Candid Camera

At first there is nothing—windblown leaves maybe, or the quicksilver skitter of a squirrel. I can’t identify the source of the movement, and settle back expectantly because soon, I know, there will be more chances.

Huddled in the twilit hour I am hunting, expecting the common whitetail deer—but hopeful for more elusive game. Where there are deer there could be a wolf, right? A bear? Either would make the wait worthwhile. Or perhaps something I’ve never seen, like the elusive fisher?

Some time passes before I see the princely buck, so hale and burnished brown that my gaze lingers long in pure appreciation. His neck and shoulders are heftier than even the regal eight-point crown suggests. I’ve seen a lot of deer already, but he has presented broadside, at perfect range. My finger hesitates as I savor the action. And finally I decide, yes, this is a keeper.

I shift in my perch and refocus. Yes, there is the heart. My finger flexes. And I click on the heart icon. Subject 4988060, a Dane County buck snapped last November, is now in my favorites folder.

My hunting perch, you may now realize, is my customary recliner, and I’m using my laptop to spy on the wildlife of Wisconsin while dinner warms. In 20 minutes I’ll go through a few hundred of the millions of photos already collected by Snapshot Wisconsin, a growing net- work of trail cameras.

By now everybody’s seen trail cam photos. Maybe you or someone you know already uses them to scout deer, or just to see what’s on your land when you’re not looking.

Certainly someone’s emailed you a photo or short video, or they’ve shown up in your social media feeds. Those are the special shots, curated, viral. Snapshot Wisconsin is the raw feed, and therein lies the fun. Because here you can get your wildlife fix and be a scientist, too. Identifying these animals contributes to a cutting-edge effort that may fundamentally change the way we study wildlife.

“It’s like having 350 people out there in the woods day and night recording everything they see,” says Jennifer Stenglein MS’13 PhD’14, a research scientist with the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources (DNR) who directs Snapshot Wisconsin. “That’s amazing data that we’ve never really had before.”

And 350 is just for starters. The goal is four cameras in every township in Wisconsin. Stenglein will be happy if they can reach at least 3,000 cameras. “We are, I believe, going to have one of the best data sets in the world,” she says.

At 10:40 every morning a NASA satellite flies over Wisconsin and snaps a series of pictures. The photographs measure many things, including a day-by-day record of how green the landscape is, which in turn gives us an idea of how well the plants are doing. The data has been collected for years—one of the satellites, Terra, has been in orbit since 1999—and offers an ever-lengthening perspective on the American landscape.

Satellite photos are now commonplace, but for most people remote sensing data is an abstraction. Woody Turner, program manager for NASA’s Ecological Forecasting, is always working to make that data matter to as many Americans as possible. “It’s really important to be able not only to understand what’s happening in your backyard or your woodlot but also to put it in the broader context,” he says. “The satellite brings in the broader context.”

In 2012 NASA announced it wanted to fund a project connecting its data with state agencies and university researchers. These are regular customers, but now there was a twist: NASA wanted a project that also used trail cameras and citizen scientists.

Phil Townsend, a professor of forest and wildlife ecology at CALS, had wanted to connect trail cams and remote sensing data for years, and he quickly called his professor colleague Ben Zuckerberg to brainstorm the citizen science angle. Then they reached out to Karl Martin BS’91, then the DNR’s forestry and wildlife research chief,
who knew camera prices were dropping and was also thinking about how to use them to improve research techniques. Martin also had access to a rich store of potential volunteers.

With all the ingredients NASA was looking for, the Wisconsin team won a pilot grant to install 80 cameras. It was an opportunity to improve wildlife research and put big data to work in the natural world. It even seemed like a promising tool for youth engagement—a partial antidote to nature deficit disorder. “It’s a very good example of cross-disciplinary, cross-agency teamwork,” says Martin, now the interim dean and director for UW–Extension Cooperative Extension. “This is how you leverage the Wisconsin Idea.”

Almost as soon as it began, state budget woes put the project on ice. In a curious twist, a raging national debate over gun control led to record sales of guns and ammunition. These sales are federally taxed, and a portion is returned to the states via the Pittman–Robertson Act for natural resource projects. With a secure funding stream, Snapshot Wisconsin began in earnest.

While the technology has been available for years, the ambitious scale remains a challenge. Educators and tribes can install cameras throughout the state, but cameras for private land are being rolled out gradually. Racine, Vernon and Dodge counties recently joined Iowa, Iron, Jackson, Manitowoc, Sawyer and Waupaca. At last count 417 volunteers were operating 607 cameras that have taken more than 8 million photos.

“The logistics are a big part of it,” says Townsend. “The scale that we’re doing this at has never been done before.” But scale is also the payback. Townsend is interested in phenology—the cycling of the landscape from brown to green and back again. Factors ranging from climate change to land use change can influence phenology. The Snapshot cameras are programmed to take an image at 10:40 a.m. every day, in sync with the satellite, providing a much richer data profile for that precise location.

Meanwhile the motion trap captures the phenological patterns of the animals. “Animals respond differently to their environment,” says Townsend. When they give birth, when and where they feed, when they’re out and about and when they’re in hiding all change, and we understand only a fraction of the whys. Bringing landscape data together with animal data may answer a lot of outstanding questions.

“Wildlife research every now and then gets transformed by technology,” notes Tim Van Deelen, a professor of forest and wildlife ecology. Radio telemetry revolutionized wildlife study in the ’70s, but it also took a while before researchers were able to put that information to use.

“That’s where we are with camera data,” Van Deelen says. “We’re in that lag phase where we are figuring out how to be efficient with the use of that data. I’m betting that as cool as things are right now, they’re going to get cooler as analytic techniques develop. I think there is a lot of basic biology that is going to come clear because underlying Snapshot Wisconsin is a very robust sampling scheme.”

There are two kinds of Snapshot Wisconsin volunteers. One group maintains cameras—either on their own land or special project cameras on public lands. Sited away from human activity and preferably on a game trail, the cameras operate day and night, snapping three photos in quick succession via a motion trigger. Memory cards and batteries need to be changed at least every three months, and the card uploaded back to Snapshot Wisconsin. Here technology takes over. To avoid any possibility of surveillance, the images on the card are encrypted. After decoding they are uploaded to Microsoft Cognitive Services, where special software removes images that contain humans. Then the image batches are sent back to each camera volunteer, who removes any people pictures the software may have missed.

After this double-check, the images move to me in my armchair via Zooniverse, a citizen science web platform designed by the Adler Planetarium in Chicago. Its goal is to harness our digital enthusiasm for something more than selfies and cat videos. On Zooniverse you can help with research projects that range from finding evidence of water on Mars to transcribing Civil War telegrams.

Why not just let a computer do it? Even in this age of the Watson cognitive computing platform and pervasive facial recognition, the human mind is still the most agile tool available for subtle pattern recognition. “There is no machine that’s as good as the human brain when it comes to being able to capture these kinds of images and classify them appropriately,” explains Zuckerberg.

Log on to Zooniverse and you’ll soon begin to appreciate both the challenge and your gift. The three-photo sequence captures movement. Some images are empty, and if the frame sways, you can tell that wind triggered the snap. But then you find an empty image where just a tiny bit of vegetation moves, and you realize that something has just passed by. Sometimes there’s just a blur of color, or—at night—eye gleam. After a while, you begin to recognize places and patterns, to appreciate the different ways that animals use and move across the landscape. Even the boring photos can surprise you. There is one squirrel in Sawyer County who loves to run a steeplechase along a few fallen birch logs. Occasionally this camera catches a deer. But just as I was getting frustrated with what felt like the 99th photo of the same squirrel, I realized the field beyond was crowded with 14 young turkeys.

Citizen science dates back at least as far as the then-nascent Audubon Society’s first Christmas bird count in 1900. (Plain folk have been collecting astronomical and meteorological observations for far longer.) In Wisconsin, thousands participate in all kinds of projects, monitoring everything from water quality to bat populations.

Zuckerberg hopes that through Snapshot Wisconsin, biology can join the ranks of such disciplines as meteo- rology that collect data continuously. “Collecting biological data tends to be very difficult,” he explains. State-of-the- art radio tracking can follow only a few individuals. Ecologists want to see how species respond across broad stretches of space and time.

“To me the real value of this is being able to think about animal communities over the course of an entire year,” Zuckerberg says. “It’s thinking about big-pattern ecology.”

Snapshot Wisconsin is in what you might call its giddy start- up phase. There isn’t an end product yet, but as the project ramps up, the anecdotal excitement grows. Director Jennifer Stenglein can tell you that there are quite a few porcupines, not so many striped skunks and a fair number of fly- ing squirrels. Also, that we don’t capture as many wolves as you might think, and that it can be very hard to tell coyotes from wolves. And, to no one’s surprise, there are lots and lots of deer. In fact, 60 percent of the animal photos from Sawyer and Iowa counties have deer. Which leads to an obvious question: Can Snapshot Wisconsin close the persistent (and politically sticky) gap between hunters and the DNR about deer populations? Nobody is taking bets on that, but the project should upgrade research techniques overall. “The way that the DNR tallies wildlife is highly sporadic,” says Townsend. “It’s not systematic, it’s different among different wildlife species, it’s difficult to do and it’s expensive to do well.”

Stenglein’s other major DNR responsibility is care and feeding of the state deer population model, and she sees Snapshot Wisconsin as a dual-use tool. On the one hand, it can contribute to the modeling currently in place, providing an index for population size, some idea of overwinter survival, and the fawn-doe ratio. “Cameras can be the best way to get a couple of those deer metrics, we think,” she says.

“It might also lead to an entirely different way of understanding the deer population,” Stenglein notes. The current model uses data from two observation windows: an August/September survey conducted by the DNR and the public, and the nine-day gun season harvest data. Snapshot would provide many more data points in time.

Two important research projects will help determine the ultimate value of the cameras. Elk reintroduction in Sawyer, Ashland, Bayfield and Jackson counties includes a much higher density of cameras. This will allow scientists to check the validity of the lower-density Snapshot data. And because many of the elk are also collared, traditional telemetry data can also be compared with the camera data. Similar comparisons can be made on another project in Dane, Iowa and Grant counties studying the survival impact of chronic wasting disease. Deer and their predators (coyote and bobcat) are both being collared, and cameras are also planned.

Current deer population models have a strong grasp of general population dynamics, but they are missing crucial landscape factors that we know influence deer. That, says Townsend, is where Snapshot Wisconsin will make the difference. “You are not going to get any one township perfectly, but by sampling enough townships you are going to sample the diversity of land cover and land uses,” he explains.

When all of those cameras meet all of that diversity, patterns will emerge. Find a relationship between deer density and vegetation and you can begin to make predictions. “The strength is in numbers,” Townsend says. “The remote-sensing data is everywhere. Can we harvest all that information to help make the models better?”

Charged with predicting deer populations, Stenglein usually thinks about lots of deer all at once. But as she’s built up Snapshot Wisconsin, a different window on wildlife has opened.

It began when she saw the work of an artist who was using her own trail cam photos for inspiration. Stenglein realized the artist was not painting a generic raccoon, but a very particular raccoon. The artist didn’t “know” the raccoon, and was just looking at photos. Yet there was a kind of individual relationship on view. “I realized that so much of this project is actually about the individuals in these photos,” Stenglein says. “That’s what draws people to this project.”

It was easy to imagine the connection landowners might feel for a camera they install and maintain on their property, or even one on public lands that they use. Stenglein gets lots of email from volunteers thrilled the first time they get a fisher or black bear they didn’t know they had on their property. Sue Steinmann MS’83 volunteered to place a camera on her scrub oak barrens near Arena “to see if we have bear or bobcats,” she says. “I really think we had a wolf come through last winter.” Now she’ll have more than footprints for proof.

Steinmann and her husband are active in ecological restoration, so they are probably more engaged in natural resource issues than most people in Wisconsin. But one of the things being studied by Snapshot Wisconsin is how citizen science can lead to better communication between scientists, resource managers and the public—and how this might lead to better resource management overall.

“When you have folks who are engaged in the process in more depth, and maybe helping to drive some of the questions, or helping to partici- pate in the interpretation of the data, that’s where you’re starting to see some of these community-level outcomes,” says Christine Anhalt-Depies, who is currently pursuing a PhD in wildlife ecology.

Anhalt-Depies is watching the online dynamic among the volunteers— some of whom come from all over the world—and how that evolves. Members of the research team are identified in Zooniverse, and the project also includes a few moderators (you can think of them almost as docents)—volunteers who help new users navigate the learning curve. The chatter is informed and supportive, and while the task might seem rote, it quickly becomes fun.

“I get addicted to doing that and have to stop after a while,” admits Sue Johansen BS’94. As a naturalist at Devil’s Lake State Park, she monitors three cameras for the park and one Snapshot Wisconsin camera in the West Bluff area. While the cameras began as a new way to engage visitors, they’ve also found animals—flying squirrels and short-tailed weasels—that no one knew were in the park. “What happens when you’re not around?” she says. “It’s a different way to connect to the outdoors.”

Then there are the “super users.” Zooniverse projects tend to develop their own core volunteers, people who process fantastically more images than most people. Some of these people are fully vested in the community aspect, engaging in conversation through message boards. Others remain silent. What are they getting from it, Anhalt-Depies wants to know. Will it translate to engagement in the real world?

“These are not cyborgs out there,” Zuckerberg says. “These are people very invested in the research.”

It’s these modern times that make Snapshot Wisconsin so fascinating.

We are becoming so acclimated to screens, to surveillance, to the omnipresence of cameras. Social networks have always mattered, but they are more visible than ever as we attempt to reap their bumper crops and avoid their vicious undertow. Selfies may be changing our very sense of our place in the world. Science and business are being rapidly remade by our ability to collect big data, and by our struggle to understand it.

Snapshot Wisconsin rides the rebounding ripple effects of all of these phenomena. And yet somehow nature remains at the center of the experience.

I admit: I had my doubts. But I threw both hands up in delight when I scored my first black bear. I was tickled to learn the blob that I had thought might be a wounded turkey turned out to be, literally, a happy family pileup of otters. I laughed longer than I should have when the camera caught a coyote leaving a fecal sample. (Photo bomb.)

In nature there is no substitute for observation. And while the parade of images in Snapshot Wisconsin should not be mistaken for being out there, it’s a legitimate supplement, a booster shot against nature deficit disorder.

“If you are going to maintain nature or wild places on this earth as our own numbers grow, I think it’s going to be because we care about it,” says NASA’s Woody Turner. “And to care about something you have to be at least somewhat familiar with it.”

Zuckerberg worries that we are increasingly detached from nature— that some children actually view nature as something to fear. Sometimes he listens to his children, ages 9 and 14, on Zooniverse in the next room. They love all the deer pictures but get totally jazzed by the occasional bear.

“I think using technology to allow another experience is what makes this project fun,” he says. “This offers a window for kids to become interested and engaged in natural history. I think any way you can do that is going to be a positive experience.”

The Island of Giant Mice

Two thousand miles east of the coast of Argentina, Gough Island rises out of the Atlantic Ocean in an awesome display of ancient volcanic activity. A green carpet of windswept mosses and grasses covers 35 square miles of jagged peaks and steeply sloping valleys. Waterfalls spill out of craggy cliffs and fall hundreds of feet to the sea, which runs uninterrupted for another 1,700 miles before crashing into the tip of South Africa. It is one of the most remote places on our planet.

Four miles west of the University of Wisconsin– Madison campus, the Charmany Instructional Facility is a low-slung labyrinth of concrete hallways lined by bright fluorescent lights and permeated with a smell that is equal parts animal and antiseptic. Part of the UW School of Veterinary Medicine, Charmany is nearly half a world away from Gough Island (pronounced “Goff ”). Yet the two locations share a common trait— they both are home to the largest mice on Earth.

In terms of body size and weight, Gough Island mice are twice the size of their mainland cousins, notes Bret Payseur, a geneticist with a joint appointment in CALS and the School of Medicine and Public Health. “The amazing thing about them being twice the size is that they’ve only been on the island a couple of hundred years,” he says. The island’s early rodent settlers were a more moderate-sized strain of Mus musculus, house mice stowaways in the holds of sealing ships from Western Europe. But somewhere along the line, Gough Island mice outgrew that ancestry—doubling in size over the course of only a few hundred generations. “That’s incredibly rapid evolutionary change,” Payseur says. “It’s some of the most rapid that I know about.”

In the canon of origin stories, however, this tale reads more like a mystery. How did the Gough Island mice get so big so quickly? It could be that a genetic mutation proved so advantageous that huge mice became the norm. Or maybe conditions on the island favored preexisting genetic traits that had lain dormant until the mice became castaways. For the time being, however, the Gough mouse story is transcribed only in A’s, T’s, C’s and G’s—the nucleic acids that write genetic code. Payseur hopes to translate that text. What he finds could not only shed light on evolution in action. It could also help illuminate the genetic mechanisms underlying human metabolic diseases like obesity and diabetes.

The Island Rule

While Gough Island mice are unusually large, it isn’t unusual for small animals on islands to grow bigger than their mainland counterparts. The phenomenon is often referred to as the “island rule,” which states that, in general, small animals tend to get bigger and large animals tend to get smaller once they’ve been island castaways for some period of time. There are, of course, exceptions. But from giant Komodo dragons to extinct pygmy mammoths, examples of the island rule run throughout the animal kingdom.

The gigantism effect of this rule seems to be especially pronounced in rodents. Human history is full of daring adventure on the high seas involving fearless mariners and the obligatory stowaways—mice and rats. As a result, the world’s islands are full of transplanted rodents. Biologist J. Bristol Foster first posited the island rule in a 1964 paper in the journal Nature, titled “The Evolution of Mammals on Islands.” In his study, Foster looked at 69 populations of island mice off the coasts of Western Europe and North America. The mice in 60 of those populations were measurably larger than their mainland cousins. Since that study, time and again, scientists find mice and rats on islands that are markedly bigger than genetically similar mainland populations.

This is notable because, in evolution, random genetic mutations or suddenly shifting environmental conditions can lead a species down a certain path. Which means that chance plays a big role in charting a species’ history. “If you ‘run the tape’ once and go back and run it again,” Payseur says, “you would expect different outcomes because of that role of chance.” When patterns like the island rule appear in evolution, he says, “People get very excited. It suggests that what underlies the patterns is a common mechanism that would tell us something important about how evolution works.”

Payseur’s scientific background is anchored in evolutionary biology, and the natural history of species on islands has fascinated him throughout his career. After early work with primates in Madagascar, Payseur realized that, while there is a lot one can do in primate research, keeping captive colonies of lemurs in a lab and breeding the thousands of crosses needed to actually get at answers wasn’t one of them. So he turned his attention to mice.

“The great thing about house mice—and I know most people don’t think house mice are great—is that the strains or lines of mice that people study in the lab are descended from wild house mice, including the wild mice that often inhabit islands,” Payseur says. “So they’re kind of cousins evolutionarily and share a lot of the same traits. That means we can use the genetic tools developed for the lab strains of mice to understand what’s happening in wild mice.”

He’s looking to these small creatures to answer some very big questions. “In the very long term, what I would like to answer with this research is, ‘What types of genetic changes are responsible for the extreme body size on islands?” Payseur says. “Are they the same on different islands? Do we see the same genes popping up over and over again, or do organisms take different paths to get big?”

Knowing that he would have the time, money and resources to deal with only a single strain of island mouse at a time, Payseur decided to start with the most extreme example of the island rule that he could find. He turned to colleagues who studied house mice in the field—and every one of them pointed him to Gough Island.

An Incredible Journey

Most researchers simply order mice via catalog, usually from what Payseur calls “the world center for mouse genetics,” the Jackson Laboratory in Maine. A copy of their glossy catalog lets researchers pick trait-specific lines of mice, from body size and coat color to preassigned conditions like immunodeficiency. Then, simply place an order and wait a few days for the mail to arrive. Gough Island mice aren’t in that catalog. Which means that Payseur had to figure out a way to get mice from an incredibly remote island with a grand total of six to eight full-time human residents, all of whom were busy with their year-long stint staffing the South African National Antarctic Programme’s weather station.

The solution came in the form of an unusual and macabre adaptation of behavior in Gough Island mice. In addition to developing bigger bodies in their few hundred years on the island, they have also developed an appetite for bigger food—the chicks of nesting seabirds, which they, quite literally, nibble to death. Luckily for Payseur, there are quite a few people concerned about those seabirds.

Gough Island is officially a possession of Britain and part of the Dependency of Tristan de Cunha. It is also listed as a World Heritage Site by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, which recognizes Gough as a pristine, primarily untouched ecosystem. Its towering cliffs, according to the UNESCO description of the island, “host some of the most important seabird colonies in the world,” from the endangered Tristan albatross to the Atlantic petrel to the Northern Rockhopper penguin. Under such circumstances, a population of non-native, quick-breeding, bird-eating mice is of grave concern—especially to the governments and scientists tasked with preserving the island’s biodiversity.

Peter Ryan, director of the Percy FitzPatrick Institute of African Ornithology at the University of Cape Town, South Africa, says that, especially where petrels and albatrosses are concerned, Gough Island mice are a threat to breeding populations. Ryan has been an honorary conservation officer in the Tristan de Cunha islands since 1989 and has witnessed the decline in seabirds firsthand. When Payseur reached out to him in 2008, Ryan was working with Richard Cuthbert, a scientist at the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, on a census of sorts to help the British government plan an intervention—or, rather, an eradication.

The mice “were easy enough to catch,” Ryan wrote in an email recalling Payseur’s request. “They occur at very high densities and we’d been live-catching lots of mice to estimate their movements and densities and to conduct poison trials to ensure that all were susceptible to the poison bait.” Ironically, in order to study how best to kill them, the researchers had the live traps, food, bedding and other paraphernalia needed to keep the mice alive for study.

The “big issue” Ryan recalls, was shipping them. Eventually, the crew of the S.A. Agulhas, a South African Antarctic research vessel, agreed to give the mice a lift, but “Even this was a bit tricky, because we had to convince them that the mice wouldn’t be able to escape.” In the fall of 2008, 50 Gough Island mice boarded a boat and took the return trip to the mainland, specifically Cape Town, South Africa. After a lot of paperwork they were sent to Johannesburg, with inspections and quarantines and mountains of paperwork piling up as they made their way by plane to Europe, then to Chicago and, in a final car ride, to the campus of the University of Wisconsin–Madison, where postdoctoral researcher Melissa Gray was waiting.

That September, Gray had just begun her stint in Payseur’s lab. The idea of working with mice excited her, since, as with Payseur’s initial study of primates in Madagascar, the Channel Island foxes she had been working on promised to be a difficult study organism. When a mentor suggested she reach out to Payseur, Gray says, “It was a perfect connection.” She had a background working on island populations and the genetics of size and “Bret already had this project and nobody to work on it.” Plus, she wouldn’t have to wait long to get going. “I started in Bret’s lab in September,” Gray recalls, “and the mice arrived in late October.”

Immediately upon their arrival, the Gough Island mice alleviated any concerns about their suitability as a study subject. “Basically it was a cardboard box with some breathing holes and food stuffed inside,” Gray recalls. But when she opened the box, “It was amazing,” she recalls. Ryan had sent 50 mice off to Wisconsin. Forty-five survived the trip and, even better, they’d managed to produce a couple of litters along the way. They hadn’t even begun their experiment, and already the Payseur Lab was growing a colony of Gough mice. “In a way, we ended up with more than we started with, which is crazy with the amount of stress they were under,” Gray says.

After that initial excitement wore off, the real work began. First, Gray had to randomly breed several sets of mice to ensure that their large size was genetic and not the result of conditions on the island. When those lines came out as big as the wild-born mice, she could turn her attention to creating the first lab-raised line of Gough Island mice, inbreeding some promising strains of mice to create lines that were genetically identical, which makes gene mapping much easier. These mice would then serve as the lab’s breeding colony, slated as mates for lab mice with a mainland heritage.

One way to think about the process—to borrow a metaphor from Mark Nolte, a current postdoctoral researcher in the Payseur Lab—is to imagine two decks of playing cards, one red and the other blue, where each card is a gene. Each deck represents a chromosome, a long strand of DNA wrapped around proteins that carries genetic instructions from a parent to its offspring. When sexual reproduction occurs, each parent contributes a copy of one of their two chromosomes to their offspring.

Imagine the Gough Island mice as having two blue decks of cards—one deck for each chromosome—and the mainland mice as having two red decks. Their initial mating yields what’s called a “filial generation one,” or an F1 baby mouse with two distinct chromosomes, one with all blue cards and the other with all red cards. But when an F1 mouse mates with another F1 mouse, those decks get shuffled. These “filial generation 2,” or F2 mice, hold the first key to untangling the riddle of the evolution of Gough Island’s giant mice.

Breaking the Code

In a small, windowless room at the Charmany Instructional Facility, doctoral candidate Michelle Parmenter lifts two wriggling brown mice out of separate plastic cages by the base of their tails. One is from a line of laboratory mouse with a lineage that runs, if one looks far enough back, to a population of U.S. house mouse. The other is also a strain of laboratory mouse, although it’s of the lab’s own creation—its Gough Island heritage evident in the way it dwarfs its companion when nestled side by side in Parmenter’s hand.

Parmenter, Nolte and a half-dozen Payseur Lab undergrads spend a large portion of their time taking measurements, plopping each of the 480 mice in the room—increasingly inbred descendants of the original Gough mice—one by one into an empty container of French onion dip and putting it on a scale.

Parmenter has slipped on tough blue “bite gloves” before handling the mice— and one mouse’s attempted nibbles remind her why she needs them. “Okay, you’re trying to bite me,” she announces, putting the critter down. “These bite gloves are good, but they’re only so good.”

A smaller mouse, on the other hand, sits meekly in her palm. Parmenter and Nolte say there are a lot of anecdotal differences in behavior between the Gough line of mice and their mainland counterparts. Gough mice scrabble at the corners of their clear plastic cages and frantically scale the grates near their water bottles like monkey bars. The mainland mice spend more time quietly nestled in the shredded paper bedding provided for burrows. When working with the mice, Parmenter and Nolte put them in deep plastic basins, since the Gough mice seem to be strong jumpers and more aggressive. In comparison, says Nolte, “I could work with classical laboratory strains of mice on a level surface and they wouldn’t go anywhere. They wouldn’t even try to escape.”

While they enjoy discussing the potential evolutionary drivers behind some of this observed behavior, what is really exciting to Parmenter and Nolte is what these mice are now telling them at a genetic level.

By crossing mice from Gough and the mainland strain, the Payseur Lab has produced about 1,400 F2 mice. They’ve extracted DNA from each one, sent those samples to a lab for analysis and, in return, received a genomic portrait of each mouse’s DNA. Combing through all of that is a slow process, says Parmenter, but already they are finding hints of the genetic code responsible for their remarkable size.

“Imagine I take the two decks of cards—or ‘chromosomes’—and spread them out, and I can go down each row and say, ‘Oh, there’s a mainland chunk of DNA,’ or ‘Hey, that one came from Gough,’” Nolte says. When you do this enough, patterns begin to appear. “If you take your largest mice and spread their decks, you notice that at the same position on the chromosome they all share the same Gough DNA.” When a big enough percentage of large mice show the same chunk of genes at the same position on the genome, Nolte says, it indicates that, somewhere in the region, there is a gene responsible for size.

That strong association, however, isn’t exactly a smoking gun. When the project began, says Payseur, a prevailing thought was that the rapid evolution in Gough Island mice would be the result of mutations in just a couple of key genes. But in a September 2015 paper in the journal Genetics, the lab published its first genetic mapping results from the F2 crosses, reporting that 19 different sections of the genome appear to play some role in the rapid and extreme size evolution of Gough Island mice. Each of those 19 sections is comprised of anywhere from 400 to 1,400 genes, which means there is much more work to do.

Right now, the process “is not getting at a specific gene,” says Gray, who was the lead author of the Genetics paper. “It’s saying, ‘Okay, this chunk of genome right here somehow corresponds to body size.’ So if you want to tease that apart more, you have to shuffle the deck again. And then shuffle it again.” Keeping your eye on the right card gets difficult. “You really need a lot of samples to get past the noise,” she says, “and that’s a challenge about a project like this. You need a lot of individuals, and that means a lot of money and a lot of time and a lot of mice.”

The Search for a New Island

As the “giant mice” experiment currently stands, the Payseur Lab will, eventually, uncover specific genes that are responsible for the Gough Island mouse’s astounding size, work that could have implications for research on things like human metabolic diseases or even breeding livestock.

“When you look at domesticated animals, size is one of the most important traits because it’s correlated with characteristics like productivity,” Payseur explains. “There’s a lot of interest in CALS in understanding the genetic basis of size variation—in that context it would help select for increased body size and know what genes confer the response. Maybe there’s a more efficient way to ‘build the animal.’”

But if Payseur is to truly unravel the evolutionary mystery of the island rule, he’s going to not only need more time, money and mice—he’s going to need a new island.

The idea is to run the same experiment with another population of large island mice and see if evolutionary patterns emerge. Do some of the same 19 genetic regions his lab has identified show up in those mice, or did they get bigger through a completely different mechanism?

“It would be nice to choose an island because it has similar ecological conditions to Gough that might have driven the same kind of body size increase,” Payseur muses. “But another consideration is, it would be nice to choose an island where the mice have come from a different part of the world. I’m in the throes of figuring that out right now.”

Either way, it’s not a decision that will be made quickly. And the project, which is funded in part by the National Institutes of Health, is slated to run for several more years, meaning that large mice will be calling a UW–Madison lab home for a while.

Gray has already moved on from the project, taking a job as a research scientist at Exact Sciences, a Madisonbased biotech company. Both Nolte and Parmenter realize that they’ll also head elsewhere in their careers before the full story of the Gough Island mice can be translated. But they admit to hoping that they’re still around when the next cardboard box full of large, wild mice arrives in the lab.

“Just knowing that Bret is pursuing a new island population makes us all giddy,” Nolte says.

Payseur shares their excitement, but he knew when he launched the study that he was signing on for what could end up being a career-long project.

“I think that genetics is the most powerful way to answer evolutionary questions,” he says. But getting at answers can be “more complicated than one might imagine,” Payseur admits. “It would be nice to have a simple explanation, but I tend to be attracted to more complicated projects.”

In one respect at least, things might be finally getting a little less complicated for the Payseur Lab: Wherever they turn next for a population of giant mice, the island in question will be a little less remote than Gough. And the mice involved will be a little smaller. And, just maybe, writing the next chapter of this story will be a little bit easier—aided by a key created from the genome of the largest mice on Earth.

 

Give: Experiencing the World

Rachel Glab recently spent time on an idyllic Caribbean island, but she wasn’t there to stick her toes in the sand.

Rather, Glab was in Montserrat on bird business—specifically, researching how to protect the Montserrat oriole, a species facing various threats. Glab spent three days on the island interviewing a range of local residents and members of the United Kingdom-based Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. She also performed fieldwork including blood collection and banding, working under the direction of CALS ornithologist and animal sciences professor Mark Berres.

“My goal was to gain experience in data analysis and genetic work, along with developing and conducting interviews to gain broad perspectives on how to protect the oriole—what’s working, what isn’t, and what it really takes to get people together to facilitate positive change for a species,” says Glab.

Travel abroad wasn’t really in the cards for her, at least not for now. Glab, 27, is paying her own way through school. She is a licensed veterinary technician with AAS degrees in both veterinary medicine and laboratory animal medicine, and she has a job taking care of research animals at the UW’s Wisconsin Institutes for Medical Research (WIMR). Her work at WIMR convinced her to get her bachelor’s degree, and she plans to pursue a degree in medicine after graduating.

International travel would have been beyond her means without funding from the CALS Study Abroad Scholarship Fund, which was just renamed the Kenneth H. Shapiro CALS Study Abroad Fund in honor of the recently retired professor of agricultural and applied economics and former associate dean and director of CALS International Programs.

Throughout his career Shapiro greatly expanded CALS research and service partnerships with countries around the world and raised scholarship funds so that all students could participate.

Numerous studies and testimonials confirm the benefits of study abroad, which include developing a globally minded workforce, allowing students to study natural resources not available in the United States and—perhaps most important—offering students a broader, richer experience of the world.

Glab speaks to some of those benefits. “The experience made me look at our country differently, at the way we live and the access we have to things here,” says Glab, noting that people in Montserrat make do with much less. “My interactions with residents and conservationists there were priceless to me. I’ve come back with greater awareness of what we have and what we can do together.”

To help support the Kenneth H. Shapiro CALS Study Abroad Fund, visit: supportuw.org/giveto/shapirostudyabroad

The UW Foundation maintains more than 6,000 gift funds that provide critical resources for the educational and research activities of CALS.

 

KnowHow: How Birds Find Their Way

It’s a great biological mystery—how millions of migratory birds make epic journeys between their breeding and wintering grounds every year, rarely losing their way.

They actually use some of the same tools we do—but theirs are inborn. “Migratory birds and humans need at least a map and a compass to find their way—a map for route and distance, and a compass to stay on course,” notes Stan Temple, an emeritus professor of forest and wildlife ecology.

“Many young migratory birds are born with an innate map that gives them direction and distance to travel during migration,” says Temple. This is evident from the many young birds that make their first migration without their parents. They get a sense of direction—their compass—from environmental cues.

Other birds, such as the young of swans, cranes and some other large birds, are born with the instinct to migrate but learn a migratory route from their parents during their first migration.
”We have strong evidence of celestial cues, the earth’s magnetic fields and other environmental cues,” says Temple. “Birds use the most accurate navigational cues available at the time, often the sun and stars. When skies are overcast, birds may fall back on geomagnetic cues.”

Celestial Navigation
Birds can get a mind-boggling wealth of information from the positions of the sun and stars—patterns that constantly are changing throughout the day, throughout the seasons and from northern to southern hemispheres.

Human sea-goers use a clock, a compass, maps and a sextant to navigate by stars and sun. (The clock is essential.) Avian travelers are equipped with several internal clocks and a genetically programmed map.

Geomagnetic Navigation
Migratory birds can use the earth’s magnetic field as a compass. The earth’s magnetism is strongest at the poles and progressively weaker toward the equator. Birds may identify north-south directions by sensing differences in the strength of the earth’s magnetic field. Very recent studies have identified a region of the migrating bird’s brain that can detect magnetism.

Geographic Mapping/Landmarks
Birds learn to use landmarks—such as mountain ranges, shorelines and large lakes—from their first migration. Landmarks are most useful as a bird gets close to its destination.

Carin Christensen

Christensen is a wilderness ranger in the largest national forest in the United States, the 17-million-acre Tongass National Forest. Covering most of southeastern Alaska, the reserve encompasses the world’s largest temperate rainforest and Alaska’s famous Inside Passage between the mainland and coastal islands. Christensen works on a variety of projects to balance the multiple uses of the forest’s resources, including planting and maintaining lichen to monitor air quality. When she’s not busy working in the Tongass, Christensen performs in a folk band called the Western Hemlock Society.

Jim Harris

Harris served as president and CEO of the International Crane Foundation until 2006, when he stepped down to spend more time on conservation projects overseas. Now a vice president for the organization, he is particularly focused on projects in China, where six of the country’s eight crane species are threatened by human development pressures. Harris believes that a narrow view of conservation too often pits people and wildlife in conflict. His work focuses on communicating the local benefits of conservation, allowing stakeholders to become allies.

Eduardo Santana Castellón

After earning his master’s degree, Santana Castellón went to the University of Guadalajara in Jalisco, Mexico, where he championed the creation of the Sierra de Manantlán Biosphere Reserve. Considered one of the most significant conservation areas in Latin America, the reserve harbors an amazing richness of life found few other places in the world, including a species of wild corn that was believed to have gone extinct. After completing his Ph.D. on the dynamics of bird communities in western Mexico’s cloud forests, Santana Castellón returned to the University of Guadalajara as part of its faculty, where he has received national and international distinctions for his conservation work.

Jim Wesson

In the Chesapeake Bay, Wesson is leading an innovative project to restore the one of the bay’s signature features: oysters. Troubled by environmental pollution, oysters filter water and create niches for other aquatic species to thrive, making them a key link in the bay’s ecosystem. As part of the Virginia Marine Commission’s Division of Fisheries Management, Wesson led a project to construct artificial reefs to help re-establish the shellfish. Young oysters are raised for a year and then transplanted onto the reefs by volunteers. Wesson was spurred to action in part by personal history. He grew up in a family of commercial blue-crab fishermen and had seen the effects of declining oyster populations firsthand.

Jerry Bartelt

As chief of the wildlife and forestry research section of the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources, Bartelt’s charge was to provide the best possible science to guide the state’s natural-resource policies. In 15 years on the job, he and his team tackled large-scale problems such as dealing with chronic wasting disease in deer and identifying sustainable farming practices that support wildlife and the environment. Bartelt recently took a two-year leave to lead the writing of a new DNR handbook on ecosystem-management planning. He credits CALS for instilling a sense of pragmatism that guides his approach to his work.

Matt Becker

Becker is chief executive officer of the African Wild Dog Conservation Trust, where he is working to save the second-most endangered carnivore in Africa. Only 2,000 to 5,000 of the dogs remain in the wild, primarily in protected reserves, but Becker’s organization is working to preserve the species and its habitat through research, community education and cooperative conservation efforts. He’s pursued alliances with the World Wildlife Fund and authorities in Zambia, where many of the dogs survive. This isn’t Becker’s first work with endangered species: Prior to going to Africa, he studied gray wolves in Yellowstone National Park.

David Blehert

Along with fellow CALS alumnus Dave Redell (see story, The Dark Night), Blehert is engaged in the scientific quest to understand white-nose syndrome, the skin infection that has killed more than 1 million bats in the northeastern United States since 2007. Blehert is head of the diagnostic microbiology lab at the U.S. Geological Survey National Wildlife Health Center, where his team recently identified a new species of fungus that causes the skin infection that is a hallmark of white-nose syndrome. They are now running more tests to determine conclusively if the fungus is behind the disease and how prevalent it is in the environment. The USGS facility monitors the emergence and spread of other wildlife infections, as well, including avian flu and the West Nile virus.