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Capitalizing on El Niño Rains
March 3, 1998
By Mark Hoover
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Following is the last of the Galapagos dispatches to be
disgorged from my defunct computer. Tomorrow I'll report in
near real-time, from California, which has been pummelled over
the last few weeks by heavy storms.
It took over 40 hours for the Orca to reach the Galapagos
again, after leaving the Ka'imimoana at approximately 95
degrees W, 2 degrees S. That's something like 320 miles at
about eight diesel-powered miles per hour, a jogger's pace. 40
hours on the Orca. If you've been following these dispatches,
I needn't elaborate.
As we approached the harbor at Puerto Ayoro, on the island of
Santa Cruz, rain—El Niño rain—poured from
the skies with near-Biblical vengeance, as it had for the
previous two days. Nonetheless, I stood on the foredeck,
drenched by warm rain, for the last half hour before we bid
the Orca goodbye for good. I could make out the buildings of
the Darwin Research Institute on the hillside above the harbor
as we drew near. Despite the rain, the seas had finally grown
calmer.
Water cascaded off every tin roof and gushed down every stone
street in Puerto Ayoro, as we transferred our gear from the
Orca to a launch for a short hop to shore, and then to a
waiting minibus. Our superannuated driver could not recall a
rainier wet season, and indeed the town looked lush, with
flowers and leaves poking out from every parcel of open
ground—not at all like the town I had seen in
photographs, where cacti seemed to predominate. Barefoot
children ran along the bus, shouting "Hello!" and "Bye Bye!"
as we passed.
Puerto Ayoro is the most populous of Galapagos' few
settlements, perhaps 10,000 souls. Fernando said it was only a
couple of months ago that electric power became available in
the evening. To be here without power in the evenings wouldn't
be such a bad thing once you got used to it, and if it helped
keep the Galapagos off condo developers' lists, all the
better. The Galapagos are an Ecuadorian national park, and the
Ecuadorians seem serious about keeping the islands as close to
pristine as possible...but inevitably, there is economic
pressure from tourists.
The Darwin Institute's "campus," on a select spot overlooking
the harbor, consists of a half dozen or so low stone
buildings, many of which were built by a Swedish
philanthropist in the 1970s. It serves as a field office for
visiting scholars, and a permanent base for a number of
Galapagos scientists. As far as I know, this was the first
time it would also become a television studio. The kind
Institute librarian—a Chicagoan, it turned
out—closed the library early and turned it over to our
film crew, so we could shoot an interview with Mike McPhaden
for the television show.
Our gear and bags were all soaked, and we dried things as best
we could after checking into our low-slung hotel, before
travelling up the hill to the Institute. Mike had saved a
couple of polo shirts in a garbage bag, and proudly produced
them for the interview, as though he were King Edward
presenting the royal ermines to the court. The crew had kept
the camera and sound gear dry with...garbage bags...and I had
fashioned a makeshift poncho from a...garbage bag. When
choosing an outfitter for an El Niño adventure, forget
Abercrombie's—you need the Man from Glad.
The interview came off without a hitch, and after not nearly
enough sleep in a bed that didn't move, we arose early for our
last investigation of the islands before boarding our plane in
the afternoon and leaving Galapagos for good. Absent the
pitching of the boat, I also got my first good satellite fix
in a week, and called my slightly incredulous editor, who
seemed to suspect I had buzzed out early and was calling from
a pay phone in Miami. Actually, I was trying to figure out how
to extend the trip an extra week. Once you're here, it's hard
to leave.
The airstrip—and our plane back to Ecuador—lay to
the north of us, and we would take a road over the middle of
the island to reach it. This meant an ascension into the
highlands, perhaps 800 meters, where an entirely different
microclimate prevailed. Along the way we planned to stop at a
massive pit in the earth, hundreds of meters across and
equally deep, flanked by the crests of the surrounding
volcanoes. Here, our naturalist advised, we would find birds,
especially the Santa Cruz variant of Darwin's finches, in
superabundance.
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Prickly-pear cacti, free from (left) and choked
by (right) vines.
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As we tooled along the red crushed lava tarmac, I saw more
evidence of El Niño's transforming effects. An odd
prickly-pear cactus tree predominates in this environment, but
all around us I saw these stately desert centurions in
distress. Vine-bearing, iridescent blue and coral-colored
flowers grew around many of the cacti, choking them and
preventing the rays of the sun from reaching their fleshy
leaves. Many of the cacti were already dying. The vine, it
turns out, is an exotic, introduced by humans as ground cover
for agricultural areas. Now, like kudzu in the American south,
it has its own agenda, and is capitalizing on El Niño
rains to wreak serious damage.
As we drove higher up the massive caldera of the volcano that
is the core of this island, mists appeared. Called
garua, they are more than a fog but less than a rain,
and for a third of each year (called the garua season,
naturally), they moisten the highlands and encourage a lush
microenvironment. Epiphytic ferns and mosses hang from the
trees, creating shady retreats for the giant land tortoises
that prefer to inhabit the highlands. During El Niño
years, there is too much moisture, and the tortoises are
driven to the lowlands.
What's annoying to tortoises apparently doesn't affect the
birds here. Nearing the highest point of the island, we pulled
off the road, and hiked down a trail. Turning a bend, we came
upon a vista that took my breath away. Before us lay a vast
crater, a lost Eden with sheer basaltic walls. A profusion of
birds populated its ramparts, its air, and the forest
surrounding its rim. The garua-shrouded peaks of neighboring
volcanic mountains enclosed the area, and
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Magma chamber crater.
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the sunlight played dramatic tricks as it filtered between the
crags and fell into the void. It was, I learned, an empty
magma chamber, a subterranean vessel that had once been filled
with liquid rock, and its roof had collapsed after it had been
emptied by volcanic eruption. The violence had gone out of it
a long time ago.
Finches landed on my feet, bathed in rain puddles lying in
depressions in the hardened lava, and called out their
territories from every surrounding tree. Spiders did a robust
business, too, weaving stunning nets of exotic design in many
sheltered corners. The mists played up and down the
surrounding moors, and for a moment we all forgot we were in
the Galapagos. I wish I could say that this was a moment of
epiphany, but that would imply that human recognition was
important here. It was not. An old script was being played
out, one whose meaning had little to do with our human need to
see change in terms of disaster, catastrophe, and aberration.
To comprehend the immanent mystery of El Niño, it helps
to stop thinking of it as a news event.
El Niño gives with one hand as it takes with the other.
In nature's double-entry accounting system, for every debit,
there is a credit, for every check, a balance. A balance.
Learned with my own senses, this is what I would take from the
islands.
And then it was time to leave for the plane.
I spoke with Mike McPhaden as we boarded the rickety ferry to
cross the channel to Baltra and our plane ride home. With
characteristic simple modesty, he still seemed a little awed
that NOVA was making a television show in which his life's
work was featured. He said something again that he had said 10
days before. "I wish I knew more. I've seen so much here,
learned so much. But I'm just an amateur." This from the man
behind the world's most intense El Niño detection and
measurement effort. Yes, Mike's an amateur, like another
scientist who came here a hundred and fifty years ago during
an El Niño year, and took with him visions and
impressions that would incubate 20 years before flowering
forth in a book that changed the world. His name was Charles
Darwin.
I hope that in your lifetime, if you find yourself on a
scientific adventure—a journey to find answers to an old
mystery, answers which will never be revealed in a newspaper
or on cable news—that you have the privilege of such
"amateur" company as Mike McPhaden. But even if you don't,
take a lesson from Mike; your senses, your curiosity, and your
passion are all you need, if you want to tackle the big
questions.
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