![\"Anchorage](\"https:\/\/hakaimagazine.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/anchorage-belugas-in-cook-inlet.jpg\")
<\/a>The city of Anchorage is Alaska\u2019s biggest metropolis. It\u2019s also one of the only easily accessible places in the world to see belugas in their natural habitat. Photo by Rocky Grimes\/Alamy Stock Photo<\/p><\/div>\n
The whales, which grow to about the length of a small sea kayak, like to eat salmon in the rivers that empty into Upper Cook Inlet, but at low tide most of those shallow river mouths emerge as mudflats braided with channels too treacherous for a beluga to navigate without stranding. So they muster here, about 30 kilometers south of Anchorage, just a short swim away from the salmon streams. This broad, sheltered tidal flat stays submerged even at low tide and has a city-block-sized area deep enough for the whales to hang out in.<\/p>\n
Here they wait for the flood tide. Wade\u2019s summer field research involves monitoring the whales with drones and using small darts to gather non-lethal biopsies of the belugas\u2019 skin and blubber. He plans his season around daylight low tides so he can find large numbers of them together in places like this special shoreline hangout that he calls the \u201cbeluga pool.\u201d This is the year\u2019s last trip. He got his final samples and counts yesterday; McGuire was eager for a few more photos.<\/p>\n
The belugas aren\u2019t going to make it too easy. A shimmering gray back cuts the water near the boat, and McGuire raises the camera in readiness. The beluga doesn\u2019t resurface. There\u2019s just a light bump to the boat from beneath, and a few plumes in the silt to trace its movement. Moments later the beluga resurfaces in the distance on the other side.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re like teenagers,\u201d McGuire says, equal parts amused and annoyed. The belugas around the boat are energetic, playful, and goofy looking. They seem so carefree. But they are endangered<\/a>. Intensive subsistence hunting in the 1990s crashed their number from a small but stable 1,300 to just 380. Since the hunt slowly ground to a stop after 1999, they\u2019ve failed to rebound. And no one is sure why.<\/p>\n Scientists like Wade and McGuire are scrambling to study the Cook Inlet whales and their environment\u2014a challenging prospect. It is calm today but this wedge of the Pacific where these isolated whales spend their lives is usually a churning, frigid, brutal place. Its tidal range\u2014reaching nine meters in its northern extremities\u2014is the world\u2019s fourth largest, generating currents so strong that boats struggle to dock. In the winter, those currents carry chunks of ice. On top of that, whales contend with humans, and that means increasing noise, shrinking salmon runs, and new pollutants like pharmaceuticals that seep into the inlet with Anchorage\u2019s minimally treated sewage. No one thing has yet emerged as the obvious culprit. The researchers are now investigating more complex puzzles, like how the many stressors combine to overwhelm the belugas, and even how the hunt impacted the whales\u2019 intricate social structure. Others are raising awareness above the waves in hopes that public sentiment will spur protective measures. But the solutions are as murky as the water. How do you help a creature when you don\u2019t know what\u2019s wrong?<\/p>\n Map data by OpenStreetMap via ArcGIS<\/p><\/div>\n A good way of eating beluga, according to David Kroto, land management officer for the Tyonek Native Corporation, is with seal oil, soy sauce, and raw onions. But Kroto hasn\u2019t had it for a while.<\/p>\n The state of Alaska had always allowed a beluga subsistence hunt, but takes increased during the 1980s. By the 1990s reported takes were between 40 and 70 animals a year, and (by some counts) may have reached 100 animals a season. The population plunged. Several Indigenous communities along the shore of the inlet voluntarily stopped their hunt when they realized the belugas\u2019 plight. The village of Tyonek, which lies about 65 kilometers southeast of Anchorage, was among them. The community\u2019s final harvest was around 2004.<\/p>\n Kroto says belugas are a part of his culture, featuring in food, art, and the hunt itself. At some point the community would like to hunt them again. Kroto is sure of one thing: \u201cBelugas aren\u2019t dumb animals,\u201d he says. \u201cI mean, if they\u2019re dying off, there\u2019s got to be a legitimate cause.\u201d<\/p>\n One idea he\u2019s heard discussed is fish shortages. \u201cI know my grandpa had talked about in the past that there weren\u2019t enough food sources for the belugas,\u201d he says. Belugas eat a lot of small critters such as eulachon, crabs, squid, even worms, but their main prey seems to be chinook salmon, which are suffering. The northern Pacific Ocean is warming, epitomized by the Blob of 2014 and 2015, during which a mass of warmer-than-usual water remained at the surface, stressing salmon. That, along with overfishing and other pressures, has led to low runs all along the coast.<\/p>\n Kroto also worries about noise. There are oil and gas platforms all over the inlet, with more than a dozen in the water near Tyonek, his home. The shore adjacent to the village is sparsely populated but the platforms are bustling, supplied by ships and barges at all hours. Kroto can hear them late at night or early in the morning. \u201cThey\u2019re actually pretty loud,\u201d he says. \u201cI mean, if I could hear them from the village, the beluga could definitely hear them from the water.\u201d<\/p>\n Oil and gas platforms dot the waters of Cook Inlet, Alaska. The platforms and their support infrastructure are a source of income\u2014but also noise, which can be particularly challenging for beluga whales. Photo by P. A. Lawrence, LLC.\/Alamy Stock Photo<\/p><\/div>\n Noise may seem a strange thing to threaten a species\u2019 livelihood. But in 2016, with the whales\u2019 recovery stalled, NOAA named the Cook Inlet belugas a species of special concern and published a recovery plan that classified threats as high, medium, or low concern. Of highest concern were catastrophic events like earthquakes or oil spills, the cumulative impacts of multiple stressors (or \u201cdealing with everything at once\u201d), and noise\u2014the biggest solo factor. The reason noise is such a concern is all in the belugas\u2019 heads.<\/p>\n A beluga rising<\/em> This stanza opens the poem \u201cWhat Whales and Infants Know\u201d by Alaskan poet Kim Cornwall, displayed on a placard at a beluga-spotting pullout along the Seward Highway that winds down Turnagain Arm. The lines are pretty and likely accurate. A beluga\u2019s distinctive forehead bulge holds a fatty organ called a melon that, in addition to changing shape to make noises for communication at the surface, helps it below the water. Belugas, like other toothed whales, use high-pitched sounds to find prey, communicate, and navigate in the opaque waters. The melon focuses their high-pitched echolocation vocalizations like a large squishy lens, allowing them to direct it like a spotlight. It is hard to overstate how important sound is to them.<\/p>\n Cook Inlet beluga whales are near-impossible to see underwater. These belugas swimming in Hudson\u2019s Bay, where the visibility is a little better, show the distinctive bump of their forehead melons. Photo by Paul Souders\/Minden Pictures<\/p><\/div>\n Cook Inlet hums with anthropogenic noise. Aside from the bustling platforms and ships, the oil and gas industry is responsible for shore-based pipeline terminals and seismic surveys. Rail lines and coastal highways supply Anchorage. Military jets zoom in and out of an air force base on Knik Arm. Fishing boats and cargo ships call at the Port of Anchorage. The city\u2019s airport, Ted Stevens Anchorage International, is one of the largest air terminals in the world by cargo throughput. Anchorage lies partway between the continental United States and East Asia, and is a perfect refueling stop for giant Boeing 747s and Airbus A380s that take off over the water every few minutes. What does this mean for belugas that, without sound, are blind, hungry, and alone?<\/p>\n Manuel Castellote, a research scientist at the University of Washington, studies belugas and their response to sound all over the Arctic. He thinks the most impactful noises in Cook Inlet come from shipping. \u201cThere\u2019s a lot of [ship] traffic,\u201d he says. \u201cIf you leave the hydrophone recording for a long time you realize, wow, that\u2019s way louder than we expected.\u201d<\/p>\n The average land-based Anchorage-ite might notice roaring plane engines as the most conspicuous ambient noise. But underwater, Castellote says, ship noises are louder and last hours, whereas a plane takes only seconds to pass overhead.<\/p>\n Anchorage may be remote by some standards, but it\u2019s a major air transport hub, and large cargo planes take off and land at Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport every few minutes. Photo by Design Pics Inc\/Alamy Stock Photo<\/p><\/div>\n The long-term impact on belugas is unclear. Castellote can say for sure that they do react. Sometimes they swim away. Sometimes these vivacious vocalizers become silent in the presence of ships or boats because boat noise, especially that of smaller craft, means \u201cpredator\u201d to them: a beluga\u2019s life span is similar to a human\u2019s, so at least some of them were likely alive during the subsistence hunt. \u201cThey for sure<\/em> remember they were hunted from small boats,\u201d Castellote says. \u201cThey associate the outboard noise to a boat coming and shooting at them.\u201d<\/p>\n Other times, belugas seem to vocalize louder<\/em> when there\u2019s boat and ship noise. Castellote calls it the cocktail party effect. They\u2019re likely talking louder to be heard over the din.<\/p>\n Castellote has seen them react to other sound above the waves too, seemingly diving or swimming to get away from highway noise, train whistles, and planes both military and commercial. But the knock-on effects are unclear. If a beluga must pause hunting for every ship, it can still function, but it may be hungry. They risk stranding if they swim in shallow water without echolocating. And there\u2019s a special danger for mothers and calves, which call to each other to stay close. If they have to be quiet while a ship passes, they may get separated in the murk. On its own, a calf will easily starve or strand. Conversely, if belugas always have to \u201cyell\u201d to be heard, there\u2019s an energy cost to that. \u201cAre they going to be feeding less,\u201d Castellote wonders, \u201cis their fitness going to be reduced, are they going to be reproducing less, is this calf going to be able to make it … these are the really hard questions.\u201d<\/p>\n Belugas can survive when it\u2019s loud\u2014but everything becomes a little harder.<\/p>\n Noise compounds with the long list of other challenges facing the Cook Inlet belugas. NOAA\u2019s list of concerns includes infections and disease, lost habitat, depletion of food, and pollution. None of these alone seems to be stalling their recovery, but there\u2019s too little data to be sure. For example, Anchorage sewage is piped into Cook Inlet along with the molecular salad of pharmaceuticals and personal care products the locals flush, wash, or pour down the drain. While turbulent currents and tides move vast amounts of water and likely scour most contaminants out of Cook Inlet, belugas may still be exposed to them. For many of these compounds, scientists have only studied the toxicity of large doses, not the impacts of low-grade chronic exposure.<\/p>\n There\u2019s no evidence of widespread infection, either, but samples only come from post-mortems on a few stranded animals. Scarce salmon may be a factor in some belugas\u2019 health, but most stranded animals haven\u2019t looked emaciated. In the water, at least to the casual observer, the whales seem vital and energetic.<\/p>\n Maybe more data will reveal a smoking gun. But what if there\u2019s another major factor at play not listed in the recovery plan\u2014one that\u2019s nearly impossible to study?<\/p>\n Before he started working with the belugas, Wade co-wrote a paper on how different whale species recover after humans gouged their numbers during the heyday of commercial whaling. It noted a pattern. When depleted baleen whale populations have space and time, most recover. But toothed whales like belugas, narwhals, and killer whales don\u2019t.<\/p>\n Tourists on the shores of Turnagain Arm catch a glimpse of the Cook Inlet belugas in their natural habitat. Beluga spotting is a popular activity along the arm\u2019s Seward Highway, where regular car pullouts and viewing platforms are set up. Photo by Design Pics Inc\/Alamy Stock Photo<\/p><\/div>\n There are some clear biological reasons. Toothed whales start reproducing when they\u2019re older and have fewer calves. They eat more fish so they often compete with fisheries for prey. More toxins build up in their bodies because their prey is on average higher up the food chain than the plankton, krill, or small fish consumed by baleen whales.<\/p>\n Toothed whales also form more structured social groups. That gives them many advantages, but it may also be a vulnerability.<\/p>\n We still need more studies on beluga social structure to fill gaps in our understanding. We do know the whales tend to form groups from a few individuals up to thousands. Mothers and calves are at the center of these groups, while males often aggregate separately. Several belugas together can do useful things, like defend against predators and give calves extra care. Meanwhile, young whales likely learn skills from older whales, from basic hunting to how to handle infrequent events like storms or ice entrapment. But what if we break these ties?<\/p>\n Networks were certainly broken in Cook Inlet. \u201cWhen you think about it, we removed three-quarters of the whales,\u201d Wade says. Worse, the hunt naturally targeted large animals, which overwhelmingly meant the older, wiser leaders. Imagine a human family after 75 percent of its members were wiped out, leaving mostly kids and young adults. They may survive, but they\u2019re unlikely to thrive. There\u2019s some research on how other social animals fare when their elders are removed. Among elephants, killing large trophy males or older females hurts the whole group\u2019s reproduction rate. The same is true with bighorn sheep, wolves, and caribou.<\/p>\n There\u2019s no equivalent study in belugas, but there is a hint that they, too, rely on their elders. Belugas seem to go through menopause, a phenomenon that has long puzzled biologists because it seems counterintuitive for the survival of a species. But menopause creates a class of older animals unburdened by offspring whose primary role is to lead, teach, and help other family members survive. Such guidance must be extremely valuable, the thinking goes, for the species to have evolved this way, with older females living on after reproduction. Scientists call it the grandmother hypothesis.<\/p>\n Wade has been mulling the impacts of social disruption on the belugas for years, but on top of the challenge of following them underwater, can\u2019t imagine how to test those impacts empirically since, to do so, reams of whales would have to be killed or removed from the wild. Instead, he must use what data he can get to build an understanding of their demographics and patterns, and from there get a glimpse of their social dynamics. Wade\u2019s biopsies, combined with McGuire\u2019s photo identification, can build up a who\u2019s who of the Cook Inlet whales, including genetic information that might reveal problems such as inbreeding.<\/p>\n But with all these questions around noise, salmon, and grandmothers, the science is going painfully slow. Biopsies are painstaking to acquire and largely random. Aerial surveys by NOAA show where the whales go and how many there are, but they\u2019re expensive and infrequent, and less useful in the murky water than they would be in other places. Castellote\u2019s hydrophone systems stay in the water for a year, during which time the instruments are easily damaged by ice chunks or tree branches tumbling about the inlet\u2019s floor in the current like waterlogged tumbleweeds.<\/p>\n On top of all the potential problems facing belugas, there may be threats we don\u2019t even know about. Scientists at the Alaska Department of Fish and Game examined isotopes in beluga teeth from specimens dating back to the 1960s. They found the belugas steadily shifted their diet throughout the decades from prey from a marine environment to prey from more brackish or fresh water. That jells with records that the belugas once lived throughout Cook Inlet, but now cluster near the top, close to the freshwater streams. But the timing of this shift is unclear. Was it the hunt? Or some pressure aside from the hunt that squeezed them in, such as construction of oil and gas platforms midway down the inlet? Or is it simply a numbers game: with fewer animals post-hunt, they can all congregate near the streams\u2019 rich buffet? And no one knows how to assess potential impacts of a massive earthquake that struck Alaska in 1964. There are endless questions.<\/p>\n The belugas may not survive the wait for answers. Some scientists think we can pave the way for future conservation measures now.<\/p>\n Verena Gill stands on Point Woronzof, a small coastal park just west of Anchorage, her slight frame sheathed in a blue windbreaker. It\u2019s another bright fall day and the warm sun sets the yellow leaves of the young poplar trees ablaze, but Gill is squinting across Cook Inlet with concern. On the far shore sits the village of Tyonek and right now opaque white fog is rolling up the inlet and erasing the shore from sight.<\/p>\n Verena Gill of NOAA Fisheries coordinates Belugas Count!, an annual public beluga-spotting event that raises awareness about the endangered Cook Inlet belugas. Photo by Michael Dinneen<\/p><\/div>\n Point Woronzof is one of 14 public viewing stations set up around Cook Inlet today for Belugas Count!, an annual event that is Gill\u2019s brainchild. There are stations from Anchorage up Turnagain and Knik Arms, and as far south as Homer, a 360-kilometer drive south to where the inlet meets the Pacific. People come to spot belugas and learn more about them, and while the count numbers aren\u2019t used for research\u2014yet\u2014they are being collected in a database. The Woronzof lookout happens to sit just beneath the main approach to the airport. A binder with laminated info sheets flutters in the wind on a folding table. Six or seven volunteers in high-visibility jackets (\u201cAsk me why Belugas Count!\u201d) pass out binoculars and supervise two telescopes trained over the waves. One volunteer jokes she feels like a crossing guard.<\/p>\n Gill welcomes everyone with enthusiasm, but keeps glancing across the inlet. Then her phone chimes with news. She murmurs aloud as she reads a message from a volunteer currently on a small plane to Tyonek: \u201c\u2018heavy clouds over Tyonek,\u2019 \u2018unlikely I can land.\u2019 Oh, no!\u201d The village\u2019s school was set to become a new viewing station this year, with students getting credit for taking part. The volunteer was carrying over materials to help the school run the event. Now, the inlet\u2019s capricious conditions have turned her back. The principal will have to run the site alone so the kids can still get credit.<\/p>\n Kids are the reason Belugas Count! came to be. Coming to this role, Gill already had some experience with conservation work. She spent years as a field biologist working mainly with sea otters, whose return to the west coast of North America, Gill says, caused joy for environmentalists but also some ire among fishermen who blamed the otters for reducing their catch by eating all the fish. (\u201cIt\u2019s nice to work with belugas,\u201d Gill says. \u201cNo one seems to hate them.\u201d) But her focus shifted when she had kids.<\/p>\n<\/a>
\n<\/a>
\n
\nfrom the ocean\u2019s muddy depths<\/em>
\nreshapes its head to make a sound<\/em>
\nor take a breath.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/a><\/a>
\n<\/a>
\n<\/a>