Into Thin Ice

To track changes in sea ice, the Norwegian research vessel Lance drifted along with it for five months in 2015, on a rare voyage from Arctic winter into spring. Photo: Andy Isaacson

FIRST PUBLISHED IN NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC, JANUARY 2016

THE SEA ICE THAT BLANKETS THE ARCTIC OCEAN isn’t the unbroken white mantle depicted in maps. It’s a jigsaw puzzle of restless floes that are constantly colliding, deforming, and fracturing from the force of wind and ocean currents. Last February I stood shivering on the deck of the Lance, an old Norwegian research vessel, as it picked a path through a labyrinth of navigable fractures. A barren white plain of ice and snow extended to the horizon in every direction. The ship’s steel hull shuddered and screeched as it plowed through floating chunks of jagged ice. The Lance was seeking a solid patch of ice to attach to—the last one had shattered—so that it could resume its erratic drift across the frozen sea, charting the fate of Arctic sea ice by going with the floe.

The Norwegians have done this before, more than a century ago, when polar explorer Fridtjof Nansen and the Fram were locked in pack ice for nearly three years during a vain attempt to drift across the North Pole. But the Arctic is a different ocean now. The air above it has warmed on average about 5 degrees Fahrenheit in the past century, more than twice the global average. Much less of the ocean is covered by ice, and much more of that ice is thinner, seasonal ice rather than thick, old floes. A feedback loop with far-reaching consequences has taken effect: As white ice is replaced in summer by dark ocean water, which absorbs more sunlight, the water and air heat further—amplifying the ongoing thaw.

“The Arctic warms first, most, and fastest,” explains Kim Holmén, the long-bearded international director of the Norwegian Polar Institute (NPI), which operates theLance. Climate models predict that by as early as 2040 it will be possible in summer to sail across open water to the North Pole.

Arctic sea ice helps cool the whole planet by reflecting sunlight back into space. So its loss inevitably will affect the climate and weather beyond the Arctic, but precisely how remains unclear. Better forecasts require better data on sea ice and its shifting, uneven distribution. “Most scientific cruises to the Arctic are conducted in summer, and this is where we have the most field data,” says Gunnar Spreen, an NPI sea-ice physicist I met on board the Lance. “The continuous changes that occur from winter into spring are a huge gap in our understanding.”

On the Lance’s five-month mission its rotating crew of international scientists would investigate the causes and effects of ice loss by monitoring the ice across its entire seasonal life cycle—from the time when it formed in winter until it melted in summer.

A few days after photographer Nick Cobbing and I joined the ship by icebreaker and helicopter from Longyearbyen, on the island of Spitsbergen in the Svalbard archipelago—the base for NPI’s Arctic operations—the Lance steamed to 83 degrees north, just west of Russian territory. The scientists singled out a half-mile-wide floe of predominantly seasonal ice that they hoped to study. The crew tethered the vessel to the floe with nylon ropes attached to thick metal poles driven into the ice. They shut off the main engine. Isolated and in near darkness, we began our wayward drift and our month-long shift in the ice desert.

Like homesteaders, the scientists established camps on the floe, pitching tents and laying electric cables. Physicists like Spreen mapped the ice topography with lasers and recorded the thickness and temperature of the snow on top. Oceanographers bored a hole through the ice to gather data about the water and the currents. Meteorologists erected masts carrying instruments to collect weather data and measure greenhouse gases. Biologists searched for ice algae, which look like dirt and live on the underside of the ice and in the channels of trapped brine left after newly formed sea ice expels salt. In a few weeks, after the returning sun cast aside the cloak of polar night and began filtering through the melting floe, the scientists would watch the ecosystem awaken.

Temperatures regularly plunged to 30 degrees below zero Fahrenheit. Scientists had to contend with numb fingers, snapped cables, and crippled electronic instruments, along with the danger of roving polar bears. “This is really extreme science,” one researcher said.

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Photo: Andy Isaacson

IN 2007 THE UN INTERGOVERNMENTAL PANEL ON CLIMATE CHANGE (IPCC) warned that the impacts of climate change in the Arctic over the next century “will exceed the impacts forecast for many other regions and will produce feedbacks that will have globally significant consequences.” Nearly a decade later this grim forecast is already being borne out. Probably no region has been more affected by climate change than the Arctic. Permafrost is thawing, and the land is greening, as tree lines creep north and shrubs and grasses invade the tundra. Certain populations of polar bears, walruses, and caribou have suffered significant declines. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) oceanographer James Overland says, “The Arctic really is the canary showing that climate change is real.”

Since 1979, when satellite records began, the Arctic has lost more than half its volume of ice, which has diminished in both overall area and thickness. The frozen area shrinks to its annual minimum in September, at summer’s end. In September 2012 its extent was just half the average during the 1980s and ’90s. The maximum ice extent in winter, usually reached in March, also is declining, though at a slower rate; its average thickness has decreased by half. What was once mostly a layer of 10- to 13-foot-thick ice floes that lingered for years—perennial ice—has given way to large tracts of thinner, less reflective ice that forms and melts during a single year. Sea-ice coverage has always fluctuated naturally, but there’s little doubt among scientists that man-made greenhouse gases are now accelerating its decline. “Old, thick sea ice was a global reservoir for cold, but that is now changing,” Overland says.

An entire ecosystem is melting away. The loss of sea ice may take a toll on some of the photosynthesizing organisms that fuel the marine food chain—single-celled algae that live under the ice and bloom in the spring when the light returns. Changes in the magnitude and timing of these blooms, as winter ice retreats faster and earlier, may throw off the life cycle of tiny, fatty zooplankton called copepods, which eat the algae and are in turn eaten by arctic cod, seabirds, and bowhead whales. For marine mammals such as the polar bear, Pacific walrus, and ringed seal, the loss of hundreds of thousands of square miles of sea ice has already been devastating. “It’s like someone took the floor out from under you,” says Kristin Laidre, a polar scientist at the University of Washington.

The assumption is that later this century, without a home field, these animals will simply lose all competitive advantage. Killer whales, for example, are likely to replace polar bears as the top marine predators, as bears retreat to the dwindling remnants of summer sea ice. Though polar bears sometimes spend time on land, where lately a few have been hybridizing with grizzlies, Ian Stirling of the University of Alberta, a leading polar bear expert, dismisses any notion that they could survive long-term on land as “wishful thinking.” Ice-free conditions are likely to draw in other competitors—zooplankton (maybe less fatty and nutritious ones), fish, seals—from more temperate waters.

Ice loss is also making the Arctic even more vulnerable to ocean acidification, another effect of rising atmospheric carbon dioxide. Cold water absorbs more CO₂ than warm water does, and more cold water is now open to the air. As the water acidifies, it loses carbonate. Within the next 15 years it may no longer contain enough for animals such as sea snails and Alaska king crabs to construct and maintain their calcium-carbonate shells.

The upshot of all this, as Stirling bluntly puts it: “The Arctic marine ecosystem as we know it now will no longer exist.”

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Photo: Andy Isaacson

WARMER AIR ABOVE THE OCEAN BASIN IS PROJECTED TO SPILL DOWN over the surrounding coasts of Russia, Alaska, and Canada, causing feedback effects as far as 900 miles inland, including accelerated melting of the Greenland ice sheet and large emissions of carbon dioxide and methane from thawing tundra. IPCC models forecast that the total loss of summer sea ice may in itself cause one-third of the warming of the Northern Hemisphere and 14 percent of total global warming by the end of the century.

How a rapidly warming Arctic will influence weather across the hemisphere is a bit hazier. Atmospheric scientists Jennifer Francis at Rutgers University and Steve Vavrus at the University of Wisconsin have suggested that people in the continental United States already may be feeling the effects of melting Arctic sea ice—especially in the past two winters in the east, which made “polar vortex” household words.

The polar vortex is the mass of cold air that’s normally confined over the Pole by the polar jet stream—the high-altitude, fast-moving torrent of air that snakes around the Pole from west to east. The jet stream draws most of its energy from the contrast in temperature and pressure between the frigid air to its north and the warmer air to the south. As sea-ice loss amplifies the warming in the Arctic, the Francis theory goes, that contrast is reduced, weakening the jet stream’s westerly winds. It becomes a lazier, more sinuous river, with large meanders that extend far to the south and north. Because the meanders advance slowly across the map, whatever weather they enfold persists for a long time. During the past two winters the wavier pattern allowed Arctic air and extreme snow to beset New England and drought to linger over California. The melting Arctic may be affecting weather elsewhere too. Korean researchers have linked extreme winters in East Asia to air-circulation changes caused specifically by ice loss in the Barents-Kara Sea.

It’s a neat theory, but parts of it remain “fuzzy,” Francis admits. Also, many researchers who study atmospheric dynamics aren’t buying it. A more plausible explanation for the wavier jet stream and the southward excursions of the polar vortex, some of them argue, is the influence of the tropical Pacific, which is a far more powerful source of heat than the Arctic. It will take years of data gathering and modeling to settle the debate.

In any case, as the warming of the planet continues, cold spells of any kind will become less common. Even if sharp limits on greenhouse gas emissions are adopted over the next 20 years, the decline of sea ice will continue for decades. “We’re on a one-way trip and not going back,” says Overland. A further rise of 4 degrees Celsius (7.2 degrees Fahrenheit) in the Arctic is all but assured by mid-century, he says, enough to keep the ocean ice free for at least two months of the year, enough to change the seasons there—“enough to affect everything.”

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Photo: Andy Isaacson

IN LATE JUNE, DURING THE FINAL PHASE OF THEIR EXPEDITION, the scientists aboard theLance awoke to discover that the latest ice floe they’d attached to was disintegrating too. They scrambled to salvage their gear before it became flotsam. It was time to pack up anyway. The vessel by that point had spent 111 days in the ice, tethered to different floes for several weeks at a time—logging altogether some 4,000 nautical miles across the Arctic. Polar bears had crossed its path, sometimes pausing to play with the scientists’ strange-looking electronic instruments. Storms had bulldozed huge blocks of ice high against the ship, elevating it above the surface. The Lance’s crew had bested the researchers in a soccer match on the floe. Over the next couple of years the 68 scientists involved will be hunkered in their warm labs, making sense of all the data they gathered.

One morning in March, under a dusky blue sky, I had joined Gunnar Spreen and another NPI researcher, Anja Rösel, on one of their periodic forays to measure changes in the ice floe’s thickness. We each wore insulated armor—jumpsuit, balaclava, goggles, gloves, mittens over the gloves. The scientists brought along a snow-depth probe, a GPS device, and an orange plastic sled carrying the ice-thickness instrument, which works by inducing an electric current in the seawater below. I carried a flare gun and a .30-06-caliber rifle: bear protection. Following a mile-long path staked by bamboo poles, we trudged over dunelike snowdrifts and pressure ridges—slabs of sea ice pushed up by colliding floes—that looked like crumbling stone walls. Every few feet Spreen stopped and plunged the depth gauge into the snowpack until it beeped to indicate that the measurement was complete.

Arctic warming seemed an abstract concept that day—I couldn’t really feel my toes—but across the icescape, Spreen saw evidence of change. “This is an unusual amount of snow,” he noted. Two feet of it lay beneath our moon boots, twice the amount in a typical year. One data point doesn’t make a trend, but this one was consistent with model forecasts: As sea ice shrinks, the extra heat and water vapor released from the open water into the lower atmosphere should generate more precipitation.

More snow falling on a glacier on land would be a good thing, because that’s how glaciers grow—by accumulating layers of snow so thick that the stuff at the bottom gets compressed into ice. But sea ice forms when cold air freezes seawater, and snow falling on top of it acts as an insulating blanket that slows the growth of the ice. As it happened, two weeks after my walk with Spreen, the National Snow and Ice Data Center in Colorado announced that Arctic sea ice had already reached its maximum extent for the winter in late February—much earlier than usual. It was the lowest maximum the satellites had ever recorded.

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Photo: Andy Isaacson

By Foot into Peru’s Lost World

Photos by: Andy Isaacson

FIRST PUBLISHED IN BIOGRAPHIC, JUNE 2016

“The way we’re exploring this is not much different from how Humboldt or Wallace or Darwin got to these places 200 years ago,” José Padial explained one morning last February, as gauzy light slanted into a forest clearing deep in Peru’s remote Vilcabamba Range. His team had just slashed through a mile of steep jungle with machetes, collecting dozens of specimens—from iridescent lizards to unremarkable brown frogs—many of which appeared to be new to science. Padial had almost trampled on a bushmaster, one of the hemisphere’s most dangerous snakes, and now heard rumors that some members of the local Asháninka community were plotting to block him from leaving their territory with specimens he had government permission to collect. Camped just below 2,000 meters (6,500 feet) in a damp patch of cloud forest, the herpetologist was two weeks into his expedition but still several days from his goal—the isolated grasslands atop one of South America’s least explored mountain ranges. His most reliable source of navigating the team’s route there were some low-resolution images he’d printed from Google Earth.

Not that any trail map—or trail—existed. Few humans had ever set foot on the upper reaches of the Vilcabamba Range, a northeastern spur of the Andes that juts like an archipelago into the sea of Amazon jungle. And fewer still in the half-century since two wealthy New Yorkers, Brooks Baekeland and Peter Gimbel, became the first to do so, dropping by parachute onto a 10,500-foot-high grassy plateau in 1963. Lured by stories of Incan gold, ruins, “Indian taboos” and “sacrificial lakes in the sky,” the explorers instead encountered a primeval landscape of soggy Sphagnum bog, hilly prairie, and stands of pygmy bamboo. With two companions, they spent more than two months bushwhacking down to the Amazon basin, surviving blinding wasp stings and spooked natives with bows drawn. National Geographic’s title of the account suggested a fairytale: “By Parachute into Peru’s Lost World.” Baekeland, the grandson of the inventor of Bakelite plastic, would later recall the pioneering trek “as though in a nightmare.”

“Part of me wonders if we should have parachuted into the upper part of Vilcabamba,” Padial wrote on the expedition’s Tumblr blog before leaving Pittsburgh, where the 39-year-old Spaniard serves as the Carnegie Museum of Natural History’s assistant curator of amphibians and reptiles. He knew that reaching the highlands by foot—during the height of the rainy season—would be a slog. He’d tried before, in 2008, but never made it above 1,800 meters (6,000 feet). Improvising a route through steep, tangled jungle and schlepping tents, tarps, cooking pots, camera gear, solar panels, and food for at least a dozen people between successive base camps required ample trailblazers and porters. Padial expected to have little trouble finding local Asháninka willing to work, and offered more than twice the going wage. Still, he struggled to recruit just six of them. The cold, lofty terrain, the time away from families—most able-bodied workers simply didn’t care for the job description. One porter bruised his knee after a week and went home. Another, a 14-year-old named “John Clever,” shot a kinkajou, a raccoon-like creature one night, and after gutting and smoking the animal until morning, descended with it and never returned.

Scientific exploration in the remotest parts of the world is impossible to script. Every one of Padial’s expeditions has involved some unanticipated mishap, some checked ambition. The previous year, while exploring a rugged swath of Amazonian jungle along Peru’s border with Brazil, his team showed up at an Asháninka community with 20 days’ worth of gear and provisions, and permits from local officials granting access through the territory. The community welcomed them, offered shelter for one night, and then, refused to let them pass. Complications like this come with the territory, however, and for Padial and the other biologists are the cost of achieving the ultimate goal: finding something no human has ever seen. “We all have this draw of early explorers,” he told me. “We want to go to those places where no one has been before, and be the first to find these animals.”

There is scientific importance to such a quest, of course. Each discovery brings new perspective about the planet’s biological diversity, and helps us understand how much we are losing every time we decide to bulldoze or clear-cut an area. “At the least, we leave a record behind of what there was there at a time,” Padial says. Simply knowing what lives where also helps to fill gaps in the tree of life, the genealogical relationships among species. Every undiscovered organism out there, Padial explains, is a missing link in our understanding of evolution as a whole, as species are the entities that actually evolve.

“If you don’t discover these species and give them a name, they pass unnoticed. They don’t exist.”

The Vilcabamba is filled with unnamed species, Padial believes. Biologists have long suspected that its range of elevations and wide variety of habitat types harbor a tremendous diversity of animals and plants. The few scientific expeditions ever to have penetrated its vast, untrammeled wilderness encountered several new species in “unexpected habitats or in surprising abundance,” according to one account. Logging, natural gas and oil exploration, and agriculture now threaten to fracture this pristine picture, and Padial hopes that by shedding light on the region’s richness, this expedition—officially titled the Carnegie Discoverers Expedition to Vilcabamba—might begin to make the case for its protection.

In camp, Padial poured himself a cup of rainwater-brewed coffee, and then gathered his team around an improvised table made of sticks to devise a way forward. Smoke billowed from the cooking fire, nestled against the base of a tree trunk, over which moss-covered logs had been stacked to dry. Padial laid out his Google Earth printouts and a topographic map. The satellite images showed a birds-eye view of the densely forested ridgeline they’d been tracing, the same ridgeline that continued to rise sharply above them to 2,500 meters (8,000 feet), zigzagging for a couple miles, and then sloping gradually toward a hilly prairie at around 3,200 meters (10,500 feet).

It was impossible to tell how long it might take to get there, but they had ten days to try. The team—six biologists (Spanish and Peruvian), a cook (also a Peruvian biologist), and Padial’s girlfriend, a Mexican dancer and filmmaker—was used to the uncertainties and deprivations of expedition life, anyway. Most had joined Padial on previous amphibian and reptile surveys. They hadn’t showered for days, and wore damp underwear and socks. By past standards of luxury, the French-press coffee maker that Padial had secured this time represented something five-star. More importantly, they’d heard the Vilcabamba highlands concealed a herpetological Lost City of the Incas, an irresistible quarry: frogs, toads, lizards, and snakes found nowhere else on Earth.

Padial had been looking for lost places ten years earlier, when he first spotted the 110-mile long mountain range while flying around South America on Google Earth. A rocky massif fringed with green, the Vilcabamba called to mind the tabletop mountains, called tepuis—the inspiration for Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Lost World”—that loom above the Venezuelan jungle like islands in the sky and host species found nowhere else on Earth. “It looked high and isolated,” Padial recalls. “I thought, ‘Wow, it would be amazing to go there.’”

The Vilcabamba Range emerges out of the steamy Amazonian lowlands, at an elevation of around 450 meters (1,500 feet), and climbs to a jagged, central crest above 4,200 meters (14,000 feet). The local native groups—the Asháninka, Matsiguenga, Nomatsiguenga, and Yine—never settled the lofty interior, finding it too cold, wet, and lacking good soil and game. It remains largely virgin, free of roads, and enjoying token protection within the boundaries of Otishi National Park and two indigenous reserves. Cut off from the eastern slope of the Andes by the Apurimac and Ene rivers, a main source of the Amazon, and moated by deep valleys and gorges on all sides, its isolation has set the stage for a wide range of endemic flora and fauna to evolve. A frog living at 2,000 meters (6,500 feet) in the Vilcabamba cloud forest would have a long way to hop across several thousand vertical feet, through several foreign habitats, to reach familiar turf across the Apurimac. No chance. “The species that live in the upper area have probably been isolated from the rest of their relatives for a very long time,” Padial explained. Exactly how long these organisms have been isolated is one of the things he and the others aim to figure out.

The mountains are in a rich neighborhood already, ecologically speaking. The tropical Andes is considered one of the world’s 35 biodiversity “hotspots,” boasting the highest percentage of endemic plant and vertebrate species—creatures like the yellow-eared parrot (Ognorhynchus icterotis) and spectacled bear (Tremarctos ornatus). A recent survey of Manu National Park and its buffer zone, along the eastern slope of the Andes in southeastern Peru, counted 287 reptile and amphibian species (as well as more than 1,000 species of birds—around 10 percent of the world’s total) living there alone: the most diversity found in any protected area on the planet.

The few research efforts undertaken in the Vilcabamba Range over the years have managed to paint a picture of exceptional biodiversity. In the late 1960s, American ornithologists John Terborgh and John Weske mounted a series of landmark expeditions to study bird community structure along an altitudinal gradient from 600 to 3,520 meters (2,000 to 11,500 feet)—basically what Padial hoped to mimic for amphibians and reptiles. They recorded 405 species on the mountains’ western slopes alone. (It’s estimated that the Vilcabamba Range may contain more than half of all bird species known from Peru.) Then, in 1997, Conservation International and Smithsonian Institution surveys found many new species, including a pale grey tree rat the size of a domestic cat. Their report declared the area “a special place in relation to biodiversity.”

Padial’s first expedition there was sort of a misadventure. In 2008, he and his former PhD advisor, Ignacio de la Riva, a biologist from Spain’s National Museum of Natural Sciences, led a team that attempted to reach the highlands by following a river upstream from Kimbiri, a tropical town along the Apurimac. Mapping a distance of five miles, Padial figured they could get there in two days of solid hiking. The terrain, however, proved far steeper, muddier and harder to penetrate than one could glean from a satellite image. After two weeks, exhausted and hungry, they turned back.

Padial knew better this time. He spent two years planning the expedition, securing funds from Carnegie Museum donors and permits from Peruvian government agencies. He’d negotiated delicately with the residents of Marontuari, the Asháninka community at the base of the ridge, gamely sipping their alcoholic homebrew of fermented yucca root from a hollowed gourd as they spoke about the threats to their territory from encroaching coca plantations and a planned hydroelectric dam, as well as their reservations about Padial himself. “They are very suspicious about what we do with the samples,” he says. “To them, it's just weird, the whole idea of conservation—that someone goes and collects these animals that no one pays attention to. If you put money into something, [they figure] you're going to get something.”

Rather than clamber upriver, his plan this time was to drive an hour into the Vilcabamba up a dirt road from Pichari, a sleepy town along the Apurimac, until it dead-ended in Marontuari. Bushwhacking from there to the highlands, his team would pitch successive base camps—where flat ground permitted—as the environment transitioned from lowland montane forest to cloud forest, elfin forest, and finally, the Puna grasslands, a treeless region found across the central Andes between 3,200 and 4,000 meters (10,500 and 13,000 feet).

When Baekeland’s team parachuted there in the 1960s, they glimpsed an Andean spectacled bear and a Peruvian puma, but little else. Three decades later, the biologists working with Conservation International—landing by helicopter—spotted guinea pigs, numerous grass mice, and a large arboreal rodent (family Abrocomidae) that resembled one known only from bones excavated from pre-Columbian burial sites at Machu Picchu, farther south. They collected just four species of reptiles and amphibians—three frogs and one lizard—but all appeared new to science.

For Padial, the promise of scientific discovery is what had lured him to herpetology. As an undergraduate in Spain, studying biology, he volunteered on a couple of field expeditions in the Bolivian jungle and kept finding it a struggle to identify the amphibians and reptiles he observed. Even today, no general field guide yet exists for reptiles and amphibians of the Amazon. While some 7,500 species of amphibians have been identified worldwide, untold thousands remain at large. Since 1985, the total number of recognized species has increased by more than 60 percent—a new species of amphibian is described in the scientific literature every 2.5 days. Yet knowledge of their diversity and distribution pales in comparison to what scientists understand about birds and mammals. “It’s just amazing how much there is to do,” Padial says.

In the past decade, he’s launched several successful, globe-spanning expeditions, including three trips to Mauritania that resulted in the first species accounts of amphibians and reptiles for that country, as well as a pioneering excursion into Peru’s Alto Purús National Park, a wild, poorly known patch of Amazonian rainforest home to several uncontacted nomadic tribes, that yielded several new species.

Putting animals on the map of science can serve a conservation goal, too. The Vilcabamba Range stands as one of the last intact tropical montane forests left in South America, a species-rich belt that once ran the length of the eastern Andes, from northern Venezuela south to Bolivia. Yet along its lower flanks, the elevation holding the most biodiversity, the forest is being destroyed at an alarming rate to make way for coca and coffee plantations. Illegal logging also chips away. Much of the interior is within the bounds of two indigenous reserves and Otishi National Park, but the park’s staff, which includes eight rangers charged with policing 1,100 square miles (an area the size of United States’ Yosemite National Park), have few resources to combat encroachment, not to mention drug traffickers traipsing around with weapons. Perhaps by shedding a light on the unique and extraordinary life in the Vilcabamba, scientific efforts like Padial’s could help Otishi acquire the resources needed for more robust protection, like those afforded to Manu National Park. And maybe somewhere high in “Peru’s Lost World” there lives a charismatic, endemic species of frog yet to be discovered that could become an emblem for conservation.

Throughout the expedition, the scientists often encountered animals by happenstance—a lizard found skittering between campfire logs, a frog startled during a walk to pee. But since many amphibians are nocturnal, the best chance of finding them is to go probing after dark. One evening at Camp 2, as with most nights, Padial and the others strapped on headlamps and set out to collect. He wore rubber boots, square-rimmed glasses, and a collared shirt with pens tucked into the breast pocket. The group fanned out along with trail, walking slowly. They scanned leaves and tree trunks and poked at the wet leaf litter with sticks. Soon, Padial’s light reflected off the eyes of a small brown frog perched haplessly atop a leaf. He snatched the animal up, and holding it under the beam of his headlamp by its legs, gave it a quick taxonomic spot check.

Padial specializes in New World “direct developers” (Terrarana), a sprawling group of frog families ranging from Texas to northern Argentina. Instead of laying eggs in water that hatch into tadpoles, Terrarana frogs deposit their eggs in moist dirt, or moss, out of which emerge fully formed juveniles. Most of the frogs and toads in the Vilcabamba were of this type, as the steep slopes allow for few ponds or standing water.

Padial could tell immediately that the frog belonged to the genusPristimantis, a large group of mostly terrestrial direct developers. But he was looking for traits that might help place the frog more precisely on the family tree. Did it have an exposed tympanum (ear drum)? Sticky toe pads? Was its belly transparent or pigmented, glandular or smooth? What kind of dot pattern colored the inner thigh for signaling the opposite sex? A few days earlier, Padial had collected a frog that at first glance resembled one he’d collected on a previous trip to the Amazon. But on closer inspection, he noticed its sharper snout and transparent peritoneum, the spider web like membrane covering the organs that on some frogs is pigmented. “Those are like the differences between a chimp and a human, like being fully covered by hair or not,” Padial explained. “I think it was a new species.” 

He plopped the Pristimantis into a clear plastic bag along with some leaves to keep the frog moist. Searching for and catching animals was the fun part—Padial had been doing that since he was a kid, hunting snakes near his grandfather’s house on the outskirts of Granada, Spain. Later came the humdrum tasks: measuring frogs, counting scales, and analyzing anatomy, bone structure, mating calls, genes, distribution patterns and climate data. “You need music for that,” Padial confessed. The team’s forest lab amounted to a stick table covered by a rain poncho, surrounded by bags containing frogs, toads and lizards. Each specimen was first euthanized with a dose of Lidocaine, the numbing drug used by dentists, and tagged with a number. With tweezers, the researchers would then extract a tiny sample of thigh tissue for later genetic analysis, and finally inject formalin to fix the animal’s shape.

With data from his two Vilcabamba expeditions, combined with findings from the CI-Smithsonian surveys in the 90s—the herpetological specimens collected then had yet to be fully analyzed—Padial hoped to assemble the best existing catalog of amphibians and reptiles in the Vilcabamba Range.

Although Padial and his team made important discoveries on the way up, in a sense this was all a means to an end. The ultimate goal was to survey the Vilcabamba’s upper reaches, a haven for endemic species. On the third week, an advance team that included Padial, a Asháninka father and son from Marontuari, and Angel Castellano, an Otishi park ranger, managed to hack a way through to 2,760 meters (9,055 feet). Their track wound past twisted branches carpeted with epiphytic mosses, and sprawling tree root systems that required vertical rock-climbing maneuvers. Passing over gaps in the vegetation where losing one’s footing could mean falling off a precipice, it made the well-maintained Pacific Crest Trail look like the Champs-Élysées by comparison.

Along the exposed ridge top, the cloud forest became a bushy elfin forest of tree ferns, bamboo, and reedy grasses. During breaks in the fog, creeping up from the valley, you could make out the jagged crest of the Vilcabamba Range, still some distance above. The change in scenery came with a host of new creatures; species like the cartoonishly bloated cane toad and electric blue poison-dart frog the team collected around Camp 1 were nowhere to be found. “It’s like going from Florida to Oregon—two different worlds,” Padial said of the transition. The biologists stumbled across what is likely an undocumented species of snake with vertical pupils and a black belly, and a tan-colored frog with orange eyes that is completely different from anything they’d found before. “We knew that if we could reach high altitude in this area we would find lots of new stuff,” he says.

Finding new frogs wasn’t like reaching a lost Incan city, admittedly. For the most part, the herpetologists reacted to each of their discoveries with the kind of enthusiasm a beachcomber might greet a curious shell or weird bit of flotsam.

But if there was any trophy Padial wanted from the Vilcabamba—a feather in his cap—it was a species of marsupial frog from the genus Gastrotheca, which carry their brood in dorsal pouches like eggs in a backpack. He knew that no Gastrotheca species from the area had yet been named, but he felt certain one must exist. “I would bet that the one here is probably cool,” he said. Camping in a humid dell a thousand feet below the grasslands, Padial and the others began hearing the unique tak-ta-tak call of a marsupial frog over the drizzle. The call would start and stop at random times, like a taunt.

One night after a meal of quinoa soup and dried meat, Padial went out looking with Giuseppe Gagliardi, a biologist at the Peruvian Amazon Research Institute (IIAP). Gagliardi, who has lived all his life in Iquitos on the banks of the Amazon River, has a special knack for spotting frogs, and would have taken home first prize on the expedition had there been such a count.
At this higher, colder elevation, frogs and especially lizard populations were a fraction of what they were in the Amazon lowlands, but as the two walked through foliage dripping wet from fog and daily downpours, Padial sensed even lower frog activity than expected, probably due to the moonlight that filtered through the canopy. “We are always concerned about how many times the moon is going to be glowing when we plan the expedition,” he explained.

Gagliardi let out a forceful whistle, which sometimes stimulates frogs to vocalize. Not long after, they homed in on a Gastrothecacalling from high in a tree. Gagliardi took off his backpack and began to shimmy up the tree, breaking off decaying branches and bromeliads as he climbed. Suddenly, the calls stopped. Gagliardi paused and dangled there for a few minutes, but the frog never called again.

A month earlier, when Padial first arrived in Pichari at the start of the expedition, the director of Otishi National Park had introduced him to local military officials, who, in a gesture of goodwill and good public relations, offered to airlift the scientists by helicopter into the remote, central grasslands of the Vilcabamba Range. It was hard to refuse such a gift. But over the course of the expedition, nailing down that ride proved to be a relentless distraction. The general who’d extended the offer was reassigned, the military had other priorities, and the only means of receiving news from Pichari was a cell signal at 8,600 feet in the wilderness. Now, with possibly just two days of bushwhacking ahead of them before reaching the Puna—it was impossible to say for sure just how long it would take—word came that the helicopter was on.

Padial was torn. His team had spent three weeks gradually advancing up the mountain by then, erecting camps and hauling provisions. They’d already made a comprehensive inventory of the reptiles and amphibians living between 900 and 2,900 meters (3,000 and 9,500 feet), which had never been done before. With another thousand feet of thick forest to go, they were poised to break tree line, beyond which they’d face a much clearer path towards the Vilcabamba’s highest elevations. Flying there by helicopter would depend on both the fickle generosity of a local military commander and even more capricious weather. Padial had misgivings about packing everything up and hiking down. It was a gamble. 

Still, time was running out, and the path ahead by foot was anything but certain. In a few days, he would lose three members of his team to prior commitments, and after Angel, the park ranger, sliced his leg with a machete, he was down to only two trailblazers. With hot showers and a rotisserie chicken meal beckoning below, Padial decided to wager on the airlift.

A few afternoons later, with clean clothes and high spirits, the team arrived at a walled-off military compound on the outskirts of Pichari. The airspace above the Apurímac valley was sunny and clear, although high in the Vilcabamba the skies appeared ominous.

“Buenissima,” Padial said, taking it all in. “I can't believe it.” Then he corrected himself. “Well, I'll believe it once we put our feet on that marshy grassland.” After posing for a group photo with the smiling regional general, the scientists boarded the Mil Mi-17 helicopter parked on the airfield.

The helicopter rose above Pichari, and banked around the Apurímac, ascending toward the Vilcabamba crest. The Asháninka, Efrain and his son Wilbur, snapped pictures with their cell phones as the helicopter flew over Marontuari and traced the Pichari River, following the ridgeline the team had spent weeks hiking. Beyond that, the virgin interior of the Vilcabamba unfurled below like a green shag rug, creased with steep-walled canyons and punctuated by waterfalls.

As the helicopter climbed to nearly 4,000 meters (12,500 feet), it encountered a thick, chalky cloud ceiling that blanketed the upper mountains. The pilot maneuvered to find a visible path through into the highland plateau, where Padial had provided GPS coordinates for a couple of sites that, at least from satellite pictures, appeared suitable for setting up a camp. But the clouds were impenetrable. The helicopter flew in a wide circle to gain altitude: still more clouds. Stymied, the co-pilot signaled to Padial that they would have to abort the flight.

Courtesy of BioGraphic

The next morning, and for the rest of that day, it poured in Pichari. With each dreary hour, Padial began to lose hope that the weather would allow another attempt in the helicopter. The military also let it be known that the ride offer had an expiration—24 hours. At daybreak the following morning, with clouds choking the upper slopes of the mountains—a familiar sight nearly every day of the four-week expedition—the team began packing for home.
Padial was crestfallen—they’d come so frustratingly close. He was annoyed at having put all his chips on the military’s shaky promise of a ride. “We lost a week in which we could've ascended,” he said.

Seated over ginger noodle soup that night from a street vendor in Pichari, he tried to cast the whole experience in a happier light. “The good part is that scientifically we found a lot of stuff, some beautiful new samples,” he said. Padial estimated that the expedition had yielded 14 species that are new to science, including an iguanid lizard with a sharp spiny crest, a beautiful green arboreal snake with a large bold black spot on each side of its head, and two species of Terrarana frogs belonging to a poorly known group that lives in leaf litter on the forest floor.

“It could've been a lot worse,” he conceded. “There could have been an accident. Someone could’ve fallen into the river.” Padial admitted to feeling relief after the team passed back through Marontuari without an incident, as he’d heard some unhappy residents were plotting to block his exit in protest.

The 30-minute helicopter flyover—offering a view of Vilcabamba’s rugged interior that few have ever witnessed—only whet Padial’s appetite even further. “I was like, ‘Wow, this is even more astonishing than I thought!’” he said over dinner. “The landscape is so much more impressive than you can see on the maps.”

Padial felt that despite falling short of his goal—a comprehensive inventory of reptiles and amphibians of the Vilcabamba from top to bottom—the expedition had demonstrated, or perhaps confirmed, something important: the Vilcabamba Range is home to many new species and many more awaiting discovery. This knowledge, he hoped, might motivate other researchers to search the area for different kinds of organisms, and over time, raise the profile of Otishi National Park as a place of unique and extraordinary biodiversity—a place worthy of future protection.

Padial’s team managed to walk out of the jungle with a bunch of specimens and tissue samples, as well as audio and video recordings, of very rare species that had never been recorded, photographed, or analyzed genetically before. All of that novel material would eventually be deposited in public collections and made available to anyone. With it, he and other researchers could begin building phylogenetic trees of species from the Vilcabamba Range, inferring when these animals split from relatives, how environmental changes have affected them, and how they got there in the first place.

Padial also believed that his efforts made a case for the value of going out and traipsing through nature in search of novel organisms—for the merit of old-fashioned fieldwork—at a time when our collective attention, and funding for science, has pivoted toward endeavors deemed relevant for technological progress: robotics, gene sequencing, and the like.
“We can tell the scientific community to leave their comfy chairs and do more fieldwork—and provide more funding for it—because we’re far from knowing what’s living out there,” he told me. “If you can still go to a place so close to a paved road and find 10 to 14 new species of frogs and reptiles in a couple of weeks, imagine how much there is still to do.”

And of course Padial continues to heed the call himself. Shortly after returning to Pittsburgh from Peru, in early March, he emailed to say that he’d already managed to secure funding to go back to the Vilcabamba in 2017.

“This time during the dry season,” he added. 
 

Facing Polar Bears, Isolation, Researchers Explore Arctic Sea Ice

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The R/V Lance. Credit: Andy Isaacson

FIRST PUBLISHED IN NATIONALGEOGRAPHIC.COM, MARCH 19, 2015

82.44 DEGREES NORTH—We've drifted across the frozen Arctic for 30 days. Four miles here, ten miles there—a squiggly red line on the ship's digital chart is the only measure of progress.

Trapped in ice, the Lance meanders at the mercy of wind and current. Some days, low, moist clouds engulf the ship from the south; on others, cold northerly winds chill it by 50 degrees. Switched off at this latitude for four months of the year, the sun now rises higher each morning, casting long shadows off surface ice ridges and snowdrifts as it traces a low arc across the horizon.

From January to June, in six-week stints, scientists are on board the Lance, a research vessel operated by the Norwegian Polar Institute (NPI), to study how the ocean, atmosphere, snow, ice, and biology all interact in the Arctic amid a backdrop of significant warming. "Right now we're just trying to take as much as we can, because this is a one-off opportunity to get this data," said Amelie Meyer, an NPI oceanographer. "And nobody's got it."

Isolation has settled in. The Lance is currently some 250 nautical miles from another human dwelling or vessel—farther than the distance between New York and Washington, D.C.

At one point, a polar bear crossed our path, paused for several days to sniff at the weather masts and strange-looking electronic instruments it encountered, and then eventually moved on.

A bioluminescent jellyfish happened by a hole bored in the sea ice one day, drawing excitement: signs of life! The other night, a marine biologist sat elated at her microscope as it magnified a rare glimpse of an amphipod, caught in a net that day from 200 meters (656 feet) below, giving birth to ten offspring.

People refer to life on board as "The Bubble." Snippets of world news leak in through email, via satellite, like communiqués from another planet. What date is it today? Certain things just fade from mind. "It's kind of comforting to not be bothered by all of ordinary life's problems," admitted Algot Peterson, a Norwegian oceanographer. Without smartphones or the Internet, he said, "you actually sit and talk to each other."

Absence of distractions also brings into sharper focus the task at hand. 

Each day, worker bees in yellow-and-black jumpsuits drag children's sleds laden with tools and equipment to their study sites across the ice floe. They analyze it from every angle. With a thermometer and a scale, a snow physicist stands thigh-deep in a snow pit, measuring the temperature and density of the different layers of snowpack to discern how much it insulates the sea ice from the cool atmosphere above. A Japanese biogeochemist deploys a robot that traps and measures carbon dioxide emissions off newly formed sea ice, its surface ornamented with delicate bouquets of salty ice crystals known as frost flowers. Nearby, sea ice physicists drill ice cores that they'll analyze for their internal crystalline structure, which holds clues to the environmental conditions under which the ice grew.

Farther below, warm Atlantic seawater, which passes between Iceland and Norway as it enters the Arctic, lies beneath a 100-meter-thick (328 feet) layer of cold surface water. Several times a week, oceanographers send down instruments that probe these layers of seawater to determine how much—and when—they mix, as heat from the Atlantic water influences ice thickness and its extent across the Arctic.

Woosok Moon, a researcher from the University of Cambridge, tries to make sense of all the data. In his cramped cabin on board the Lance, he spends evenings scribbling arcane equations into a notebook, which no one else seems to understand.

Much more than mid-latitude environments, Moon explained, the Arctic sea ice system, especially in the summer, is highly sensitive to any disturbances. As more bright ice melts and is replaced by dark ocean, for example, more solar energy is absorbed in the water, raising temperatures of the ocean and air that in turn melt more ice—a process known as the ice-albedo feedback.But other feedback loops counteract that process. "It's like an unstable person, bothered by neighborhood noise one day, and a gentleman the next. It's very hard to make future predictions about erratic behavior."

Moon is trying to forecast the status of the Arctic sea ice by building a stochastic model, which is similar to the models used to make stock market predictions. It concedes that there are certain behaviors of sea ice that are simply too complicated and too unknown to try to force into a model—how two ice floes located side by side can vary in thickness, for example—but it maintains that with a deep understanding of the basic physics driving sea ice growth and melting, one can narrow the uncertainties enough to make a reasonable prediction.

As Moon sat inside the Lance, 34-mile-an-hour winds swept in from the south. They pushed the ship in the opposite direction of its planned drift back to Spitzbergen, undoing two days of southward progress in a matter of hours. The temperature shot from minus 22 degrees F (-30°C) to 32 degrees F (0°C) overnight, eventually settling back to minus 7 (-22°). The ice floes hemming in the Lance, meanwhile, slowly became unstitched.

First one crack here, then another, the fractures slowly widened until the ship was separated from the various study sites across the floe by gaping channels of exposed seawater, which began radiating smoky vapor. One split took down a 33-foot-high (10 meters) weather mast in the atmospheric science quarter. A GPS station began to drift its own way. There went the neighborhood.

Also, the boat was stuck. The industrious crew spent the next two days trying to dislodge the Lance from nearly 18 feet (5.5 meters) of ice blocks that had nestled under its bow during a storm two weeks earlier. A tranquil week of data collection suddenly turned into an instrument rescue mission. It was time to pack up and abandon the floe—if only the boat could set loose.

Many, naturally, had anticipated such a disturbance. "That's uncertainty," Moon joked.