Yasuni: Into the Amazon

Hot air whipped across the tarmac, buffeting my face as I shielded my eyes from the harsh glint of the plane’s dorsum.  We were scheduled to arrive in Coca in just over 40 minutes.  From there, we’d board a boat that would take us the rest of the way to the Yasuni Research Station.  The previous two days had been spent in Ecuador’s capital of Quito, getting accustomed to the culture and enjoying the bustling markets and restaurants.  So far, the trip had been rather relaxing, but now the vacation was over.  We were leaving behind the comfortable high elevation temperatures and descending into the heart and humidity of Yasuni National Park,  some 5000 square miles of untouched Amazonian Rainforest.   

As we began our ascent, the landscape quickly fell away and became shrouded by a blanket of churning clouds.  I scanned out into the white void, my eyes taking a moment to process a very real landmass jutting out of the clouds like a snow-capped island—one small peak of the Andes.  The mountain top looked as if a giant hand had scraped it across the clouds, hockey puck style, leaving a bare skid-mark of clear sky in its wake.  

My view from our hostel in Quito.

I gawked out my window in astonishment.  Suddenly, the airplane rattled and I felt a heaving sensation in my stomach like I was on an elevator that had stopped too abruptly.  As I released my grip on each of my armrests, I had the unsettlingly realization that we had just dropped in altitude.  I looked up to see everyone else staring back at each other, silently confirming that we were not currently falling out of the sky.  A flight attendant rushed past, balled up napkins clenched tightly in her fists.  Just twenty minutes into the flight, the loudspeaker clicked back on.  The words were in Spanish, but I was able to make out that the speaker was saying something about Quito.  My confusion was answered a moment later when the voice switched to broken English and informed us that due to “personal difficulties” we would be returning to Quito immediately.  The flight attendant had been heading for the front of the plane—towards the pilot, I realized.  I returned to gripping my armrests.

During my two week stay in Ecuador, events like this would become commonplace.  Our professor, Dr. Harvey Ballard, and local guide, Daniel, were constantly scrambling to get us from destination to destination in a timely fashion.  With over a dozen Ohio University students to keep track of, this was no easy task.  I quickly learned to add at least an hour or two for each excursion, just to allow for mishaps and miscommunications to be sorted out.  The initial flight into the Amazon was certainly the most dramatic, but as the weeks progressed we’d find ourselves up river with a dead motor, stuck in a narrow alleyway in a bus, and I somehow managed to get separated from the group in the middle of the jungle on more than one occasion (all part of the adventure).

We had traveled to eastern Ecuador in order to study the plant life indigenous to the tropics.  Everyone knows the Amazon is the most biologically diverse place on earth, but just what that looks like at ground level has always been a mystery to me.  “You could find all of Ohio’s flora in a quarter mile stretch of rainforest,” Harvey had explained during preparation for the trip a few months earlier.  It has been estimated that as many as 655 different tree species can be found per hectare (Ohio has little over 100 total).  All that habitat provides for as many as 100,000 insect species in as little space.  If you don’t like creepy crawlies, then the tropics is not the place for you.  

As the plane rattled back to Quito, I focused on imagining the species I hoped to find over the coming weeks.  Thankfully, the landing was uneventful.  As we deplaned, however, an ambulance rushed over, sirens blazing.  A group of medics clad in blue and white rushed towards the cockpit.  Us passengers were herded onto a bus and whisked to a nearby plane.  Our luggage was already being loaded, but instead of boarding, we were returned to the terminal.  Two hours later we were back on the plane, and arrived in Coca in a little under the scheduled 40 minutes.  We never did learn the fate of our original pilot.

As we descended, the enormous expanse of the Amazon rainforest stretched to the horizon.  The tight network of trees looked exactly like a miniature diorama I had seen countless times at the Cleveland Zoo.  The trees thinned as we approached the City, just as if I were watching the diorama’s depiction of deforestation through its clever system of trick mirrors.  The air in Coca was hot and muggy with a distinct musty scent in the air; despite roads and concrete stretching out before us, I could tell that this was very much the rainforest.  We loaded our luggage into a series of taxis, and headed for the Napa River.  There, we boarded a 20 foot pontoon boat just as the sun was casting soft, golden light across the tree tops.

Ironically, this boat ride was the smoothest and most direct transportation of the whole trip.  We skimmed along the surface, barely effected by the water rippling just inches from where we sat.  My first up close look at the Amazon Rainforest did not disappoint.  Giant ceiba trees and palms of varying species lined the banks.  Parrots of unidentifiable numbers and species sailed over us in colorful flocks.  All I could make out of the birds along the bank were flashes of color—a blue blur perched on the end of a stick or yellow streaks flitting behind a patch of leaves.  The river itself was immense, stretching hundreds of feet from bank to bank.  The rich, brown water swirled around submerged logs, giving false hope that an Amazon river dolphin or Boto would appear.

A Ceiba Tree (Malvaceae).

We arrived at the Yasuni Check-In Station just as the sun had ducked behind the horizon and turned the ripples glistening shades of yellow and purple.  Our captain turned the boat  perpendicular with the shore, killed the engine and parked us centimeters away from another pontoon with surgical precision.  After a “five to ten” minute drive that ended an hour and a half later, we all descended upon the field station’s cafeteria.  After a silent meal of beans and plantains, we were free to explore the field station.

This moth has camouflaged itself by looking like a leaf.

All the buildings at Yasuni are elevated on stilts to keep the constant barrage of insects at bay.  Our dormitories were roomy and comfortable, and came with their own AC units (which proved to be a god send during the stiflingly hot Amazonian days).  I unloaded my pack on the top bunk, and quickly assembled my camera.  I was exhausted after the long day of travel, but sleep was the furthest thing from my mind.  It was as if I had been dropped into an alien world—who knew what oddities lay just outside.

A bullet ant (Paraponera clavata).

The rainforest doesn't really stop at the tree line; the creatures make themselves right at home among the station’s concrete paths, gravel roads, and mowed lawns.  Moths as big as my palms decorated the walls and flitted around the lights.  A few of my classmates discovered a stick insect that was the length of my forearm and twice as thick as a pencil.  Inch long Bullet ants (which are supposed to have the worst sting in the insect world) patrolled the tiled floors and regularly crawled up our wooden stools.  When outside of our rooms, we were required to wear muck boots at all times, checking inside for critters before putting them on (twice I discovered a lizard and the biggest cockroach I've ever seen inside).  

 A stick Insect the length of my forearm. 

The amphibian life around the station was just as diverse (more on them in a later post).  New species seemed to jump out from under our feet at almost every step.  We illuminated tree frogs sitting at eye level on the branches and giant marine toads hopping across the cement.  Hiding in a pipe under the dorms, we discovered an immense, brown and black frog that reminded me of our American bullfrogs.  We later identified it as a smokey jungle frog, and were a bit dismayed to read that it’s one of the most toxic species at Yasuni (we had rather carelessly picked it up).

Our little class of plant biology students scoured every nook and cranny of the field station that first night.  I kept having to leap up from whatever I was photographing to check out what new creature someone else had found.  One moment I would be focusing my lens on a tarantula, the next I would be running across the lawn to help catch a gecko.  I couldn't imagine what the next week would bring us. . .

A half-foot long grasshopper.

More soon.
Keep Living the Field Life.
Ryan Wagner

The Campus Hibernaculum

I close my eyes and listen for their quiet rustling.  Long, tube-like bodies create a distinct sliding sound, as they franticly zip through the leaf litter in a frenzied search for love.  Nothing is quite like the sound of a garter snake navigating its way through the understory.  It’s softer than the robin ruffling for insects in the substrate.  It’s smoother than the scampering of a chipmunk dashing along a log.  It persists as the gentle breeze tappers away into near silence.  Silence, except for that deliberate sliding.  Few sounds let me know instantly who is nearby, but just hearing doesn't always mean I’ll find my garter.  They are clever, secretive, and quick.  Patience, however, is often rewarded with the face of a skinny, striped reptile periscoping up at me through the tangles of vegetation.

Spot the garter snake.

It amazes me what people will miss when they aren't paying attention.  I am often stunned how oblivious folks can be to the wildlife and nature right in front of them.  I admit, some creatures can be a real challenge to spot.  I’ve stared in vain at the tangles of vines and foliage where a dozen other birders claimed a saw-whet owl was roosting.  My friend Carl Brune often stops to check out amphibians that I had mistaken for a lump of dirt or a stick.  Many animals are small, inconspicuous, secretive, camouflaged, or nocturnal.  Wildlife searching is a challenge and an adventure for these very reasons.  Animals aren't usually easy to find, and that’s what makes looking for them so much fun.  

On special and unique occasions, however, wildlife isn't hard to find.  Obvious examples include local backyard birds, squirrels, and deer.  There is beauty in the abundance and resilience of these creatures, but even I stop looking at every gray squirrel or American robin that crosses my path.  It’s a shame, but few are going to get inspired about nature and conservation from the animals they see every day.  Backyard wildlife gets written off as a nuisance, closing the link to a world beyond our doorstep.  It takes the unexpected to ignite curiosity.  But there again, lies the crux of the issue.  Folks don't know to be looking, and so they don't see what is right in front of them.  

I have watched dumbfounded, as groups of hikers overlooked a massive female snapping turtle, never realizing that the oddly ridged stone they were hopping over wasn't a stone at all.  I have seen others look right through the intense gaze of the local barred owl—never distinguishing her silhouette from her hemlock perch.  When possible, I try to bridge the gap, bringing to light what others have missed.  It is a delight to see joy spread across their faces as some new creature materializes before them.  “I never would have noticed that on my own,” is the usual response.  It breaks my heart to think of all the lost opportunities, because I know how powerful a connection to a wild creature can be.  It only takes one introduction to the natural world to spark a passion that can change an entire world view.

The campus hibernaculum.

In our modern, developed society, these introductions have become few and far between.  Most folks imagine the wonders of nature as something only read about in books or filmed by the BBC.  This is an unfortunate misinterpretation.  More often than most people realize, unfamiliar and fascinating creatures turn up where no sane biologist would start their search.  Like the wildflower pushing up through a sidewalk crack, animals find a way to make a living right next door.  

Had I known about the campus hibernaculum before coming to Ohio University, I would have had no question in my mind what college was right for me.  Tucked away on a vegetated hillside, smack dab in the center of campus, sits a refuge for dozens of scaly serpents.  Eastern garter snakes (Thamnophis sirtalis) and northern water snakes (Nerodia sipedon) have taken up residence in the rock face.  Every spring, they emerge to bask in the shrubbery along a frequently-used footpath.  Hundreds of students and professors pass within inches of the snakes every day without ever realizing it.  To calm the ophidiophobes among you, these are harmless species, growing to only a few feet in length.

The term hibernaculum refers to a location where reptiles overwinter.  A well-drained cavity within the rocks provides a hiding place during the harshest months of the year.  Here, the animals can slow down their metabolisms, reducing their energy use and need to feed. These hibernacula are often found on southward facing slopes, providing suitable basking spots in late winter and early spring.  I have observed as many as ten snakes out basking in February, with snow still on the ground.  Their tan and yellow stripes make for excellent camouflage against the forest floor.  It's that tell-tail sliding that gives them away. 

Garter snakes and water snakes exhibit a fascinating strategy of reproduction.  Males begin to patrol the leaf litter as soon as the weather peaks into the 50s.  Once a female emerges from the hibernaculum, males quickly swarm her, competing to be her mate.  Like a scene straight out of Indiana Jones, these "mating balls" usually consists of one female and up to several dozen males.  Once the males have locked onto the female's chemical cues, nothing can persuade them to leave her side.  They entwine themselves with her body and use their chins to caress her head.  The excitement may even frighten off the much larger female (up to three times the size of a male), in which case the frantic serpentine suitors will dart quickly after her.  

A garter snake mating ball.  Here two males (left) compete to mate with a large female (back right).

When breeding finally takes place, the female will develop the eggs inside her body for one hundred days. Garter snakes are ovoviviparous, meaning they give birth to live young.  Around twenty babies are born in late summer and fall, to which no maternal care is given. The neonate garters can fend for themselves from birth.  

While focused solely on reproduction, garter snakes can be exceedingly docile towards humans.  The males become so fixated on the task at hand, that they won't protest being plucked from the ground by a curious hand.  They may musk, but will rarely bite during this season of love-making.  Early spring, just after the snakes have emerged from the hibernaculum, can be the best time of year to admire these legless reptiles.  It is wonderful to see other folks taking stock of the nature right outside.  I have seen families with little kids exploring the shrubbery for snakes.  Professors with cameras in hand often peruse the earth as they pass by.  I have even come across other students interpreting to a huddled group of peers, watersnake in hand.  It's amazing what you will see when you take the time to look.