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The Shocking Truth About Sloths

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Wednesday, March 20, 2024

Sloths are the darlings of the internet. Their mouths naturally turn up, making them look like they’re always smiling. They’re the embodiment of chill, with the slowest metabolism of any non-hibernating mammal. On social media posts, there are photos and drawing of sloths, many with humorous or encouraging sayings celebrating sloths’ slowness and sleepiness. “Slow down and enjoy life,” one reads. Of course, the real lives of sloths aren’t so Instagrammable. Throughout the range of the seven sloth species in Central and South America, the animals face many challenges to their survival, including dog bites, getting hit by vehicles, and electrocution. Each of these are the consequences of deforestation, says Adriana Aguilar Borbon, marketing and environmental education manager for Proyecto Asís Wildlife Sanctuary in San Carlos, Costa Rica and a member of the International Union for Conservation of Nature Species Survival Commission Anteater, Sloth and Armadillo Specialist Group. Electrocution is one of the main reasons sloths are admitted to wildlife rescue centers, says Ana María Villada Rosales, a veterinarian at The Sloth Institute in Manual Antonio, Costa Rica. Sloths get electrocuted when they use uninsulated power lines to travel across the forest canopy, instead of branches and vines. In one recent year, over 20% of the sloths treated at the Toucan Rescue Ranch in San Josecito, Costa Rica had electrocution injuries, according to Janet Sandi, its veterinary director. The actual number of electrocuted sloths is bigger than what her organization sees, Sandi says, because many of the sloths they treat are orphans whose mothers have died from their injuries. Perilous Power Road crossings are particularly perilous for sloths. Often branches are cleared away, leaving power and telephone lines as the only way to move over the road. Sloths are not alone. All over the world, wildlife is electrocuted by powerlines. Scientific literature describes the electrocution of elephants in India; vultures in South Africa; macaws in Brazil; eagles in the United States, Argentina and Spain; and lots of primates. “Pretty much everywhere there are monkeys, they get electrocuted,” says James F. Dwyer, a wildlife biologist who studies wildlife interactions with electrical equipment for the utility consulting firm EDM International in Fort Collins, Colorado. It’s not just monkeys. The scientific literature describes the electrocution of primates such as langurs in India and Sri Lanka; Java slow lorises in Indonesia; Angolan black-and-white colobus, Sykes monkeys, white-tailed small-eared galagos, vervet monkeys, and northern yellow baboons in Kenya; and howler monkeys in Brazil. Especially for smaller primates, electrocution from a power line is often fatal, Sandi says. Other, even smaller, animals like squirrels can scamper down a bare electrical wire unharmed, Dwyer says, because electricity will only flow through an animal if it is touching two energized wires, or an energized wire and a path to ground. Sloths and primates are large enough to reach two uninsulated wires at the same time. Transformers and cross-arms have connections that are closer together, allowing even small squirrels to touch two exposed wires, which is why squirrels are the most electrocuted animals in the United States — and the most common cause of power outages, according to Dwyer. But in most of the world, the cross arms of transmission poles are made of metal, he says, and sometimes the pole is made of metal too, providing even more opportunity for wildlife electrocution. In some cases, electrocution deaths endanger a species. Electrocution is the leading cause of death in adult golden eagles, according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. In Kazakhstan recently, Dwyer saw photos of thousands of electrocuted saker falcons, listed as endangered on the IUCN Red List, under power lines across the steppe. Saving Sloths Requires Innovation The electrocution wounds sloths experience can be severe, burning away flesh to the tendons and even to the bone. If the burn reaches the bone, often an entire limb must be amputated to save the sloth’s life, sloth veterinarians say. An amputee sloth in the forest. Photo: Janet Sandi, used with permission. While in treatment, sloths belie their chill reputation. “These guys are really feisty,” Sandi says. “They can bite hard and cause infections. We usually need four people to hold them to give them an injection.” But their slow metabolism means that sloths heal slowly. Bandage changes can be painful for the sloths, and because of both the sloths’ pain and the veterinarians’ safety, many sloths need to be put under anesthesia for each bandage change, which, for traditional bandages, typically happens daily. General anesthesia poses some risk to sloths, just as it does to humans. Because of this, Sandi and Villada were intrigued when they learned that bears who had been burned in California’s 2018 Thomas fire healed more quickly, with fewer bandage changes, when treated with bandages made from the sterilized skin of a commonly eaten and farmed fish, the tilapia. In the United States, people who suffer burns are often treated with donated human skin, pig skin or an artificial substitute. These materials are not widely available in places such as Brazil, which has innovated the use of sterilized tilapia skin to treat burns in humans. Villada and Sandi wanted to have as much information as possible before trying the technique, so they thought about who in their local veterinary network had experience using tilapia skin bandages. Meanwhile Isabel Hagnauer, a veterinarian at Rescate Wildlife Rescue Center in Alajuela, Costa Rica, was facing a similar issue with the sloths in her care. “Of the 14 two-toed sloths we treated in 2023, five had been electrocuted. We also cared for two baby two-toed sloths orphaned by electrocution.” In Hagnauer’s case, it was news about a burned mountain lion, from the same California fire, that made her eager to try tilapia skin bandages on recovering sloths. For all three veterinarians, the Costa Rican colleague with the expertise they were looking for was Pricilla Ortiz, a veterinarian mostly working with dogs and cats who was so impressed with the benefits of tilapia skin on her patients that she started a company to sell the bandages. “Using the tilapia skin, I was able to reduce the amount of antibiotics and analgesics [pain relievers] I was giving,” Ortiz says. “The best part was not having to stress the animals with bandage changes.” The translation of the bandage techniques from dogs to sloths was not completely smooth. Some of the first two-toed sloths they bandaged with tilapia skin, Villada says, promptly ate the bandage. After that, the team put loose cloth bandages over the tilapia skin to eliminate bandage snacking. Veterinarians apply a tilapia skin bandage. Photo: Janet Sandi, used with permission. On dogs, a tilapia skin bandage typically lasts about 10 days, Ortiz says. But Sandi and Villada noticed that some sloths were showing signs of infection after the tilapia skin bandages had been in place for as little as five days. The solution was simple: more frequent bandage changes. Even changing a bandage every five days was a huge improvement over changing them daily. For veterinarians, and for everyone working at sloth rescue centers across their range, the biggest heartbreak of electrocuted sloths is that even when the animals’ external wounds are healing nicely, they often die after a few weeks of internal injuries, which may not show symptoms. Of course, the best remedy would be to prevent electrocutions in the first place. In Costa Rica, several nonprofits erect rope bridges over roads to protect sloths and monkeys. In the United States, Dwyer says, California utility companies have found success with plastic covers for power lines, transformers and other power equipment in places where hawks and eagles get electrocuted. Installing the covers is expensive, Dwyer says. While the covers themselves are low-cost, the expense of sending utility workers to remote locations is significant. Aguilar says Proyecto Asís Wildlife Sanctuary has been successful working with communities in Costa Rica to report places where wildlife are being electrocuted and getting the power company to install protective plastic covers. Saving Every Sloth However, Aguilar believes that sloths’ internet popularity is a threat that overshadows all the threats that are bringing sloths to rescue centers. Veterinarians see the animals that die of electrocution, vehicle strikes and dog bites. What they don’t see, she says, is the sloths that die after being brought from table to table at tourist restaurants for $10 sloth selfies, while also being mistreated by their handlers. “When the sloth dies, they just get another,” she says. Is the treatment of electrocution injuries helping sloths survive as species? While conservation biologists working with other species may disagree on the value of saving individual animals, sloth experts agree that every animal matters when there is so little known about these species. While the pygmy three-toed sloth is critically endangered and the maned sloth is vulnerable, less is known about the four common sloth species that are currently considered “least concern” on the IUCN Red List. “We don’t really know all that much about sloth populations,” says Monique Pool, founder and director of the Green Heritage Foundation and a member of the IUCN SSC specialist group for sloths and their kin. “I can only confidently say something about the sloth populations in greater Paramaribo,” Suriname’s capital city, where the Green Heritage Foundation is located. Pool feels some of the most commonly cited studies of sloth populations greatly overestimate their numbers. “My biologist friends feel differently about the rescue and rehabilitation work that we do,” Pool says. “Our goal is to maintain viable sloth populations in urban areas. For us, every life matters.” “Rehabilitation is part of conservation,” says Tinka Plese, founder and director of Aiunau, a Caldas, Columbia-based sloth, anteater and armadillo conservation organization and a member of the IUCN SSC specialist group for those animals. “Every animal we can return to the wild helps.” A rescued sloth returns to the trees. Photo: Janet Sandi, used with permission. Once it was thought that sloth amputees and sloths that had been in human care for longer periods could not be released into the wild. But both The Sloth Institute and Rescate Wildlife Rescue Center track the sloths they release and have found that many live long, healthy lives. Hagnauer says a sloth that was released after a partial arm amputation has lived free within the rescue center’s 19 hectare (47 acre) grounds, often appearing with her babies, for nine years. Another popular sloth, nicknamed Don Lupe, was released in 2021 after a complete arm amputation and was recently seen in the wild. Sloths that survive electrocution are creating a reputation for grit over chill. Sandi recalls a time when she placed a sloth that had just had surgery to amputate a limb near a tree in an enclosure at the Toucan Rescue Ranch. She went to get a cup of coffee, figuring it would be a long time before this slowest of mammals made a move. But when she came back, the sloth was gone. She looked up, and there it was, in the branches. “I said, ‘Oh gosh, these guys are really strong.’” Previously in The Revelator: How Social Media Supports Animal Cruelty and the Illegal Pet Trade The post The Shocking Truth About Sloths appeared first on The Revelator.

As their forests disappear, sloths are climbing on dangerous power lines. Veterinarians and rescue centers are developing new techniques to help. The post The Shocking Truth About Sloths appeared first on The Revelator.

Sloths are the darlings of the internet. Their mouths naturally turn up, making them look like they’re always smiling. They’re the embodiment of chill, with the slowest metabolism of any non-hibernating mammal. On social media posts, there are photos and drawing of sloths, many with humorous or encouraging sayings celebrating sloths’ slowness and sleepiness. “Slow down and enjoy life,” one reads.

Of course, the real lives of sloths aren’t so Instagrammable. Throughout the range of the seven sloth species in Central and South America, the animals face many challenges to their survival, including dog bites, getting hit by vehicles, and electrocution.

Each of these are the consequences of deforestation, says Adriana Aguilar Borbon, marketing and environmental education manager for Proyecto Asís Wildlife Sanctuary in San Carlos, Costa Rica and a member of the International Union for Conservation of Nature Species Survival Commission Anteater, Sloth and Armadillo Specialist Group.

Electrocution is one of the main reasons sloths are admitted to wildlife rescue centers, says Ana María Villada Rosales, a veterinarian at The Sloth Institute in Manual Antonio, Costa Rica. Sloths get electrocuted when they use uninsulated power lines to travel across the forest canopy, instead of branches and vines.

In one recent year, over 20% of the sloths treated at the Toucan Rescue Ranch in San Josecito, Costa Rica had electrocution injuries, according to Janet Sandi, its veterinary director. The actual number of electrocuted sloths is bigger than what her organization sees, Sandi says, because many of the sloths they treat are orphans whose mothers have died from their injuries.

Perilous Power

Road crossings are particularly perilous for sloths. Often branches are cleared away, leaving power and telephone lines as the only way to move over the road.

Sloths are not alone. All over the world, wildlife is electrocuted by powerlines. Scientific literature describes the electrocution of elephants in India; vultures in South Africa; macaws in Brazil; eagles in the United States, Argentina and Spain; and lots of primates.

“Pretty much everywhere there are monkeys, they get electrocuted,” says James F. Dwyer, a wildlife biologist who studies wildlife interactions with electrical equipment for the utility consulting firm EDM International in Fort Collins, Colorado.

It’s not just monkeys. The scientific literature describes the electrocution of primates such as langurs in India and Sri Lanka; Java slow lorises in Indonesia; Angolan black-and-white colobus, Sykes monkeys, white-tailed small-eared galagos, vervet monkeys, and northern yellow baboons in Kenya; and howler monkeys in Brazil.

Especially for smaller primates, electrocution from a power line is often fatal, Sandi says.

Other, even smaller, animals like squirrels can scamper down a bare electrical wire unharmed, Dwyer says, because electricity will only flow through an animal if it is touching two energized wires, or an energized wire and a path to ground. Sloths and primates are large enough to reach two uninsulated wires at the same time.

Transformers and cross-arms have connections that are closer together, allowing even small squirrels to touch two exposed wires, which is why squirrels are the most electrocuted animals in the United States — and the most common cause of power outages, according to Dwyer. But in most of the world, the cross arms of transmission poles are made of metal, he says, and sometimes the pole is made of metal too, providing even more opportunity for wildlife electrocution.

In some cases, electrocution deaths endanger a species. Electrocution is the leading cause of death in adult golden eagles, according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. In Kazakhstan recently, Dwyer saw photos of thousands of electrocuted saker falcons, listed as endangered on the IUCN Red List, under power lines across the steppe.

Saving Sloths Requires Innovation

The electrocution wounds sloths experience can be severe, burning away flesh to the tendons and even to the bone. If the burn reaches the bone, often an entire limb must be amputated to save the sloth’s life, sloth veterinarians say.

An amputee sloth in the forest. Photo: Janet Sandi, used with permission.

While in treatment, sloths belie their chill reputation. “These guys are really feisty,” Sandi says. “They can bite hard and cause infections. We usually need four people to hold them to give them an injection.”

But their slow metabolism means that sloths heal slowly. Bandage changes can be painful for the sloths, and because of both the sloths’ pain and the veterinarians’ safety, many sloths need to be put under anesthesia for each bandage change, which, for traditional bandages, typically happens daily. General anesthesia poses some risk to sloths, just as it does to humans.

Because of this, Sandi and Villada were intrigued when they learned that bears who had been burned in California’s 2018 Thomas fire healed more quickly, with fewer bandage changes, when treated with bandages made from the sterilized skin of a commonly eaten and farmed fish, the tilapia.

In the United States, people who suffer burns are often treated with donated human skin, pig skin or an artificial substitute. These materials are not widely available in places such as Brazil, which has innovated the use of sterilized tilapia skin to treat burns in humans.

Villada and Sandi wanted to have as much information as possible before trying the technique, so they thought about who in their local veterinary network had experience using tilapia skin bandages.

Meanwhile Isabel Hagnauer, a veterinarian at Rescate Wildlife Rescue Center in Alajuela, Costa Rica, was facing a similar issue with the sloths in her care. “Of the 14 two-toed sloths we treated in 2023, five had been electrocuted. We also cared for two baby two-toed sloths orphaned by electrocution.” In Hagnauer’s case, it was news about a burned mountain lion, from the same California fire, that made her eager to try tilapia skin bandages on recovering sloths.

For all three veterinarians, the Costa Rican colleague with the expertise they were looking for was Pricilla Ortiz, a veterinarian mostly working with dogs and cats who was so impressed with the benefits of tilapia skin on her patients that she started a company to sell the bandages.

“Using the tilapia skin, I was able to reduce the amount of antibiotics and analgesics [pain relievers] I was giving,” Ortiz says. “The best part was not having to stress the animals with bandage changes.”

The translation of the bandage techniques from dogs to sloths was not completely smooth. Some of the first two-toed sloths they bandaged with tilapia skin, Villada says, promptly ate the bandage. After that, the team put loose cloth bandages over the tilapia skin to eliminate bandage snacking.

Veterinarians apply a tilapia skin bandage. Photo: Janet Sandi, used with permission.

On dogs, a tilapia skin bandage typically lasts about 10 days, Ortiz says. But Sandi and Villada noticed that some sloths were showing signs of infection after the tilapia skin bandages had been in place for as little as five days. The solution was simple: more frequent bandage changes. Even changing a bandage every five days was a huge improvement over changing them daily.

For veterinarians, and for everyone working at sloth rescue centers across their range, the biggest heartbreak of electrocuted sloths is that even when the animals’ external wounds are healing nicely, they often die after a few weeks of internal injuries, which may not show symptoms.

Of course, the best remedy would be to prevent electrocutions in the first place. In Costa Rica, several nonprofits erect rope bridges over roads to protect sloths and monkeys. In the United States, Dwyer says, California utility companies have found success with plastic covers for power lines, transformers and other power equipment in places where hawks and eagles get electrocuted.

Installing the covers is expensive, Dwyer says. While the covers themselves are low-cost, the expense of sending utility workers to remote locations is significant.

Aguilar says Proyecto Asís Wildlife Sanctuary has been successful working with communities in Costa Rica to report places where wildlife are being electrocuted and getting the power company to install protective plastic covers.

Saving Every Sloth

However, Aguilar believes that sloths’ internet popularity is a threat that overshadows all the threats that are bringing sloths to rescue centers. Veterinarians see the animals that die of electrocution, vehicle strikes and dog bites. What they don’t see, she says, is the sloths that die after being brought from table to table at tourist restaurants for $10 sloth selfies, while also being mistreated by their handlers. “When the sloth dies, they just get another,” she says.

Is the treatment of electrocution injuries helping sloths survive as species? While conservation biologists working with other species may disagree on the value of saving individual animals, sloth experts agree that every animal matters when there is so little known about these species.

While the pygmy three-toed sloth is critically endangered and the maned sloth is vulnerable, less is known about the four common sloth species that are currently considered “least concern” on the IUCN Red List.

“We don’t really know all that much about sloth populations,” says Monique Pool, founder and director of the Green Heritage Foundation and a member of the IUCN SSC specialist group for sloths and their kin. “I can only confidently say something about the sloth populations in greater Paramaribo,” Suriname’s capital city, where the Green Heritage Foundation is located. Pool feels some of the most commonly cited studies of sloth populations greatly overestimate their numbers.

“My biologist friends feel differently about the rescue and rehabilitation work that we do,” Pool says. “Our goal is to maintain viable sloth populations in urban areas. For us, every life matters.”

“Rehabilitation is part of conservation,” says Tinka Plese, founder and director of Aiunau, a Caldas, Columbia-based sloth, anteater and armadillo conservation organization and a member of the IUCN SSC specialist group for those animals. “Every animal we can return to the wild helps.”

A rescued sloth returns to the trees. Photo: Janet Sandi, used with permission.

Once it was thought that sloth amputees and sloths that had been in human care for longer periods could not be released into the wild. But both The Sloth Institute and Rescate Wildlife Rescue Center track the sloths they release and have found that many live long, healthy lives.

Hagnauer says a sloth that was released after a partial arm amputation has lived free within the rescue center’s 19 hectare (47 acre) grounds, often appearing with her babies, for nine years. Another popular sloth, nicknamed Don Lupe, was released in 2021 after a complete arm amputation and was recently seen in the wild.

Sloths that survive electrocution are creating a reputation for grit over chill. Sandi recalls a time when she placed a sloth that had just had surgery to amputate a limb near a tree in an enclosure at the Toucan Rescue Ranch. She went to get a cup of coffee, figuring it would be a long time before this slowest of mammals made a move. But when she came back, the sloth was gone.

She looked up, and there it was, in the branches. “I said, ‘Oh gosh, these guys are really strong.’”

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Previously in The Revelator:

How Social Media Supports Animal Cruelty and the Illegal Pet Trade

The post The Shocking Truth About Sloths appeared first on The Revelator.

Read the full story here.
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How indigenous practices can help protect forests

The Post followed cultural burning practices, an Indigenous tradition now permitted under California law and used to help protect forests from wildfires.

As wildfires intensify and pose a growing risk in the American West, tribal leaders and community members are bringing fire back to their forests to save them.For thousands of years, Indigenous people stewarded their forests with fire. This cultural burning is part traditional food and craft production, part environmental protection and part ceremony with the land. Western settlement transformed the region with mining and logging, uprooting Native peoples and putting out cultural fire practices.In the 19th century, California lawmakers suppressed the burns. An 1850 law made it legal to fine or punish anyone burning land. The 1911 Weeks Act instituted a policy of total fire suppression, dictating that state and federal agencies should control wildland fires to prevent their spread. This made cultural fire illegal at a federal level. Native people were shot and imprisoned for starting fires.Bill Tripp at the Tishaniik Farm burn in June.A tree ring chronology of the forest burn scars from 1600s to 2015. The text points out where in 1850, California banned cultural fire. Again in 1911, as part of the Weeks Act, the U.S. passed measures to suppress fires nationwide.Now, after a new generation of tribal and community members organizing, educating and lobbying about the benefits of bringing fire back to the land, this time-honored practice is returning. Last fall, California enacted legislation allowing federally recognized Native American tribes to conduct cultural burning, acknowledging their sovereignty and history with the land.The legislative victory allows tribes to set fires with less federal oversight and recognizes cultural burning as a way to make the state resilient to wildfires. Two Washington Post reporters traveled to Northern California to witness the practices firsthand.We watched them paint with fire. Water hoses in hand, two men corralled a three-foot-high fire as it moved through an open field, hosing down grass to keep the flames under control. It’s a scene that normally spells wildfire disaster. And yet the fire moved alongside the group.They’re cultural fire practitioners: trained and recognized by tribes to guide and manage blazes. This particular group was led by Bill Tripp, the director of natural resources and environmental policy for the Karuk Tribe. It was the end of June when we caught up with them as they burned farmland in Orleans, California, about 50 miles south of the Oregon border.Like most burns for tribes native to this stretch of the Klamath River, their activity encourages native species growth, reduces wildfire risk and protects raw materials for craft. They conducted it on the Karuk-owned Tishaniik Farm, an agriculture project that started during the pandemic to provide food for the community.As they moved along the field, so went the fire.In its burned path the “black line” appeared.There’s clear skill in reading a fire: when to stop it, how to use the terrain to their advantage, when to let it go. The crew has now erected a perimeter around the field working counterclockwise. They stopped when the black line reached the top of a hill, extinguished the flames, doubled back from where they were to start new fires and then let the prevailing wind and slope work with the fresh fires.From the back of the truck, two men hosed down either side of the fire. They guided the flames to move along and cut perimeter around the field. By encircling the grasses, they can contain the blazes.They’re using the terrain, Tripp pointed out, so the fire will burn up toward the other end of the black line without getting out of control.A burn is different from a prescribed fire, which the U.S. Forest Service uses to protect against major wildfires. While the agency works to reduce fodder for a possible blaze, Indigenous-led fires aim to protect their way of life.Both can produce harmful smoke, detractors of the practices point out. Research shows prescribed fires produce around 17 percent of the fine particle pollution of a comparable wildfire, and make uncontrolled blazes less likely in the future.While the acreage involved in burns can be much smaller, it can benefit the landscape in the same ways as a prescribed fire. Some researchers emphasize centering traditional knowledge in managing fire-prone forests and vegetation since these communities often take steps to avoid having blazes run out of control. New Mexico’s worst-ever recorded fire, the Hermit’s Peak/Calf Canyon fire in 2022, took place when the Forest Service’s prescribed burns spread during windy conditions.Such incidents are rare, however. Fire practitioners pay attention to local conditions to determine when and for how long to burn. Tripp started the burns late in the afternoon, aiming to slow the fires with the rising humidity.By 6 p.m., the truck returned roadside along the river with a fresh tank of water. They moved the fire downhill toward the road, completing the perimeter. The seven-foot-wide burned path is meant to keep the fire from spreading, and the nearby gravel road will not burn. Earlier Bill pointed out a patch of yellow grass running through the black line. Easy to miss, but he said they would wet it down so the fire wouldn’t escape and burn a nearby field.Once the outer edges of the area were completed, everyone began lighting around the field from the outside in. Aaron Pole, a Hoopa tribe member and natural resource technician, passed by us just shy of a jog to pull the truck out and said: “Now the hard work’s done and you let the fire do its thing.”The flames changed in velocity and size within 10 minutes, stretching up as high as a house. One could feel their heart pulsing under their skin. Seeing the billowing fires confuses the brain on whether one should panic or not. A rush of air picked up as the fires consumed the oxygen from inside the field. Everything sped up while little vortexes of grass and flame would spin up and peter out. Excited whoops went out from around the site.And just like that, by 8:30 p.m., the fires were gone. Bringing fire back to the landII.The Cultural Fire Management Council (CFMC), which practices on the neighboring Yurok Reservation and its ancestral lands, postponed its burns that week after spotting quail eggs in a nest. The organization has been training the next generation of community members leading burns for over a decade. Margo Robbins, the council’s co-founder and executive director, said that the fires would wait until fledglings can make their way to safety.A 2024 paper on cultural burning estimates that before Western colonization, the Karuk Aboriginal territory along the Klamath River had nearly 7,000 ignitions a year. That’s an average of 19 ignitions a day over an area 3½ times the size of New York City. Researchers estimate that at the time, every Indigenous person ignited two to a dozen fires a year.Robbins came to cultural burning through weaving baskets, for which Yurok tribes are renowned. These technological marvels can be watertight and can be used for cooking, for carrying infants and toddlers, and in ceremonial rituals. The weaving material, though, needs fire to exist.The California Hazelnut, a squat underbrush shrub, grows its shoots straight when burned. When Robbins started, the raw materials were hard to come by.The CFMC launched its burns in 2012, working with their community group, California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection and the Yurok Tribal Council, burning seven acres. The next year, they burned 67 acres. Working with the Nature Conservancy, four local tribes, and state and local parks, the council now has 23 employees.Robbins’ grandmother, a masterful weaver, never completed this basket. But Robbins has hopes to finish it one day herself. Large piles of hazelnut branches lay in wait to be split and bound in Robbins’ craft room. At her home, she showed us piles of hazelnut branches in her craft room lying in wait to be split and bound. Along her shelves are beaded necklaces, some for the flower dance ceremony, and smaller baskets she’s made. Robbins held up an incomplete one — a tight matrix of bright blond and dark material — that her late grandmother started but never completed. Maybe she’ll finish it one day, she said with a smile, placing it back.Frank Lake, a research ecologist with the U.S. Forest Service and co-author of the 2024 study simulating precolonial burn rates, says it’s clear tribes native to this region intentionally modified the landscape. Lake, who has Karuk ancestry with Yurok family members, centers much of his scientific work on tribal knowledge, bearing out what is known through recorded history, oral history and available data.Lake pointed to the impacts of excluding fire in the region, including overgrowth of trees in the Klamath Mountains, loss of biodiversity and denser tree crowns ripe for severe wildfires.“The landscape is sick,” said Lake, a tribal resident and liaison.Using the Karuk word “pikyav,” meaning “to fix,” he called the recent adoption of fire practice a powerful moment where national interests can be met when tribal leadership is empowered. As Lake’s grandfather put it, “fire is medicine.”Since colonization, forests and vegetation have shifted from their historic roots. Invasive plant growth can make wildfires more severe, a risk that researchers say is compounded by drought and hotter temperatures.This map shows vegetation departure from pre-colonization overlaid on wildfire risk as a measure of how non-native forests and vegetation might contribute to fire risk.Lake challenged assumptions about what’s “natural” with his understanding of the landscape. If fires tended the hillside by protecting acorn-bearing tan oak trees, is that a forest, or is that an orchard? His research shows tribes have shaped crops with fire for centuries. Now living in a time where burns are legal again, he spoke about how he feels privileged to raise his son in this moment. But the Trump administration, which has pushed for the “immediate suppressing of fires,” could reverse some of the new policies aimed at reintroducing fires to the landscape.“We hustle because we know time is limited,” Lake said.“The more you work in the West, the more you work with fire.” That was Gavin Jones’s experience when his study on spotted owl habitats pivoted after the birds’ roosts went to ash.Jones is a research ecologist with the Rocky Mountain Research Station. Studying the threatened species, he found that wildfires play a role in where the birds choose to live. The owls prefer a Goldilocks-home: not pristine, not too fire scarred, something burned just so.Historically, Jones said, fire was an enormous part of the landscape in much of the western United States. But fire suppression policies led to dramatic changes by the late 1800s. In colder and wetter forests like those in the Pacific Northwest, a fire’s ability to spread is now dictated by warmer temperatures, while blazes in forests like those along the Sierra Nevada range became fuel-limited, meaning they depend on available fuel sources like dry grasses, combustibles or water-stressed trees.Centuries of excluding fire from these forests meant higher tree density and less biodiversity. Jones says that on the evolutionary scale, fire adaptation can happen pretty rapidly, especially after a sudden shift. “It is a strong selection force.”The black line's burn scar.Burns encourage more variation in the forest landscape, which leads to greater biodiversity — but there are hard limits. Even in species like the black-backed woodpecker, which needs a burned area for its habitat, few were found after the 2013 Rim and 2014 King wildfires.Researchers like Tom Swetnam, a professor emeritus of dendrochronology and fire history at the University of Arizona, warn that cultural fire can’t be applied to all forests, since in some places this traditional knowledge has been lost.“It’s not an obvious solution for everywhere,” Swetnam said.Robbins with the CFMC took us to the Weitchpec transfer station, a 20-minute drive from the Tishaniik Farm, where some of the oldest continually treated forest projects are. We saw how different the understory could feel. Sunlight blankets what is otherwise a claustrophobic and shady part of the woods.Robert McConnell — the council’s burn boss, or fire manager — reached out to grab a hazelnut branch basking in the sun as he told us about the group’s first burn here in 2012. As he petted the low brush with care, I noticed the stark contrast with a darker patch of forest over his shoulders: That land is off limits to burning. Dense with fir trees, you could scarcely see through it, while we stood in an open area marked by thickets of low grasses, shrubs and oak trees.Robert peered into the hollow burn scar in a conifer, its dark corners now an animal’s storehouse for hazelnuts. Nearby, native potatoes and berries grew unabated. McConnell examined where someone had been harvesting branches for basket materials, concluding that it must have been recent. These resources are all made possible from burning here, he said, pausing to listen for the call of a variegated woodpecker.A recent study by Gavin Jones found that continuing under the status quo of fire exclusion in the Sierra Nevada range would mean a 64 percent chance of complete forest loss in the next 50 years. That risk increased to a near total loss by the end of the century. Forest restoration through mechanical thinning and beneficial fire, like cultural burns, reduce these chances to single digits.When massive fires break out, both prescribed and managed burned forests do better. A study by Jones and others from earlier this year found that treated areas in southwestern New Mexico burned less severely by 21 to 55 percent. Good fire-centered forest management is filtering into how the country reduces wildfire risk.All Hands All Lands, a cooperation of tribal and civic organizations leading burns in the region, cleared out brush and set fires along the sloping hillside by the Klamath River. Staring at the blazes along Sandy Bar Ranch, her home and business, Blythe Reis said she feels protected when the temperature reaches 100 degrees and when lightning strikes come. “We’ve been doing controlled burns on our property for eight to 10 years now. It just makes you feel safer.”Robert McConnell inspects the treatment area.On our last day with Tripp, he took us through back roads to a site where they first started prescribed burns. Along the way we stopped for a sip of fresh spring water flowing from a rocky hillside, noting that burns improve the health of nearby springs.Tripp started burning at the age of four, after his grandmother caught him making fires and told him that he might as well be useful. He figured out how to move the fire, contain it, and kindle new areas in his backyard. For the next few years his grandmother would tell him stories of cultural fire every night, and one night when he was eight, she asked him, “Now that you have this knowledge, what are you going to do with it?The next day, a few miles from the Oregon border, I found myself talking with a postal worker in the town of Happy Camp who suggested I drive some 40 minutes up the road to see the burn scar. Though it has been five years since the devastating Slater fire, the landscape feels as though fires tore through recently. There’s barely a sound, and wind sweeps freely through the matchstick remains of conifers.A burn scarred landscape.About this storyReporting for this story was made possible in part by a grant from the Institute for Journalism & Natural Resources.Design and development by Emily Wright. Photos by Daniel Wolfe and Alice Li. Motion graphics by CJ Riculan. Editing by Simon Ducroquet, Juliet Eilperin and Dominique Hildebrand.

‘Dismal’ health of world’s forests is threat to humanity, report warns

Financial institutions pouring money into land clearance and undermining efforts to stop destruction, says Climate FocusGlobal forest health has plunged to “dismal” levels and threatens the wellbeing of humanity, warns a damning report that highlights how financial systems are pouring money into land clearance and undermining efforts to reduce destruction.Since 2021 when world leaders and corporate executives promised to halt deforestation, the new study found that forest loss has increased, driven by subsidies for livestock, monocrops, logging and other extractive industries. Continue reading...

Global forest health has plunged to “dismal” levels and threatens the wellbeing of humanity, warns a damning report that highlights how financial systems are pouring money into land clearance and undermining efforts to reduce destruction.Since 2021 when world leaders and corporate executives promised to halt deforestation, the new study found that forest loss has increased, driven by subsidies for livestock, monocrops, logging and other extractive industries.Last year, 8.1m hectares (20m acres) of forest – an area roughly half the size of England – were burned, pulled or cut down, which was higher than the loss at the time of Cop26 in Glasgow, when the target of zero deforestation by 2030 was signed.The world is now 63% off track to reach that goal, according to the latest Forest Declaration Assessment, which is compiled each year by a coalition of civil society and research organisations.“Every year, the gap between commitments and reality grows wider, with devastating impacts on people, the climate and our economies,” said the lead author, Erin Matson of Climate Focus. “Forests are non-negotiable infrastructure for a livable planet. Continued failure to protect them puts our collective prosperity at risk.“We already know what works to stop forest loss, but countries, companies, and investors are only scratching the surface. And even those initial efforts are facing strong pushback from the standard bearers of an economic system built on forest destruction.”Behind the grim trend is a grotesque imbalance between the finances devoted to extraction and conservation. Agricultural industries, which have been responsible for 85% of forest loss over the past decade, have received average annual subsidies worth $409bn (£307bn). This is almost 70 times more than the $5.9bn of international public finance provided each year for forest protection and restoration.“Efforts to protect forests don’t stand a chance as long as our economic system keeps rewarding quick profits from forest destruction,” said Franziska Haupt, a partner at Climate Focus. “To truly tackle deforestation, leaders must work collectively to implement bold, binding reforms that will transform the system that still generously rewards forest loss.”A growing cause of alarm is the spread of fire, which hit staggeringly high levels in the Amazon last year after record droughts turned swathes of the normally moist tropical rainforest into a tinderbox. Many blazes are started deliberately to clear land and spread out of control.The carbon dioxide released by the burning Amazon last year was seven times higher than the average over the previous two years and more than the total greenhouse gas emissions of Germany. The authors of the report said the fires were pushing the forest closer to a point of no return.Private financial institutions are further tipping the balance. A separate report released by Global Witness found that banks have made $26bn from financing deforesting companies since the Paris agreement was signed in 2015 – averaging around $7m every day.US banks, led by Vanguard, JPMorgan Chase and BlackRock, earned the most globally, making $5.4bn, according to the watchdog group, based on data from the Dutch research consultancy Profundo.skip past newsletter promotionThe planet's most important stories. Get all the week's environment news - the good, the bad and the essentialPrivacy Notice: Newsletters may contain information about charities, online ads, and content funded by outside parties. If you do not have an account, we will create a guest account for you on theguardian.com to send you this newsletter. You can complete full registration at any time. For more information about how we use your data see our Privacy Policy. We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.after newsletter promotionGreenpeace activists protest at the opening ceremony of the pre-Cop30 meeting in Brasília. Photograph: Eraldo Peres/APThis report found EU banks, topped by BNP Paribas and Rabobank, earned $3.5bn, while British banks made $1.2bn, with HSBC, Aberdeen Group and Schroders gaining the highest returns. Chinese financial institutions also secured $1.2bn, despite the country’s green finance policy supposedly restricting lending for companies with environmental or social governance concerns.“We are witnessing major banks bankroll a fire sale of the world’s rainforests,” said Global Witness forests lead Alexandria Reid. “And they’re reaping obscene profits from the ashes.“As long as tearing down forests remains more profitable than protecting them, the world will not meet its 2030 goal to halt deforestation, with catastrophic consequences for the climate. If world leaders want to change this, they must act now to shut down the profits fuelling this crisis.”Hopes for change are focused on next month’s Cop30 in Belém, the first climate summit to be held in the Amazon. The host, Brazil, has shown in the past that it can dramatically slow the speed of deforestation by stricter enforcement of the law. At Cop30, it will also be proposing a new conservation funding mechanism, the Tropical Forests Forever Facility, which aims to raise $125bn for countries that preserve their standing forests.“The overall numbers are dismal, but the future of forests doesn’t have to be,” said Matson. “New finance initiatives such as the TFFF offer a path to transformative change. If Cop30 delivers on its promise, we could be reporting a very different story next year – one of real progress.”For this to work, financial institutions also need to step up. They are expected to buy bonds worth fourth-fifths of the $125bn that the TFFF hopes to raise. This might help them allay growing criticism that they are profiting from destruction.Elisabeth Hoch, the international portfolio lead at Climate & Company, which is part of the coalition that produced the forest assessment, said only 40% of financial institutions have a deforestation policy, even though forests are worth $150tn a year in economic value.“I want companies and financial institutions to leave the Cop feeling, ‘I must do something or I will be losing out,’” Hoch said. “Cop can generate momentum. It depends on whether financial institutions finally have the guts to do something about this.”

The ambitious plan to protect Northern California’s Plumas National Forest from wildfires

To shield the forest and its communities from the next megafire, the Forest Service plans to burn it — intentionally.

A white-headed woodpecker stirs the dawn quiet, hammering at a patch of charred bark stretching 15 feet up the trunk of a ponderosa pine. The first streaks of sun light the tree’s green crown, sending beams across this grove of healthy conifers. The marks of the 2021 Dixie Fire are everywhere. Several blackened trees lie toppled among the pale blossoms of deer brush and the spikes of snow plants, their crimson faded to dusky coral. Flames raged through neighboring forests, exploding the tops of trees, flinging sparks down the mountainside until, on August 4, 2021, the fire itself reached the valley below and Greenville, 90 miles north of Lake Oroville. It took less than 30 minutes to destroy a town of 1,000 residents. Yet this stand at Round Valley Reservoir survived.   Years earlier, U.S. Forest Service crews had removed the brush and smaller trees, reducing the most flammable vegetation. Then they set fires, burning what was left on the ground in slow-moving spurts of flame. When Dixie arrived, the same fire that melted cars and torched 800 homes hit this stand and dropped to the ground. Here Dixie was tame, a docile blaze meandering across the forest floor with only occasional licks up the trunks of trees, says Ryan Bauer, Plumas National Forest fuels manager for the past 18 years. If only there had been more active forest management like this, laments Bauer. Instead of 100-acre patches, “if we had burned 10,000-acre patches, we’d have 10,000-acre patches of surviving forest. We just never did,” says Bauer, who recently retired and is now working with a nonprofit to adapt communities to fire.  Two-thirds of the Plumas National Forest has burned in the last seven years, an area twice the size of San Francisco Bay. The fires have sent smoke charging down the Feather River Canyon, across the Central Valley, and into the San Francisco Bay Area, turning the sky burnt orange. Each fire has taken a toll on the watershed that provides drinking water to over 27 million people in California. With every blaze, habitat for deer, bald eagles, and four of California’s 10 wolf packs hangs in the balance. Read Next Wildfire smoke could soon kill 71,000 Americans every year Matt Simon The rest of the Plumas Forest is still green but far too crowded, with trees six to seven times as dense as in the past, according to a 2022 study led by prominent fire scientist Malcolm North. As forests dry each summer, a process exacerbated by climate change, vegetation becomes vulnerable to the least spark, poised to rage into the catastrophic wildfires experts predict are inevitable without a dramatic increase in active forest management. If the Plumas burns, the 8,000 people who live in towns like Quincy, Graeagle, and Portola are in jeopardy—at risk of joining the thousands of us forced to evacuate Paradise, Greenville, and other Plumas communities destroyed by recent wildfires. The forest also faces an existential risk, says Michael Hall, manager of the Feather River Resource Conservation District. Because forests in the Sierra Nevada have evolved with fire, they depend on its power to clear out overcrowded trees and let in  nurturing bursts of sunlight, to spur new growth. Black-backed woodpeckers, morels, grasses, ferns, and wildflowers all rely on periodic wildfires. A century of fire suppression has stymied this natural succession, creating overcrowded and decadent stands that have fueled the recent sequence of megafires. If we don’t deal with the threat such fires pose, the soil and seed banks that replenish forests will be destroyed, the trees replaced by shrubs and snags, Hall says. Some ponderosa and red fir stands will convert to oak and brush. Without active management, those will burn, too. “And then we’ve lost a forest,” he says. It’s a nightmare scenario that has jolted Forest Service officials into action. Urged on by scientists, the Forest Service, and other natural resource agencies, Plumas Forest officials have launched a plan for a dramatic change in forest management. To mount it, they are using chain saws, drip torches, and an array of gigantic machines that include masticators, feller bunchers, grapples, and hot saws. The goal is to thin, log, and intentionally burn what experts say are unnaturally fire-prone forests. If their work can stay ahead of stand-converting flames, they hope to leave a vast swath of trees resilient to future fires. The project, which targets 285,000 acres of forest, is called Plumas Community Protection, and Congress in 2023 gave the Forest Service $274 million to carry it out. This plan is visionary and ambitious but untested in scale. Its success depends on rapid accomplishment by a bureaucracy seldom known to be nimble, and now in the hands of an administration that has laid off thousands of workers and frozen millions of dollars of federal funds. Despite the high stakes, Forest Service officials have held few public meetings, refused to provide basic details of the project with reporters, and declined to review a summary of our findings. Bay Nature and The Plumas Sun reported largely without the help of federal officials, including public information officers who said they feared doing their jobs would end them. Instead, we interviewed 47 forest experts—agencies, nonprofit organizations, and community leaders—and mined public documents to piece together a picture of the Plumas Community Protection project so far.  These interviews have made clear that the funding, unimaginable five years ago, has been largely spent or obligated. Yet little on-the-ground work has been accomplished in the woods. The plan is already foundering. Hail Mary plan Almost all of us who live in Plumas County can recite the recent fire sequence in chronological order starting in 2017: the Minerva, Camp, Walker, North Complex, Dixie, Beckwourth Complex, Park. . . .  Each name triggers a wave of anxiety. It was the 2021 Dixie Fire that delivered the harshest blow, devastating the communities of Canyon Dam, Greenville, Indian Falls, and Warner Valley as it roared up the Feather River Canyon and on through Lassen Volcanic National Park to Hat Creek. When high winds relented and crews quelled the flames that October, the Dixie Fire had burned nearly one million acres in California’s largest single fire in recorded history. For those who evacuated, who lost homes, offices, and entire businesses, time is forever divided into before and after, pre-fire and post. In the months that followed, stunned Plumas Forest officials grappled with an uncomfortable reality. For decades they had been marking trees to cut, administering timber sales that met the board-footage targets set by officials in Washington, D.C., and putting out every fire they could. By the 1990s, they had realized this management was contributing to larger and more intense wildfires. In response, they had developed a network of fuel breaks—modest linear patches cleared of vegetation—to slow the spread of fire. Reporting by Tanvi Dutta Gupta / Illustration by Kelly Murphy The patch near Round Valley was among the few successful fuel breaks on the Plumas Forest. The Dixie Fire overwhelmed most of the others, along with a handful of related projects. “They just got bowled over by this fire that was happening at this scale we’d never seen before,” says Angela Avery, executive director of Sierra Nevada Conservancy, a state-funded conservation organization. The horrendous damage Dixie caused made it clear that nothing was working to protect the Plumas Forest and its rural communities. “We threw everything we had at that fire but there was nothing we could do to stop it,” says Bauer, the former Plumas National Forest fuels manager.  Bauer, a 1994 graduate of Portola High School in eastern Plumas County, first became intrigued by the role of fire in forest ecosystems in a high school forestry class. Returning fire to landscapes that evolved with it has been his focus during most of his 31-year Forest Service career. As the Dixie smoke settled, Bauer saw an opportunity. He began to develop new plans with regional Fire Safe Councils and community wildfire preparedness groups. They focused on the towns within the Plumas Forest that wildfire had not yet burned. Their plans were aimed at making communities safer and forest stands more resilient to drought, insects, and other climate-driven disturbances. Community protection was the first priority, forest resilience the second. Ideas included up to mile-wide buffer zones around every area where communities bumped up against forests, known as the wildland urban interface (WUI). Bauer’s back-of-the-napkin strategies evolved into the plans that formed the management basis for the community protection plan. The long-term goal is preparing these unburned forests for future fires to amble along the forest floor, clearing out the vegetation that can build into stand-destroying wildfires. The plans expand WUI buffer areas and significantly increase the acreage designated for thinning and logging. Crucially, the plans emphasize the importance of intentional fires set routinely throughout the forest. No thinning, no commercial logging project is complete until the acreage has been intentionally burned, Bauer says. Bauer and his Fire Safe colleagues mapped 300,000 acres where dense brush and overcrowded trees posed a hazard to communities and natural resources. Forest officials launched biological, archaeological, and watershed surveys and started to streamline the environmental analyses they would eventually need. Forest planners often work ahead of funding, but this was a 300,000-acre plan with no assurance of approval or money. “It was a bit of a Hail Mary,” Bauer says. “We take risks sometimes, but mostly safer than this one.” This Hail Mary aimed to save 41 rural communities and the national forest in the immediate path of a potential wildfire all too real in the post-Dixie world. A whopping $274 million The ferocity of the Dixie and other megafires in 2020 and 2021 shocked Forest Service officials in Washington, D.C. In 2022, they announced a wildfire crisis strategy designating 45 million acres, mostly in the West, for attention as particularly high-risk “firesheds.” Congress allocated $3.2 billion in the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law (BIL) and Inflation Reduction Act (IRA) to make them safer. In January 2023, the agency added the Plumas National Forest’s 285,000 acres to the strategy. The astonishing $273,930,000 investment underscored the urgency felt from Quincy to the nation’s capital. The Plumas Forest funding is about 20 percent of the $1.4 billion in federal BIL and IRA spending for nature in Northern California that Bay Nature has tracked in its Wild Billions reporting project, and it is the largest single allocation by far. A commitment to forest health in such a large landscape with that level of funding is monumental, says Chris Daunt, a Portola resident with the Mule Deer Foundation, which received $14 million for on-the-ground treatments—“a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” Work quickly shifted to identifying specific geographic areas to begin the thinning and logging that would prepare the way for beneficial fires that protect communities. Some work already begun around Quincy, the county seat, was rolled into the Community Protection project. The next priority became Portola, Graeagle, and a string of small towns along Highway 70, where planning was already underway. Forest officials allocated $85 million from the federal fund to Sierra Tahoe Environmental Management, a logging company based in Loyalton formed around the time the well-funded Plumas plan was announced. STEM is tasked with removing hazardous trees across 70,000 acres, selecting those large enough to log for commercial sale, and eventually applying intentional fire. The nonprofit Missoula, Montana–based National Forest Foundation (NFF) was allocated $98 million to complete similar work on 70,000 acres in the valley surrounding Quincy and Mohawk Valley to the east.  Bigger, faster The sheer size of the Plumas Forest projects is unprecedented. The two 70,000-acre projects are each more than seven times bigger than most previous Plumas contracts and on a much larger scale than has been done in California. It’s the level we need to be working toward, says Jason Moghaddas, a Quincy-based forester, fire ecologist, and geographic analyst who is familiar with the Plumas National Forest.  Size is actually the point, says Avery of the Sierra Nevada Conservancy. Motivated by how much bigger fires have gotten, the Conservancy has invested in landscape-scale projects. “If a megafire or a million-acre fire comes through, we have more opportunity to stand against it, for the treatments to work,” she says. Bauer and other Plumas Forest officials planned thinning projects that leaped from 5,000 acres to 50,000 and prescribed burns that would cover most of the Plumas Community Protection landscape.  The urgency of imminent wildfire caused the Plumas Forest officials to pare down the environmental analyses required by the National Environmental Policy Act. Instead of conducting full environmental impact statements, with scrutiny of cumulative impacts and years-long public comment periods, officials used less rigorous environmental assessments. Work on at least 70,000 acres was fast-tracked under emergency declarations, which eliminate public objections. NEPA processes that would normally take as long as seven years took an average of about 20 months. Read Next Who pays for wildfire damage? In the West, utilities are shifting the risk to customers. Will Peischel This tack brought a few critics—most significantly, two environmental groups that sued the Forest Service for failing to take a “more than perfunctory” look at environmental consequences. Plumas National Forest officials temporarily withdrew their approval for treating more than half the target landscape’s area—delaying implementation for over a year to revise their environmental analysis. It was just released July 1. But nearly all of the 47 people interviewed argued that cutting procedural corners is justified by the looming threat of disastrous fire. The challenge is, “can we work fast enough and do the work well enough to stave off some of the catastrophic outcomes we are seeing,” says Jonathan Kusel, executive director of the Sierra Institute for Community and Environment, whose organization has helped with environmental reviews for the Plumas Forest. Recent science supports both the size and urgency of the Plumas projects, according to Scott Stephens, professor of fire science at UC Berkeley. Some are calling for even more work on even larger landscapes. “If anything, the Plumas Community Protection project doesn’t treat enough acres,” Hall wrote with others in a published commentary. What’s done Driving around Plumas County, where the federal government manages 90 percent of the land, roads seem to go through one mile of green forest for every two miles of charred stands, their specters sometimes reaching to the horizon. Halfway between Quincy and the remote mining town of La Porte, a green forest of red fir and butterscotch-scented Jeffrey pines plunges down the mountain to the Middle Fork of the Feather River. Only the high-pitched call of a Townsend’s solitaire interrupts the muffled cascade a thousand feet below. Sugar pines dangle their foot-long cones on surrounding slopes so thick with seedlings and saplings a California black bear would be challenged to forage among them. This is some of the unnaturally dense forest slated for thinning, logging, and intentional burning. Two years after Congress approved the $274 million, work in the woods has been slow to advance. Progress toward the goal of treating 74,000 acres in 2023, with a total of 185,000 acres in subsequent years, is incremental. Some work has been done. In areas around Quincy and Meadow Valley, and near communities along Highway 70 toward Portola, mastication machines have been chewing brush and small trees into wood chips and spitting them back onto the landscape. Crews are also using chain saws and other machines to thin forests. These are steps preliminary to commercial logging, which has not started. The Forest Service’s annual reports say 49,496 acres of Plumas Forest were treated in 2023 and 5,400 acres in 2024, about one-fifth of the goal. But it’s unclear how much safer the forest is. The reports do not say whether the treatment was thinning, logging, or intentional burning, nor where the activity occurred. Scientists and forest managers across the West have been debating for years how to measure forest resilience and community protection. Acreage is not reliable, says Bauer. A better measure would count an acre as treated when all the on-the-ground work is done, says Eric Edwards, whose research at UC Davis focuses on environmental and agricultural economics. For all the wildfire crisis strategy’s hype of intentional burning and its protective benefits for both forests and communities, the Plumas plan is vague on acreage goals and enforcing the contractors’ burn objectives. It identifies all 285,000 acres for intentional fire, says Bauer. But unlike with thinning and logging, operators are not tied to burn goals. “It’s always a soft commitment,” Bauer says. Plumas Forest officials have reported 2,543 acres burned since October. Almost all of it was burning piles of branches and brush, not the essential low-intensity intentional fires that sweep across the forest floor. Those intentional broadcast burns total about 2,500 acres, Bay Nature and The Plumas Sun estimate, using Forest Service data with help from experts. That’s just under 1 percent of the target landscape. Read Next Two years after a wildfire took everything, Maui homeowners are facing a new threat: Foreclosure Anita Hofschneider In reports on the nationwide wildfire crisis strategy, the Forest Service has cited challenges to implementation, including inflated costs, a lack of timber market for small-diameter wood, employee housing costs, uncompetitive pay, and limited on-the-ground capacity. Little of the information about progress on the Plumas Community Protection projects has come from Plumas Forest officials, who have given short shrift to reporters’ questions since late January. Calls to the Plumas Forest supervisor’s office have gone unreturned, sometimes careening in bizarre redirects that include a scratchy recording of the Smokey Bear song. Reporters’ written questions, submitted in February to the Forest Service’s public affairs office in Washington, D.C., have gone unanswered. The Trump administration has blocked press access to agency scientists and taken down the interactive map that once documented project progress. The only interview granted since late January was a half hour, in August, on how to use agency data. Links to websites available in January now post “page not found” or, more cynically, “Looks like you hit the end of the trail.” Some Plumas residents say the Forest Service has shirked its obligation to keep the public informed. John Sheehan, who has paid close attention to Plumas National Forest issues since 1992, was dismayed by knowing “next to nothing” about the Community Protection plan, he says. “When the government’s going to do something this big and this close to communities, it needs to be in touch with the people affected. The Plumas Forest just isn’t.” Josh Hart, a spokesperson for Feather River Action!, one of the plaintiffs in the lawsuit filed by environmental groups, complains about the dearth of public information for “the most significant plans for the Plumas National Forest ever in history.” The agency has provided no accounting of how it has spent the $274 million. Public records and interviews with contractors reveal that around $202 million has been allocated in contracts for thinning and logging. Another $5 million went to prescribed burning, Bauer says. The Great Basin Institute received approximately $2 million for wildlife surveys. Approximately $50 million went to environmental analyses. That leaves $15 million unaccounted for. Some went directly to salaries, says Bauer. Most of the rest likely went to planning, he says. “That funding source is gone.”  The agency acknowledged in a 2025 national report that it had run through most of its BIL and IRA money. “Fully realizing the vision laid out by the Wildfire Crisis Strategy will require further, sustained investments,” the report says. Hamstrung  Two full years since the launch of the Plumas Community Protection plan, the Plumas Forest’s hamstrung capacity raises questions about its ability to execute its own plan. Recent Trump administration layoffs cap years of reduced staffing. The Plumas Forest supervisor position was vacant for over a year. A merry-go-round of vacancies and short-term appointments often leaves partners and contractors in limbo, waiting for decisions to allow their work to proceed, says Jim Wilcox, a Plumas Corporation senior adviser who has worked on Forest Service restoration contracts for 35 years. “The delays drive everyone crazy.” Other agencies and private companies are filling some of the gaps, which is part of the national strategy to address the wildfire crisis. They have done most of the required environmental analyses and are slated for much of the on-the-ground project work. The Forest Service has always used non-agency partners to do logging and burning, Moghaddas says, but with giant 70,000-acre units, the partnerships are larger and more complex. “The Forest Service can’t do it alone,” he says. Avery calls it a cultural shift: “I have seen an evolution in the Forest Service’s willingness to work with partners, which I thought was a good thing in response to a tragedy.” Read Next First came the wildfire. Then came the scams. Naveena Sadasivam The shift away from federal oversight of national forest land, though, worries Hall. Forest Service crews have generally been composed of people who care about protecting and preserving public lands, he says. “I love the idea of public land and having so much of it available . . . If we don’t have someone obligated to steward it—and that’s the Forest Service folks—we’re all in trouble.”  While STEM is a company of experienced loggers and NFF has demonstrated  dedication to national forest health, these are new ventures for each organization. Ivy Kostick, NFF’s forester for the 70,000-acre project, is breaking it down into manageable pieces, she says: “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time?”  Moment of opportunity Now, four years after the Dixie Fire, the ambitious Plumas Community Protection plan is still more promise than on-the-ground reality. Because funding has already been obligated, the major work should eventually proceed, says Jake Blaufuss, a lifelong local and Quincy-based forester for American Forest Resource Council, a trade association that advocates for sustainable forests. Commercial logging will generate revenue that can be reinvested in prescribed burning and other remaining work, Blaufuss says. Jeff Holland, a spokesperson for STEM, says 2026 will bring enough activity “where people will actually see the difference.” For Bauer, the plan’s $274 million bought something essential: environmental analyses. While the Forest Service provided no financial details, partners close to the project confirmed that some of the federal funds went to the biological surveys, stream assessments, archaeological reviews, and timber stand counts required under NEPA. Today, most of the Plumas Community Protection landscape is covered by an approved plan. While currently there’s not a lot of actual activity, when it begins, Blaufuss says, these documents will “allow the Forest Service to be nimble.” Bauer measures the scale of success by the scale of prescribed fire. The goal for both forest resilience and community protection is to follow thinning and logging with burning; it is the goal for the Plumas Community Protection project. What haunts Bauer are the places around Greenville where pre-Dixie plans called for aggressive thinning followed by prescribed fire. Most never saw a chain saw or a drip torch, and most were totally incinerated when Dixie blazed through. “We just didn’t get to them,” Bauer says. If the Plumas Community Protection project does not complete the plan for prescribed burning, “it’s essentially a roulette scenario,” he says. And so far it hasn’t. What the plan has done is to advance the understanding that fire is essential for forest resilience and community safety. Forest managers are thinking creatively about how to achieve that. The conversation about forest management is shifting.  Fire rejuvenates forest ecosystems. While the Dixie Fire’s toll on the Plumas and its communities has been horrific, it leaves them poised for renewal—like silver lupines waiting in the seed bank to burst into flower. If the Plumas Forest project can gain additional funding and muster sufficient political will, the grand plan to protect all that did not burn may advance. “We know we need wholesale change in the way we’re managing the forest,” says Blaufuss. “This is our chance.” Tanvi Dutta Gupta and Anushuya Thapa contributed reporting. This article was supported by the March Conservation Fund. This story was originally published by Grist with the headline The ambitious plan to protect Northern California’s Plumas National Forest from wildfires on Oct 7, 2025.

Fade to grey: as forests are cut down, butterflies are losing their colours

The insects’ brilliant hues evolved in lush ecosystems to help them survive. Now they are becoming more muted to adapt to degraded landscapes – and they are not the only things dulling downPhotographs by Roberto García-RoaThe world is becoming less colourful. For butterflies, bold and bright wings once meant survival, helping them attract mates and hide from prey. But a new research project suggests that as humans replace rich tropical forests with monochrome, the colour of other creatures is leaching away.“The colours on a butterfly’s wings are not trivial – they have been designed over millions of years,” says researcher and photographer Roberto García-Roa, who is part of a project in Brazil documenting how habitat loss is bleaching the natural world of colour.Amiga arnaca found in a eucalyptus plantation, where scientists observed butterflies were less colourful than in native forests Continue reading...

The world is becoming less colourful. For butterflies, bold and bright wings once meant survival, helping them attract mates and hide from prey. But a new research project suggests that as humans replace rich tropical forests with monochrome, the colour of other creatures is leaching away.“The colours on a butterfly’s wings are not trivial – they have been designed over millions of years,” says researcher and photographer Roberto García-Roa, who is part of a project in Brazil documenting how habitat loss is bleaching the natural world of colour.Whether dazzlingly red, deep green or ghostly pale, the richness of a tropical forest provides butterflies with a diversity of habitats in which to communicate, camouflage and reproduce. As humans replace tropical forests with environments such as eucalyptus monocultures, however, those requirements are changing. In a plantation, the ecological backdrop is stripped bare and drab species do better. Being bland – like your surroundings – becomes an advantage.The difference is stark, researchers say. “You feel alive in the tropical forest, everything is wild – you never know what you are going to find,” says García-Roa. “When you arrive at a eucalyptus plantation it’s very frustrating – you can feel that things are not happening as they should be in a natural ecosystem. Animals are not around, and sounds are not as they should be.”Discoloration Eucalyptus plantations, such as this one in Espírito Santo, Brazil, are warmer, drier and flooded with direct light, compared with cooler, humid mature forests These preliminary findings are part of a broader body of research into “discoloration”, which examines how nature loss is altering the colours of the natural world.Butterflies are an ideal subject for study because they are among the most colourful organisms in the world. They display a vast array of colours across habitats, respond quickly to environmental changes and are easy to monitor.Colour isn’t just about aesthetics, it has important evolutionary functions. In a broader trend, ecosystems that once supported many colours are becoming more muted as they are degraded, simplified and polluted by humans. Coral reefs are bleaching, oceans are becoming greener – even rainbows are predicted to become less visible in densely populated and polluted areas.One obvious thing is that in eucalyptus plantations, butterfly communities are dominated by brown-coloured speciesMaider Iglesias-Carrasco, researcherNature’s palette is always changing in response to natural selection pressures. A notable mid 20th-century example is the peppered moth, which turned black during the Industrial Revolution to fit in with the sooty surroundings. But there are likely to be more rapid and widespread changes ahead due to human activity. “Even planet Earth itself is losing brightness as seen from space. It is truly remarkable and concerning how interconnected these processes are, and how every impact cascades into further consequences,” says Ricardo Spaniol from the Federal University of Rio Grande do Sul.So far, researchers have identified 21 species in eucalyptus plantations and 31 in the natural forest, although there are many yet to be identified. They studied forests and plantations in the Brazilian state of Espírito Santo, north of Rio de Janeiro. “One thing that is obvious is that in eucalyptus plantations, butterfly communities are dominated by brown-coloured species,” says lead researcher, Maider Iglesias-Carrasco from the University of Copenhagen. There was a “general feeling of emptiness” in the plantations, she added.Amazonian butterfliesResearchers first discovered that being colourful in the Amazon may be turning into a disadvantage in 2019. Spaniol spent several weeks in the rainforest, and his team discovered butterfly species changed significantly depending on their environment, and their colours followed suit.“The most colourful species are often the first to disappear locally after deforestation, probably because of the loss of native vegetation and their increased exposure to predators. This represents an accelerated process of discoloration in Amazonian butterfly communities,” says Spaniol.Butterflies that persisted in deforested areas typically had brown or grey wings and bodies. In a preserved forest, however, a dazzling array of very colourful butterflies were found alongside the duller ones. Researchers did not expect to find such a clear and consistent pattern, and say it opened up a new area of research on how habitat loss can shape diversity.“Discovering that forests are losing their colours was frightening and revelatory,” says Spaniol. “It felt like we were uncovering a hidden dimension of how species respond to environmental change, a dimension that had remained invisible until then, but is incredibly rich.” When the colour diversity decreases, it may signal the erosion of ecological functioning.Butterflies are often considered indicators of broader biodiversity trends, says Spaniol: “A decline in their colour diversity may reflect a loss of complexity in ecosystems as a whole, with potential cascading effects on other organisms and ecological processes.”Protecting nature-rich forests Tropical forests, such as the Santa Lúcia biological reserve in Brazil, encompass a wide range of microhabitats. The more complex the habitat, the more opportunities butterflies have to develop diverse traits From the Amazon rainforest to California to Spain, monoculture forests are being grown over huge areas. According to one estimate, eucalyptus plantations – among the most common type, farmed for wood pulp, timber and toilet paper – cover at least 22m hectares (54m acres) around the world.Researchers don’t know whether the impact of plantations is homogeneous across the planet. “Coffee and banana plantations are always green, and people associate green with nature, but they are not [natural],” says García-Roa.If nothing is done to protect native habitats and prevent the further loss of forests, many of the most colourful and ecologically specialised species of butterfly could disappear, leaving behind only a few generalist species. “This would mean not only a loss of beauty, but also the disruption of important ecological interactions that depend on colour signals,” says Spaniol.However, this outcome is not inevitable. Spaniol’s research found that forested habitats in the Amazon rainforest that have been regenerating for 30 years after being used as cattle pasture showed a remarkable increase in butterfly colour diversity. “We still have the opportunity to restore this colourful world,” he says.Find more age of extinction coverage here, and follow the biodiversity reporters Phoebe Weston and Patrick Greenfield in the Guardian app for more nature coverage

Ohio’s sole national forest could be wiped out as Trump targets land for logging

Over 80% of Wayne national forest classified as suitable for logging, drawing concern from localsIn the Appalachian foothills outside Athens, Ohio, more than 20,000 acres of forest land was mined for coal in the early 20th century, destroying miles upon miles of pristine woodlands.By the 1930s, the federal government had to step in, taking it out of private hands and establishing the Wayne national forest in an attempt to prevent further degradation. In the decades since, maple, oak and other hardwood trees have taken over, returning to nature a region previously better known for extraction. Continue reading...

In the Appalachian foothills outside Athens, Ohio, more than 20,000 acres of forest land was mined for coal in the early 20th century, destroying miles upon miles of pristine woodlands.By the 1930s, the federal government had to step in, taking it out of private hands and establishing the Wayne national forest in an attempt to prevent further degradation. In the decades since, maple, oak and other hardwood trees have taken over, returning to nature a region previously better known for extraction.Home to important waterways, the eastern hellbender salamander – an amphibian proposed for listing as an endangered species – hundreds of miles of trails and a host of other outdoor recreational activities, the Wayne national forest draws a quarter million visitors every year.“People use the national forest for fishing, hunting, whether they’re trail runners or cyclists or ATV or horseback riders [and] for camping,” says Molly Jo Stanley of the Ohio Environmental Council who lives several miles from its borders.All the while, underneath the forest floor, gob piles – a layer of coal waste material about a foot deep – is kept in place by the roots of millions of trees and plants.But now, with the Trump administration targeting 100m acres of forest across the country for logging, this critical wilderness area – Ohio’s sole national forest – could be wiped out.A man rides his ATV along a trail that runs through the Wayne national forest near Ironton, Ohio, in 2004. Photograph: Howie Mccormick/APTrump’s executive order was followed by a memo in April from the secretary for agriculture, Brooke Rollins, that established an “emergency declaration situation” that specifically identified the Wayne national forest as a site for lumber production. The memo also outlined the government’s intention to remove protections previously established by the National Environmental Policy Act.The US Forest Service manages almost 300,000 sq miles of 154 national forests around the country, of which about one-fourth is suitable for timber management. Tracts of trees are regularly sold to private and other lumber companies often following a bidding process. Staff shortages and a lack of interest from lumber buyers in recent years have resulted in the Forest Service missing its sales targets by around 10% on average over the past decade.But more than 80% of the Wayne national forest is classified as suitable for logging, drawing concern from locals.“This executive order is a sweeping set of rules that does not address the nuances of the forests across the country. [It] stated that it was to prevent forest fires. In Ohio, clear-cutting forests is not the way to prevent forest fires,” says Stanley.“While timbering is not inherently a bad thing, large-scale timbering has a lot of impact on our ecosystems. The roads that have to be built to access the timber cost the taxpayer more money than the revenue generated from these timbering projects.”Unlike the huge forests and wilderness areas of the American west, federal forests where the public can forage and enjoy nature are relatively uncommon in the industrial Midwest.On top of that, the large-scale removal of trees could fuel major leaching of pollutants that have remained in the soil from the mining days but which, without live tree roots keeping it in place, could flow into waterways, poisoning drinking water for local communities.Tens of millions of people depend on drinking water that originates upstream in national forests, say observers. The Ohio River, which has a greater discharge rate than the Colombia and Yukon Rivers, is just miles from one unit of the Wayne national forest.Other major threats resulting from clearcutting logging are increased fire risks and landslides, say experts.“Over and over, we’ve seen in Appalachia and across the country when you log areas, you potentially increase the danger of wildfires because you increase the roads that lead to 90% of wildfires [that occur] within a half-mile. Opening up big areas allows for more wind, leaves behind a lot of slash and tinder – logging companies only take the big trees,” says Will Harlan, a senior scientist at the Center of Biological Diversity, who has experienced firsthand the destruction of forests around Asheville, North Carolina, from last year’s devastating Hurricane Helene.“We saw here that the landslides after Hurricane Helene in the Pisgah and Nantahala national forests, many of those occurred where there were logging projects and logging roads.”Building and maintaining roads and culverts in forests has cost taxpayers billions of dollars over the decades.But advocates of harvesting lumber on public lands say it brings significant economic benefits to rural areas of the country that often find themselves with few other resources or opportunities for employment. In 2020, the Forest Service sold $183m worth of lumber from national forests, fueling tens of thousands of direct and indirect jobs.The most recent sale of Wayne national forest lumber was for over 300,000 cubic feet of hardwood and eastern white pine that took place in August. Logging in Ohio is worth over $1.1bn a year, with much of that concentrated in seven southeastern counties including Athens county.Questions sent by the Guardian to the US Forest Service and the Ohio forestry association querying whether logging could imperil drinking water sources for residents were not responded to.In Athens county, where the poverty rate is 11% above the national level and which ranks as the only county in Ohio facing persistent poverty over a period of decades, access to jobs is among the lowest in the state.In August, the closure of a paper mill that used low-grade locally sourced hardwood lumber and employed 800 people in Chillicothe, a town of 22,000 people two counties west of Athens, has sent the region into a tailspin. The mill had provided a ready processing site for local lumber since it was founded in 1847.All the while, conservationists question the need to log areas such as national forests especially as the US exported $3.5bn worth of lumber in 2021.“Ninety-eight per cent of forests in Ohio are privately-owned. Do we really need to be logging in the 2% that belongs to everyone?” asks Harlan.At the same time, Appalachia is set to be among the hardest-hit regions from long-term climate change due to topographical, funding and other challenges.“In Appalachia, we’ve been seeing historic flooding events,” says Stanley.“Without these intact forests, large-scale logging will absolutely impact and increase the potential for major flooding events. Intact forests are the best control that we have against that.”

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