Ecology

Fogust

On the  Northern California coast, Fogust is the cruelest month.  After March winds and April showers, we’ve endured May Gray, June Gloom and No-Sky July.  Once again, fog—dense  in the morning, wispy in the afternoon, ghostly at night—has overstayed its welcome. I miss not just the sun, but the stars and the moon and the annual meteor showers I’ve never glimpsed. 

But while I measure summer in sunshine, nature keeps its own calendar.  So in this alleged summer month, I try reframing my dreary thoughts.

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The Sexiest Tenants of the Tide Pool

They are the rock stars of marine invertebrates.  Fabulous and flamboyant, they live fast, reproduce furiously and die young.   But they are also evolutionary marvels:  chemical wizards, crafty thieves, sly poisoners—and the sexiest of intertidal residents.

Beachcombers call them sea slugs. Marine biologists categorize them as nudibranchs (rhymes with swanks and translates as “naked gills”), relatives of snails that shed their shells early in life. While many aquatic creatures rely on camouflage, nudibranchs flaunt eye-popping colors—regal purple, hot pink, electric blue, neon yellow—and exuberant patterns.

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Summer School for Seabirds

There’s a baby boom on the northern California coast.  

Cliffs and offshore rocks that seemed almost lifeless through winter are teeming with seabird families. Through my binoculars, I watch tiny Western Gulls wobbling on spindly pink legs, secretive Pigeon Guillemots ferrying fish into invisible nests, and Common Murres preparing their youngsters for one of the most astonishing leaps in the bird world.

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Tracking the Wild, Paw by Paw

I was tying my shoelace on a seaside path when I sensed something nearby—a paw pressed lightly into the dirt. A dog’s, I assumed. But then I noticed its hefty size and the soft blur of fur at its edges. Glancing upward, I found myself staring into the golden eyes of a bobcat.

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Bringing an  Endangered Sea Snail Back from the Brink

On a sunny January afternoon in Bodega Bay, some 70 miles north of San Francisco,  the White Abalone Culture Lab is humming with activity.

It’s spawning day. Alyssa Frederick, the lab’s program director, invites me into an industrial room full of troughs and tubs of bubbling seawater. The abalone program is tucked away in the UC Davis Bodega Marine Laboratory, a research facility devoted to studying ocean and coastal health. The goal is to bring the endangered sea snails, known for their iridescent shells and delicate meat, back from the brink.

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What’s A Sand Dollar Worth?

On a blustery March morning, I crouch at the Pacific’s edge to inspect a delicate white disc tossed onto the beach by the surging tide. Suddenly a passer-by shouts:

“They call them ‘dollars,’ but they aren’t worth anything!”

The naturalist in me bristles. I want to run after the stranger and make him look—really look—at the remarkable creature in my hand. Even in death, the intricate skeleton of a Pacific sand dollar (Dendraster excentricus) retains its elegance and beauty.

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Star Power

In the galaxy of shimmering sea stars, none shone brighter than the spectacular sunflower star. Bigger, bolder and hungrier than any of its kin, Pycnopodia helianthoides could unfurl as many as two dozen arms, rocket across the ocean floor and devour a purple sea urchin in moments. As an apex predator—dubbed the “Death Star” by awed divers—it feared none and was feared by all.

Then, almost overnight, it vanished.

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The Amazing Journey of Modern Whales

“Do you think whales ever walked the earth?”I thought the captain of a whale watch boat in Monterey Bay was asking a trick question.  But it’s no riddle—it’s a scientifically documented, evolutionary fact.

The largest creatures on the planet, whales are classified, along with dolphins and porpoises, as cetaceans, from an ancient Greek word for sea monster.  However, they descended from rather humble four-legged mammals that hunted and fished along the riverbanks of what is now Pakistan and India.

In one of evolution’s most dramatic U-turns, these land dwellers returned to the ocean from which their ancestors had emerged. In a geological blink—roughly 10 million years—they reshaped their bodies for an aquatic life. Fur thinned. Limbs flattened. Tails strengthened.  Nostrils began their slow migration to the top of the head. Hooves gave way to flukes

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