February 16 with the T69Ds and T90s - Plus: Why I Support Whale-Watching

While whales have been around occasionally, I hadn't seen any since the end of October, and for an orcaholic like myself, full whale withdrawal was beginning to set in. I was able to get out on the water for the first time in 2019 last weekend, right towards the end of a long streak of winter weather, meaning there was still snow on the ground, transforming typical scenes like Spieden Island into something completely different.

Steller sea lions on Green Point

Spieden Island under a dusting of snow

We joined several other boats in a search for a group of transient killer whales that had been seen several hours before, and as luck would have it, they were found! It was so great to see some dorsal fins again, and even cooler with the snowy backdrop - a bucket list item for me, to see killer whales in the snow!

We recognized the T90s, but there were other whales present as well, and it wasn't until we got home and pulled out the older but more complete transient ID guide that we realized we had seen the T69Ds - new whales for me!

From left to right T69D1, T69D2, and T69D

The T69s are more often encountered on the western side of Vancouver Island, but like many other transient matrilines, have started venturing into the Salish Sea a bit over the last few years. While we were on scene, the group of 7 whales was in steady travel mode, meaning we often got to see lots of fins at the surface all together!

From left to right: T90B, T90C, T90D, T69D1, T90, and T69D

Before we left, we got some of those classic backlit blows:

And this shot of pelagic cormorants on a log was too fun not to share as well:

It was a refreshing afternoon on the water and spending some time with some killer whales was rejuvenating to the soul, but looming over the encounter was the threat of a moratorium on the viewing of Southern Residents and a permanent increase in viewing distances from 200 to 400 yards on both sides of the border, as Governor Inslee's bill based on an Orca Task Force recommendation moves through the state legislature and vessel working groups in Canada consider the same options. The scientific merits of these recommendations are dubious at best; I can and have gone into the scientific details elsewhere, but the short version is that speed matters a lot more than proximity in terms of noise levels around the whales. I want to take a moment hear to share something else, however: the fact that whale-watching changed my life.

A whale watch trip my family took in Alaska when I was 12 truly redefined the course I would take. It was the first time I saw orcas in the wild and since that day there has been no going back for me. Coming home from that trip, I did  research about other killer whale populations and learned about the Southern Residents. A couple years later we came to the San Juan Islands and it was from a boat I would meet the whales that would become my life's passion. The generation before me was influenced by seeing whales at SeaWorld. My generation has been influenced by seeing whales in the wild.

I am far from the only one who has had a life-changing experience on a whale watch trip. I know this in part from my 6 years working on a boat and seeing these moments occur for people firsthand. I also know this because many of the people in our whale community have had experiences similar to the one I did, where a boat trip to see wild whales was a transformative experience.

Last summer just before J35 and J50 put the Southern Residents in the world spotlight, 12 members of my husband’s family did a tour with Maya's Legacy including myself and my husband....We were fortunate to be one of only two boats on the water with the T124As, but Captain Jeff started talking about how they were seeing less and less of the Residents and why... Coming from me was one thing, but for them to hear what was happening to our beloved Southern Residents from their captain and to see his concern and compassion was huge. They all wanted to know what they could do to help. We never saw Residents the whole week (in early July) that we were there, but the impression was made and I know they all went back to Arizona, Florida and even Italy and told the story of the Residents' plight to their friends and family. - Susan

Some are advocating that people watch whales from shore instead of on a boat, and while some of my best-ever whale encounters have come from shore, the reality is it's not as viable of an option as it was 15 years ago. When I first started visiting the San Juans, the Southern Residents passed the west side of San Juan Island on a near-daily basis during May-September. Now it's not uncommon for weeks to go by during that time with no Southern Residents seen from Lime Kiln. It's just not realistic to ask visitors to see whales from shore when sightings have become so sporadic.

We keep hearing (in large part from people who have never been whale-watching) about how whale watch companies are owned by businessmen out to exploit an endangered species: in it for the money with little regard for the well-being of the whales. I have met many of the owners of Pacific Whale Watch Association companies and I have yet to meet one who falls into this category. They all got into it for the same reason I got into it: out of a love for the whales, the wildlife, and this entire ecosystem. Yes, they make their living at it, but they are constantly assessing moment to moment and year to year what is best for the whales.

I had a trip booked with Maya's Legacy far in advance, had friends/family in town that were going with, and the weekend we went out wound up being 4 days after J35 lost her calf. Captain Jeff told our entire boat full that they were the only orcas in the area, and that we would not be within any kind of optimum viewing distance because of the circumstances. He offered to refund the entire boat. But everyone still wanted to go out on the water regardless and wanted to hear more about what was happening.... We were only out there for a brief time, witnessing through binoculars part of J-Pod foraging near the Fraser. Jeff got emotional while we were there. Some people don't get to see that.  And I guess that’s why it infuriates me to have them vilified and thrown under the bus. Because it seems, to me, the exact opposite, in more cases than not. But because this is also how they make a living, we just hear “exploitation”. - Amanda

I have had conversations with owners, captains, and naturalists over the last 18 years, and seeing firsthand how much they care is what has made me upset about vilifying what they do, scapegoating them as the reason the whales are in the situation they are in, and calling for more restrictions simply because you advocate for any and all orca protections without taking time to become familiar with both the science and the people involved. The whale watch industry has constantly gone above and beyond what is required of them to protect the whales. Do they make mistakes? Yes. Is it a work in progress? Yes. But they are the only industry I can think of that is voluntarily making sacrifices to benefit the whales.

Part of the reason I have been outspoken on this issue is because I've read all the science and I want to advocate for what's best for the whales. My greatest fear is that we will ban or further restrict whale-watching and walk away feeling like we have done something bold to help recover the Southern Residents, when in reality we will have failed yet again to tackle the major, yet more complicated, issues they face. 

Some people have assumed I'm being paid by the whale watch industry to have this opinion, but this is not true - in fact, it is at my own personal expense that I travel to these meetings to make public comment, and it is my own free time I give to writing letters, posting debriefs of the science, and encouraging advocacy. In the interest of full disclosure I did work for a whale-watch company as a naturalist from 2005-2010. I also volunteered on Soundwatch for several summers, both of which gave me perspective. I do go out on whale-watch vessels, with people who are friends and when there is extra space available anyway; this is not in exchange for my advocacy. My opinions and my work are not being compensated for in any way; they are my own, and they are based on my experiences.

Thanks to some common sense prevailing, the vessel bills have been altered to remove the moratorium on viewing of Southern Residents. They include a go-slow zone around the whales, a permitting system on commercial whale watch vessels, and an increase to a 300 yard viewing distance on Southern Residents. Ten years ago when the first vessel regulations went into place, vessels were the focus for years, because they were the low-hanging fruit: the easiest thing to address. Since then, we have still failed to seriously address the more major risk factors of salmon abundance and contaminants. Now that we have spent months debating vessels again, my hope is that we can finally move on. If we are serious about Southern Resident killer whale recovery, this conversation can no longer be about vessels, vessels, vessels. We must put that risk factor aside and finally talk about what can be done on the big ticket issues, even if they are complex and the sacrifices painful. 

A Day At Lime Kiln Point State Park

June 2003

I had just graduated high school and was a couple weeks into my new research internship at The Whale Museum. I was settling into my regular routine of heading to Lime Kiln Point State Park every morning, where another intern and I would spend mornings in what was informally known as the "acoustics shed". We would plug headphones into a pair of dusty old computers and analyze recordings made on the park's hydrophones, assessing both sound quality and identifying specific vocalizations made by the Southern Resident killer whales. It was these many hours spend in the acoustics shed where I learned how to identify all the discrete calls. Occasionally one or the other of us would pull off the headphones and we would discuss the nuances of a particular call type. Is this an S7, or an S12? Why?

At midday a researcher from another project would come in to get weather data off our computers, and this was cue that it was time for lunch. We would all congregate at a picnic table to eat sandwiches, chips, and fruit. There were five or six of us spending our summers at the lighthouse, and we were periodically joined by a rotating cast of other characters: visiting friends and family, whale aficionados from elsewhere on the island, or visitors who came to the park hoping to see the whales. Some of these visitors, we learned, made annual pilgrimage to Lime Kiln from Seattle, or California, or Texas, or Holland. We became an informal whale community, swapping stories of past whale encounters and looking over photo ID guides, discussing how to identify certain whales that had more generic saddle patches.

The warm afternoon sunshine made it too pleasant to go back into the acoustics shed. Instead, we'd start a game of chess, while others played cards (if it wasn't too windy), or found a place to rest on the rocks and read a book or nap. Eventually, someone would get up to scan the horizon, and when the telltale sign of red and yellow zodiacs was seen, we would drop everything else and spring into action. Some of the other researchers would grab clipboards, data sheets, and ID guides. I would go into the lighthouse to start the hydrophone recording, make a few quick notes about the date, time, and direction of travel, then grab my camera and head down to my favorite rock: low to the water and right in front of the lighthouse. Soon we would see spouts, then dorsal fins, and I would start snapping photos - photography was new to me; in years past, I had shot only video. When the whales passed in front of us we would call back and forth to each other on the rocks, trying to ID each family group as they swam by....

Whale-watching from Lime Kiln in 2003 - that's me on "my rock", closest to the water, in the blue shirt with the camera

June 2011

I walk down the familiar trail to the lighthouse with my camera, backpack, and lunch. The morning calm hasn't yet left the water and when I see one of the researchers he tells me that half of J-Pod went north a few hours earlier. That's okay: I hope to see the whales, but mostly I wan to come and spend a whole day sitting at the lighthouse. It's something I haven't done much of in recent years.

The summer of 2003 was my first of five years interning for The Whale Museum. The call types I learned helped me write my undergraduate thesis on killer whale vocal communication. I continued with photography, and published a book of orca photographs in 2007. These last few years, working full time as a naturalist on a whale watch tour boat, were fulfilling in some ways, but also left something lacking. I've stepped away from working as a naturalist this season, and I'm re-evaluating my direction in life. I didn't go on to get a Masters degree in bioacoustics as I foresaw as a new high school graduate. I don't work on the boats anymore, despite so many people telling me that was the perfect job for me. But I'm still here, at Lime Kiln, waiting for whales. Some things haven't changed.

Pigeon guillemots taking off

Eight Canada geese in Haro Strait

I don't have to sit on the rocks long this morning before a couple of people I know walk up. We sit and look at the birds fishing in the ebb tide. A seal pops up in the kelp with a salmon and we pull out our cameras. My friends move on, and I find another place to lay on the rocks and start a new book. As the sun warms up I pull out my lunch and eat it while watching dragonflies and swallowtail butterflies, listening to nothing but the sound of the gentle waves.

Just when I'm starting to think about heading home to the chores that await me there, someone calls out, "Monika, we've got whales!" Out of nowhere, the other half of J-Pod is upon us, in a rare mid-day June moment of being unaccompanied by the commercial whale watch fleet. I immediately recognize J34 Doublestuf and pull out my camera as strangers gather on the rocks above me.

J34 Doublestuf

The whales quickly pass by, with a few tailslaps and distant breaches, and most of the tourists are gone. I walk around to the other side of the lighthouse and am surprised to see that I know almost all the people sitting there, and have known them for five or even ten years. Bob, the researcher. Billy, the park ranger. Wendy and Megan, the mother and daughter who make annual visits here. Diane, who used to intern for Bob, and now lives on the island. Mary, the volunteer naturalist.

Like the whales that just passed by, there have been some changes in our whale community over the last eight years. J11 Blossom has passed away. I haven't spoken to my fellow acoustic intern from 2003 since that last late summer evening. J28 Polaris has a new knick in her dorsal fin and a small calf in tow. Diane is now married with a brand new puppy. J22 Oreo is a familiar presence, the same as ever. So is Bob, the summer resident researcher collecting data on the boats and whales as they pass the lighthouse.

Diane's new English cream golden retriever puppy - Maddy

There's something grounding to me about spending a full day at Lime Kiln. I spent more than seven hours there yesterday, something I haven't done in years. I got sunburned. I read half a book. I ate a picnic lunch. I talked with old friends. I just sat and looked - there's never nothing to look it.

A pair of oystercatchers that flew by while I sat on the rocks at Lime Kiln

It was awesome.

Transitions

Change, as the old adage says, is inevitable. Knowing this, however, hasn't kept transitions from being difficult for me. I always tend to be most comfortable with the current state of affairs, and am reluctant to say goodbye to the present and embrace the future.

One classic example for me is when I have been spending time either in Portland or in Friday Harbor. Right now, after a couple of months back on San Juan Island, I think to myself, "This place is great. I love living on a houseboat, I love all the natural areas and wildlife here, I love the small community and all the friendly people. Portland is so far removed from so many of the people and places that I love." Exactly a year ago today, I was loading my car after having spent the winter in Portland. I thought to myself about my hometown, "This place is great. I love being so close to my family and my old friends, I love all the natural areas and wildlife here, I love the city I grew up in with all the familiar haunts. Friday Harbor is so far removed from so many of the people and places that I love." The first week spent in one of my two homes is always rough as I navigate the transition, and then I start to remember why I love it here, wherever here happens to be.

The essence of the month of March is transition, and these last 31 days have been a good time for me to reflect on the transitional season of spring. I've had practice saying goodbye to the trumpeter swans and bufflehead, the cold dark nights reading by the fire, the weekly gatherings to play hockey in the old fairground building - the symbols, for me, that embody winter on San Juan Island. I've tried not to get too sad as these staples of the chillier months melt away one by one. I'm realizing more and more that time, especially in the natural world, is cyclical. So these aren't permanent farewells, but rather a fond, "Have a great summer, I will see you next year."

My first Blue-eyed Mary of the season, seen in March

The holes left by these traits of the season of course don't remain empty for long. In place of the winter waterfowl and seabirds, I get to say hello to species like the violet-green swallow (year bird 139), not seen since last summer, and I know the arrivals of the warblers and flycatchers are just around the corner. Dark nights reading by the fire are replaced with warm afternoons reading on the west side of the island perched on one of my favorite rocks. The end of the hockey season coincides almost naturally with the beginning of the whale-watching season in inland waters. 

Variety, goes the other saying, is the spice of life. My goal is to try harder to embrace that concept, and do my best to enjoy this beautiful, tumultuous, unpredictable season that is spring.

J33 ~ Keet

Since several people have been wondering about the status of J33 Keet, I thought I would post something here on my blog. 

The Center for Whale Research is the official population census organization for the Southern Resident Killer Whales. They publish official population counts twice a year - once in the middle of the summer and once at the end of the calendar year, based on the last sighting of each pod. It is believed that J33 Keet, a male born in 1996 to J16 Slick, is missing, but he has not officially been listed as missing and probably won't be until the end of the year. Because I defer to the Center for Whale Research for official census information, Keet was not included in my Day of the Dead post earlier this month.

J33 ~ Keet in August 2009

If Keet has passed away, it is indeed a tragic loss. Along with L73 Flash and L74 Saanich that would make him the third young male orca that has passed away this year, which is certainly a cause for concern. I find myself especially shocked and saddened when a J-Pod whale passes away. Not only do I in most cases know them better as a family group because they spend more time in inland waters, but in the time I've known them they've always seemed like the most resilient pod. I've been closely following this population of whales since the year 2000, and in that time the only two J-Pod whales have passed away: newborn calf J43 in 2007 and adult female J11 Blossom in 2008. This means every other J-Pod calf born in the last decade (ten of them) has survived, a remarkable ratio, and only a single adult whale has died.

Let's hope Keet is not in fact missing. If he is, let's hope this year is just an anomaly with the loss of three adult and sub-adult males, and not symptomatic of a greater problem as the loss of all the males in the late 1990s was. Regardless of the reason, Keet will be missed.

Record Fraser River Sockeye Salmon Run

Salmon are the lifeblood of the Pacific Northwest coastal ecosystems, and with some runs having declined as much as 90% or more in the last 50 years their recovery is a central conservation issue in the region. Salmon politics are controversial, since many competing interests come into play: commercial fishing, recreational fishing, Native fishing, fish farms, hydroelectric dams, agriculture, development, logging - all play a role in altering salmon populations and their habitats.

This year, after several seasons of extensive fishery closures due to record low numbers, the Fraser River in southern British Columbia is experiencing a huge sockeye salmon return unlike any other since 1913. The International Pacific Salmon Commission is now estimating a total run of 34,546,000 fish! Compare that to last year's dismal run of barely over 1,000,000 fish and you'll get an idea of how amazing these numbers are. It seems they keep increasing the number every few days as more and more fish come back.

A huge run like this is obviously good news for everyone. Fisherman are having  a field day, though some are trouble meeting their high quotas as the facilities just don't exist anymore to handle and process such a bounty. It's certainly good for all salmon-eating predators in the ecosystem, though just how good it is for our  fish-eating Southern Resident orcas is up for debate. The vast majority of these whales' diet is salmon, but past research shows they preferentially feed on Chinook salmon. They have been around a lot this summer, leaving inland waters less than normal, so one has to wonder if they are taking advantage of the sockeye feast. Best of all, the salmon returns this year prove that our oceans and rivers are still capable of supporting this many fish when conditions are right - a hopeful sign for the future and the long-term recovery of all five of our salmon species.

Unfortunately, many are quick to take credit and/or shed blame as a result of these great salmon numbers. The Departments of Fisheries and Oceans in Canada are claiming this as a conservation victory, and all the parties mentioned above as having a negative impact on salmon populations are using this statistic as proof that they aren't the culprit for the decades of low salmon numbers. Even 34 million is a fraction of what this ecosystem used to support - regular returns of over 100 million fish before the dawn of the commercial fishing age. The fact of the matter is, one great year does not undo the last century of damage done to local salmon populations, and the fact that nobody saw this coming points out that despite the best population estimates science currently has to offer there are great gaping holes in our understanding of what influences salmon returns. Last year, they predicted more than 10 million fish to return, and less than 1.5 million did. This year, they predicted  about 11.4 million sockeye, and now the numbers are triple that. Even in retrospect, nobody seems able to offer a complete explanation as to why so many salmon returned this year compared to others.

So while I meet this historic salmon year with a sense of cautious optimism, to me it points out yet again just how little we understand nature. Hopefully everyone will enjoy the abundant salmon this year, a reminder of the "good old days" for all of our west coast rivers, and a taste of what the future could hold if we renew our efforts to conserve one of our region's most valuable natural resources: the wild Pacific salmon.

Paul Watson in Friday Harbor

Last night I went to a lecture by Paul Watson here in Friday Harbor. For those of you who aren't familiar with Watson, he is the president of the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, an activist group sometimes characterized as eco-terrorists. Paul Watson and Sea Shepherd are the focus of the Animal Planet TV series Whale Wars, where they go to the Southern Oceans to attempt to stop Japanese whaling. The conflicts have escalated over the years, including the ramming and sinking of ships, the boarding of vessels, and crew members being taken prisoner.

I'm anti-whaling myself, but after studying the issue in depth in an anthropology course in college I know how politically, culturally, and economically complex of an issue it really is. Having watched a few episodes of Whale Wars where inexperienced crew members flip a zodiac into the frigid Antarctic waters and having seen their larger vessel which doesn't have an ice grade hull be at risk of collapsing when striking an iceberg, I wondered about the intelligence of this particular campaign. After reading more about their strategies that include ship collisions and boarding other vessels I also question their tactics.

Sea Shepherd is based here in Friday Harbor but they generally keep a low profile, so I was very interested to see Paul Watson talk. I wasn't the only one, as the standing room only crowd of well over 100 packed the Grange Hall last night.

Overall I'd have to say I have a lot more respect for Paul Watson than I did before. He is a charismatic speaker and called on sound scientific facts to back up his strongly biocentric world view. Among other things, he spoke of the economic forces that are driving our world fisheries to collapse, how Sea Shepherd is an advocate for other species and doesn't hold much regard for human opinion, and how their activities are not illegal under the UN World Charter for Nature which gives any organization or individual the right to enforce international conservation law. He shed new light onto the issue of whaling (pointing out, for instance, that Japan threatens to revoke trading rights to those nations that try to stop them) that left you wondering, if Sea Shepherd weren't doing what they were doing in Antarctic waters, would anyone else really be spearheading the campaign to stop whaling?

Watson also realized that "ramming whale ships wasn't for everyone" and encouraged individuals to make use of their own talents in the fight for conservation and protection of all species on our planet. He said we need a diverse front made up of activists of all sorts to have real success. He also advised supporting smaller, local activist organizations rather than the larger eco-corporations which end up tied up in larger political and financial problems and are less able to take true action. Sea Shepherd, for instance, runs no fundraising campaigns, instead letting members come to them, which results in a more loyal membership base. 

While I still personally disagree with some of Sea Shepherd's anti-whaling tactics and think we need to give more consideration to humans than Watson does, you cannot fault his principles and I found I agree with most of his ideals. In the end, though, he doesn't really care what I or anyone else thinks, and will continue to fight his fight on behalf of whales, fishes, sharks, and all the creatures in our world oceans.

Alaska Reflections

When you take an epic trip, like my recent five week journey to Alaska, it almost takes a while for the whole thing to sink in. On one hand, once you've returned to your regular day-to-day routine, it almost feels like the trip never happened, or that it was over so fast. On the other hand, when thinking back on the trip every once and a while it sinks it - wow, I was really there, and I really saw all those amazing things. It's hard to capture the essence of the trip.

I don't really fancy myself all that much of a poet, but I have recently been intrigued with haiku, since to me they seem to often convey both natural beauty and personal emotions. There were a few times throughout the trip when free-form haiku seemed to just come to me, so I thought I would share them here as one way of reflecting on my trip.

Alpine flowers grow
Solitude in the tundra
Only bears walk here

Waterfalls cascade
The canyon slowly changes
I want to stop time

Humpback whales surface
Alaska rain showers down
We are all looking

Sun shines bright on snow
At the base of the mountains
How little we are

Haiku are sort of an artistic way of reflecting on the trip, but I also have a more scientific, factual side that likes to keep track of numbers and statistics. So I call my second way of looking back on my trip "Alaska By the Numbers".

Miles traveled by car: 5092
Miles traveled by ferry: 1728
Miles traveled by bus: 132
Miles traveled by train: 40

Number of bird species identified: 147
Number of year birds: 50
Number of life birds: 16

[Note: I added the purple martin (year bird 212) and willow flycatcher (year bird 213, NA life bird 336) on the last day of the trip at the Anacortes ferry terminal.]

Number of mammal species seen: 29
Number of these that were marine mammals: 8
Number of bears seen: 21 (19 black bears, 2 brown bears)
Number of these bears that were in Canada, not Alaska: 16

In addition to being an amazing wilderness sight-seeing trip, it was filled with great quality time spent with my parents, to whom I am eternally thankful for letting me tag along on this adventure! I'm glad all my blog readers were able to follow along on our travels, and as many of you have expressed to me I hope you get to experience the wonder that is Alaska for yourself first-hand. I know I plan to go back!

I'll conclude my Alaska reflections with this quote that I saw on a sign along the way, which to me captures part of the intrigue of nature:

"The wilderness holds answers to questions man has not yet learned to ask." -Nancy Newhall, author

The Inside Passage

Location: Strait of Georgia, British Columbia
Population: 0

We had a very wet day exploring Ketchikan on foot before boarding the MV Columbia for the final leg of our voyage back south. I should have worn the rain pants before heading out, but that’s one of those mistakes you have to make several times before you learn. Instead, I switched to the rain pants while the jeans dried in the car. Don’t we look like we’re having a good time?

Our journey north was full of excitement and anticipation. There was lots of stopping to take pictures, new animals to see, talk and speculation about what was to come. The trip back south is instead about reflection, quiet time looking out at the passing scenery or talk of the highlights of the last five weeks. The end of a trip is always bittersweet – so many good times were had and is sad it is coming to an end, but home is starting to sound pretty nice, too.

When we traveled north on the Alaska Highway we would leapfrog other travelers or talk to folks pulled out at view points or at hotels. It’s different traveling there than in other places because there is only one road, which means only two directions to go. The early conversations inevitably lead to the question, “Are you going north or south?” We met the northbound motorcyclist from Vancouver, Washington who needs to go on a several thousand mile bike trip every year or he gets restless. We met the father helping his Alaskan-born son move south to take a job in Colorado.

It is similar on the Alaska Marine Highway, where despite our ferry hopping and overnights in coastal towns we somehow end up again with the same people on different ships. There are several different places to hang out on the large ferries, so we meet the others that station themselves with us in the forward observation lounges looking for wildlife. There are the birders from New York who went to Gambel on St. Lawrence Island way up north and saw 32 life birds in four hectic days of bird-watching. The woman relocating to Ketchikan after working as a mental health care professional in a remote native community. The European travelers from the town where my mom went to high school. The family relocating from the Air Force base in Anchorage to one in Salt Lake City. It is an interesting sort of camaraderie that forms, traveling this way.

I’m not a big fan of air travel anyway, but this trip has reinforced to me the benefits of traveling more slowly by land or sea. If we had hopped on a plane in Seattle and gotten off a few hours later in Juneau or Anchorage or Fairbanks I would have missed so much of the sense of place that is Alaska. I would have had no real concept of how far away from home I was, or how much open space and wilderness stands between those two places. With this type of travel the experience is the journey itself rather than a particular destination, and I like it that way. Even by car or boat I realize we can cover hundreds of miles in a day, and I can only imagine what it must have been like to those early travelers who walked their way south from the Bering Land Bridge or explored these complex islands and inlets by sailing vessel with no charts to aid them.

Enough of those philosophical thoughts for now, let me share some of the sights of the day. After boarding the ferry yesterday afternoon we headed south as far as about Prince Rupert before it got too dark to see; darkness is still a concept I’m readjusting to, I have to say it is very strange for it to be dark by 10 PM again! This morning I woke up to the rocking during one of our two open water crossings and was again greeted by rain. The weather lifted throughout the day, progressing as we do towards the clear skies and warmer temperatures that have been reported at our port city in Bellingham.

In the inside waters we’ve seen a series of lighthouses in all different shapes and sizes. This is the Dryad Point Lighthouse in British Columbia.

There are lots of interesting vessels to see as well, like this freighter loaded up with everything from cargo containers and construction supplies to boats and trucks. It looks a lot like the monthly shipment we saw being unloaded in Yakutat. I wonder where this one is headed?

While we saw a few humpback whales in inside waters throughout the day the whales of Queen Charlotte Sound were the most impressive wildlife sighting of the day. At one point it seemed like there were spouts every where you looked, there were so many whales around! Often when a whale is spotted you will see it once or twice more before it dives and then the ferry moves you along and too far away to see it again. A couple of times I tried going outside when it looked like a whale was close enough to photograph, and once today I was rewarded. Before we got to the big group of whales in the Sound, we saw this single individual. As me and one other lucky soul stood out on the deck, the whale came up directly off the ship from where we were standing and only about 25 yards out! It was so close I could hear it breath over the engine noise.

Later in the afternoon we reached the northern end of Vancouver Island and entered the waters that are the primary summer home of the Northern Resident group of killer whales, the counterpart to our Southern Resident population in the San Juan Islands. We didn’t have any luck with orca sightings today. (I’m disappointed but can’t complain that we didn’t see any orcas in Alaska – an interesting fact to me since Alaska is where my passion for them bloomed when I was 12!) Despite the fact that we didn’t see any dorsal fins it was still cool to transit through the areas I have read about it books such as Orca: The Whale Called Killer and Listening to Whales – both of which I highly recommend, by the way. Places such as Blackfish Sound, Alert Bay, Cracroft Island, Robson Bight, Johnstone Strait. I can just imagine the orca dramas that play out here later in the summer when the Northern Residents are around more often, or the Southern Residents transiting through when they make the occasional trip down the Inside Passage as part of L-Pod did just a week or so ago.

Here is a picture I took in Blackfish Sound. Looks pretty similar to the San Juans, doesn’t it? That’s probably why I didn’t take as many scenery pictures today.

I won’t be able to post this until I’m back at home, so this will be my last blog entry written from the road about our epic trip to Alaska. Tomorrow morning we pull into Bellingham and I’ll catch another ferry back to my home port of Friday Harbor. While I’ll quickly re-enter the summer swing of things there, including catching up with the Southern Residents that have been around a lot, I’ll still do a few more posts about the trip with some photos and thoughts that just haven’t quite fit in anywhere else.

What can I say, it’s been a heck of a trip! I hope you have all enjoyed following along, as it has truly been the experience of a lifetime.

J-Pod and K-Pod Vocalizations from 12/10

Even though I'm down in Portland, I'm still getting "whale updates" and have had the chance a couple of times to listen to the whales on the Orca Sound hydrophone network. The evening of December 10th was especially cool, with J- and K-Pod vocalizing off and on for several hours in Haro Strait. (Note: the whales spend much less time in the inland waters during the winter months, compared to the summer but they've not-unexpectedly been in and out of Puget Sound all fall.) Thanks to Jeanne's recent posts I found a way to embed audio right into my blog post, so I hope you enjoy this 3:12 clip of the orcas vocalizing. Near the beginning you will hear the three-part descending calls that are characteristic of J-Pod. Closer to the end you will hear the high-pitched kitten-like calls of K-Pod.

Orca acoustics has been my area of research and right when I began studying the whales it intrigued me that you could identify which pod or pods are present simply the the vocalizations that they're making. In the case of the Southern Residents, the three pods (J, K, and L) share a set of +/- 25 different call types. Each call is named with an "S" for Southern Resident, then a number, so the calls are S1, S2, etc. Many calls are shared between all three pods but each pod has a certain sub-set of the shared repertoire that they use more often. For instance, S1 , one of the calls heard near the beginning, is almost exclusively a J-Pod call. Even among shared call types, such as S16, pods can have different "accents" to them, allowing you to tell them apart. S16 is one of the K-Pod calls heard towards the end of this recording, and I know it's K-Pod because it's so much higher pitched than when J- or L-Pod makes the same call.

K26 Lobo emerging from the dark depths of the ocean where he has been "talking" about....?

Even though we see the whales on an almost daily basis during the summer it's important to remember that they only spend 5% or less of their time at the surface. The vast majority of their life is spent in comparative underwater darkness, which is for them an acoustic realm rather than a visual one. While we rely primarily on visuals to identify individual whales, and study whales using the visual behaviors we see (breaches, tail slaps, etc.), I think their true secrets are locked up in their acoustic communication.

Orcas are one of the most heavily-studied marine mammal acoustic systems, and when people hear we've been studying orca acoustics for 40+ years, they often wonder if we have "cracked the code" and figured out what they're saying. In reality, we're nowhere close. It's not like in some animal communication systems where a single call can be paired with a single behavior. Instead, calls are used across all behavioral contexts. As I learned in my undergraduate thesis, there's a greater structure in how the calls are used, with certain call types often being linked together in their usage. The truth is we don't have a clue what they're talking about. I think that's pretty darn cool.

Once a nature photographer.....

Spending the holiday weekend "back home" with family in Portland, Oregon, it's easy to start reflecting on the past. You know how they say some things never change? Well, it's true: I have always been a nature photographer. I won my first camera (a Polaroid) in an Invent America contest as a kindergardener (I invented a pin that would keep kids' shoelaces tied when they didn't know how to tie their own shoes). I excitedly took photos on our next family vacation, which happened to be to....the San Juan Islands. Interestingly enough, while I wouldn't visit again until I was 13 and had found my passion for orcas, as a six-year-old I took photos of madrone trees, flowers, and sunsets on San Juan Island, and I actually lost my first tooth at Lonesome Cove Resort.

On all subsequent family vacations I was always in pursuit of wildlife, including on a trip to Bryce Canyon in 2000. My dad recently sent me this photo from that trip, recalling my ever-present enthusiasm. In addition to the camera, video camera, and binoculars, notice (aside from the purple hair!) the whale T-shirt and bird book in hand. I remember that was the day I first saw a white-thoated swift!

For comparison, here's the "author photo" from my book of killer whale photographs, taken in 2006. A lot of things changed in those six years, including my hair color, but not the fact that I always have a camera in hand! I have a feeling that will always be the case, looking to capture the excitement of seeing wildlife wherever my travles may take me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

It's easy, especially in our society today I think, to dwell on the problems we have, the things that aren't perfect, and everything that's going wrong. Sometimes it's easy to forget just how lucky we are. I try to remind myself often not to take things for granted, especially when I wake up in the morning and can say "I live on San Juan Island!" It's a special thing to be able to live in such a beautiful place.

I like to take a little time every Thanksgiving to remember a few of the long list of things I have to be thankful for: I live in a place where wild killer whales make their home, I get to spend time photographing wildlife on almost a daily basis, I have some very special family and friends that support me in all the crazy things I do, Barack Obama is our President Elect!.....I hope you do the same.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Southern Resident Update

The Southern Residents came back into the area on the evening of September 29th and made their first fall trip down into Puget Sound. They did make their way up to the San Juans, and last night just before dusk I saw them slowly traveling way offshore looking like they were heading back out to the ocean again. It was a peaceful, chilly fall evening with the yellow and purple colors of the sunset just breaking through the solid gray clouds over the horizon. It was quiet enough that I could hear the blows, even from the whales that were too far away to see in the dimming light.

Now that it's October, the Southern Residents will probably start spending more and more time away from the inland waters, so moments like last night are to be treasured even more. The beauty of the experience was overshadowed a bit for me, however, with a rumor I heard the other day. We already know that we lost four whales this year - calf J43 that was born last November, Southern Resident matriarch K7 estimated to be in her late 90s, as well as older female L21 and youngster L101. But the other day I heard that we may have lost three more whales in the last month, with several others looking emaciated when, as the summer salmon runs come to a close, they should probably be robust and ready for the winter.

So much attention is focused on the boater traffic around the whales. Just last night I went to Kari's Soundwatch lecture at The Whale Museum, where she talked in depth about boater trends and the new regulations. It's important that vessel traffic doesn't add an additional stress to the lives of these endangered mammals, and Soundwatch does incredibly important work out there, but I wish some of the energy the public invests in their constant outcry against boats being around the whales could be redirected into the issue that I see as being the most critical to the survival of these orcas: the salmon runs that they depend on for food on a daily basis. I don't like seeing boats drive over the whales anymore than the next person, but I think many people end up getting up in arms over the minor threat they see on the surface instead of realizing the gravity of the major threat that lurks below it.

I literally begin to feel sick to my stomach when I think that we may have lost as many as 7 whales this year, and the reality of the situation is that the salmon declines probably play a major role in that statistic. Two of the orca scientists I admire the most - Alexandra Morton and Rich Osborne - have both rerouted their careers to focus on salmon issues. As I try to figure out my place in the grand scheme of things, I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I shouldn't do the same.

Then again, who knows?

Now I'm reading Naturalist by the great scientist and ant specialist E.O. Wilson. He is one of those people I mentioned yesterday, the most successful type of scientist who keeps that deeply engrained passion while doing groundbreaking science. In fact, he even says he doesn't want to define that core curiosity for fear that defining it might make it disappear. Reading about his memories of growing up in the deep south, keeping detailed notes of his ant findings that 50 years later still provided a source of insightful data in his research,it gives me hope that a true naturalist at heart can still find a way to be a "good" scientist in today's field so dominated by genetic labs and biotechnology.

"For the obsessed and ambitious, the only strategy is to probe in all directions and learn where one's abilities are exceptional, where mediocre, where poor, then fashion tactics and protheses to achieve the best possible result. And never give up hope that the fates will allow some unexpected breakthroughs...The advice I give to students in science is to move laterally up and down and peer all around. If you have the will, there is a discipline in which you can succeed...Be a hunter and explorer, not a problem solver." ~E.O. Wilson

It inspires me and gives me hope. It makes me feel like I can still be a scientist if what I really want to do is go out there and observe and explore.

My thesis adivsor has been urging me to retool a paper for publication. I think it will be a project for this fall. Am I meant to be a scientist, or not? Do I have to define myself, do I have to choose?

Like me and orcas

"I was transfixed. As I now recall it, there was only one sensation in my head: pure elation mixed with amazement at such perfection...I remember thinking, with what was left of my consciousness, that I wanted no part of the science of beavers and otters; I wanted never to know how they performed their marvels; I wished for no news about the physiology of their breathing, the coordination of their muscles, their vision, their endocrine systems, their digestive tracts. I hoped never to have to think of them as collections of cells. All I asked for was the full hairy complexity, then in front of my eyes, of whole, intact beavers and otters in motion." ~ Lewis Thomas

I've been reading Lewis Thomas' "notes of a biology watcher" in his book The Medusa and the Snail. You may know him better from his book The Lives of a Cell, but his way with words and his wit is at its best in this collection of essays, where he explores all sorts of biological wonders.

This passage really jumped out at me, since it reflects exactly how I feel while I'm watching orcas. My heart pounds and I'm in total awe of the animals before me, and I care nothing about physiological processes or theories of animal behavior or chains of chemical reactions. More and more, as I question whether I really want to be a full-fledged scientist, I realize that many of those who are doing research have become blinded against that raw passion that draws so many of us to the field of biology in the first place.

Several instances from last summer come to mind: I was sitting on a research boat while Grace (L2) was swimming along beside us. You could look right down into the water and see her whole body gliding effortlessly along, so rare to have such an extended view of them swimming underwater, then she turned on a dime and disappeared the other direction. All the scientists were uninterested since it wasn't an opportunity to collect data, some were not even looking. I was in a classroom listening to a lecture that had a title that led me to believe we would be talking about boat-vessel interactions, but instead we were talking about cylindrical versus spherical sound propagation models. Had these people ever even seen the whales interacting with boats? I was on the rocks at the lighthouse while the whales were passing by, and a researcher wanted to talk about how I tell the difference between two different vocalizations. His back was to the whales swimming a hundred yards behind him! I didn't want to answer his questions, I just wanted to watch the whales.

I know it's very possible to both be a scientist and maintain the passion and intrigue that got you interested in the first place - the best scientists succeed at doing both - but I also see how easy it is to get so wrapped up in that science that the pure amazement of the natural world can get lost in it all. I still don't know what my true calling is, but it's starting to feel like what is considered good, hard science is far removed from what really matters to me about the orcas, continuing to understand them better, sharing their magnificence with others, and helping to make sure they're around for a long time to come. Ultimately, science always comes down to observation, and I feel like that's when I always learn the most about the whales: when I'm observing them, just taking it all in.

A Point in Time

I decided to look at some test catch data from the Pacific Salmon Commission to get an idea of how our local runs are doing.

As a scientist, it's important to look at data over a long period of time to get an accurate picture of what's going on. The natural world is a flexible place full of fluctuations that a single snapshot won't capture. Still, sometimes looking at a single data point over several consecutive years can be interesting in its own right.

Here are the test catch results for an area near the San Juan Islands, on July 19th of every year from 2000-2008:

Year	Effort*	#Sockeye	#Adult Chinook	#Juvenile Chinook
2008	295.65	1492	0	0
2007	331.65	66	4	12
2006	311.25	327	1	7
2005	302.85	529	0	1
2004	332.04	9	3	1
2003	289.95	26	1	2
2002	306.03	785	10	29
2001	295.20	657	4	2
2000	318.90	1668	1	2

*It's important to note effort when doing something like a test catch because the amount of time you put in is obviously going to influence the number of fish you catch. If you fish for an hour, you'll obviously be likely to catch more than if you fish for ten minutes. Without going into detail of how they calculate effort, it gives you a rough idea for comparison.

Take from this what you will, but I notice a few things. First of all, there are more sockeye this year than there have been since 2000, which is especially surprising since they predicted an extremely low return this year after a low spawning turn out in 2005. Also, they never catch that many chinook - yet the whales are here anyway, year after year, feeding on them almost exclusively (research suggests).

Keepin' Us Guessing

With all the whales in the area split up into several groups, we never know what's going to happen next. As we always say on the Western Prince, as soon as we think we've figured out their pattern, they throw a wrench into it and do something completely different. The last few days have been no exception.

For instance, that large group of Ls I posted about seeing yesterday somehow disappeared between the morning and the afternoon. In the afternoon, boats were seemingly following the same group of whales, but only had part of J-Pod, and Ls were no where to be found. This morning, a large group of Ls was seen heading west out the Strait of Juan de Fuca so they must have still been around somewhere nearby yesterday afternoon - I still think it's so cool that ~30 whales can completely disappear in an area where lots of boats are looking for them.

Speaking of "part of J-Pod", J-Pod hardly ever splits up! Last year for one day the J16 subgroup separated from everyone else for the rest of the day, but this group of Js has been apart from the others for three days now. On this morning's trip, I got to take a look at them as this group myself as they were heading in from the west towards False Bay on San Juan Island. It looks like all the J16s are involved again, also with the J14s, and an older female, J8, all together totaling 9 whales. It was my first good look of the season at Riptide, J30, who's dorsal fin is huge! It's cool to see since over the years I've been watching him grow from the 3' dorsal fin of a juvenile up to his fully adult 6' fin now. The above photo is of the J14 family group two years ago. Riptide is the tallest fin on the left - his fin has probably grown between one and two feet taller since then!

When we left, the whales were heading north, and the amazing thing is that we heard that the rest of Js had split off from Ks and the other Ls to head down Boundary Pass to meet them! What I want to know is - how did they know where to swim to meet up with the other Js? Direct communication seems unlikely with all those miles and several islands between them. Did they decide three days ago when they split up when and where to meet again? It's yet another one of those mysteries that these marvelous animals keep secret.

UPDATE 7/20 AM - I guess all the whales came down Boundary Pass, but the northern Js turned and went north again before meeting up with the rest of their pod! My goofy theory is that J8, Spieden, has decided she's waited long enough to take over a leadership role from J2, Granny, so she's rebelling and taking the J14s and J16s with her!

The Missing "L"inks

L-Pod has always been weird. During my seven years of observations, it began with the L12 subgroup - a group of initially 12 whales but so-named for the matriarch L12 - that started to split off from the rest of the pod. When the rest of the Ls went out to the ocean, the L12s would often stay in, cruising the southwest side of San Juan, spread out and foraging slowly. It made sense that with 40+ whales in the pod, it might be more efficient to split into smaller groups to feed. This year, though, things have gotten even crazier.

L7, L53, and L57 have on several occasions been the only Ls "in" from the ocean, usually travelling with J-Pod. L57, a male with no immediate family, has hung out with a different pod in the past, presumably for mating purposes, and now the similarly unattached mother and daughter of L7 and L53 are doing the same. L87, another male without any close living relatives, has also been seen a lot with K-Pod, oddly enough in company with K11, a female estimated to be 60 years his senior.

So far this summer, though, the oddest thing to me has been the absence of several L-Pod family groups. In recent years, L-Pod has returned for the summer in two separate groups like they did this year, but as of yet a small, third group of Ls have not been seen in the area. These whales include the "back page whales" (named for their occurrence on the last page of Orca Survey's ID guide): the L5s, the L54s, and males L74 and L84 - a total of seven animals. Potentially also in this group are the L2s - five additional whales, although there is some speculation that at least part of this family group was in once.

Surprisingly, no one has seemed overly concerned about this. Surely, the attitude seems to be, they will show up sometime. Perhaps they have just found better feeding elsewhere, and they are part of the group of Ls notorious for spending the most time out in the ocean, even in the summer months. Still, no one seems to have mentioned the unmentionable - that something happened to eliminate these family groups. Of course I hope and deep down still believe this is not the case, but the truth is these whales being in the wrong place at a time of something like oceanic Navy sonar testing could easily have had lethal consequences. I was talking about this today with some kayak guides I work with, and one of them quipped, "But of course the Navy would have told us if that happened!" Yeah, right.

Only time will tell, but hopefully we will see the rest of these mysterious Ls soon.