From above, an intact forest can look reassuringly complete. A satellite image may show an unbroken canopy, a block of green still standing amid plantations, roads or logged land. For many conservation programs, that view has become the starting point for measurement. If the canopy remains, the forest is often treated as if much of its ecological value remains as well. The forest itself may tell a more complicated story. Birds, insects, frogs and primates divide the day among them. Some call at dawn, others at night. Some occupy narrow frequency bands; others fill the background with a steady rasp. A forest that looks intact can still lose part of this living structure. The canopy may close after logging. Carbon may remain on a balance sheet. The animal community may not return in the same form. Garnet Pitta. Photo by Hanyrol Hanyzan Ahmad Sah A new paper in Global Change Biology, by Zuzana Buřivalová and colleagues, examines that problem through sound. The study describes the Soundscape Baselines Project, an effort to record the acoustic signatures of some of the world’s remaining intact forests before those reference points become harder to find. The idea is straightforward. To know whether a forest has changed, one needs to know what it sounded like before the change. That baseline is not only a technical convenience. It is a guard against a familiar problem in conservation: each generation tends to accept the nature it first encountered as normal. Daniel Pauly called this shifting baseline syndrome…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Founder’s Briefs: An occasional series where Mongabay founder Rhett Ayers Butler shares analysis, perspectives and story summaries. The platypus offers a useful lesson in conservation: before acting, it helps to know where the animal still lives, and where risks are growing. Australia’s best-known oddity is also difficult to count, reports contributor Paul Harvey for Mongabay. It feeds around dawn and dusk, spends much of its life underwater in rivers, and leaves few obvious signs. That makes its decline harder to measure and harder to manage. The IUCN Red List classifies the species as near threatened, based on an estimate of about 50,000 animals, though researchers say the true number is uncertain. That uncertainty has become more important as pressure on rivers increases. Drought can shrink the pools where platypuses feed. Bushfires can damage riverbanks and nearby vegetation. Floods can inundate burrows before animals can escape. Pollution from wastewater, mining, industry, and urban runoff can reduce the aquatic invertebrates that make up much of their diet. There is room for optimism because scientists have now developed a framework for deciding when to help platypuses where they are and when animals may need to be moved. Zoos are also preparing for a clearer role in emergencies, including temporary care for animals stranded by drought, fire, or flood. Citizen science can help close the information gap. Projects that map sightings show where platypuses are still being seen. Environmental DNA, collected from water samples, can detect their presence without needing to trap or even…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Tuna offer a useful case study for World Ocean Day because their recovery has come through the least sentimental parts of conservation: quotas, enforcement, stock assessments, and years of difficult diplomacy. By the early 2010s, several tuna stocks were in serious trouble. Atlantic bluefin had become a marker of overfishing. Pacific bluefin had fallen to a small fraction of its historic abundance. The risk was ecological and commercial. Governments were looking at the possible collapse of one of the world’s most valuable fisheries. The response was slow, contested, and often technical. Regional fisheries bodies tightened catch limits, improved monitoring, began adopting automated harvest rules, and expanded electronic catch-documentation systems to make illegal and unreported fishing harder to hide. Fleets built around high catches had to accept lower quotas. The politics were difficult because the countries involved often had competing economic interests. That is part of what makes the outcome worth studying. Atlantic bluefin are showing strong signs of recovery, backed by decades of tagging, catch data, and population modeling. Pacific bluefin reached a key rebuilding target years ahead of schedule. Across commercial tuna fisheries, a much larger share of global catch now comes from stocks assessed as being at healthy levels. This does not mean the oceans have returned to abundance. Some stocks, particularly Indian Ocean yellowfin, remain in poor condition. Rebuilding to 20% of historic biomass is a critical scientific milestone for safety, not total restoration. Bycatch of sharks, turtles, and seabirds remains a serious problem, and some regional…This article was originally published on Mongabay

The short-eared dog is one of the Amazon’s least-known carnivores. In Bolivia, it’s also one of the hardest to find. The species has a fox-like snout, small rounded ears, partially webbed toes, and a long bushy tail that often drags on the forest floor. In Spanish, it’s sometimes called perro fantasma, or ghost dog, a name that reflects how rarely even field biologists encounter it. A long-running camera-trap study has now brought the species into sharper focus, reports Iván Paredes Tamayo. Over more than two decades, researchers recorded the short-eared dog in Bolivia’s lowland Amazonian forests, in piedmont forests near the Andes, and in large protected and Indigenous-managed landscapes. The results suggest the animal may be present in more places than earlier records showed. That is useful evidence, although it doesn’t make the species common. It remains scarce, elusive, and closely linked to well-preserved forest. For conservation groups, land managers, and funders, the findings suggest the short-eared dog depends on large, connected areas of habitat. Small forest fragments are unlikely to provide what it needs. Its presence can help identify places where forests are still functioning well, especially where protected areas and Indigenous territories keep intact habitat at scale. The finding also shows why long-term monitoring matters. Rare species are easy to miss in short surveys. A camera trap may sit for months without recording one. A study that runs across years, landscapes, and management types can reveal patterns that would otherwise remain hidden. The short-eared dog will probably never…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Thomas Crowther begins his book with a snakebite that was not, in any conventional sense, dangerous. The danger came from interpretation. A misidentified species, a surge of fear, and a body that responded as if the threat were real: numbness spread, panic intensified, and the situation escalated until a second opinion dissolved it almost instantly. The episode is more than an anecdote. It sets the terms of Nature’s Echo, a book that treats cause and effect not as linear sequences so much as loops that can amplify themselves in either direction. Thomas Crowther That idea—feedback loops as the underlying architecture of the natural world—is the organizing principle of the book. Crowther traces it from cosmology to ecology to human psychology, moving across scales with considerable ambition. The early chapters move outward from the origin of matter, suggesting that the same reinforcing processes that allowed stars to form also underpin biological evolution and social behavior. It is an ambitious framing. At its best, it brings a sense of coherence to subjects that are often treated separately. At times, the scope of the framework requires readers to travel across very different domains and scales of thought. The structure reflects that expansiveness. The table of contents alone signals the range: from “Cause and Effect” and “Feedback Loops” through “Resilience and Tipping Points” and into “The Story We Tell Ourselves.” The progression is deliberate. Crowther starts with physical systems, moves into ecological stability, and then into the social and psychological domains where perception begins…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Founder’s Briefs: An occasional series where Mongabay founder Rhett Ayers Butler shares analysis, perspectives and story summaries. The European wildcat is not one conservation story, but several. In the Czech Republic’s Lusatian Mountains, the signs are encouraging. Conservationists have found a male and female wildcat, which they named Jonáš and Tonka, the first recorded in the region in nearly a century. Tonka has since given birth to at least three kittens. For a species once pushed out by habitat loss, persecution, and the spread of domestic cats, that is a meaningful foothold, reports contributor Sean Mowbray for Mongabay. The animal itself is easy to overlook. The European wildcat (Felis silvestris) is roughly the size of a large housecat and lives mostly out of sight in forests. The species, found across Europe, is listed as least concern on the IUCN Red List. That label can make the picture look simpler than it is. Yet its fortunes vary sharply from place to place. In parts of Central Europe, wildcats are moving back into former habitat as forests recover and hunting pressure has fallen. Germany and France show what can happen when habitat protection, legal safeguards, and time line up. Italy, too, has seen enough progress for the species to be downlisted nationally. Elsewhere, the picture is much more fragile. In Scotland, the wildcat was declared functionally extinct in the wild in 2018. A breeding and release program in Cairngorms National Park, in the Scottish Highlands, is now trying to rebuild a population…This article was originally published on Mongabay

La Moskitia, on Nicaragua’s Caribbean coast, is often treated in Managua as a frontier: timber, gold, cattle, rivers, votes, and military concern. To the Miskitu, Sumu-Mayangna, Rama, Garífuna, and Creole peoples who live there, it is older than the Nicaraguan state. Its forests, savannas, rivers, and marine life are part of a political claim as well as a homeland. The demand has long been plain enough: land, autonomy, and a say over what happens there. Brooklyn Rivera Bryan spent most of his life carrying that demand into war, negotiation, electoral politics, exile, and prison. Known in Miskitu communities as Taupla Brooklyn, he died on May 30th, aged 73, in the custody of Daniel Ortega’s government. He had been detained since September 2023. For months the government denied holding him. It later acknowledged his imprisonment. No public trial was held. His family was denied visits. His public life began after the Sandinista revolution of 1979, when the new government sought to draw the Atlantic Coast into a national project directed from the Pacific. The Miskitu experience of that project was marked by surveillance, arrests, violence, and forced displacement. In 1981 Rivera was arrested while leading Misurasata, an Indigenous organization whose name linked the Miskitu, Sumu, Rama, and Sandinistas. By 1982, thousands of Miskitu had been moved from villages along the Río Coco. Many fled to Honduras. Rivera’s cause was narrower and more durable than the Cold War frame around him: an autonomous Indigenous territory in Yapti Tasba, the aboriginal homeland. That…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Thomas Crowther’s career has been shaped by large claims about small things. A seed, a patch of soil, a soundscape, a moment of fear, a local restoration project: each, in his telling, can become part of a larger system of cause and effect. His new book, Nature’s Echo, is built around that idea. Feedback loops, he argues, are not just a feature of ecology. They are among the forces that formed stars, spread life across Earth, drive climate change, and may yet help repair damaged ecosystems. Crowther, a British ecologist, became one of the best-known figures in global ecology while at ETH Zurich, where he founded the Crowther Lab and built a large interdisciplinary research group. His work helped popularize the idea that ecosystem restoration could play a major role in addressing climate change, especially after a 2019 Science paper on the potential for additional tree cover drew worldwide attention, as well as criticism from scientists who warned against simplistic tree-planting narratives. His work also helped give rise to the World Economic Forum’s Trillion Trees initiative, and he has served as co-chair of the advisory board to the U.N. Decade on Ecosystem Restoration. He is also the founder of Restor, an open-data platform that connects conservation and restoration initiatives around the world. Screenshot of the Restor interface. That public profile has made Crowther both influential and contested. In 2024 he was also at the center of a dispute over his departure from ETH Zurich. The university said its decision followed…This article was originally published on Mongabay

At Bradford Island, near Bonneville Dam, the river carried more than water. Beneath the surface of the Columbia were toxic sediments, dumped near a place where Yakama people had fished since time immemorial. To officials, it was a cleanup site. To the Yakama Nation, it was a usual and accustomed fishing place, protected by treaty. To Davis Washines, known to many as Yellowash, it was also a crime scene. The victims, he said, were first the water, then the salmon and other life that depended on it, and then the people who depended on them. He did not speak that way for emphasis. He spoke from a life spent moving between law enforcement, ceremony, public service, and the river. Evidence mattered to him. So did harm, responsibility, and the obligations carried through Yakama law, culture, and memory. Yellowash died on May 1st, at his home in White Swan, Washington. He was 74. By then he had held many titles: Yakama Tribal Police chief, Columbia River Inter-Tribal Fish Commission police chief, member of the Yakama Tribal Council, chairman of the Yakama Nation General Council, government relations liaison in the Yakama Nation Department of Natural Resources, trustee, board chair, counselor, teacher, and ceremonial leader. The titles marked a long public life. They did not fully describe it. He began that life in public service in 1973 with the Yakama Tribal Police Department and rose to chief in 1986. He later returned to that role, and then became chief of police for the…This article was originally published on Mongabay

Founder’s Briefs: An occasional series where Mongabay founder Rhett Ayers Butler shares analysis, perspectives and story summaries. Conservation journalists are facing a new issue: AI-generated wildlife imagery. The issue is not just that fake images exist. That has long been true. What has changed is how convincing synthetic wildlife photos and videos have become, how cheaply they can be made, and how quickly they can spread. A clip can move through Facebook, WhatsApp, TikTok, or even LinkedIn before anyone has checked whether it shows a real animal, a real place, or a real event. That matters because wildlife images carry an implicit claim. A photograph of a rare animal, a camera-trap still, or a video of unusual behavior usually tells the viewer: this happened. As generative AI improves, that assumption needs more scrutiny. The risks are not theoretical. False videos of animal attacks can deepen fear in places where human-wildlife conflict is already difficult to manage. Fabricated images of wild animals behaving like pets can feed demand for the exotic pet trade. Misleading footage of rare species can absorb the time of researchers, journalists, NGOs, and public agencies that have to determine whether an event actually occurred. It also changes the work of newsrooms. At Mongabay, we now spend more time looking at sourcing, provenance, metadata, reverse-image searches, forensic tools, and whether a photographer, researcher, or institution is known and trusted. AI detectors can occasionally help in some cases, but they cannot settle the question. False positives and false negatives…This article was originally published on Mongabay

In the Amazon, a forest can remain on the map while losing much of what makes it function. The Amazon rainforest is often discussed through a few familiar measures: deforestation, carbon, protected areas, and tipping points. Each is useful. But they do not fully explain why biodiversity continues to decline even where maps still show forest, laws exist, and international pledges sound ambitious. A territory can be recognized and still be invaded. A satellite can detect illegal clearing and still fail to trigger a penalty. A story can describe crisis and still leave readers unsure what can be done. Six gaps help explain the problem: finance and forest economy, governance, enforcement, forest function, Indigenous rights, and narrative. They overlap in ways that make each harder to close. The finance and forest-economy gap Protecting forests costs money every year. It requires staff, transport, monitoring, community work, legal support, fire control, restoration, and the ability to respond when illegal actors arrive. Yet the money available for those tasks remains far below the scale of the problem. Globally, UNEP estimates that forest investments need to reach about $300 billion a year by 2030 to meet climate, biodiversity, and land-degradation targets. The report also notes that this figure excludes some enabling conditions, including governance and law enforcement, which means the true need is probably higher. The Brazilian Amazon shows the imbalance more clearly. WWF and Conservation Strategy Fund estimate that Brazil needs about $12.8 billion a year to meet forest policy goals. Current positive…This article was originally published on Mongabay