MEM students travel to Madagascar to study the elusive fossa...
Project
Description:
The surprised predator’s fiery green eyes glared back at me, reflecting brilliantly in my headlamp beam as it probed through the slats of the coarsely constructed wooden trap. Every ounce of adrenaline my body could produce was instantly squeezed into my bloodstream. All else in the forest seemed to come to a standstill, for a moment only my heart palpable in my ears. The animal quickly whirled in the trap, emitting a fierce, aggressive snort and growl, abruptly shaking me from my endorphin-induced immobility.
Reaching for the package of tranquilizer darts in my pocket, I dropped the first but managed to load anesthesia into the second dart, despite being unable to stop my hands from shaking. Nearing the trap, I slid the loaded dart into my blowpipe, wondering if I was completely ready for what was to happen in the next minutes. As I closed to less than one meter from the trap, the wood seemed as though it would shatter as easily as balsa from the lunges and tirades of the animal inside.
The animal briefly turned away from me, its hindquarters exposed against the slats of the trap, presenting a perfect, safe shot. The “thwack” of the dart against flesh was punctuated by the bright flash from the syringe’s powder charge, sending the plunger forward and the dart’s anesthesia into muscle tissue before the dart fell away. I stepped back from the trap and watched the further enraged animal continue to spin, spit and snarl in the few seconds before the Telazol began to take its desired effect, delivering the animal smoothly into unconsciousness. The entire sequence of events had taken place in under three minutes. That was June 5, 1996. I was in Ranomafana National Park, Madagascar. And I’d just caught my first fossa. The scary predator that all of Madagascar fears, the evil monster that children are afraid of, was not much bigger than a cat.
Eight years after I caught my first fossa, that hairbrained idea to go in search of a virtually unknown predator has evolved into a group effort. Each year’s teams are different, but our goals remain remarkably uniform. The two original themes of our team’s work in Madagascar remain top priorities – science and conservation. We are driven by our curiosity about the most unique yet endangered animals and ecosystems on Earth, rapidly expanding the knowledge base and natural history of Madagascar. That curiosity is bolstered by a staunch desire to conserve and protect that same system’s priceless biodiversity.
The fossa team, constantly discovering new and unusual aspects of Madagascar’s top predators, also works tirelessly to ensure the subjects of our research persevere through an indefinite future. Extinct species lists now lengthen at a pace faster than ever imagined. The end of the age of dinosaurs progressed at a snail’s pace compared with modern species losses and environmental change.
We seek to uncover every possible aspect of Madagascar’s carnivores, including their natural histories, the roles they play in their ecosystems, their distributions, population, health, and conservation status. When we started, we sought to merely confirm their presence for the record books. Thereafter, we posed the most basic questions: What do they eat? Where do they go and how far? When do they breed? What do they require for short- and long-term survival? How many are left?
Now, we work to expand on the basics, examining which species most directly compete with them and why; which diseases are the greatest threats; where the most significant habitat bottlenecks are likely to occur. We’re adding to the Madagascar data banks at a remarkably fast pace. In doing so, we improve our chances at making the right decisions and pursuing the correct actions to effectively conserve the Red Island’s ecosystems.
Our conservation actions constitute a full and equal portion of our time and efforts. We pay attention to all possible stakeholders as we seek to maintain what small portions of Madagascar’s intact nature remains. Seeking such a breadth of performance levels sets our work apart – and makes it successful. The villager that wakes up every morning, who must make the decision whether or not to cut a tree for his own survival, is as important a part of conservation as a head of state. If we fail to pay attention to any level, the house of cards upon which ecosystem survival depends may come tumbling down, first collapsing on any of many levels.
We work to make sure our new-found insights are known and applied, helping the web of conservation stay connected. Rural populations, local management, educators, researchers, patrons, regional or government officials, national and international policymakers are only a few parts of the net. Good conservationists must be able to perform on all these scales. Members of our team are equally likely to wake up in forests, villages, or capitol cities.
Performing across these levels, our team is apt to encounter endangered species, poachers, local students, park directors, university professors, politicians, and diplomats each day. A good conservation biologist must be able to comfortably move within and between these levels. One person can most effectively impact the future of a movement by expanding its membership. As team leader, my goal is to make opportunities on all the levels of conservation available for each year’s team. As we all return to our respective corners of the Earth, each of us will be able to apply what we learn here after returning to our own parts of the world – also having left this part of it better off for our efforts.