The caldera has generated large amounts of ash over geologic history. One 12-million-year-old deposit of Yellowstone ash at Ashfall State Park in Nebraska entombed rhinoceros, horses, camels and birds that had gathered around a watering hole and today provide paleontologists with a deep view of ancient ecology.

For links to recent scientific reports about the caldera, see this page on Volcano World at Oregon State.

Adam Schultz (Photo: Dennis Wolverton, courtesy of the Oregon Stater magazine)

A professor of geology and geophysics, Adam Schultz received his Ph.D. at the University of Washington in 1986. He came to Oregon State University in 2003 and directs the National Geoelectromagnetic Facility, which loans geophysics equipment to scientists, industry and government. His research interests include geothermal systems, the Cascade volcanic arc, the Cascadia subduction zone and innovative geophysical imaging techniques.

His research has been funded by the National Science Foundation, the Department of Energy, and a variety of other federal, industry and foreign funding sources.

This 3-D view of the magmatic system beneath the Snake River Plain and Yellowstone National Park is inferred from magnetotelluric data. At each point on this surface, the magnetic field has a constant or lower value. The actual locations at which data were collected are shown by the dots on top. Yellowstone is indicated with an open circle. Note the conductive pathway to the Yellowstone caldera from beneath the eastern Snake River Plain. (Figure courtesy of Anna Kelbert. Source: Kelbert A., Egbert G.D., deGroot-Hedlin C. 2012. “Crust and upper mantle electrical conductivity beneath the Yellowstone Hotspot Track” Geology, v. 40, p. 447-450, doi:10.1130/G32655.1)

A geological mystery lies beneath the majestic beauty of Yellowstone National Park. Once thought solved, the enigma continues to unfold through the lens of a young science known as magnetotellurics.

As accepted theory goes, over the past 16 million years a rising plume of magma in the Earth’s mantle produced massive amounts of lava and ash in a path stretching from the Snake River Plain to its current caldera — a volcanic crater in Wyoming, the Yellowstone “supervolcano.” It is widely believed that the Yellowstone caldera currently sits on top of that hotspot, a vertical “blowtorch” in the mantle beneath the Earth’s crust. The North American tectonic plate slowly creeps over the plume of magma, no faster than the rate at which fingernails grow. The plume sometimes oozes and other times violently erupts lava across an area the size of Rhode Island. Adam Schultz, a geophysics professor in Oregon State University’s College of Earth, Ocean, and Atmospheric Sciences, describes this mantle hotspot idea as “almost a cartoon view that Earth scientists have of why you get features like Yellowstone.”

Magnetotellurics (MT), the study of the Earth’s electric and magnetic fields, may turn this cartoon view on its head. The use of magnetotelluric surveys has exploded in the last decade thanks to progress in computing technology and geophysical instrumentation. Schultz’s colleagues at Oregon State — Anna Kelbert and Gary Egbert  — have used magnetotellurics to reveal that large volumes of partially molten rock and potentially superheated water (hydrothermal systems) snake west underneath the crust and into the uppermost mantle west of Yellowstone. This molten trail continues westward along much of the Snake River Plain in Idaho and into Oregon. These findings complicate the expectation that a nearly vertical magma plume lies directly under the present day Yellowstone supervolcano, which was what is anticipated from a hotspot. Magnetotellurics has opened doors to stunning breakthroughs and fascinating discoveries, providing new perspectives that were once invisible to science.

Research assistant Tristan Peery, left, and Adam Schultz are analyzing changes in subsurface rock as part of a geothermal energy study by AltaRock, Inc. (Photo: Dennis Wolverton, courtesy of the Oregon Stater magazine)

From Magnetics to Melted Rock

With magnetotellurics, scientists measure variations in the direction and intensity of the planet’s natural magnetic and electric fields over time. They use these measurements to understand the properties of the rock, one of the most important being electrical conductivity. Generally, greater electrical conductivity can suggest the presence of extensively interconnected bodies of fluid within the rock. West of Yellowstone, magnetotellurics reveal a relatively shallow, hot, highly conductive region under the Snake River Plain.

Schultz compares magnetotelluric surveys to MRIs commonly used in medical diagnostics. In fact the underlying principles are similar. “If you go to a radiology department and they do a CT scan of your head, for example, they see some weird thing, and they’re not quite sure what it is. You have an MRI and go, ‘ah! that’s a brain tumor,’” says Schultz.

In the same way, MT can be thought of as a very large MRI. And just as doctors put together multiple types of scans to see inside our bodies, geophysicists combine seismology, magnetotellurics and measurements of the on-going deformation of the Earth’s surface through GPS and satellite radar data to see what’s underground. Schultz’s focus on the Yellowstone caldera is part of a larger project, the magnetotelluric component (also known as EMScope) of the National Science Foundation’s EarthScope Program.

Topography of Yellowstone-Snake River Plan study area (see inset map for location within the United States), with physiographic provinces outlined in red. USArray magnetotelluric (MT) site locations used for this study are marked with blue dots; 32 sites from the earlier Snake River Plain profiles are denoted by green dots. Smaller gray dots indicate heat flow from an earlier study by Pollack et al. (1991), ranging from 0 (white) to >300 mW/m2 (black) (Figure courtesy of Amna Kelbert; Source: Kelbert A., Egbert G.D., deGroot-Hedlin C. 2012. “Crust and upper mantle electrical conductivity beneath the Yellowstone Hotspot Track” Geology, v. 40, p. 447-450, doi:10.1130/G32655.1)

Schultz, a former program director for the NSF, heads EMScope. In the quest to understand more about the history of the North American continent, EarthScope makes seismic, GPS and MT surveys of the United States and part of Canada. EMScope provides the geomagnetic facet of the survey, producing 3-D images of Earth’s electrical conductivity variations beneath the continent.

Sweeping west to east, scientists are deploying portable arrays of magnetometers and electric field sensors in plastic boxes buried a foot or two in the ground. These small devices silently collect data over a period of one to three weeks, depending on the level of solar storm activity, which provides the source of their signal. Remarkably, the stream of charged particles emitted from the Sun’s atmosphere, the “Solar Wind,” is what makes this all happen. Some of those particles are captured by the Earth’s magnetic field and form gigantic electric currents that flow above the atmosphere, the most famous of which are the aurora (the Northern and Southern Lights). These currents cause other electric currents to flow inside the Earth’s crust and mantle, generating a signal that is detectable by MT devices.

Ancient Rift Revealed

Schultz first encountered geophysics at Brown University in 1979 when MT systems and computers were the size of travel trailers. Instruments today are small, rugged and more mobile. Teams of scientists are currently creating 3D images of the electrical conductivity beneath the comparatively flat landscape of the Midwest. Early results already reveal a billion-year-old ancient rift down the center of the continent, a feature hidden by vast seas of crops and flattened by millions of years of erosion. Magnetotellurics provides a view that goes below the region’s apparent horizon-to-horizon uniformity.

In Oregon, Schultz also leads a magnetotelluric study contributing to the potential geothermal development of Newberry Volcano just south of Bend. Nearly 20 times larger than Mount St. Helens, Newberry is Oregon’s largest volcano. Its flanks slope so gently that it’s hardly visible from any roadside viewpoint. In fact, the city of Bend sits close to the northern flank. The volcano isn’t dead, however. Massive amounts of heat lie just beneath the surface, a potentially large source of alternative energy waiting to be utilized.

The U.S. Department of Energy’s National Energy Technology Lab (NETL) has contracted with Oregon State to monitor and assist in the development of a geothermal system on the caldera’s western rim. AltaRock, a geothermal energy company, aims to demonstrate that sufficient heat can be harnessed from deep beneath the surface. It might be possible to generate electricity at commercially competitive levels. To do so, technicians begin by injecting cold fluids at high pressure into the cracks and crevices in the blistering but otherwise dry basalt underground. Ultimately, those heated fluids could then be extracted to create steam and drive electric turbines to generate power.

Unfortunately, water changes the rock to clay, creating a slimy obstacle that would block the cracks and shut off the water flow back to the surface. However, the fluids also change conductivity, and this property allows geophysicists like Schultz to make 3-D surveys that help identify clogs in the plumbing and keep the water flowing and creating steam.

There’s even a future for magnetotellurics in ocean-wave energy. Turbine buoys used in wave-energy projects generate electromagnetic fields. Since some marine species may be sensitive to electric and magnetic fields, the turbines could potentially disrupt marine ecosystems. To ensure the safety of these fragile areas, Schultz and his team are developing new sensors to gather electromagnetic, seismic and other data. The latest sensor, affectionately called Beaver 1 by the National Geoelectromagnetic Facility, Schultz’s lab, is destined for the ocean floor beneath wave turbines off the Oregon coast.

Continental Collision

Back at Yellowstone, data from MT surveys offer evidence of a more complex explanation for the heat beneath the world’s first national park. While the EMScope sensors have moved on to other areas, early results show the melted remains beneath and to the west of the giant volcano. They whisper of a subducted past. Over 200 million years ago, the Farallon plate, the ancient piece of crust between the North American and Pacific tectonic plates, began to dive beneath young North America. Geologists have known for some time that rather than angling steeply toward the mantle, the Farallon hugged the base of the continent all the way to the current Rocky Mountains. About 16 million years ago, interactions between the diving plate and a mantle plume began forming the volcanic features of the Snake River Plain and Yellowstone before eventually descending to be recycled. All that’s left of the Farallon, mere slivers of its past size, grinds today beneath the coast of North and Central America. Off the Pacific Northwest coast, those remains are called the Juan de Fuca plate.

Geoscientists are still debating what the MT data mean for the evolution of the continent and for specific areas such as Yellowstone. Kelbert, Egbert and Schultz plan to refine their understanding with more magnetotelluric studies of the crust in higher resolution. EMScope is only a first step in 3-D geomagnetic surveys, and the discovery beneath Yellowstone is only a chapter of a complex history. This young science will undoubtedly illuminate more untold stories that lie beneath our feet. Geophysicists will have their hands full for years to come.

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Amanda Enbysk is a senior in the College of Earth, Ocean, and Atmospheric Sciences.

The article contains an account of work sponsored by the Department of Energy and the National Science Foundation, both agencies of the United States Government. Neither the United States Government nor any agency thereof, nor any of their employees, makes any warranty, express or implied, or assumes any legal liability or responsibility for the accuracy, completeness, or usefulness of any information, apparatus, product, or process disclosed, or represents that its use would not infringe privately owned rights. Reference therein to any specific commercial product, process, or service by trade name, trademark, manufacturer, or otherwise does not necessarily constitute or imply its endorsement, recommendation, or favoring by the United States Government or any agency thereof. The views and opinions of authors expressed therein do not necessarily state or reflect those of the United States Government or any agency thereof.

The Pringle Falls Experimental Forest

The summer is warm and sunny in Corvallis, but my travels draw me east. Over and past the Cascades is an open land where the cold sparkling waters of a river flow north, and the sweet smell of Ponderosa pine blends with the fresh scent of lodgepole — the Deschutes National Forest. My one-person tent is packed in the back of a white state-owned pick-up truck with the essentials: a sleeping bag, a GPS unit, a camera, some protein bars, lots of buffalo jerky, a “Rite in the Rain” notebook and a pencil, a brown backpack, a bright orange hard hat and a soil corer.

In the late afternoon, I arrive at the Pringle Falls Experimental Forest and set up camp. The Forest Service cabins are nestled next to the gurgling and gushing Deschutes, whose French name means “River of the Falls.” The sounds of the rapids downstream bring a sense of calmness to my spirit. At the campsite, the ground is laden with pinecones, and the pine drops (Pterospera andromedea) expose themselves above the dead needles, branches and other forest litter. I unpack my gear and prepare for an early start out to the field sites the next day.

Mixed stands of Ponderosa and lodgepole pine dominate the Pringle Falls forest.

As you might guess, this isn’t the typical camping trip. I am embarking on an expedition. As a graduate student in the College of Forestry at Oregon State University, I am exploring something that lurks in the soils of Central Oregon — a fuzzy microscopic fungus that colonizes tree roots and might predict the future of the forest.

But why is the future of the forest at stake, and why dig underground when we are concerned about trees? The answer lies in the effects that organisms have on one another in a forest ecosystem. Like intricate underground machinery, fungi connect life-giving nutrients in the soil to roots that transport water and food to tree trunk, branch and leaf. Trees connect to climate and wildlife in an environment that evolves over time.

In the near future, scientists expect that climate will change and our forests will adapt. Tree zones will shift and a valuable tree species in the Deschutes National Forest — lodgepole pine (Pinus contorta) — is predicted to decline. This change will affect people as well. Native Americans used the long, straight and lightweight poles to build teepees. Today we commercially harvest lodgepole for telephone poles and fences. Big-game animals, such as deer and elk, use lodgepole as habitat.

Pine drops

Researchers at Oregon State University suggest that, as the climate warms, lodgepole pine will decline in the Pacific Northwest by the end of the 21^st century. As a result, Ponderosa pine (Pinus ponderosa) may be able to migrate into lodgepole zones. But this migration is dependent on the distribution or co-migration of mycorrhizae (fungi that live on tree roots), which are largely unexplored in Central and Eastern Oregon. The question is: Will this migration will be successful?

To answer that question, it helps to know a little about an ancient relationship. Scientists think that mycorrhizae, the fungus colonizing tree roots, evolved with land plants. Fungi and plants have been together since the Devonian period, which began more than 400 million years ago. External root fungi, otherwise known as ectomycorrhizae, form a sheath on the exterior of tree roots. These artful fungi form symbiotic, or beneficial, relationships with their host. Once colonization is complete, they send out filaments, which mine the soil for water and essential nutrients such as nitrogen.

Ultimately, it comes down to a trade that the tree host must submit to: The tree provides carbon, in the form of sugars, to the fungus in exchange for nutrients. The relationship is essential for the host and fungus to have the highest degree of success in the ecosystem — in this case, an ecosystem that I have the privilege to explore.

Getting to the core

The author takes a soil core.

The morning sun is bright in Central Oregon, but the air is cold and crisp. On my drive to the field sites, I can see the white peaks of Three Sisters in the distance. I pull the truck into the first site, take out my maps and venture out into the forest.  My leather boots softly crunch on the dried pine needles covering the soil. I pound my soil corer into the ground making sure to take a sample of the top 15 centimeters  (about six inches) of soil. I take in the smell of fresh earth, as I unscrew the metal corer to reveal a rich brown cylindrical soil core made up of pumice, fine roots and the mycorrhizae, too small to be seen with the naked eye. I dump the dirt, fine roots and all, into a Ziploc bag and place it in my backpack for analysis.

In the lab in Corvallis, I use molecular technology, such as DNA tests, to identify the root fungi of Ponderosa and lodgepole pine. I extract DNA, compare it to mushroom DNA in a database and identify the suspects. Like a detective, I name the species and unearth the world that had lain unexamined beneath the soil. And suddenly, this underground community is less of a mystery.

Russula

Cortinarius

My analysis reveals a diversity of species: Cenococcum, a black crusty fungus that doesn’t form mushrooms; Rhizopogon, which often forms subterranean truffles; and typical mushroom producers Cortinarius, Russula and Inocybe. It also reveals that the fungal community connected to Ponderosa pine and lodgepole overlap. That means that, when it comes to soil biology at least, Ponderosa will have a high chance of survival if it migrates into a lodgepole zone.

As the climate warms and the tree zones shift, the forest where we recreate and connect with nature may not be as we remember it. The warming climate might diminish one valuable member of the community, but forests know how to persist. By looking at underground fungi, we can determine whether trees have the potential to migrate into new zones and succeed. In the future, the smell of lodgepole pine might be absent from the breeze and the long skinny poles will be no more. Instead, the presence of underground fungi suggests that we might become immersed in the rich mahogany bark and sweet scent of Ponderosa.

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Editor’s note: Maria Garcia is a master’s student working with Jane E. Smith, research botanist in the USDA Forest Service. Garcia’s research is supported by the Forest Service and by a Graduate Research Fellowship from the National Science Foundation.

Stuart Sarbacker teaches on the theory, history and practice of yoga at Oregon State University. Listen to a podcast with Sarbacker.  (Photo: Theresa Hogue)

For many people, yoga is a form of relaxation. But in India, the birthplace of the exercise, yoga is beginning to stretch beyond the boundaries of one’s self and into the ecological realm. A new movement called “Green Yoga” encourages men and women who practice yoga — called yogis and yoginis — to strive for bettering their environment.

Green Yoga was pioneered by an influential Indian figure, Swami Ramdev. Stuart Sarbacker, assistant professor of philosophy at Oregon State University, has studied Ramdev, who hosts a daily show in India combining yoga and activism. He has attracted some 250 million viewers of all ages.

“Part of what drew me to study Swami Ramdev is this notion that inner transformation should be reflected outwards in some sort of transformation of the external world,” says Sarbacker. This idea is paramount in Green Yoga as well.

“What happens on the mat, so to speak, should translate into a transformed relationship with the world. That transformation may be reflected through personal choices, such as choosing organic foods, or it might mean buying a yoga mat made from natural rubber instead of plastic,” Sarbacker adds.

But Green Yoga doesn’t stop at consumer goods. Ramdev has used the practice to establish landmark status and protection for the heavily polluted Ganges River. Previously it was believed that the Ganges could not become dirty despite the dumping of untreated sewage and chemicals. But through non-violent protests and Green Yoga, Ramdev has created awareness for the river in both the people and the political leaders.

Sacred River

“One of the things that interests me very much is the idea that the Ganges historically was viewed as inherently pure. For most Hindus, it is in fact a Goddess, Gunga,” says Sarbacker. “Instead of thinking you can put whatever you want in the Ganges and she will always be pure, the discourse has shifted more towards what are we doing towards our sacred river, to our goddess by pouring our waste into it?”

Swami Ramdev (Photo: Wikipedia)

Sarbacker has written extensively on the theory, history and practice of yoga and is looking into the relationship between spirituality and environmental philosophy. He has focused specifically on Ramdev. “I’m using ethnographical and anthropological methods to create a snapshot of the development of a particular institution and really the life of a particular teacher, at a certain moment in time.”

Sarbacker wonders if Ramdev will next champion the topic of climate change in India. With the Ganges River being fed by receding glaciers, the water system is at risk, yet little attention has been brought to this issue. Whether Ramdev’s prominence will be sufficient to tackle it is yet to be determined, however with a stardom that has been compared to Oprah’s, he is in a position to do so.

Sarbacker is a certified yoga teacher in addition to being a professor. In spring 2013, he will teach a course at Oregon State about Green Yoga with an ecological consciousness.

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Listen to a podcast with Stuart Sarbacker here.

Sillett holds the Kenneth L. Fisher Chair in Redwood Forest Ecology at Humboldt State University in Arcata, Calif. His research has been featured in National Geographic six times since 1997. He last appeared in the December 2012 issue, in which he discusses climbing the world’s second-largest tree in the Sierra Nevada. Recently, Sillett answered some of our questions about his research and what it’s like to climb into trees more than 3,000 years old.

Read the interview on Powered by Orange.

Julia Rosen explains how to extract ancient air from ice samples in OSU’s Ice Core Laboratory (Photo: Jeff Basinger)

A shard of ice sits on the black surface of the lab desk, buoyed in a growing puddle. Three small heads hover above in a tight huddle. “It’s cold,” notes one of the kids. Somehow, this obvious observation always catches me off guard, as if I’ve forgotten the most fundamental quality of water’s solid phase. “That’s true,” I reply, “it’s also 10,000 years old.”

“Wow!” the students chorus, and their eyes widen as they look again with renewed awe at this innocuous specimen that could have come from an ice-cube tray in their freezer. Whether I am visiting loquacious third-graders or shyly curious middle-schoolers, I am always touched by the unjaded willingness of youth to imagine and attempt to grasp the unseen. It’s the reason every scientist falls in love with science.

I analyze ice cores in the Oregon State University Ice Core Laboratory and no longer think about their cool touch. I have learned that, like people, the most interesting things about them lie hidden inside. And, like people, it takes time and patience to understand them. When we succeed, these frozen time capsules from Greenland and Antarctica allow us to reconstruct climate far into the past so that by understanding its natural rhythms and quirks, we can predict what kind of future awaits these students.

But let’s start with the obvious: a clear, smooth cylinder of ice glittering with tiny bubbles like a flute of frozen champagne. Stunningly boring to behold, only an occasional band of volcanic ash or the subtle cloudy layers formed during dusty polar winters break its translucent monotony. However, this continuity is actually an ice core’s greatest strength. It provides a complete, unbroken record of past climates, one that is unavailable in almost any other natural archive.

As detectives of Earth’s history, geologists reconstruct stories from snapshots of ancient seas and whispers of long-dead creatures, piecing together a hazy story of our planet’s past. Ice cores are the long-lost diaries of climate. Every day, they recorded the temperature, sniffed the air and noted the snowfall. They sensed changes far from their polar homes — the amount of dust lofted from Asia, the gurgle of tropical volcanoes and much more. From the top to the bottom of a core lie flakes that witnessed every moment of geologic time that elapsed in between.

Thin Air

Physicists, chemists and geologists have spent 60 years learning to translate the primordial language of ice. Early pioneers of ice-core science discovered that they could estimate temperature using the chemistry of rain and snow. As the air warms, precipitation gathers more heavy molecules and fewer light molecules (known as isotopes) of water. The ratio of these isotopes thus provides a record of temperature. These scientists had the transformative idea of using old ice to reconstruct climate by exploiting this valuable relationship.

Each new analytical tool that becomes available to scientists provides another Rosetta Stone for decoding long-lost archives of the ice. Today, we can measure trace amounts of chemical impurities deposited on the ice sheets as dust and aerosols. They tell us how sea ice waxed and waned and which way the wind blew. They reveal the fingerprints of individual volcanic eruptions. While only the pristine inner core provides suitably clean ice for these highly sensitive measurements, the “snow dust” from cutting and cleaning the core does not go to waste. It can be used, for example, to reconstruct concentrations of a rare element, beryllium-10. Produced by cosmic rays high in the atmosphere, the abundance of this element reflects shifts in solar radiation.

Lit by an Arctic midnight sun, this iceberg was spawned by one of Greenland’s fastest moving glaciers near Illulissat. About 400 feet high, it covered an area larger than a city block. (Photo: Julia Rosen)

Of all the stories that ice cores tell, however, the bubbles of air embedded within them actually contain the most impressive secrets. As snow accumulated over thousands of years, slowly hardening into solid ice and forming the massive polar ice sheets, it sealed off little breaths of ancient air between the grains of snow — the very same air we would have inhaled if we had stood on top of the ice sheet 8,000 years ago, or 80,000 or 800,000. From those microscopic samples, we can retrace the evolution of our planet’s atmosphere across almost a million years of Earth history, a period that encompasses nearly all of human existence.

Revelations

In Antarctica, where extreme cold and meager snowfall limit the flow of ice, these cores stretch back across eight glacial cycles. During each, the Earth oscillated between periods of cold climate and expansive ice, including a vast glacial blanket that smothered northern North America, and a time of balmy warmth with ice sheets comparable in size to those on Earth today. Wobbles in the planet’s orbit periodically brought it closer to and farther from the sun’s furnace, setting the rhythm of the climatic metronome.

Across these dramatic changes, carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases rose and fell with the global temperature as the Earth’s oceans and biosphere adjusted to a changing environment. These gases both responded to climate change and amplified it through their potent ability to trap the Earth’s outgoing energy. But never in the past 800,000 years did these gases reach concentrations even remotely approaching current levels, and never did they rise so quickly, or shoot up at the end of an interglacial period when the receding sun should have lulled the Earth back into an icy slumber.

At the other pole, ice cores in Greenland felt those same changes, although the records of climate before 120,000 years ago crept away through the unstoppable march of glaciers to the sea. Nonetheless, these cores tell us something else completely new. Throughout the last cold period on Earth, which our ancestors waited out in the mild climates of Africa, the Northern Hemisphere experienced a barrage of climate changes so swift and so huge that certain places on Earth warmed by 20 degrees Fahrenheit in a matter of decades. The cause of these dramatic jolts remains a mystery, but their power to radically reorganize the Earth system attests to the inherent volatility of the world in which modern civilization has only recently made a home.

We are slowly beginning to understand the anatomy of global climate and how it changes, its geographic fingerprint and its tempo. Ice cores paint a complex and sometimes surprising picture, one that generations of scientists will spend decades trying to fully understand. We now know the correct greenhouse gas concentrations to feed into our calculations as we simulate past climates in order to validate models for the future.

Ice cores have made one thing abundantly clear: Humans are in uncharted territory. In 800 millennia of records, no entries document a climate like the one we live in today. Even as you read this, we are busy writing the next page of the ice-core diaries.

Illustration by Hank Osuna

Time to Listen

These observations from opposite poles forewarn a perilous future for our planet. We know without question that we’ve entered a period in geologic history for which there is no natural analog, and we know that the Earth’s climate can respond dramatically to perhaps even the smallest nudge.

However, the most terrifying lesson I learned from ice cores did not come from drilling into the past, but from just standing on the surface. At 80 degrees North, well above the Arctic Circle in the empty white wilds of the Greenland ice sheet, I watched a supply plane on skis repeatedly try to lift off. First the crew dumped cargo and then off-loaded all their fuel except what they needed to get home. Finally, on their seventh attempt, they succeeded.

The problem? The snow had warmed to the freezing point, and microscopic drops of water on the surface made the friction between the skis and the ice too great to break. Last summer, 97 percent of the surface of Greenland experienced temperatures above freezing, more than any year in NASA’s 30 years of satellite observations.

The ice cores have told us all they know, and now it’s up to us to listen.

Editor’s note: Julia Rosen is working toward her Ph.D. in the Oregon State University Ice Core Laboratory under the guidance of Ed Brook, professor in the College of Earth, Ocean, and Atmospheric Sciences and a Fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. Support for the lab has come from the National Science Foundation’s Office of Polar Programs.

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For more information:

Analysis of Greenland Ice Cores Adds to Historical Record and May Provide Glimpse into Climate’s Future (Jan. 24, 2013)

Antarctic Ice Core Contains Unrivaled Detail of Past Climate, (Feb. 5, 2013)

Desert terrain north of Bishop, California (Photo: Bureau of Land Management)

I remember my first day at what’s called “baby field camp” in the Oregon State geology program. Outside Bishop, California, we mapped the area around a cinder cone, long since dead. I quickly learned that the hot sun is a never-ending force of nature, not to be underestimated. I drank at least a gallon of water every day. Professor Andrew Meigs gave me and two-dozen other students our task: Use the tools provided (field notebook, Brunton compass, rock hammer, hand lens and a contour map) to understand what happened to this brick-red hill in the middle of the desert.

Stepping over cacti (sit at your peril!) and even shards of obsidian from long-ago residents, I began training my eyes to notice important clues: the downward dip of cinder layers on the hill, the change in sediment and bedrock colors over distance. I used to overlook these subtle signs, but as I worked, they became critical. The rock hammer clanking on my belt and the hand lens hanging around my neck got me closer to small details, while my legs carried me around the landscape to understand the big picture. Above all, every observation from sediment color, rock composition and how far a layer inclined from horizontal had to be recorded in the orange field book and marked on the contour map.

The maps we created became the key to unraveling the cinder cone’s story. They enabled us to see a cross-section of the Earth under our feet, as though we had sliced down with an enormous knife and peeled the crust back to reveal its ancient face. We started to understand the Earth in three dimensions. We began to appreciate maps for what they are, our connection to the world beyond what we can experience directly through our five senses.

Those ten days in the Southern California desert opened my eyes. I learned how to challenge assumptions and drop expectations before coming to a conclusion about the history of a landscape, all through mapping. Above all, I learned that maps allow us to step back and gain perspective, illuminating patterns that we couldn’t see otherwise. The connections we make with maps produce solutions to some of our most pressing issues and even inspire discoveries. In more ways than one, maps provide a path through the unfamiliar, a priceless tool in such a dynamic world.

This love of maps shouldn’t be surprising for a budding geologist like me. Geology owes much of its existence to maps. In fact, the first geological map was created by a scientist who was intrigued by the coal seams of southeastern England. William Smith, a forefather of modern geology, developed the first geological map. He traveled on horseback, weighed down carriages with rock samples, meticulously wrote and re-wrote and deduced an explanation for the location, orientation and relative age of coal seams and strange figured stones (fossils) that no one understood.

Google Earth provided satellite images on which these axial data reveal the N-S alignment in three ruminant species: (A) Cattle. (B) Roe deer. (C) Red deer. Each pair of dots (located on opposite sites within the unit circle) represents the direction of the axial mean vector of the animals' body position at one locality. (From Begall, et al, 2008, PNAS, Magnetic alignment in grazing and resting cattle and deer)

With his map, Smith brought a deeper understanding to the beautiful countryside so often admired in British culture. He showed that it has a history, a story different than that of biblical origin, the prevailing explanation for the landscape at the time. His studies directly created the science of stratigraphy, the study of rock layers, and with it the rest of geology. Above all, he demonstrated the amazing power of connection and the power of perspective that maps provide.

Today, old maps seem almost quaint. We have Google Earth, which led to one of my favorite discoveries, one involving cows. Researchers used satellite images from Google Earth to survey the orientation of cows and roe deer as they bedded down in locations around the world. The scientists found that, when these animals graze or rest, they tend to line up with magnetic north. This was unknown before the study. Map technology demonstrated an unseen biological property: the behavior of some animals correlates with the lines of force in the Earth’s magnetic field. This connection opens up myriad questions about familiar animals that I thought I understood. It also raises questions about what the Earth’s magnetic field does to the human species. Can it influence our biology? If so, how?

Map of Late Cretaceous coastline (85Ma). (Image from Paleogeography and Geologic Evolution of North America)

Maps even shed light on social and cultural head-scratchers. In the southern United States, there’s a peculiar ribbon of counties across Alabama, Georgia and South Carolina that tend to vote Democratic in presidential elections. Prior to the 1965 Voting Rights Act, this pattern didn’t exist. Most black people did not vote. When researchers overlaid a geological map on the 2000, 2004 and 2008 county-by-county voting census, an intriguing picture came to light. During the Cretaceous Period (145-65 million years ago), the area to become Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina occupied the coastline of a tropical sea. Warm, shallow waters rich in organic material lapped the shore. The life and death of unfathomable numbers of plankton and other marine organisms produced vast deposits of chalk, which formed the basis for the cotton industry that boomed in America 65 million years later. After the end of voter discrimination nearly 50 years ago, the Democratic leanings of the black voters in this belt became apparent. Who knew that 100-million-year-old geologic history could affect voting patterns today?

Blue counties voted Democratic in the 2008 presidential election (Map: New York Times)

At the “baby field camp” in Southern California, we spent our last five days in a section called Poleta, high in the White Mountains. Trying to understand the gnarled, folded and faulted landscape beyond the first deceptive rise brought many of us to tears. I traced contacts (the boundaries between different rock types) over and over, drawing them where I thought they laid on the map. Eventually, it was necessary to hike out away from the folded hills to hypothesize what might have happened. I remember walking over the last hill, having a rough idea of my conclusions, only to find another fault that changed my thinking.

The sheer frustration of the exercise demonstrated another important point: Maps are hard. They force us to look with a different perspective, to ask tough questions and seek unexpected answers. But what else can we expect from a tool designed to both show and push boundaries?

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Amanda Enbysk is a senior in the College of Earth, Ocean, and Atmospheric Sciences.

Dinoflagellate Ceratium with star-shaped Acantharians in the background (Photo: Angelicque White)

During a Pacific Ocean research cruise, Angel White peers into her microscope. The ship rides gentle swells and sways side to side. In her field of view, organisms the size of dust motes rise and fall through their own watery world. “It can be disorienting and enthralling at the same time. The microbes are dying as I look at them, and it doesn’t always make for the best photos,” she says.

White studies plankton, the microorganisms that power the marine food chain, pump oxygen into the atmosphere and regulate global chemical cycles. In the course of her research, she has recorded an astonishing diversity of living shapes, forms, colors and patterns: spiny Radiolarians, fat copepods, football-shaped ostracods and coiled threads of Trichodesmium that coalesce into filamentous balls. Under fluorescent light, her photos reveal organisms within organisms, glowing constellations that rival images from the best space telescopes.

White’s science is strictly down to Earth. The assistant professor in the College of Earth, Ocean, and Atmospheric Sciences aims to reveal how plankton consume and release nutrients such as nitrogen and phosphorus and how, in turn, these abundant organisms respond to variations in temperature and water chemistry. Her tools run the gamut from high-tech instruments to old-school nets towed behind a ship. In the lab, her camera has become invaluable in her exploration of a world that is largely invisible to the naked eye.

Three isopods clutch one another (Photo: Angelicque White)

“Photography is a wonderful outlet for creativity and discovery,” she adds. “Plankton show an amazing array of different adaptations to their environment. If you concentrate them in a drop of ocean water and look through the microscope, you will see organisms feeding, swimming, gliding, tumbling and floating. There are blues and reds, jaws and antennae — whole alien worlds.”

Call to Artists

In 2012, 35 Oregon artists took up a call from The Arts Center of Corvallis for works based on White’s plankton images. Submissions came from painters, fabric and glass artists, sculptors, potters and an expert in the ancient Japanese art of stencil dyeing. They comprised a show, The Art of Plankton, Form Follows Function.

The range of art gave White a new view of a world that she has explored through her research. “I’ve been fortunate over the years to look through a microscope and be thrilled with the familiar and the mysterious,” she says. “And now to have a whole range of creative people re-envision what I saw the first time is very cool. The natural world can be astonishingly beautiful.

“The general view is that scientists pick it apart and explain it through cold and methodical equations. It is easy to get lost in the details and lose a sense of wonder. This collaboration — merging the perspectives and talents of artists with science — is refreshing. It reminds me what it was like that first time at sea, the first time I realized that, ‘oh no, really, the ocean teems with life, glorious tiny life.’ That sense of discovery is what I felt talking to the artists.”

Drifters 1, Leah Wilson, Eugene

Leviathan, Rakar West, Eugene

Parum Aqua Flora, Sidnee Snell, Corvallis

Emiliana Coccolithophore, Ella Rhoades, Corvallis

Drifters, Sara McCormick, Portland

Blue Button, Sandra Schock-Houtman, Corvallis

Tondos, Jenny Gray, Corvallis

Benthos, Jerri Bartholomew, Corvallis

The Collection, Chi Meredith, Corvallis

Mount Hood's crater is rimmed with unstable cliffs, which can collapse and send an avalanche of rock down the mountain. Timberline Lodge is located on the remnants of one such event. (Photo: Adam Kent)

Mount Hood last erupted more than 200 years ago, but at Crater Rock, not far from the summit, the signs of volcanic activity are unmistakable. Gas vents and hot springs emit sulfur fumes. Vapors rising from deep under the mountain carve snow caves, which can seem like sanctuaries for climbers but often hold deadly concentrations of CO2 and other gases. Rocks fall frequently from the steep unstable cliffs of the partially collapsed crater.

Odds are low that Oregon’s tallest mountain will erupt any time soon, but when it does, scientists have a pretty good idea of what will happen. Driven by the grinding of tectonic plates deep in the planet’s crust, hot magma will infuse cooler lava chambers closer to the surface (an event geologists call “recharge”). Pressure will build. Rocks will begin to crack.

In some volcanoes, not much happens after recharge. The lava chambers may be hotter and ready to burst, but the lid stays on, and the molten rock gradually cools. It takes quite a punch to force a mass the consistency of oatmeal up through miles of tortuous fractures.

Hood, however, is impatient. Within weeks of recharge, lava starts moving and gases start bubbling out through the crater. Melting snow and ice generate debris flows down the mountain’s flanks sweeping away forests and filling rivers with sand and rock. (In the distant past, such events have careened down the Hood River valley and across the Columbia River.) Eventually, lava emerges and snakes down the mountainsides, adding to Hood’s bulk and remaking its classic profile.

That’s been the story for more than a half-million years, says Adam Kent, Oregon State University geologist. When he first arrived in Oregon in 2003, the Australia native learned that while scientists from the U.S. Geological Survey’s Cascade Volcano Observatory knew a lot about hazards posed by eruptions, Hood’s underground plumbing remained largely a mystery.

Since then, Kent has analyzed the remnants of old lava flows to learn how the mountain behaves. He and post-doctoral researcher Alison Koleszar have climbed to the crater, brought samples back to their labs and squeezed clues from rocks. The chemical composition of Hood’s lava flows has remained amazingly uniform over the centuries, and they have found that the mountain may represent an extreme end of volcanic systems and may in fact be unique in the Cascades. Unlike Mount St. Helens, Mount Jefferson and others in this spectacular range, Hood doesn’t explode; it oozes.

Crystal Visions

Kent keeps a piece of Mount Hood in his office. This flat gray rock looks like some kind of exotic concrete. It sparkles with crystals. Irregular, coffee-colored spots about the size of a quarter dot its surface. Dark flecks of hornblende (composed of iron, calcium, silicon and magnesium) are scattered across its surface like pepper on a fried egg.

“When this rock came to the surface,” Kent says, “it was partly liquid. It records information about the last stage of the eruption. But if you want to know more about the long-term conditions in the crust where this magma was being stored, you need to look at the crystals.”

Like tree rings, crystals grow from the inside out over time, says Kent. At their heart are the original minerals — formed out of common elements such as calcium, iron, silicon, magnesium and aluminum. As hot rock pulses up from below, crystals go through warming and cooling phases. Mineral layers form on the outside edges and create a record of temperature, pressure and chemistry. Each ring tells a story about a new pulse of melted rock that cycled the crystal through heating and cooling.

This false color image of a feldspar crystal embedded in a rock from Mount Hood shows the rings generated by pulses of magma from deep in the crust. The outer edge was created during the event that caused the mountain to erupt. (Photo: Adam Kent)

Crystals also trap tiny remnants of some of the original parent material, melted rock that is created as tectonic plates grind against each other. Analysis of these trapped particles — what geologists call “melt inclusions” — provides a picture of the minerals and volatile gases (water, carbon dioxide, sulfur, chlorine and fluorine) that emerge from deep in the crust and can give a mountain shape and personality. When concentrations of those gases are high, explosive eruptions are more likely.

To find out what distinguishes Hood from its neighbors, Kent, Koleszar and their team separate crystals from surrounding rock. In the Oregon State geology lab, they subject samples of the mountain to diamond-tipped saws, acids and devices that pound stones into dust or polish them to a fine sheen (Polishing can be pricey. Grinding pastes that contain diamond particles can cost upwards of $300 for half an ounce). They separate crystals further by exposing rock fragments to magnetic fields or dropping them in dense liquids.

“Some samples are crumbly and fall apart easily,” says Koleszar. “Those are harder to work with. Nice clean pure volcanic glass is great. It polishes like butter. It’s so soft compared to some of the minerals we use.”

Once separated, sliced and mounted on slides, crystals undergo analysis by electron beam that reveals fine structural details or laser and mass spectrometry that tell scientists what trace elements are present in each crystal ring. The result is an accumulation of evidence that allows geologists to explain Hood’s eruption process and compare the mountain to other volcanoes.

More Fizz, No Pop

In a paper published in the Journal of Volcanology and Geothermal Research in 2012, Koleszar and co-authors Kent, William Scott of the USGS and Paul Wallace of the University of Oregon described their findings. They reported that Hood’s magma contains the ingredients for explosive eruptions: magma pumped regularly into the mountain from below, a chemical profile similar to that of other explosive volcanoes and high levels of volatile gases. However, at Hood, those gases tend to escape readily like fizz from an open can of soda. That’s because a 100 degree increase in temperature — an increase that happens as hot rock flows into magma chambers under the mountain — makes the flowing rock five to 10 times less thick.

“Imagine you are blowing into a straw in a milkshake,” says Koleszar. “It’s so thick that the bubbles don’t come out right away, but when they do, they burst and throw stuff up in the air. Compare that to blowing into a straw in a glass of milk. Bubbles just come easily to the surface. That’s more like what we see at Mount Hood.”

Alison Koleszar, left, and Tyler Lomax, a junior from Albany, Oregon, collected rock samples from the 590,000-year-old Cloud Cap lava flow on the eastern side of Mount Hood. Composition of the rocks there is thought to reflect the original parent magma. Koleszar and Lomax also trekked through lava fields on the southern flank where flows are less than 30,000 years old. (Photo: Jeff Basinger)

Mount Hood may be unique in the Cascades, but it joins a select group of volcanoes worldwide (Mount Unzen in Japan, Soufriére Hills Volcano in Montserrat, Mount Dutton in Alaska) that tend to ooze instead of explode. Nevertheless, volcanoes can also demonstrate both types of behavior, and there’s no guarantee that Hood will always operate as it has in the past. Two well-known explosive volcanoes — Mount Pelée in the Caribbean and Mount Pinatubo in the Philippines — have exhibited both types of eruptions. Moreover, geologists know that pulses of hot magma, which occur at Mount Hood, can cause explosions such as the 1980 Mount St. Helens eruption.

“We’re still trying to figure out why Hood only erupts right after a recharge event,” says Koleszar. “It may be that it just doesn’t have the oomph to erupt at other times.

“It seems like such a boring volcano,” she adds. “It erupts the same thing all the time; it doesn’t seem to do anything interesting. It’s an icon, it’s a beautiful volcano and it’s Oregon’s volcano. But when you start to tease things apart a little bit, it does get interesting, exactly because it is so boring.”

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Download an animation of magma rising into a volcanic crater. Scientists can sample the resulting airborne plume to understand how the volcano is likely to erupt. (Produced by the Johnston Ridge Observatory at Mount St. Helens in collaboration with the U.S. Geological Survey)

WeiLi Hong (Photo: Lee Sherman)

When the Earth burps, WeiLi Hong listens. Whether Earth’s gaseous emissions bubble up from “mud volcanoes” on the planet’s surface or seep out of fissures on the ocean floor, the Oregon State University Ph.D. student has his monitoring gear to the ground.

And sometimes, he’s actually in the ground.

“I fell in twice,” Hong admits, describing the hazards of surveying mud volcanoes in his home country of Taiwan. “I was trapped in thick mud up to my waist. There was nothing solid to grab onto. I had to kind of roll across the surface of the mud until I could pull myself out.”

Which brings up a couple of questions: What is a mud volcano, anyway? And why would anyone risk life and limb traipsing around these oddities of nature?

The answer is methane — millions and millions of tons of it trapped in ancient sediments. Under pressure from the bumping and grinding of tectonic plates, the gas migrates upward through Earth’s crust, seeking the atmosphere. Certain countries, such as Taiwan, Indonesia, Pakistan and Azerbaijan, are “burping gas like overfed infants,” to borrow a metaphor from one New York Times writer on the subject of methane emissions. As the methane escapes, creating a slurry of fluids and dissolved solids, volcano-like mud domes mound up across the landscape. They can be as small as a toddler’s backyard swimming pool and as big as several kilometers in diameter.

Mud can act like quicksand. WeiLi Hong needed a helping hand during his research in southern Taiwan. (Photo courtesy of WeiLi Hong)

WeiLi Hong conducts mud volcano science in Taiwan. (Photo courtesy of WeiLi Hong)

But that’s not the only way methane migrates. It comes up through the bottom of the ocean, too. On the seafloor, where it’s super-cold, seeping methane gets locked into ice-like structures called “hydrates,” Hong explains. Studying methane emissions on land, despite the pitfalls, is a walk in the park compared to studying them 2,000 feet beneath the sea.

“With mud volcanoes, we’re looking at how much methane is emitted to the atmosphere,” says Hong, who specializes in chemical oceanography in the College of Earth, Ocean, and Atmospheric Sciences. “With cold seeps, we’re looking at how much methane is emitted to the water column. To do that, we need a vessel with the ability to drill.”

The discomforts of being at sea for two months didn’t deter Hong two summers ago when, along with OSU researcher Marta Torres, he joined an exploratory expedition to Korea’s East Sea hunting for hydrates aboard the research ship Fugro Synergy. His job was to analyze the physical properties of sediment samples taken from the depths.

Methane hydrate will burn when lit. The inset image shows the structure of methane hydrate; the green and grey molecule in the center is methane and the red cage is the ice structure. (Photo courtesy of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration)

For scientists and engineers, this trapped methane presents both threats and opportunities. On one hand, Hong says, melting hydrates could trigger Earth-warming greenhouse-gas emissions and tsunami-causing landslides. On the other hand, methane could be an energy bonanza — if it could be safely harnessed. That’s why the Korean government and the U.S. Department of Energy cosponsored the 2010 Ulleung Basin Gas Hydrate expedition.

“We were looking at porosity, permeability, texture, composition,” he says. “We used an X-ray machine to get 3-D images of the cores.” Opening his laptop, he clicks on a grainy gray image from the bathysphere. As he toggles the image this way and that, he points out traces of long-dead organisms in the long-buried layers. “On the computer,” he notes, “you can rotate the sediment column to see how the geosphere, hydrosphere and biosphere interact.”

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For more information about education abroad opportunities for OSU students, contact the International Degree & Education Abroad (IDEA) office at 541-737-3006.

Renee Albertson (Photo: Lee Sherman)

Rain was pouring hard the day Renee Albertson first connected, face-to-face, with a marine mammal. She was a 7-year-old visiting British Columbia’s Sealand aquarium (Canada’s now-defunct answer to California’s SeaWorld) with her mom and dad. The daily show had been cancelled because of the downpour. The usual crowds were absent. As the soggy trio from Portland stood looking into a small tank, the resident killer whale surfaced. The young whale — a rescue named Miracle — was balancing a plastic ring on her nose. And she was looking straight at little Renee. Again and again, Renee tossed the ring. Again and again, Miracle brought it back, always to Renee.

“There was just a low fence around the tank, and you could literally reach over and throw the ring,” recalls Albertson, a Ph.D. student in Oregon State University’s Marine Mammal Institute. “She kept coming back to me. It was a neat connection. It really made an impact on me.”

Dolphins in the Marquesas (Photo: Renee Albertson)

That childhood encounter fed Albertson’s ever-deepening fascination with marine science and led her, eventually, to join the international research team of Oregon State cetacean scientist Scott Baker. “Increasingly, I knew I wanted to help conserve these intelligent animals,” she says. “I just didn’t know how.” But with stubborn single-mindedness punctuated by moments of pure serendipity — fortuitous convergences she characterizes simply as “perfect timing”— she found her way into an elite circle of researchers who follow cetaceans (whales, dolphins and porpoises) to the farthest reaches of the Earth.

Portland to Polynesia

Albertson always loved biology. But the notion of making a living helping whales seemed unrealistic and out-of-reach. Chemistry — now there was a practical path to a career, she decided. After earning a bachelor’s in chemistry at Portland State University, Albertson took a job in an environmental lab analyzing water and soil samples. But lab work was, for her, too solitary. So she got a master’s in education at Pacific University and taught chemistry at David Douglas High School for 10 years. She loved teaching. But in the recesses of her mind, the eyes of the captive killer whale were still on her.

On the island of Hao in French Polynesia, villagers gave Renee Albertson a look at this jaw bone from a sperm whale. They agreed to let her sample the bone for genetic analysis. (Photo courtesy of Renee Albertson)

Then one day she heard about renowned whale researcher Michael Poole from a friend who had taken one of Poole’s whale-watching trips in French Polynesia. Poole had deeply inspired the friend, who encouraged Albertson to meet him. She was intrigued. “My friend didn’t realize that his whale-watching trip would end up being a life-changer for me,” Albertson says.

She emailed Poole, offering (begging, actually) to assist in his research during her summer break from teaching. “I never heard back,” she recalls. “I emailed and emailed and emailed.”

Finally, she sent one last message. She told him she was coming, regardless, and that if he didn’t need her, she joked, she guessed she would just have to spend the summer drinking martinis while writing lesson plans on the beach. Two days later, Poole’s name popped up in her inbox. His Ph.D. student wouldn’t be coming to collect samples that year, he explained, and it was humpback whale season. There was no money available for salary or living expenses. But if she were willing, he could offer her an unpaid internship.

When she got to the island of Moorea, Poole handed her not a life jacket but a notebook. Inside the fat binder was a photographic catalog of humpback whales’ tails. Poole tasked her with comparing the tails of recently sighted whales with those of previous years. “If you still like biology when you finish this, I’ll take you out in the boat,” Poole said. For two weeks Albertson “sat in a little beach cabana with a little magnifying glass, matching whale tails.”

She had earned her creds. Soon after, she was on the boat learning about dolphins, whales and conservation and helping Poole collect new whale-tail photos for the catalog. They also collected skin samples from breaching whales for eventual mitochondrial DNA analysis as part of her master’s research.

Posts From the Boat

The work led her to the University of Auckland, where Professor Baker had just accepted a new position as assistant director of the Marine Mammal Institute located in (how ironic is this?) Albertson’s home state of Oregon.

Renee Albertson and colleague Marc Oremus just published the first genetics paper on rough-toothed dolphins. Albertson, Oremus and whale researcher Michael Poole are known locally as the "French Polynesia team." Albertson says, "Believe it or not, it isn't that warm there, as our jackets illustrate. I was freezing most of the time on the boat!" (Photo courtesy of Renee Albertson)

Since joining Baker’s Cetacean Conservation and Genomics Laboratory, she has studied humpbacks in Polynesia and Antarctica, rough-toothed dolphins from Hawaii and the South Pacific, and multiple species of dolphins and whales in the Marquesas archipelago, a “hotspot” for cetacean diversity. She is coauthor on a paper about the population structure of rough-toothed dolphins recently accepted by the Journal of Experimental Marine Biology and Ecology. “Even though they live in the open ocean, they live in very discrete communities,” she says of the findings. She has presented to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Scientific Review Group on the status and restructuring of marine mammal stocks. And she’s back in the classroom, this time teaching courses on the conservation and biology of marine mammals, both online for OSU and at the Hatfield Marine Science Center.

Visit Albertson’s blog for a day-by-day account of her most recent research expedition http://blogs.oregonstate.edu/marquesas/

Learn more about marine mammal studies through the South Pacific Wale Research Consortium.

For more information about education abroad opportunities for OSU students, contact the International Degree & Education Abroad (IDEA) office at 541-737-3006.

Rebecca Hamner (Photo: Lee Sherman)

A dolphin’s dorsal fin can be as distinctive as a human fingerprint. As the fin slices through the sea, its unique pattern of pigments, nicks and scars relays the animal’s personal story to observers on the surface. Often, scientists can use these markings to ID individual dolphins. But for some species, fin IDs are not precise enough. That’s why researchers like Oregon State University Ph.D. student Rebecca Hamner have turned to DNA.

Several summers ago in Australia’s Shark Bay, Hamner learned to recognize 200 distinct dorsal fins on bottlenose dolphins with names like Puck, Noggin and Tool. Their scars recorded entanglements with fishing nets, skirmishes with tiger sharks and battles among themselves for mates — personalized markings she quickly came to know around the resort town of Monkey Mia as a field assistant for two professors from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth and the University of Zurich.

At Monkey Mia, fin ID was a piece of cake. “Ninety percent of the dolphins in Shark Bay have shark bites or other distinguishing scars,” notes Hamner, a student in OSU’s Marine Mammal Institute.

But then she won a Fulbright Scholarship to study the endangered Hector’s dolphin of New Zealand, which Scientific American’s “Extinction Watch” blog calls the “world’s smallest and rarest dolphins.” She joined the international research team of Scott Baker (who has appointments at both the University of Auckland and OSU’s Marine Mammal Institute) and began investigating the population structure of the Hector’s, which is about one-third the size of a bottlenose with a distinctive black mask and rounded dorsal fins. This time, she ID’d the animals by collecting tiny skin samples using a modified veterinary capture rifle to fire a floating biopsy dart from a boat.

Scouting for Scientists

So how did Hamner wind up studying dolphin genetics at the internationally known OSU Cetacean Conservation and Genomics Lab? Turns out, it had more to do with Hamner’s tenaciously tracking down faculty members who needed research assistants than with a burning passion for marine mammals per se. One research topic led to another — from dolphins to microalgae to invasive seaweed to lionfish and, finally, back to dolphins.

Hector's dolphins in Cloudy Bay, New Zealand (Photo: Anjanette Baker)

Her path to marine mammal expertise began in North Carolina, where she grew up tent camping at Lake Jeanette, tramping the woods, stalking wildlife behind the family home and splashing in the Atlantic Ocean on summer beach trips. When she started college at the University of North Carolina Wilmington, she knew she wanted to do “something with animals and nature.”

She wasted no time getting started. It was only her second week as an undergrad double-majoring in marine biology and psychology when she approached a dolphin researcher, who quickly put her to work doing photo-ID and acoustic surveys for bottlenoses along the North Carolina coast.

“I worked on those surveys every weekend for four years,” Hamner says. “That’s where I got my passion for field work.”

Species Spin

Meanwhile, during her second semester, she met a professor who was identifying microalgae by DNA sequencing. “Hmm,” she thought, “genetics is kind of interesting.” After working with him on the unicellular species (“these little green dots that you need a microscope to see”), she was recommended for a paid position with the researcher next door. So she switched to studying invasive red seaweed called Gracilaria vermiculophylla. When she was asked to process a few invasive lionfish samples sent over by one of the researcher’s collaborators, a National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration scientist in Beaufort (home of the Rachel Carson Coastal Preserve), she was captivated. For the next three years, she studied the venomous fish and presented her findings in her honors thesis.

After graduation, Hamner circled back to dolphins, heading first to Shark Bay for that finny summer and then on to New Zealand. After collecting tissue and analyzing DNA from the Hector’s dolphins and comparing it against existing samples in the Cetacean Tissue Archive at the University of Auckland, the team documented an alarmingly low abundance for the subspecies called the Maui’s dolphin.

“Suddenly, I was being invited to be a scientific panel member at a risk-assessment meeting organized by the New Zealand Department of Conservation and Ministry of Primary Industries,” Hamner says, her tone a mixture of pride and surprise. Her work with Baker has spurred the New Zealand government to reevaluate current protections and extend fishing restrictions along the coastline they inhabit. “Because of our findings, the Maui’s Dolphin Threat Management Plan is being accelerated.”

With only about 55 remaining individuals over the age of 1, the stakes couldn’t be higher.

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For more information about education abroad opportunities for OSU students, contact the International Degree & Education Abroad (IDEA) office at 541-737-3006.

Workers remove marine organisms in order to corral invasive species from a derelict Japanese dock that washed up on Agate Beach. (Photo: Oregon State University Hatfield Marine Science Center)

When debris from the 2011 earthquake and tsunami in Japan began making its way toward the West Coast of the United States, there were fears of possible radiation and chemical contamination as well as costly cleanup.

But a floating dock that unexpectedly washed ashore in Newport this week and has been traced back to the Japanese disaster has brought with it a completely different threat – invasive species.

Scientists at Oregon State University’s Hatfield Marine Science Center said the cement float contains about 13 pounds of organisms per square foot. Already they have gathered samples of 4-6 species of barnacles, starfish, urchins, anemones, amphipods, worms, mussels, limpets, snails, solitary tunicates and algae – and there are dozens of species overall. (see a slideshow with detailed images of the organisms)

“This float is an island unlike any transoceanic debris we have ever seen,” said John Chapman, an OSU marine invasive species specialist. “Drifting boats lack such dense fouling communities, and few of these species are already on this coast. Nearly all of the species we’ve looked at were established on the float before the tsunami; few came after it was at sea.”

Chapman said it was “mind-boggling” how these organisms survived their trek across the Pacific Ocean. The low productivity of open-ocean waters should have starved at least some of the organisms, he said.

“It is as if the float drifted over here by hugging the coasts, but that is of course impossible,” Chapman said. “Life on the open ocean, while drifting, may be more gentle for these organisms than we initially suspected. Invertebrates can survive for months without food and the most abundant algae species may not have had the normal complement of herbivores. Still, it is surprising.”

Algae New to Oregon

Jessica Miller, an Oregon State University marine ecologist, said that a brown algae (Undaria pinnatifida), commonly called wakame, was present across most of the dock – and plainly stood out when she examined it in the fading evening light. She said the algae is native to the western Pacific Ocean in Asia, and has invaded several regions including southern California. The species identification was confirmed by OSU phycologist Gayle Hansen.

“To my knowledge it has not been reported north of Monterey, Calif., so this is something we need to watch out for,” Miller said.

Miller said the plan developed by the state through the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife and Oregon State Parks is to scrape the dock and to bag all of the biological material to minimize potential spread of non-native species. But there is no way of telling if any of the organisms that hitchhiked aboard the float from Japan have already disembarked in nearshore waters.

“We have no evidence so far that anything from this float has established on our shores,” said Chapman. “That will take time. However, we are vulnerable. One new introduced species is discovered in Yaquina Bay, only two miles away, every year. We hope that none of these species we are finding on this float will be among the new discoveries in years to come.”

The possibilities are many, according to Miller.

“Among the organisms we found are small shore crabs similar to our Hemigrapsus that look like the same genus, but may be a different species,” Miller said. “There were also one or more species of oysters and small clam chitons, as well as limpets, small snails, numerous mussels, a sea star, and an assortment of worms.”

Not the First

Invasive marine species are a problem on the West Coast, where they usually are introduced via ballast water from ships. OSU’s Chapman is well aware of the issue; for several years he has studied a parasitic isopod called Griffen’s isopod that has infested mud shrimp in estuaries from California to Vancouver Island, decimating their populations.

In 2010, an aggressive invasive tunicate was found in Winchester Bay and Coos Bay along the southern Oregon coast. Known as Didemnum vexillum, the tunicate is on the state’s most dangerous species list and is both an ecological and economic threat because of its ability to spread and choke out native marine communities, according to OSU’s Sam Chan, who chairs the Oregon Invasive Species Council.

It is difficult to assess how much of a threat the organisms on the newly arrived float may present, the researchers say. As future debris arrives, it may carry additional species, they point out. However, this dock may be unique in that it represents debris that has been submerged in Japan and had a well-developed subtidal community. This may be relatively rare, given the amount of debris that entered the ocean, the researchers say.

“Floating objects from near Sendai can drift around that coast for a while before getting into the Kuroshio current and then getting transported to the eastern Pacific,” Chapman said. The researchers hope to secure funding to go to Japan and sample similar floats and compare the biological life on them with that on the transoceanic dock.

The scientists say the arrival of the dock is also a sobering reminder of the tragedy that occurred last year, which cost thousands of lives.

“We have to remember that this dock, and the organisms that arrived on it, are here as a result of a great human tragedy,” Miller said. “We respect that and have profound sympathy for those who have suffered, and are still suffering.”

(Photo: iStockPhoto.com)

The health of any ecosystem starts with razor-like teeth and an appetite for meat. The “apex” predators — big carnivores like bears and wolves at the top of the food web — keep things in balance, OSU researchers have found in study after study in the western United States.

Now, the findings have been confirmed on a larger scale: the entire Northern Hemisphere. When big predators are wiped out, as wolves were in the American West during the last century, herds of plant browsers balloon, according to a survey of 42 studies from Canada, Alaska, the Yukon, Northern Europe and Asia. The elk, moose and deer — fearless in the absence of the furry lurkers — linger longer in riparian zones, trampling riverbanks and gobbling up young trees and other plants that sequester carbon, shade streams and shelter countless other animals, say William Ripple and Robert Beschta of the College of Forestry. Biodiversity plummets.

“The preservation and recovery of large predators may represent an important conservation need for helping to maintain the resiliency of northern forest ecosystems, especially in the face of a rapidly changing climate,” they add.

Scientists and crew took Oceanus, the sister ship to OSU’s R/V Wecoma, under the Yaquina River Bridge and past the jetty into the Pacific where they practiced deploying water and sediment samplers and launched Jane, an autonomous underwater glider.

Since 1975, Wecoma has been OSU’s marine science work- horse on research expeditions from the Arctic to the Antarctic. A recent evaluation of the two vessels revealed a need for expensive repairs to Wecoma, which was decommissioned after Oceanus’ arrival from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution.

The College of Earth, Ocean, and Atmospheric Sciences will operate Oceanus for its owner, the National Science Foundation. OSU also operates the 54-foot Elakha and 85-foot Pacific Storm for near-shore research.

Ancient Blood Brothers

Like the “sloth moth,” which lives only in the fur of the ambling two-toed and three-toed mammals, the “bat fly” exists only in the fur of the winged, cave-dwelling mammals. Now scientists know that the flea-like, blood-sucking fly has been hanging around with bats for at least 20 million years. That’s because an unfortunate bat fly became entombed in a sticky glob of tree sap eons ago and has been there ever since, preserved in the solidified amber. Bat flies coevolved with bats, explains one of the world’s leading amber experts, OSU zoologist George Poinar Jr., who discovered the fossilized fly in the semi-precious stone from the Dominican Republic.

Varvara and Flex are western grays, an endangered species of only 130 individuals worldwide. However, not all scientists are convinced that western grays are distinct from eastern grays (the species that whale watchers are most likely to spot from the capes and headlands of the Oregon coast). This study will help sort out that question.

“Western gray whales could be a separate population, they could represent an expansion of eastern gray whales, or there could be some of both sharing the same feeding grounds off eastern Russia,” says Greg Donovan, head of the International Whaling Commission and coordinator of the project. “It is clear that we need to re-examine our understanding of the population structure of gray whales in the North Pacific and any conservation and management implications that arise from that under- standing.”

Varvara, who travels at least 100 miles each day, headed for the Sea of Cortez, a well-known breeding ground for eastern grays, according to the researchers. She visited three lagoons there before turning back north. At the end of March, she was near Sitka, Alaska. You can follow the whale’s progress online at www. mmi.oregonstate.edu

Listen to a TerraTalk podcast with Brian Sidlauskas

For two weeks in 2011, dawn signaled the beginning of another day of fish sampling for Oregon State University professor Brian Sidlauskas and his small team of colleagues and graduate students. Their camp was wedged within a mountainous area of northern South America called the Guyana Shield, and they surveyed a 125 mile stretch of the Cuyuni River that had never before been sampled.

“A typical day we’d get up at first light or not much after it, make a fast breakfast in our camp, and we’d get out on the little boat we had commissioned, it was maybe 18 or 16 feet. We had our guide, and we would say, ‘this is the type of habitat we are looking for’ or ‘do you know a good place we can fish today?’ We’d go out with our scientific equipment and our nets and spend a couple of hours running nets through the water trying to see what fish were there.”

Sidlauskas (right) sorts through samples from the Cuyuni River. During the expedition, he spent two weeks sampling a 125 mile stretch of river that had never before been surveyed. (Photo by Whit Bronaugh)

This expedition, sponsored in part by the Smithsonian Research Institution, was an attempt to survey fish diversity within this unexplored portion of Guyana, a country Sidlauskas says is one of the most biodiverse places on the planet.

But compared to estimates for the river based on the rest of the country, Sidlauskas and his team found an astonishing lack of diversity present.

“All of the herbivores were either absent or rare. As far as I can tell, the reason for this is that there is so much sediment in the water that the plants are dying and there is not a lot of food for the fish that eat the plants or that live in the plants.”

Mining and dredging have consumed the area as they are a cornerstone for the local economy. One result of these activities is the dumping of sand, which causes immense buildups that are potentially making the river inhospitable to plants.

Following the survey, Sidlauskas found himself with a few thousand fish and a mandate from the Guyana EPA to identify them down to species before exporting them from the country for further study. Due to a sudden departure of one graduate student, Sidlauskas was short-staffed and with only eight days to identify the specimens and it would be social networking that would allow the research to continue.

Some of the 150 species of headstanding tetras (Family Anostomidae). These fish range from less than an inch to about a foot in length.

Rather than just trying to do this on his own, he said, “Well we have Facebook, we have the internet, we’ve got all these photos, what happens if we just stick all of these photos up on my Facebook page and send a bunch of messages to our friends saying, ‘Hey, you’re an expert on this particular group of fish, do you know what this is?’ We started tagging the fishes as different people who are experts on those fish,” Sidlauskas says. “We did this and within about 24 hours we had the vast majority of our photographs with an ID on them.”

After successfully importing the specimens back into the U.S., Sidlauskas has been busy assembling an official report for the Guyana EPA with the hope of seeing mining reform in the future to prevent further biodiversity loss.

For more information, listen to the Terra Talk Podcast with Brian Sidlauskas.

John Alexander tracks shifting bird migration and reproductive patterns for the Klamath Bird Observatory in Ashland. (Photo: Lynn Ketchum, OSU Extension and Experiment Station Communications)

ASHLAND, Oregon – As he treads a footpath in the Bear Creek watershed, John Alexander is telling a story about the riparian zone’s recent restoration when he stops abruptly. “There’s a rail!” he whispers, pointing at a clump of cattails. His visitor whirls to see, but the bird has melted into the vegetation. “Just wait,” he says softly. “It’s coming out the other side!” Seconds later, the long-legged bird slips between the tall dry stalks and vanishes once again. “They’re not called ‘secretive marsh birds’ for nothing,” says Alexander, executive director of the Klamath Bird Observatory. “That’s where the expression, ‘skinny as a rail’ comes from. When you look at them head-on, you can hardly see them.”

The Virginia rail is one of the species Alexander and his fellow ornithologists monitor in the Klamath-Siskiyou bioregion, a biodiversity hot spot straddling the Oregon-California border. Spanning 10 million acres, the region is home to more than 400 resident and migratory avian species, 200 of which breed in the area. Some are abundant (song sparrows, Canada geese). Others are rare or threatened (rosy finches, marbled murrelets).

Whether common or scarce, each is an important indicator of ecosystem health. That’s why Alexander’s organization is committed to “all-bird” conservation, monitoring clusters or “suites” of species whose habitats mix or overlap. Scientists have discovered that a more accurate ecological picture emerges from monitoring suites of “focal species” rather than monitoring individual species.

“Instead of focusing on how one species responds to management, we take a community-composition approach,” explains Alexander, who collaborates with OSU forest ecologist Matt Betts on modeling projects. “If you put all your eggs in one basket, so to speak, you can miss a lot of confounding factors. By looking at five or six associates, you diversify your understanding of what’s happening on the landscape, whether it’s an oak woodland, an old-growth forest or a wetland.”

Heating Up

A birdcall pierces the wintry air. “Is it a hawk?” a visitor asks Alexander.

“It sounds like a red-tail,” he says. “Then again, Steller’s jays can mimic hawks to scare away competitors.” Looking up, he scans the leafless branches. “There it is!” he points. At that moment, a winged form rises effortlessly above the treetops and disappears into the cold blue sky. “Yep, it’s a red-tail.”

This rich riparian habitat at Bear Creek is both a data source for scientists and a living lab for kids. The Klamath Bird Observatory shares space with the Willow Wind Community Learning Center, an old farmhouse that the local school district now runs as an educational facility.

At the top of a narrow staircase plastered with wildlife posters, Alexander and his colleagues labor in a warren of shoebox-sized offices that belie the scope of their work. To the observatory’s vast collection of bird data, the mother of all variables is soon to be added: climate change. As a partner in a mega-study on North Pacific birds, the Klamath group is working with two other conservation groups — PRBO Conservation Science and the American Bird Observatory — to create computer models of species distribution under three climate scenarios: low, medium and high temperatures for the Northwest. Ecologist Sam Veloz of PRBO drew on OCCRI’s 2010 analysis in the lead-up to the study. “I used the Oregon Climate Assessment Report for background while preparing the grant proposal and for identifying data sets to use for our project,” says Veloz.

Landscapes are holistic. They flow across Earth’s surface, one into another, seamlessly. Boundaries of jurisdiction — county, state, nation — are human artifacts, irrelevant to the foraging, nesting and migrating of birds. Overcoming the artificial lines on the regional map is a main mission of the study’s sponsor, the North Pacific Landscape Conservation Cooperative (one of 22 regional public-private cooperatives in the U.S. Department of Fish and Wildlife). Hosted by the OSU-based Northwest Climate Science Center, the cooperative represents yet another break from tradition in environmental science and management.

By knocking down barriers between the usual silos — government agencies, NGOs, scientists, land managers, tribes, universities — conservation efforts can better address the urgent needs of species and ecosystems. “This partnership is helping to link science and management more tightly,” Alexander says.

What If?

The study’s endgame is a tool: an interactive, online program for land managers. It will help them better understand current conditions and also look into possible futures. Alexander calls them “what-if” scenarios.

“It will be a decision-support tool that ties our science directly to their challenges,” says Alexander, who has devoted his career to what he calls the science-management interface. “They will be able to click on any pixel on the regional map and find out the probability that a number of different bird species will be there. It will help them make more informed broad-scale decisions that will benefit birds and people.”

If current predictions are right, bird communities could shift dramatically as temperatures warm. Alexander warns of a potentially massive species re-shuffling that could upset the equilibrium of coexistence. The current project, he hopes, will help mitigate such challenges. “All-bird conservation is something that is going to benefit everybody. Birds are our tool for moving toward healthier landscapes,” says Alexander.