By Erin Sherbert
By Howard Cole
By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
By Leif Haven
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Kate Conger
On a late spring day two years ago, veterinarian Frances Gulland perched precariously atop a large and very dead gray whale floating in San Francisco Bay. The doctor's grim task of slicing blubber from the thick skin of the 40-foot-long mammal was not made any easier by the cold chop rolling in under the Golden Gate Bridge.
The position was certainly not a new one for Gulland, a staff veterinarian at the Marine Mammal Center in Sausalito. In 1999 and 2000, hundreds of gray whales washed up on Pacific Coast beaches from Bahía de Banderas in Mexico to the mouth of the Yukon River in Alaska. Vets from the Sausalito center alone examined more than two dozen of the emaciated creatures, some still floating in nearshore waters, but many more decomposing on mudflats, beaches, and rocky shorelines.
Scientists and others who tracked these unusual mortalities referred to the events as "strandings."
In New Times' special project "Shades of Gray," reporters from several of our papers have traveled from Siberia to Mexico to tell the complex tale of a creature whose annual migration -- at 12,000 miles round trip -- is the longest by any mammal. The trek joins the competing interests of Indians, scientists, environmentalists, and local residents. In this issue, Patti Epler explores the science, the money, and the politics behind gray whale research. With hundreds of whales mysteriously washing up dead and a plunging calf count coupled with reports of chemical contamination, scientific research has taken on a new urgency.
Visit Shades of Gray
A series documenting the perils, cultural conflicts and global and ecological warnings surrounding the gray whale.
So many gray whales died those two years along the grays' migratory route that locals say there was good money to be made if you were an enterprising boat owner willing to tug stinking whale carcasses off the beaches and out of the bays to deeper water for disposal.
The spike in strandings happened during a cycle that saw the gray whale birthrate plummet; this year, scientists counted fewer gray whale calves than ever before. Calf production is down 83 percent from five years ago.
And there are other signs the gray whales may be in serious trouble. For the past couple of years, Siberian whalers have been reporting "stinky" whales -- grays that give off a strong medicinal odor that some scientists believe may signal chemical contamination.
While high strandings and low calf counts are besetting the Eastern Pacific gray whale -- the leviathan that hugs the coast of North America on its annual migration to and from the calving lagoons of Mexico -- scientists are also documenting problems with the Western Pacific gray whale, a second group belonging to the same species that populates the opposite side of the ocean.
The Western grays, found off the Russian coast near Sakhalin Island, have dwindled to fewer than 100. They have been deemed "critically endangered" by marine mammal officials. Scientists and environmentalists are urging an oil drilling consortium at work in the area to stop seismic exploration activity and take care not to disturb the whales that feed in the lagoon in summer.
The Eastern Pacific gray whale, on the other hand, had been an environmental success story. It was once hunted nearly to extinction, but an international ban on commercial hunting sparked a turnaround that led to its removal from the U.S. Endangered Species list. The whales have rebounded to historic levels -- roughly 26,000 grays by most estimates -- yet the whales' mortality rate and plunging calf count have scientists groping for answers.
What's going wrong?
Most explanations point to theories about potential problems with the whales' food supply, primarily in the Bering Sea. In summer, the giant whales must ingest huge amounts of tiny creatures called amphipods to sustain them on their migration down to Mexico and back up to Alaska again the next summer.
But no one knows what, if anything, is amiss with the amphipods. Some scientists believe a short-term "warm water event" like El Niño killed off the food supply for just a couple of years. Some think recent severe winters in the far northern seas have left an ice cover over the feeding grounds for too long, so the whales didn't have enough time to eat. Several scientists are proposing that some sort of widespread environmental change is afoot -- like global warming wreaking havoc with the ecosystem in the Bering Sea. Still others say the whales may have reached their "carrying capacity," that there are just so many gray whales now that the environment can't sustain them.
But not one of these theories has been investigated.
Because there are thousands of Eastern Pacific gray whales, there is little money available for significant field studies. Limited government funding goes to marine mammals that are obviously on the verge of extinction.
Since dead gray whales started washing ashore in record numbers more than two years ago, no government or private researchers have been dispatched to the Bering Sea to examine the gray whale food supply.
Three years after the first stinky whale was discovered by whaling crews from Chukotka in the Russian Far East, U.S. scientists have yet to perform analyses on tissue and blubber samples of the smelly whales. In fact, this summer the Russian government turned away a scientific team from Alaska that was endorsed by the International Whaling Commission to help the Siberians.
The only research on the plight of the Western Pacific gray whales has been paid for by the very oil companies that are working in the area. The scientists say their findings have been compromised and in some instances suppressed, leading the IWC, at its annual meeting in July, to call for an independent review of findings by scientists not on the payroll of industry.
And even examination of the stranded whales themselves has been lacking. Although more than 600 whales died on beaches and in nearshore waters, only about 100 of them were tested for chemical contamination or other unseen problems. Fewer than 10 full necropsies were performed, and, until recently, veterinarians like Gulland, from Mexico to Alaska to Russia, had no standard protocol to follow to ensure that all researchers were collecting scientifically consistent information.