’s u.s. southwest population goal is 320 wolves. the recovery plan also has set a goal for increasing the wolf population in mexico to 200.

“of the 12 wolves we released (in 2019), we’ve got four that have survived to breeding age and have already produced multiple litters of their own,” greer said. “we’re seeing cross-fostered wolves surviving, breeding and producing multiple litters.”

even with the success of the past few years, those close to mexican wolf recovery programs aren’t quite satisfied.

“it’ll be nice one day if we can get the genetics up to where they need to be to be able to step back and let wolves be wolves,” dwire said.

at what cost?
saving an entire species is not something that can be done for free, but with funding from the government and generous donations, it is possible.

preserving an endangered species takes money.

in 2018, expenses ran about $1.5 million at the nonprofit endangered wolf center, which is funded mostly through donations. to support its work, donors can pay to “adopt” a single wolf or an entire pack for a month or a year. the center also participates in classroom outreach, where biologists discuss how wild wolves survive and what can be done to save them from extinction. schools and after-school programs are charged $150 to $350 per session.

as for game & fish, the department puts about 7% of its budget into wildlife conservation, according to its 2018 budget breakdown.

the mexican wolf program also receives funding from the department’s heritage fund, which provides $10 million each year from arizona lottery proceeds.

is it worth it?
there are more than 1,300 endangered species in the united states alone – what makes the mexican wolf special?

more than 1,300 species in the u.s. are endangered or threatened and could use human help to avoid extinction. with so many plants and animals facing potential extinction, why save mexican wolves specifically?

in fact, mexican wolves have posed a threat to ranchers and livestock since europeans first settled the southwest. as the wolf population has edged up each year, so have ranchers’ anxieties.

however, mossotti said, the mexican wolf may play a bigger factor in the environment than seen at first glance. it’s classified as an “umbrella” species, she said, meaning the wolves affect a good portion of the ecosystem just by going about their business.

mossotti compared the effect that the recovery of mexican wolves has on the environment to a similar project the endangered wolf center was a part of at yellowstone national park.

after scientists found no evidence of wolves in yellowstone national park for decades, the u.s. fish and wildlife service began a wolf reintroduction program in 1995.

“when we released wolves in yellowstone,” mossotti said, “they had been extinct in the park for decades, and the park changed without them there. elk population skyrocketed, deer population skyrocketed and they ate everything. they ate all the plants down to the dirt. when trees would fall, no new trees would replace them. those trees and shrubs … provided habitat for birds and butterflies and lots of animals.”

mossotti said the reintroduction of wolves to the park brought the elk and deer populations down to sustainable levels and allowed the plants to recover enough to provide for other animals that were suffering without them.

“to put all this energy into the wolf is ultimately to help make sure the ecosystem is healthier for everybody,” mossotti said.

—

this story originally was published on cronkite news and features additional audio reports. for more stories, visit cronkitenews.azpbs.org.

inside the building, in tanks stacked ceiling-high, the mosaic’s real-life counterpart peers through glass, hiding behind plastic sea grass. aside from the size difference (these salamanders are just three inches long as adults), the striking patterns of the mosaic aren’t far off. their translucent skin is spotted sometimes with yellow and opal; other times with orange, or purple, or magenta. in the right light, their tiny hearts beat through luminous skin. pink gills protrude from their necks like an old-fashioned ruff. looking at their gills through a microscope, one can see red blood cells absorbing dissolved oxygen. close observation is crucial, each scientist knows, for when the tank water’s chemical balance is just slightly off — too much or too little calcium or dissolved carbon dioxide or heat — the salamander may expand, balloon-like, or develop other strange health problems. in response, an irrigation system sends well-fresh spring water to each tank, drip by drip.

“i find them very fascinating animals,” said dee ann chamberlain, an environmental scientist with the city of austin and the steward of this captive population. “they’re small. they’re beautiful when you see them up close.” 

years ago, chamberlain spent 12 hours watching a female salamander lay her eggs, which are stored in her abdomen. that day, the salamander lay each egg with great care, choosing each location separately before placing her eggs in the safety of the plastic plants, netting, and filter media. once laid, the eggs take three to four weeks to mature. looking closely, one can see the white orb morph into a white squiggle, then into something that resembled the tiniest salamander — just half a centimeter in length at hatching. when i visited the captive breeding facility, i saw salamanders so slim they could have been a splinter, and so short they could easily be squashed. 

this pampered population exists as a backup, ready to sire offspring that would be released if the wild population were to die off — a wild population that exists just a few hundred meters but also a world away from the captive species — where water emanates, myth-like, from deep within the earth. but, some say, even if that population were to be released, it may not be enough to save the species. 

***

the barton springs salamander is endemic to the cool, isothermal waters of barton springs pool — a three-acre, one-eighth-mile swimming-hole and terminus of the vast edwards aquifer of central texas — one of the largest artesian aquifers in the world. barton springs natural haven for austinites — home to ancient religious rituals, ardent scientific inquiry, and polar plunges alike — and is lauded as the city’s ‘crowned jewel.’ the barton springs salamander was discovered in the late 1980’s by david hillis, a professor at the university of texas at austin. soon after describing the species, hillis’ team discovered that the species was most likely critically endangered from the effects of development, poor water quality, and the aggressive cleaning methods used on barton springs pool. if added to the endangered species list, the barton springs salamander would receive special protections from the government to help species recovery.

the barton spring salamander was filed for the official endangered species listing in 1990. seven years later, after many legal battles, political faux pas, and scientific surveys, the salamander joined the endangered species list. developers and politicians feared the endangered species listing of a creature whose habitat happened to be in the heart of austin would stifle development. austin did craft a stricter watershed protection ordinance, but instead of hindering economic growth, austin became an even bigger boomtown. in austin’s southwest suburbs, construction rumbles over the aquifer’s fragile recharge zone. and the wild population of salamanders, sensitive to the slightest change in their habitat, continues to stare extinction in the face. 

in 1998 — one year after the barton springs salamander (or eurycea sosorum) got its endangered species listing — the captive breeding program began. the captive facility of barton springs salamanders (and the endangered austin blind salamander) exists as a backup population, in an effort by the city of austin to conserve the species. “in case there’s an issue with wild populations, you can put them back — noah’s ark,” said andy glusenkamp, the director of conservation and research at san antonio zoo and a member of the barton springs salamander scientific advisory committee. the population’s technical name is a “captive assurance colony,” which means that it must represent 85% to 95% of the wild genetics. this effort requires meticulous tracking of which salamander breeds, and when. dante fenolio, vice president of the center of conservation and research at san antonio zoo said it took him ten years just to figure out how to breed one species on command. “the answers to these things,” fenolio said, “they’re not intuitive. and they’re not easy.”

one of the reasons the questions are so hard to answer is that there’s a significant knowledge gap when it comes to salamanders. “salamanders overall are not well studied,” said chamberlain. “we’ve had to learn a lot in order to maintain them.” and after decades of close observation, chamberlain remains in awe of these creatures. “salamanders have amazing abilities,” chamberlain added. “they can regenerate more organs than any other vertebrate on the planet.” talking to chamberlain, it seems that the body of unanswered questions about salamanders are as boundless as the edwards aquifer itself.

but perhaps the most salient question is, what would happen if the wild population disappeared? “despite decades of preparation,” wrote a journalist for austin monthly in 2018, “there’s just too many variables.” herpetologists have devised countless doomsday scenarios — each worse than the next. the oil pipelines that stretch across the area’s recharge zone could crack. a pathogen could infect the water table. a sewage line could bust. a drought could de-water the aquifer. the city of austin does have development regulations, but that doesn’t stop construction in the suburbs. local protections can’t halt the threats of climate change leading to bigger droughts, and the omnipresent threat of a chemical spill that could wipe out the species faster than biologists could save them. “to date,” glustenkamp said, “there’s no way to remove any of those threats once they appear.”

even if the aquifer were to become restored, the question remains, in the words of fenolio: “how do you put a salamander back into an aquifer?” fenolio knows of no successful reintroductions of salamanders to a groundwater system — nor of any attempts to reintroduce the species. chamberlain believes that it might take years of releasing salamanders and monitoring the population’s response before reintroduction is successful. glusenkamp is not so optimistic. “it’s very difficult to put a three-inch salamander back in the springs without it washing out,” he said. “do i think that we’re gonna be able to t-shirt cannon salamanders back to their habitat and we’re gonna restore species after extinction events? no.”

if the wild salamanders were to be wiped out, the captive salamanders would not be alone on the metaphorical ark. they would join the ranks of other species with the distinct red class listing of “extinct in the wild,” or ew — from the sky-blue spix’s macaw to the regal south china tiger to the acid-yellow panamanian golden frog — species that don’t exist in the wild anymore, but instead live a captive half-life. this is the “very core of one of the key and critical problems with conservation biology,” fenolio said. “what do you call it when you have a species in captivity… their habitat is gone in the wild, (and) you can’t put them back anywhere? is it conservation anymore, or is it curation?”

this beckons the question: should we reintroduce the species, if it goes extinct? if the aquifer remains polluted, should humans step in and try to salvage it? fenolio suggested that one may be able to inject medical-grade de-activated carbon into the water which tends to bond and sequester contaminants, but that may not be effective, and may do more harm than good. in that case, does one play god and find a new home for the species, risking the introduction of a new pathogen, or of another australian cane toad catastrophe? do we leave the salamanders in captivity for perhaps hundreds of years until a “a “biblical flood,” as glusenkamp puts it, refills the aquifer with clean water? this brings to mind john mcphee’s remark in his book, “the control of nature” (and echoed by elizabeth kolbert in “under a white sky”) on how the rerouting of the mississippi in the eisenhower era “will come to mind more or less in echo of any struggle against natural forces — heroic or venal, rash or well-advised — when human beings conscript themselves to fight against the earth.” would injecting de-activated carbon, and t-shirt-cannoning captive raised species into this fragile environment be a trespass over our role as humans, “to surround the base of mount olympus demanding and expecting the surrender of gods?” or is it our unique duty to do just that?

“i think everybody involved in this would agree, (reintroduction) is the last tool you want to use,” glustenkamp said. “absolutely the last tool. and it’s incumbent on all of us to do everything we can to avoid using that tool, by taking other actions.” thankfully, there are many who continue to steward the aquifer and its inhabitants. documentary filmmakers educate the public about the beauty and fragility of barton springs. the lawyers at the save our springs alliance hold local governments and developers accountable to clean water regulations. and the scientists at the city of austin who work to monitor wild populations and restore degraded habitat — those who grapple necessary truth that one day the wild salamanders may be gone — who cradle their black-spotted heads and watch oxygen diffuse through their gills — may be the species’ fiercest advocates. “last time i checked, two-inch long blind salamanders made of jelly aren’t very good boxers,” glustenkamp said. but austin’s scientists have their gloves on, ready to go to the mat on this one. 

but five years ago, the preserve resembled a barren wasteland. invasive plants choked out native wildlife. tangles of hostile weeds overwhelmed the trails and were impossible to penetrate without a machete. compared to the constant chorus of bird songs that enchants visitors today, the landscape was once nearly silent.

the preserve’s future changed drastically when one westport resident, jerid o’connell, grew frustrated with its decaying state. over the years, he and other connecticut audubon society members have organized a massive, ongoing volunteer effort to restore and conserve the property. affectionately known as the smith rich preserve, what was once an environmental dead zone transformed into a thriving coastal forest. local birdwatchers now consider it one of the most important migratory pit stops in new england.

“change is possible,” jerid o’connell, who spearheaded the effort, said. “change is always fast. and it’s much, much grander and more spectacular than you think.”

the restoration has taken five years, hundreds of volunteers and nearly $500,000 in donations and grants—so far. workers who oversaw the project agree its success came down to one man—o’connell.

o’connell’s background lies not in environmental conservation, but in digital photography and retouching. he embarked on the multi-year journey to save smith rich without any initial plan. as a concerned resident who saw potential in the land, his first step was writing a simple (but in his words, “nasty”) email to the audubon society back in 2013.

the smith richardson foundation donated the property to the connecticut audubon society in 1982. the three land parcels meant little to the audubon back then, said milan bull, its current science and conservation director and an audubon member for over 20 years.

“to us, it was an old tree farm that had been abandoned,” bull said. “it was just one gigantic tangle of invasive vines, and so it was a bit overwhelming to us when we first got the property.”

community members have recognized the preserve’s potential as far back as 1994, when yale university researchers published a study on its ecological value. it cites invasive species as a major factor in the property’s degradation.

invasives developed an advantage over native plants after over-farming depleted smith rich’s nutrient soil in the 1970s, according to the study. culprits like mile-a-minute, garlic mustard and porcelain berry still plague all three land parcels.

“these things become a monoculture on the forest floor so nothing else grows but these invasives,” bull said. “the whole biodiversity of our coastal forest system declines.”

but o’connell acknowledged smith rich’s size, and its proximity to a coastline, meant it had limitless potential. that’s why he sought out donations and volunteers for a restoration project.

by nov. 15, 2014, o’connell and the connecticut audubon society had amassed nearly 100 volunteers to whack weeds and clear space for trails. they consisted mostly of teenagers from local volunteer organizations, including the service league of boys and builders beyond borders.

“it was the first step in the right direction,” o’connell said. “you would have thought i was some nutty person wasting a bunch of teenagers’ weekend time cutting vines, but it’s really made a difference.”

the energy from the first day has barely dissipated, o’connell said. over the next five years, volunteer days became an annual event, with many volunteers working longer hours and further involving themselves with the restoration plan.

jory teltser, a member of the connecticut young birders club and an incoming freshman at oberlin college, is one such volunteer—he attended the first clean-up and every clean-up since, contributing over 30 hours of work.

“seeing how [the preserve] has transformed over the last couple of years was pretty amazing,” he said. “it really has become just a hidden treasure in town, and it can really show people that a lot of hard work pays off in the end.”

two years of fundraising and volunteering finally resulted in what o’connell described as the turning point: a $145,000 matching grant from the national fish and wildlife foundation in 2017. to obtain it, the connecticut audubon society had to raise $134,000—a figure they exceeded within a year. the money contributed to ongoing work, including trail maintenance. the ecosystem at smith rich has flourished ever since.

the property is known as a migratory “hotspot,” meaning birds, butterflies and other insects will stop by to fuel up along their exhausting migration routes. today, smith rich boasts meadows rich with seeds and forests rich with fruit—perfect for hungry travelers along the critical atlantic flyway.

“the sheer number of birds during migration at this spot is greater than any other place i’ve seen in the state,” teltser said. “in these fields i’ve seen hundreds and hundreds of birds at a time.”

the high number of birds also serves as an indicator for general environmental health—including the health of humans in the area.

“if we have healthy habitats from birds, we have healthy habitats for ourselves because we require the same things the birds do,” patrick comins, executive the connecticut audubon society’s executive director and a restoration project leader, said. “where birds thrive, people prosper.”

nowadays, the society also focuses on building a community around smith rich. aside from volunteering, the restoration has created educational and cultural opportunities. that includes teaching the next generation of environmental activists how to enact change in their community.

“we have issues of national and even international concern right here in connecticut,” comins said. “we have birds that are globally vulnerable to extinction. connecticut is absolutely critical to their survival. you can make a global difference by acting locally.”

when you hear about the galápagos, you think pristine biodiversity. but the island ecosystem and its native flora and fauna are actually under attack by multiple invasive species, one of which is threatening none other than darwin’s finches.

learn more about the history, research, and action plan behind this environmental emergency below.

the potential extinction of this land snail points to a much larger issue of land snail extinction around the world, as well as the mass extinction of the world’s important biodiversity. this short video shows us the importance of the role that academia and passionate citizens can play in the protection of our worlds sensitive biodiversity, all beginning with a local endangered and endemic species of land snail.

when first welcoming our student group to ol pejeta conservancy’s endangered species facility, mwenda warned us that our morning with him would be one of mixed emotions. with the bright kenyan sun filtering through the open roof of our vehicle as it rumbles down an uneven dirt trail, it is impossible not to catch mwenda’s infectious enthusiasm first.

when we arrive at our destination, mwenda jumps out of the vehicle and snaps a few carrots in half, tossing the pieces onto the grass. “fatu!” he calls. fatu trundles over and begins crunching carrots off the ground, and he proudly introduces her: “this is my girlfriend.”

fatu farts in response. “say ‘thank you,’” he laughs. “that’s how rhinos say hello.”

18-year-old fatu is one of the last two known northern white rhinoceroses. her 36-year-old mother, najin, observes us quietly from the shade of a squat tree.

perhaps najin is still getting used to the hot african sun – after all, both she and fatu were born at the dvůr králové zoo in the czech republic, and only arrived in ol pejeta 10 years ago.

perhaps her legs are bothering her – both she and fatu suffer joint issues from spending their formative years on concrete surfaces. these maladies prevent them from successfully reproducing, thwarting the intention of the relocation to a more natural habitat.

or perhaps she is simply taking a break from the attentions of the tourists that blow through her isolated enclosure every day, snapping pictures and hanging precariously out windows for a chance to touch one of the rarest animals on earth.

while we intruders are confined to the cruisers, mwenda stands freely next to fatu, occasionally tossing her another carrot and tossing anecdotes to his audience. after eight years of working at ol pejeta, he is used to sharing space with an animal that rivals our vehicle in size and wields two curving horns on her oblong snout.

those magnificent horns, composed of the same keratin that makes up human fingernails, are the reason that only two northern white rhinos remain, hidden away under heavy guard. when political unrest struck many african countries in the mid-twentieth century, conflicts were frequently financed by blood-stained rhino horn, poached for its high value as traditional medicine.

the northern whites, distinguished from their southern white cousins by their tufted ears and their black rhino relatives by their wide grazing mouths, were hardest hit by these illegal campaigns, and their numbers plummeted. now, the last mother-daughter duo will live out their days in the shadow of mt. kenya, with only a southern white companion to mentor them in natural behavior, and a cadre of humans tasked with easing the passage of yet another species into oblivion.

the tragic tale of the northern white rhino is hard to listen to without your heart sinking into your gut and a righteous outrage burning behind your eyes. however, mwenda is a master of walking the line between despair and optimism. for every sad statistic, he includes a charming fact about rhino behavior – as a noteworthy example, he spends several minutes explaining how they defecate in a communal “midden pit” to stay clean and swap olfactory signals with distant neighbors.

he also offers us hope for the future. while neither fatu nor najin can breed, and their male counterparts are gone, the genetic material of their species lives on in labs around the world. in-vitro fertilization of a rhinoceros is an unprecedented, risky, and costly procedure, but mwenda assures us that the scientists and caretakers that make up the last chance for survival initiative are working tirelessly to beat the odds. the female southern whites that watched us suspiciously as we traveled through other parts of the park, stepping pointedly between us and their curious calves, may be the surrogate mothers of the next generation of northern whites.

mwenda considers himself an educator as much as he is a caretaker, and is dedicated to raising awareness of the plight of his “girls.” he communicates his experiences, his knowledge, and his thoughts about issues ranging from the environmental to the social via his popular instagram account, @jemu_mwenda.

a member of our group, caitlin schiavoni, discovered mwenda’s social media after hearing about his heartbreaking tribute to sudan, the last male northern white rhino, who died in 2018. “it was inspiring to see someone still so hopeful after dealing with such devastating loss,” she remarks.

schiavoni contacted mwenda via instagram prior to our visit to inquire whether he would be available to guide us, and he graciously agreed. later, the former volunteer and current intern at the smithsonian national zoological park would say that “james’ discussion with us reaffirmed [her] commitment to wildlife conservation.” her biggest takeaway from the experience: “we must keep trying to preserve nature no matter what obstacles we face.”

for now, though, our time with the rhinos is done. our cruisers bump away across the savanna, and fatu and najin dwindle in the distance until they appear to be nothing more than a pair of dusty gray rocks rising from the sea of grass.

after a quick group photo (which fittingly ends up on the account that brought us together), mwenda gathers us one last time to issue two challenges for our return home.

“share what you have seen today,” he declares. we agree, because how could you deny the power of a picture or story to a man who has touched lives around the globe?

“and plant a tree,” he adds with a smile. we agree, because how could you deny the importance of seemingly insignificant action to a man who guards the last of a species?

i will always work towards the first challenge. perhaps i will double the second, and plant one tree in honor of every northern white rhino left on earth.