_____ 

Title:  Expedition to the clouds.	
Authors:  Michael Tennesen
Source:  INTERNATIONAL WILDLIFE; Mar/Apr98, Vol. 28 Issue 2, p22, 8p, 8c	
Database:  MasterFILE Elite
	

EXPEDITION TO THE CLOUDS

(What it's like to search for new species in an unexplored Peruvian
jungle)

by Michael Tennesen 	

On day one, our Peruvian army M-17 helicopter diverts to pick up a
soldier wounded by Shining Path guerrillas. On day two, thundering
deluges send the chopper cowering back to its Andean base. Now, on day
three, we hover over a mountainside forest shrouded in clouds. The crew
homes in on radio signals from below. 

Suddenly, through the murk, the pilot spots a red poncho spread out on
the ground. "Alli estan! (There they are!)" he shouts. Down below, a
ragged band of people waves frantically, and we cautiously circle to
land. I am about to become part of a wet and wild world of science and
adventure--a fly on the tent flap of an expedition to the remotest part
of the Andes, in which a collection of North American and Peruvian
biologists will document the biological diversity of this unexplored
area and hunt for new species. 

As the dense clouds part, the helicopter descends, touches ground and
immediately begins to fill with gear and biologists. Having plucked
these weary scientists from a mountain camp at 3,350 meters (11,000
ft.), we quickly climb again, darting through the rugged mountains over
steep cliffs and high buttes--all deep-cut river valleys, all covered in
a dark mossy green. Our destination: a second camp, at about 2,050
meters (6,700ft.). 

Rotors pounding, we chug across Vilcabamba, a mountainous region of
south central Peru, between the peaks of the Andes and the Amazon Basin.
I have been invited along by the expedition's sponsor, Conservation
International (CI), an environmental group based in Washington, D.C.,
that has been working for 10 years to determine what species actually
live in some of the most inaccessible spots on Earth. It is dangerous
duty. Four years earlier, two CI biologists lost their lives in a plane
crash in neighboring Ecuador on a similar mission. 

It is also important duty. Before conservationists can protect a region,
scientists have to know what lives there. In this case, their quest has
become especially urgent: Oil giants Shell, Mobil and Chevron have won
concessions from the Peruvian government to explore the valleys east of
Vilcabamba, extending to Bolivia. And if oil or natural gas is found, a
pipeline may be built to Lima over the Andes. Under this potential
threat, CI has assembled a crack team of biological superstars. They are
part of what is called a Rapid Assessment Program (RAP) to do a
quick-and-dirty field survey of wildlife. They will cover the Vilcabamba
in four weeks, with me tagging along for the second half. 

Biologists believe that the tropical Andes are the most biologically
diverse of all the remaining forests in the world. The Vilcabamba Range,
roughly the size of New Hampshire, is an uninhabited cloud forest in the
midst of this towering wilderness. Cut off from nearby landmasses by the
deep valleys of the Apurimac and Urubamba Rivers, it rises like an
island in a sea of jungle and is as isolated as an island in the ocean. 

Animals in such remote landscapes are isolated, too. Separated from the
rest of the world, many populations have evolved alone and out of touch
with each other over the eons. The result: pockets of diversity, often
teeming with species never before described by scientists. Biologists
conducting searches in similar places--including the Philippines,
Madagascar and the Annamites Mountains on the border of Laos and
Vietnam--have already found a treasure trove of new species in recent
years. Since 1990, the total of new mammals alone--most of them rodents
or insectivores--has passed 50, and some researchers estimate that the
world's 4,600 known mammalian species will increase by 15 percent once
other remote areas have been surveyed. Not unpredictably, such
biogeographical hot spots have become a focus for conservationists
intent on saving life on Earth. 

Still, little is known about the Vilcabamba, and we swoop into a region
that has been virtually unexplored. The National Geographic Society sent
an expedition of parachut- ists here in 1963, but their failure to find
a landing site for planes almost cost the jumpers their lives (the
ground was too muddy, and they had to hike out--a perilous trek through
jungle and steep gorges that lasted 89 days). In the late 1960s,
biologists John Terborgh, then a professor at the University of
Maryland, and John Weske, then a graduate student at the University of
Oklahoma, hacked a trail up into the range to survey bird populations.
Since then, activities of the Shining Path--a leftist anti-government
guerrilla group--as well as cocaine traffickers have kept others out of
the area. 

At Camp Two, the helicopter drops to a large jungle clearing, its rotors
still whirling as it cautiously settles on the unstable soil. Thick
puffs of white cloud continually mist the terrain, fanning the
biological explosion but also creating a spongy world of wetness. I am
the first out. When I hit the ground, I sink up to my calves, my leather
boots almost disappearing into a bog. A deep matrix of sphagnum moss
covers the earth. It is saturated with water and punctuated by wet
sinkholes that can swallow your leg to the thigh. 

I turn and try to warn the next in line. "This is a bad place to land,"
I implore. But RAP veteran Louise Emmons, a research associate with the
Smithsonian Institution, will hear none of it. "This is it," she assures
me. And indeed, this dripping land in the middle of nowhere is to be my
home for the next two weeks, as I shadow Emmons and the group's eight
other biological associates. 

Tom Schulenberg, an ornithologist at Chicago's Field Museum, is team
leader and amiable father figure of the group. He points to the highest
terrain. "Let's make camp inside the jungle," he says. And out come the
machetes. 

No strangers to grueling fieldwork, his colleagues--including some of
the world's foremost minds on matters of biological diversity--dirty and
blister their hands as they whack a path to the thick forest. About 45
meters (150 ft.) outside of our landing bog, they encounter a stand of
bamboo and carve a clearing. By nightfall, everyone is exhausted. But
camp is made, and we dive into dinner under tarps while the rain pelts
down. I discover that if you stand anywhere long enough, water squeezes
from the ground and pools around your feet. I think of the rubber boots
I've left behind. 

Next morning we are up at 5:00 to survey birds. Schulenberg and Lawrence
Lupez, a Peruvian ornithologist at the Universidad La Agraria in Lima,
lead us back to the bog. They work around its edge, training binoculars
as well as microphones on the surrounding forest. According to
Schulenberg, whose ear is finely tuned, you can hear approximately three
to four times more birds than you can see. Like the other North American
biologists on the expedition, he is working closely with his Peruvian
counterpart to share skills and techniques, and as a senior U.S.
scientist, he is eager to impart his listening skills to his younger
colleague. Lopez, like the other Peruvian scientists on this trip, will
be a force for conservation in his country for years to come. 

Recording South American birds is difficult, as they are stingy with
their songs. "It's not like northern birds that arrive on their mating
ground and only have a couple weeks to get things going," Schulenberg
says. "Here, they are permanent residents. They may wake up, sing one
quick tune and that's it." 

A small unidentified plane buzzes overhead, and Schulenberg notes how
frequent such flights have been. "It's either drug surveillance or drug
traffickers themselves," he speculates. Schulenberg fears the presence
of drug growers as much as the oil companies. "If this area came under
coca production, it would be blighted. And no gringo or Peruvian could
wander through here with binoculars without being shot," he says. 

The next day at lunch, I am loitering in the main tent at the center of
camp when Louise Emmons rushes in. "There are thousands of bees
outside," she announces, "and they're all Africanized." She looks at me.
"A lot of people are going to get stung before this is over. You aren't
allergic to bee stings?" 

I hide from the killer bees as Munica Romo, the Peruvian coordinator for
RAP, and Lucia Luna, a mammalogist with the Natural History Museum in
Lima, prepare bait for mammal traps that will soon pepper the
surrounding jungle. Romo and Luna exchange laughter as they mix up
various concoctions of peanut butter, vanilla, coconut oil, tuna and
oatmeal. Romo, the resident dessert gourmet, has given up the peanut
butter reluctantly. "I hope they appreciate it," she says. 

By afternoon, clouds form, the bees die down and we emerge from the tent
with bait and traps. I follow Romo and Luna down freshly cut trails. We
place both live-capture and spring-loaded mouse traps every 9 meters (30
ft.) or so. Mindful of warnings about the presence here of fer-de-lance,
deadly, aggressive South American vipers, I generally stay out in the
open. The two women, however, stow their traps in every dark corner. 

As night approaches, Louise Emmons leads us out onto the bog to lay a
new type of trap called a pitfall. The three biologists dig holes in the
bog, place buckets within and then string plastic sheeting along the
ground between the buckets. According to Emmons, small mammals moving
through the jungle encounter the miniature plastic fence, turn right or
left along its confining edges and eventually fall into the buckets.
With all traps set, the scientists sit back and await their bounty. 

On another day, I accompany Brad Boyle, a Canadian botanist who
specializes in South American plants, and his Peruvian counterparts
Hamilton Beltran and Monica Arakaki. We traverse the bog to the forest
beyond, then climb to a rise. The scientists lay out a 50-meter
(165-ft.) line, taking specimens that are within 2 meters (6.6 ft.) of
either side. This methodical work--they've put out a total of 27 lines
in 18 areas--continues throughout most days, with evenings spent
pressing samples in dry newspapers and nights cataloging the results. 

The botanists direct their attention upwards to the
epiphytes--bromeliads, orchids, ferns, mosses and other plants--that
crowd the limbs of trees above. The enormous presence of these plants,
which grow on other species but derive nutrients from the air, is one of
the factors that distinguish cloud forest from other types of jungle.
Boyle points to a cluster of treetops in one area. "There are more
species in that cluster than in most northern forests," he says. 

Boyle explains that cloud-forest animals often specialize, living off a
single plant species or group of plants. Some flowers have long, curved
tubes that only certain species of hummingbirds with similarly curved
bills--such as the buff-tipped sicklebill--can pollinate. "But there are
also cheaters," Boyle says. A small bird called the flower-piercer uses
its hooked bill like a can opener, notching little holes at the base of
the flower. Cheater bees and small hummingbirds also use those holes to
get at the flower's nectar. 

Boyle expects to find many new species here. The work of authenticating
them as new, he tells me, is a long and arduous task. "It's not like
`Eureka! I just found a new species.' It's more like, `Wow, I've just
been through every known species in the herbarium and it doesn't match
anything.'" The process also involves writing up the find for scientific
publication, where it can be challenged by other specialists. Still,
Boyle holds up a tiny delicate orchid and dares to declare, "I'll bet
you a case of beer that's never been described before. 

"Given the immense size of the Cordillera Vilcabamba, the biological
treasures the scientists discover can only be a sample of what's there.
"We are covering two sites as thoroughly as we can," Schulenberg says,
"but as biologists we are painfully aware that our samples--important as
they are--are only that, mere samples of what Vilcabamba has to offer. 

"I take the trail back to camp. The path is difficult. Stumps or
branches that remain in cleared areas act as punji sticks if you walk
too rapidly. Each walkway is an obstacle course, and I learn to creep on
all fours. In the process, I run into Louise Emmons, who looks upset. I
ask how she is. "Not so good," she replies. "I slipped and fell into one
of these cut branches. I think I cracked a rib." Emmons has also been
nursing a bronchial infection for a number of days and the maladies are
compounding each other. "The trouble is, I can't cough," she says. 

That evening, I think about taking a bath but quickly change my mind.
"The army ants are swarming down by the river," Brad Boyle warns me. "Be
careful. You don't want to get one up your pant leg." I decide to wash
my clothes instead. Wool socks take two days to dry. My cotton T-shirts
stay wet forever. 

At night, I marvel at the beauty of the cloud forest--the orchids, the
mosses, the ferns--but I also think of the rugged terrain, the constant
moisture and how difficult it is to reach this out-of-the-way place. Is
Vilcabamba tough enough to save itself, I wonder? I propose this to
Louise Emmons, but she disagrees. "Too many times we've assumed that
places were indestructible or too remote, and we come back 10 years
later and they're gone," she says. 

After several days, the rain starts again. This excites Lily Rodriguez,
the resident herpetologist. Rain brings out frogs. That evening we don
rain gear and headlamps and plunge into the forest. Rodriguez edited the
book Biodiversity of Peru: Priority Areas for Conservation, which
pinpointed Vilcabamba for this exploration. 

At the first, higher-elevation camp--before I linked up with the
expedition--Rodriguez found only four species of frogs and one lizard,
but most, she felt, were new species. Here at the lower elevation she
finds more (eight on her first day--twelve in all) with seven or more
likely to be new species. 

Some of the frogs here don't produce tadpoles but sit on their eggs like
chickens. Some carry tadpoles on their backs. Other species deposit eggs
on leaves, and when the eggs hatch, the young fall into the river. Some
of the tadpoles have huge mouths for holding onto the rocks because the
streams here run so fast. 

As the evening drags on, we encounter more than 15 frogs, though none
are new to her list. That makes Rodriguez anxious. "If someone were to
come later and find a species I had missed, it would be embarrassing,"
she says. At one point, she thinks she hears a new species and chases
the noise out onto the slippery limbs of a tree in the rain. 

At dinner on another night, a moth flies into my coffee, but I pull it
out and keep drinking. Too many bugs to worry about just one. Gerardo
Lamas, a Peruvian lepidopterist who visited only the first camp, later
tells me that he feels 25 percent of the butterflies and moths he'd
collected were new species. 

All through dinner, the biologists jump when they hear some bird, rat or
frog they've been pursuing all week. Each day, their animal count rises.
Though our elevation is the upward limit for monkeys, we hear
white-faced capuchin monkeys, spider monkeys and night monkeys. There
have been signs of puma and bear at both the upper-and lower-elevation
camps and signs of dwarf deer at the upper camp. The mammalogists
collect a weasel, a rare short-tailed opossum that was previously known
from only two Peruvian specimens and a rare bamboo rat that has hands
like a monkey--a first for both the Peruvian and Smithsonian
collections. Some animal-rights critics object to such specimen
collecting, but this centuries-old technique is by far still the most
efficient and useful way for scientists to compare their discoveries
with what is already known. 

Lawrence Lopez sets up a mist net--a catching device like a badminton
net--and brings me samples of live birds to photograph. "Oh, you should
see the tanager I caught," he announces with characteristic enthusiasm
as he pulls a yellow-scarfed tanager from his jacket pocket. "Look at
that beauty!" When we finish, Lopez releases the bird, and I watch in
amazement at how fast it disappears into the green growth. Though the
biologists also spot parrots and hear toucans, these larger birds, they
say, are not as evident as they'd be at lower altitudes. 

One evening I follow Monica Romo and Lucia Luna out to the bog to hunt
for bats. We stretch a series of nets out in front of a small lagoon
where the creatures come to feed on insects, and we capture four
different species. Romo has studied seed dispersal by bats at Manu
National Park in Peru and knows how important they are to a system's
ecology. Typically, bats make up 50 percent of all mammals at any given
site in the tropics. 

Romo got her master's degree in ecology at the University of Missouri
and remembers how in 1995, when she returned to Peru, ecology was
suddenly the fashion there. "Five years earlier, no one even knew the
word. But people were protecting the dolphins, recycling their
garbage--and the young people were attracted to these ideas, too," she
says. "I think it's a good sign. 

"Our collecting foray again runs into ominous weather. Clouds crowd out
the stars as lightning and thunder pound the horizon. We take down the
nets and withdraw to camp, thwarted yet again by a difficult land that
seems tailor-made to repel people. 

It is getting close to departure day now, and Romo starts radioing the
Peruvian army several days in advance. She warns the helicopter pilots
to get here early since the clouds start gathering between 10:00 and
11:00. No one makes jokes about a late arrival, especially after having
waited three days for the last ride. It is too sensitive a topic. 

We break camp on the day of the scheduled pickup and haul our gear into
the open bog. The bees are out early and the sky is blue, but as we sit
and wait, clouds form in the distance. By 10:30 the bees stop buzzing,
the sky turns gray--and still no helicopter. Finally, we hear the roar
coming over a nearby mountain. 

The chopper lands and everyone piles gear, bodies and specimens inside.
The work is frenzied. All the equipment and most of the crew are stashed
aboard when suddenly the helicopter takes off, leaving five of us on the
ground. In a moment, it is gone. 

"What happened?" I turn to Schulenberg in a mild panic. 

He assures me the pilots are just taking some of the weight out, and
they'll be back soon. Boyle and I nervously munch candies handed out
that morning. I ask Schulenberg if he received any. "Yeah, but I won't
eat my last food until the third day," he taunts. 

Finally, about an hour and a half later, with the skies miraculously
still clear enough for landing, the helicopter returns. The forested
mountains look magnificent as we rise up from Vilcabamba and begin the
journey home. 

The cloud forest has indeed proven bountiful, I reflect. The biologists
have cataloged 142 species of birds, adding more than a dozen species to
Terborgh and Weske's list. (Schulenberg estimates that Vilcabamba should
have at least 650 species of birds, roughly equivalent to the total
number of species that breed in the United States and Canada.) They've
encountered 16 species of reptiles and amphibians with as many as 12
being new to science. And they've collected more than 40 species of
mammals, including a very large rodent which could be either a new
species or the same rodent described in 1916 from skulls found in
pre-Columbian graves in Machu Picchu. Plus there are samples of more
than 738 species of plants, many of which will doubtless prove in later
months to be new. The report will add strength to a Peruvian effort to
get this area declared a national park. 

As the flight continues, we see buildings along the riverbanks and bare
hills where forests have been cut. They signal the proximity of
civilization. Indeed, Emmons may have been right. Vilcabamba may not be
tough enough to stop this determined onslaught, especially with roads
and pipelines from oil exploration potentially in the works. 

Some scientists point to Tambopata, a Mecca for bird-watchers in
southeast Peru, to explain their concerns about Vilcabamba.
Conservationists there helped draw up the boundaries of a proposed new
national park. At the last minute, the government granted Mobil an
exploratory concession, park boundaries were reworked and only a third
of the space originally proposed was included in the new park. To its
credit, Mobil is working with CI to evaluate ecological and social
impacts in the developed area in case the park is expanded after Mobil
leaves, but the fast-moving events there illustrate how energy
development can impinge on biologically significant areas. 

Schulenberg is wary about what might happen to Vilcabamba, but he's also
ebullient that his crew has made a biological inventory that could
provide some of the baseline research for a future park. "To be able to
protect that great an area with such a large complement of Andean
species as well as its own endemics and essentially no human presence
makes our hearts sing," he exclaims. 

For me, with my still-wet socks, this window into the world of field
biologists has given me a new sense of Earth's biological wealth and the
fleeting opportunities we have to save it. I think back to Brad Boyle's
bet about the orchid. No doubt, I will owe him a case of beer. 

                                 -- End --


Story and photographs by Michael Tennesen 

Michael Tennesen accompanied the Conservation International expedition
on special assignment for this magazine. A frequent contributor to
International Wildlife, he is author of Flight of the Falcon (Key Porter
Books, Toronto).