Hope for Animals and Their World

by Jane Goodall; Thane Maynard; Gail Hudson

  That 2006 spring was an exciting time for Fritz, Angelika, and the rest of the team. They received a number of reports of sightings, mainly from bird-watchers and hunters, of individual waldrapp that had gone on these long flights—some as far as three hundred miles. Most of them had retraced the route they had been shown by humans. A few were way off course. In some cases, this may have been because, during their human-led journey, they had been carried part of the way in their boxes (the few that were not following the plane and had to be collected); thus their “memory” of the journey was incomplete.

  Finally, in spring 2007—success! Four of the waldrapp who had been led south from Grunau in 2004 had become sexually mature, and to everyone’s delight they flew to Austria. These were the female Aurelia and the males Speedy, Bobby, and Medea. They all returned to Grunau safely—“the first complete migration circle of the birds independent of humans,” Fritz told me proudly. Places chosen for stopovers were not necessarily the same as those where they’d stopped during the human-led migration, but seemed determined by the type of habitat. Once back, Aurelia bonded with Speedy: They bred and raised three offspring.

  The 2007 autumn migration to the wintering grounds in Tuscany started with some confusion, as the seventeen migratory birds got mixed up with the almost forty free-flying birds at Austria’s Konrad Lorenz Institute. There they lost their motivation to migrate, preferring to stay with the others instead of heading south. It was finally decided to catch the confused birds and release them about thirty-five miles southward. One adult and one of Aurelia’s juveniles evaded capture and stayed in Grunau, but four adults, including Aurelia and Speedy with their remaining two offspring, headed south as hoped.

  Some of the birds were fitted with a GPS data logger. This stores the position of the bird every five minutes and can be downloaded, once the bird is in range, so that researchers can reconstruct the flight path in detail. The data showed that they had exactly followed the route along which they had been led in 2004. On September 15, Medea, Bobby, and Aurelia with her offspring—but not Speedy—were seen in Osoppo, northern Italy. Five days later—one day after the parallel human-led migration ended up at Laguna di Orbetello—Aurelia (without her offspring) and Medea also arrived in Tuscany. Bobby arrived two weeks later, but the two juveniles have not been seen since.

  And what of Speedy? His story is fascinating. Even during the first migration, he flew separately from the others. In spring 2007, he started alone, flying to northern Italy, then on to Slovenia and from there to Austria. Not stopping, he continued on to Styria, near Leoben, then farther northeast until he was close to Vienna. There he turned back to Styria, where—miraculously—he met up with Aurelia and Medea. He and Aurelia then flew together to Grunau.

  Then in the autumn, when the group set off to fly back to Tuscany, Speedy once again separated from the group. This time he had been selected to carry a satellite transmitter instead of GPS. This technology only stores some positions every third day, but the advantage is that the researchers get these positions in real time.

  Flight formation of the ibis in northern Italy, as seen from an ultralight. (Markus Unsöld)

  All seventeen waldrapp at the start of the 2007 autumn migration. (Markus Unsöld)

  Unfortunately, the device did not work—only transmitting one position on September 18. But this was a very interesting data point, because it was exactly on the flight route—which had been reconstructed from Speedy’s spring GPS data—that he had followed in the spring. In other words, he was retracing his own unique flight path back to Tuscany. “We got no further satellite positions and also no sight report,” said Johannes. Speedy seems to have disappeared. “Nevertheless,” he told me, “the migration of these adult birds was a great success for our project. Aurelia, Medea, and Bobby are the first free-living, independent, migratory northern bald ibis in Europe after about four hundred years! That’s a great motivation for us.”

  One Step Closer to Success

  As I sit writing this chapter in Bournemouth, in August 2008, I receive an e-mail from Johannes in Slovenia. He tells me they are trying a new route, as a result of the problems of the previous year. Now they are leading the young ibis around the Alps instead of crossing them—and “it is fantastic till now,” he writes. The birds have performed well, flying more than sixty miles per day, much farther than in previous years.

  And there is also news of the six older sexually mature birds that had learned to follow the trikes. In April, they migrated northward from Italy to Austria. As during the previous year, they ended up in Styria, about fifty miles from their breeding place. All six were then taken to a small village in northern Italy close to the original migration route, where a suitable aviary had been prepared. One pair has bred and successfully raised two birds. The aviary was opened in July. So far the birds have remained close by, but Johannes expects that all eight “will start the migration within the next ten days.” If the group reaches Tuscany—“and there is a good and realistic chance of that,” says Johannes—“then we could definitely show that human-led migration is a suitable methodological tool for the introduction of independent, migratory groups of northern bald ibis.” That will be a great success for the team.

  Johannes ends by telling me of the plan to start a new project in 2009 in the Moroccan Atlas region, one of the most important breeding areas for northern bald ibis until the 1980s. The first step will be to explore the food availability in a region in the northern Atlas with some hand-raised ibis.

  I think of him, there with his wife and the rest of the team, getting ready for the next flight on the way to Tuscany. And if I close my eyes, I can imagine myself back in the aviary in Austria, sitting with Johannes and Rubio. There I fell in love with these endearing birds, so totally different from whooping cranes. I can almost feel the gentle touch of Rubio’s warm pink beak as he groomed me. When it had been time to leave, I had given him the last of the mealworms and, reluctantly, left the colony—to continue with my own, never-ending migration around the planet.

  Rod Sayler and Lisa Shipley are working tirelessly to ensure the pygmy rabbit’s survival. Shown here at the endangered species breeding facility at Washington State University, Pullman. (Shelly Hanks)

  Columbia Basin Pygmy Rabbit

  (Brachylagus idahoensis)

  In 2007, my tour took me to Washington State University (WSU) in Pullman for a lecture. It was there that I heard about the Columbia Basin pygmy rabbit, and the efforts being made to save it from extinction. Once you have seen one, you fall in love—a perfect little rabbit, the smallest in North America. An adult fit easily onto the palm of my hand. Childhood images of Peter Rabbit and his siblings, Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail, thronged my mind. I was hooked!

  The Columbia Basin population has been isolated from other pygmy rabbits for thousands of years, and is genetically differentiated from those found in Idaho, Oregon, Montana, Nevada, and California. They are specialist feeders, able to live on sagebrush in arid western US rangelands. They need tall, dense sagebrush plants for protection as well as food, and soils that are deep enough for the construction of a burrow system. They are one of only two North American rabbits that actually dig their own burrows.

  Starting in the early 1990s, numbers of pygmy rabbits in Washington State declined following loss of habitat and fragmentation of the remaining sagebrush ecosystems as ever more land was taken over by farms, ranches, and urban development. In 1999, the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife asked Dr. Rod Sayler and his colleague, Dr. Lisa Shipley, if they would help them conduct studies on the declining populations. At the time, Rod and Lisa were working on assessing the influence of cattle grazing in sagebrush habitats known to be important to pygmy rabbits. These studies had barely started when it was discovered that the largest remaining pygmy rabbit population had just suffered a major crash—possibly due to disease. Probably fewer than thirty individuals remained. USFWS gave these rabbits a temporary emergency endangered listing
in 2001 with a final ruling to cement the listing in March 2003. At this time, it was decided to start a captive breeding program with the goal of subsequently releasing them back into the wild.

  Sixteen rabbits were captured and sent to three facilities for captive breeding. If any were left in the wild, they soon vanished. Oregon Zoo had already started breeding the non-endangered Idaho pygmy rabbits in order to experiment on the best procedures before trying with the precious remnants of the Columbia Basin population. Rod and Lisa, heading the captive breeding program at Washington State University, found that it was necessary to house the rabbits alone, except for mating, because of high levels of aggression. Much was learned from observing the rabbits at night through remote cameras and infrared lights.

  It soon became apparent that, unlike Idaho rabbits, the Washington individuals had much lower reproductive success—fewer kits per female, lower kit growth rates, and some bone deformities. And all three sites struggled with disease and parasites. Eventually it was concluded that this was partly caused by inbreeding depression resulting from reduced genetic diversity in the small captive population. Every time a genetically important rabbit died, it meant that more diversity was lost and the chances for long-term viability of the tiny remaining population were reduced. Eventually in 2003, the USFWS Recovery Team regretfully came to the conclusion that the only way to improve the reproductive fitness and thus save the last Columbia Basin pygmy rabbits was to allow some of them to mate with Idaho rabbits. This, as had been hoped, considerably boosted the breeding success and the health of the hybrid offspring.

  Eventually, after six years, it seemed realistic to make plans to reintroduce some of the Washington rabbits into the wild, and once again Idaho rabbits paved the way. Forty-two captive-bred Idahos, equipped with radio collars, were released into the wild in Idaho. They did well, and following the release at least two surviving females gave birth.

  The Story of Grasshopper

  My visit to WSU happened to be just before the first twenty captive-bred Columbia Basin pygmy rabbits were due to be released in eastern Washington, a hundred miles from the university, on March 13, 2007. Each was fitted with a little radio collar so that its movements could be monitored. Everyone was excited and hopeful, but everyone knew there was no guarantee of success. I met Len Zeoli, a mature PhD student, who would be studying the rabbits’ adaptation to the wild. And I met Grasshopper, one of the male rabbits due to be released. What an utterly adorable little rabbit he was—I was saddened that he would have to carry a radio collar. Tiny though it was, he was tiny, too.

  Of course, I was eager to hear how the release went. The report came back from Len that things had gone well, and the rabbits had been “very rabbit-like.” But there were unexpected problems—almost half the rabbits dispersed from the release area, traveling off presumably in search of new homes or mates. That did not happen in the test reintroduction in Idaho. In addition, losses to predators (coyotes, raptors) were high.

  I asked specifically about Grasshopper. I was told that he, together with his brother Ant, were among the eight males who moved beyond the range of the telemetry equipment, which covers three-quarters of a mile. Eventually they were both located—just a few hundred yards from the field station where Len was staying. They had somehow made it across three and a half miles of inhospitable and sometimes rocky terrain. Knowing that they would not be able to last very long, Len captured both Grasshopper and Ant, and they were returned to captivity.

  “Throughout the whole reintroduction program, everyone was pretty discouraged,” Rod told me, “but then something amazing happened that restored a little bit of hope.” One day when Len was keeping watch, a pygmy rabbit kit suddenly popped out of one of the artificial burrows they had installed. It sat there looking at him and he was able to get close-up photos. “We saw the kit periodically throughout the remainder of the summer,” said Len, “and it became famous in a photo widely published in a news release.”

  The photo proved that captive-bred pygmy rabbits would breed in the wild in their first breeding season—if they could escape predators long enough and readapt to the arid sagebrush habitat. “By the end of summer,” Len said, “the remaining two released rabbits were taken by predators, and we terminated the field study for 2007. Everyone had hoped for greater success, but at least they have learned a lot that will help them plan better in the future.”

  Rod and Len, I hear, have completed population modeling studies and concluded that the captive breeding population needs to be at least doubled so that more can be released to the wild. Since the first litters of the year usually die, perhaps because of cold wet soil, research associate Becky Elias is setting up breeding pens in a greenhouse. They are building much larger, more natural pens so that the rabbits will be better adapted to a natural environment. There are plans to release the next batch of young rabbits into a temporary enclosure at the release site to protect them from predators while they adjust to living in the wild. Sadly, I heard, both Grasshopper and Ant died before they could be released again, with a better chance of making it—but a new batch of young kits has been produced in captivity for future reintroductions.

  Rod Sayler summed it all up: “We’re definitely not over the hump in terms of restoring this endangered species back on the landscape—there are big challenges ahead for this little rabbit. But we still have hope! We learned a lot from last year’s release, and we’re not giving up.”

  My best wishes are with you all, the humans involved and all of the enchanting little rabbits.

  Attwater’s Prairie Chicken

  (Tympanuchus cupido attwateri)

  The Attwater’s prairie chicken, like the less rare greater prairie chicken, is a lekking species. That is, the males gather together on a carefully selected patch of short grass, or bare ground. On either side of their necks are bright orange air sacs that, when inflated, enable the males to utter booming sounds as they challenge one another. Females, attracted by the sound, gather at the lek to choose a mate.

  The prairie chickens are grouse, ground-nesting birds about seventeen to eighteen inches long and weighing about one and a half to two pounds. The Attwater’s plumage is striped with narrow vertical bars of dark brown and buff white, and the male has elongated feathers (called pinnae) on his head that stand up like little ears. They are smaller and lack the feathering extending to the feet that characterizes the greater prairie chicken. The Attwater’s is also a bit darker in color—tawnier on the top, with a pronounced chestnut-toned neck.

  I have never seen an Attwater’s prairie chicken, let alone seen a mating display. But I have watched greater prairie chickens during the mating season in the Sand Hills of Nebraska. Tom Mangelsen and I arrived before first light, hoping we would see the spectacular (but also comic) display of the male.

  The first prairie chickens appeared when it was not light enough to make out their colors, but soon the rising sun lit the brown-barred body feathers, the black short-tail feathers, and the brilliant orange-red of the air sac and eye combs. We had the most amazing show as more and more cocks gathered on the lek. The individual closest to us seemed to be the dominant one. Every so often, he started his display—booming, lowered half-stretched wings, raised tail, and inflated air sacs. This was accompanied by very rapid stamping of the feet. Once in a while, one cock would start running toward another with fast little steps, head lowered, and wings stretched out. When he got close, he stopped and the two stared at each other before leaping up and down and hitting out at each other with their feet. After they had repeated this challenge several times, one would run off, presumably defeated.

  A male Attwater’s prairie chicken challenging other males during the breeding season. (Grady Allen)

  Eventually a hen appeared—which caused an intensification of the displays and skirmishes. The small female seemed totally indifferent to all this activity as she moved about in the lek. (We were told that this was not the peak of the breeding season—otherwise mo
re hens would have arrived and things would have heated up.) The show lasted about two hours, and then the birds wandered off into the vegetation. What an enchanting morning. I decided that God must have created the prairie chicken so He could have a good laugh anytime He wanted during the three-month season of the lek! It is said that some of the dances of the North American Plains Indians, particularly the Lakota, are based on this display—I would certainly love to see one!

  At one time the Attwater’s prairie chicken was found throughout some six million acres of the tallgrass prairie ecosystem, from the Gulf Coast of Texas north to Louisiana and inland for about seventy-five miles. The windswept prairies were rich in biodiversity then, with many varieties of grasses. But in a sequence of events we are all too familiar with, more and more of this pristine land was taken over by human development and farming, and bush invaded the grassland when fires were suppressed. Year by year, the prairie chickens vanished: By 1919 they had gone from Louisiana, and by 1937 fewer than nine thousand remained in Texas. In 1967, Attwater’s prairie chicken was listed as endangered, and six years later the Endangered Species Act of 1973 gave added protection.

  Today less than 1 percent of the original prairie once occupied by Attwater’s prairie chickens remains, much of it so fragmented that remnant pockets are too small to sustain viable breeding populations. Fortunately a refuge was established in the mid-1960s when WWF bought an area of about thirty-five hundred acres. In 1972, it was transferred to the USFWS, and today the Attwater’s Prairie Chicken National Wildlife Refuge, sixty miles west of Houston, is more than three times its original size and comprises one of the largest remnants of coastal prairie habitat in southeast Texas. The only groups of Attwater’s prairie chickens in the wild today, other than those in the refuge, live on a tiny piece of land near Texas City.