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  In November 1987, the first year of the breeding program, when Don went out at lunchtime to check the temperature (as he always did three times a day), he noticed that the soil in the center of a nest hole had sort of collapsed. “I saw a movement,” he said. He fetched a spoon and very carefully felt under the sand—“and out came a baby hatchling!” To be followed by many more.

  The First Step Is Trust

  The other person with whom I talked at length was Joanna Durbin, who became involved with the angonoka program in 1990. She told me about the fascinating experiences she and others of the team had as they struggled to gain the trust, the interest, and finally the support of the local villagers.

  At first, she told me, their only interest in the tortoises was to keep their chickens healthy. They certainly were not interested in conservation. Joanna was told that she should ask advice from the village elders, who told her (once they agreed to talk to her at all) that it was necessary for the conservation team to be accepted by the ancestors. She learned that King Ndranokosa, the last king of the region in the nineteenth century, often returned to his people and spoke to them through the voice of an elder. Quite often he attended village ceremonies.

  One day, Don took her to a village where a sick person was seeking help. For a day and a night, they sat and watched. There was much chanting, some villagers went into a trance-like state, various people from the past appeared, and old women became young men. After that marathon introduction, it was not long before Joanna met the king himself—speaking through an elder, of course. It was a successful meeting, at the end of which he pronounced that the conservation team should be accepted since they were friends of angonoka. A cultural event should take place to bring the villages together to discuss the need for conservation of the angonoka and its habitat. They should hold a festival.

  Eventually all was ready. The space was cleared in the traditional fashion by driving a huge herd of cows, some from each village, around and around through the undergrowth. There was singing, dancing, chanting, and a huge feast attended by the king himself. Remembering the trouble I had when I included, in my Gombe budget, money for sacrificial chickens, white robes, and so forth in order to exorcise black magic from our field site in the north, I asked Joanna who footed the bill. “The village elders organized it—the Durrell Trust paid for it,” she said.

  When, eventually, the time came to discuss the angonoka, it was decided that an area in the very heart of its habitat should be protected. “We used to manage our environment,” said one of the elders. “We know how to do it. But no one bothers anymore.”

  The habitat of the angonoka is in a remote area 150 miles from the breeding center. It was, Don told me, just too remote to site the center there. He did some fieldwork there himself, but the detailed study of the angonoka in the wild was carried out by Lora Smith. Her work—also part of the Durrell program—on the behavior and requirements of the tortoises enabled the team to locate the best area for the establishment of a protected habitat.

  A Trance, a Prayer, and Then a Release

  Of course, the ultimate goal of the breeding program—to put angonoka back into the wild—could not happen until there was enough safe habitat to make this feasible. So it was a good day when, in 1998, the Baly Bay area in northwest Madagascar, optimum habitat for the tortoises, was declared a national park. It would be protected by eight full-time guards and a network of forty village para-rangers watching for poachers and forest fires, working closely with the local police.

  Initially, a small number of juveniles were released and monitored. They adapted immediately, and their growth rate equaled that of their age mates in the breeding program. There were no deaths, no poaching, and no serious fires.

  The first large-scale release took place at the end of 2005, when twenty young angonoka were released into large temporary enclosures in the forest. The event is described in a newsletter of the British Chelonia Group (BCG), an organization dedicated to promoting the interests of tortoises and turtles that raises money for conservation projects worldwide.

  “We got to the village at dusk to a tumultuous welcome from the villagers who led us to a special palm thatched shelter decked out in greenery and flower chains,” wrote Richard Lewis, the conservation coordinator for the Madagascar Programme of the Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust. After speeches and an all-night dance (for those up to it!), the team and the tortoises finally set off for the forest the next morning. Everyone gathered at a small field station built at the edge of the forest. A spiritual leader offered a prayer, asking for the goodwill of the king and the ancestors. One of the elders went into a trance and spoke as the king, accepting the efforts being made by the conservation team.

  Finally the twenty young tortoises, oblivious of all the hard work, planning, and celebrations, were taken into the forest and put in groups of five in outdoor enclosures. There they stayed for a month, getting familiar with the new habitat before being released, equipped with radio transmitters stuck to their shells with glue.

  Over the next few years, more angonoka will be released into the wild. The success of the program is, of course, due to the commitment and dedication and hard work of so many people, including and especially the Durrell team—and Don Reid. And it is a program that will not be sustainable without the continuing goodwill of the local people.

  MY CHILDHOOD TORTOISES

  Writing this story brought back memories of my own two tortoises (not ploughshare!), which I had as a child. We had no knowledge of the pet trade that was endangering them in the wild, or the terrible conditions of their transport. The male, Percy Bysshe (because, with schoolgirl humor, he was “shell-y!”), was the first to arrive.

  One day, despite searching everywhere, it seemed he had escaped for good. To our amazement he turned up about six weeks later—followed by a female! How on earth he had found her, I cannot imagine, since tortoises were not very common in our area. I named her Harriett, and they became an all-but-inseparable pair. I suppose when she was receptive, he would follow her closely; when he got close behind, he withdrew his head and lunged forward to bump her shell with a loud crack.

  It seemed that he always became particularly amorous when my grandmother was entertaining in the garden at teatime. Then, when she failed to divert their attention, the little group of ladies, despite their Victorian sensibilities, would be riveted as, again and again, Percy struggled to mount the impregnable wall of his beloved’s shell, only to fall back as she, fed up with the whole procedure, simply walked away from under him. It’s a hard life, being a tortoise!

  My son rescued two females, with damaged shells, from the last shipment imported into England. When one died, the other seemed listless, and we thought she might die, too. To our amazement, she was befriended by the small black cat from next door. Day after day we would see him, curled up beside the lonely tortoise in her hutch. Eventually she went off to a colony in Chester Zoo, where she has adapted well.

  Formosan Landlocked Salmon

  (Oncorhynchus masou formosanus)

  I heard about this fish in 1996 during my first visit to Taiwan. I had gone there at the invitation of Jason Hu, at the time the director of the Government Information Office, responsible for foreign affairs. A father of two children, caring passionately for the environment, he felt that a high-profile visit of someone well known to the international conservation community would help him in his efforts to better protect the environment. I was able to have meaningful talks with key decision makers, there was a good deal of positive media coverage, and finally, just before I left the country, I was given an audience with Taiwan’s President Lee Teng-hui.

  It was a positive meeting. We talked about animals, the environment, and various conservation issues. I showed him some of the symbols I carry around the world—such as the flight feather of the California condor—and I asked him if he could think of anything I could take away to symbolize a Taiwanese success story. This is when he told me about the f
ight to save the Formosan landlocked salmon from extinction. I was fascinated by the story, but felt it would not be quite appropriate to travel around with a dried fish, as he suggested!

  Survivor from the Ice Age

  The Formosan salmon became landlocked during the last ice age, trapped in cold mountain streams. It is found only at elevations above five thousand feet in the Chichiawan Stream, where water temperatures can fall below sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Studies show that the salmon requires this exact temperature of extremely clean-flowing stream to survive.

  The joy of saving a unique species. Dr. Liao Lin-yan, a leading force behind Taiwan’s effort to save and restore the Formosan landlocked salmon. (Liao Lin-yan)

  At one time, it was plentiful and was a staple in the diet of the aboriginal people living there, who called it the bunban. But by the end of the last century, due to overfishing and pollution, there were only some four hundred individuals known to exist, making it one of the rarest fish in the world. If it was not to slide into extinction, something would have to be done.

  And in the late 1990s, something was done. A dedicated team from the Shei-pa National Park decided to protect and restore the fish. An important member of this team, Liao Lin-yan (a PhD candidate at the time), is especially committed to the cause. Unfortunately, during my last visit to Taiwan I was not able to meet with Dr. Liao Lin-yan. And as he cannot speak English nor I Chinese, we could not even talk on the telephone. But Kelly Kok, executive director of JGI-Taiwan, talked with him and translated the information he offered.

  Liao has loved animals since he was young. He initially wanted to be a veterinarian but was accepted into the department of aquaculture. “It’s quite the same thing really,” he said. “Fish get sick, too, and instead of helping individual animals, I get to help a whole pond of them!” After graduating, he applied successfully for a job at the Shei-pa National Park.

  “Because the Formosan landlocked salmon is a finicky species, needing clean water at the right temperature, and very particular about its diet, trying to restore them to the natural environment is difficult,” said Liao, “but our team was determined to make it happen.” They racked their brains to think of ways to increase the number of fry, and then spent sleepless nights persuading the young fish to feed. “The trouble is, they prefer live organisms,” Liao explained, “but water fleas are difficult to acquire in the mountains and shrimp is not an appropriate choice.” And so they had to be trained to eat fish food. Liao described how he made the food float about on the water, looking like live prey. “And once the more daring ones take their bites, the timid ones follow suit,” he said.

  When Liao began working on the project, the condition of the restoration ponds as a result of frequent typhoons and flooding was appalling—they looked like abandoned pits. And the equipment was inadequate and makeshift. “We really had a hard time back then,” Liao recalled. “The ponds were located far up in the mountains, and acquiring the most simple maintenance parts was a task.” Nevertheless, gradually they improved conditions.

  Risking Their Lives to Save the Salmon

  And then, in 2004, exceptionally strong typhoons struck Taiwan—and the team, out in the field, had to watch helplessly as the level of the water rose in the ponds, and precious fish were carried away by the floods. They battled to save as many as they could, but it was dangerous work and they were risking their lives—at any moment one of the team could have been swept away by racing floodwater. And not only were they losing fish, but both water and power supplies were cut off. The remaining fish were endangered by leaking tanks and by rising water temperatures. The team brought in an emergency water supply truck. They borrowed ice blocks from local hotels. The hard work of the previous few years had mostly been swept away. “It was a pity,” Liao said, “but we can always start all over again.”

  In fact, because of the disaster, the restoration team realized that the precious fish needed a safer environment, and they decided to establish the Formosan Landlocked Salmon Ecological Center in the Shei-pa National Park. It was not easy to raise the money, but after months of hard work they succeeded. In 2007 the center, with its comprehensive facilities to ensure constant power and water supplies, was complete. It was launched with a big celebration at which a dance troupe from the local elementary school performed traditional dances and sang tribal songs of the Atayal aboriginals. Each guest was given a sapling to plant to symbolize land rehabilitation and the protection of the bunban. “With teamwork, we can help the salmon fry breed in the ecological center and maintain the population at five thousand,” said the director of the park.

  That celebration launched the first of the center’s educational programs, Dialogue with Mother Nature, emphasizing the importance of protecting the environment and protecting endangered species—especially, of course, the “National Treasure Fish,” the Formosan landlocked salmon. Over the years since the project began, many scientists have been involved from national universities; the little fish has created a flurry of interest spanning many aspects of its prehistory, ecology, and behavior. The Taiwanese are proud of their unique landlocked salmon and are determined to do their best to protect it.

  The Need for Backup Populations

  Clearly there was a danger that the one population of Formosan landlocked salmon could be wiped out by typhoons or disease, and the recovery team decided it was necessary to try to establish additional populations as backups. After extensive surveys, they found two areas that seemed suitable, in the Szechiehlan and Nanhu Rivers. Dr. Liao told me that some one thousand fish have been released into the new sites. A survey conducted after two years found schools of eighty to ninety salmon in the Szechiehlan River containing second-generation fish; in the Nanhu River, about forty young fish were found.

  Thus the outlook for the long-term survival of the Formosan landlocked salmon gradually improved. By 2008, the national parks team had worked for ten years to protect the Chichiawan River Basin area, and the number of salmon there has remained fairly stable, at around two thousand individuals, over the past few years. A big difference from the few hundred that existed at the start of the restoration project.

  A Very Special Memory

  I asked Kelly to contact Liao one more time to see if he could share with us a personal story. He wrote about something that happened when he joined the team in 1999. “The first time I attempted to capture a salmon for artificial insemination, I was very concerned as to whether I would get the right fish—a female that we could successfully inseminate. There were about five hundred wild salmon out in the Qijiawan Creek—how could I be sure that I would get the right one? I faced my task with trepidation and hoped for all the luck I could get.”

  By then, the team had discovered that the best way to capture a mature salmon was to use fishnets, working at night so that no shadows were cast on the water. On this occasion, Liao was in charge of the group that headed for the creek to cast the nets; another group was waiting in the lab to receive any fish caught. “We cast around for three full hours on that trip,” Liao remembered. “Every time we cast the net, we checked our results eagerly.” But again and again the nets were empty, and at the end of the three hours they had caught only one salmon, a male. As they were all absolutely exhausted, they decided to call it a night.

  “But then,” said Liao, “I spotted a female salmon lying near the bank; she was apparently full of eggs. I caught her, and together with the male fish, we rushed back to the lab.” The excitement and suspense came through along with the words. “It turned out that my salmon was ready to lay her eggs. All we had to do was gently squeeze them out and inseminate them. There were over six hundred eggs! I was told that it was the most beautiful female salmon they had ever seen. It was truly my lucky fish!”

  Because of his work, Liao has had to spend a lot of time away from his home in Keelung, which is a three-hour drive away. But he said that, although his work is hard, “the sight of a freed salmon swimming with ease in the river mor
e than compensates me for my sacrifices.” Liao is always reminding everyone that each one of us must do our bit to help protect our planet. “Fish cannot survive in polluted waters,” he told me, “but neither can we!” And he speculated that “if the Formosan landlocked salmon becomes extinct, it may be that human beings will eventually disappear from earth as well.”

  Vancouver Island Marmot

  (Marmota vancouverensis)

  These marmots, about the size of a domestic cat and weighing between five and fifteen pounds, are extraordinarily attractive. With their thick chocolate-brown fur, white muzzles, and engaging expressions, they look just like characters in a Walt Disney classic. Historically, they lived on Vancouver Island in the sub-alpine meadows that are created and maintained by avalanches, snow-creep, storms, and fire. Such meadows tend to be rare on Vancouver Island, which is why these marmots have never become more plentiful.

  It was not until 1910, when some were killed to provide museum specimens, that the Vancouver Island marmot was recognized by science as a species. After this, confirmed sightings were rare until 1973, when Doug Heard of the University of British Columbia began studying marmot behavior in two colonies. Several years later, local naturalists began systematic population counts. And in 1987, Andrew Bryant began a study that, originally planned as a short-term master’s project, has already lasted more than twenty years! It has involved him, deeply, in efforts to prevent the Vancouver marmot from toppling over the brink into oblivion.

  Meet Andrew Bryant, Marmot Man