On a foggy morning near the summit of Teton Pass, Rachael Dunlop picked her way to the top of a steep, loose rock field, known as talus, wearing a sweatsuit and gloves. The neuroscientist and wildlife photographer stepped carefully down the Mount Glory slide path where avalanches run often in winter. Occasionally, she dropped to her hands and rear on the unstable rock to reach coordinates provided by the state to the Jackson Hole Wildlife Foundation, where she is one of a few dozen volunteers.
It took her an hour to find the location and set up a monitoring quadrat with hot-pink rope. And that’s moving fast.
“When I was given the [latitudes] and [longitudes] for this site, and I came here, it did take me three or four attempts to find a way onto it, because it’s not just a nice little hiking trail,” Dunlop said.
The current cohort of volunteers began collaborating with state wildlife officials last year. They trek up to 10 miles one way into the backcountry to sit in silence to listen for squeaks and scan the shadows for droppings left by a rock-camouflaged rabbit relative: the American pika.
This summer was one of the warmest for Wyoming, following one of its warmest winters on record. And heat can pose a grave threat to the small mammals that live exclusively in the alpine. During summer months, pikas spend their days stuffing their cheeks with stems and flower petals, storing the vegetation in piles under rocks to survive the harsh winter. Because pikas do not hibernate, they rely entirely on these piles.
But that activity could look different in the century to come. Ambient temperatures above 77 degrees Fahrenheit for more than six hours can prove lethal to pikas. The loose rock piles are great for shade, but those habitats are warming up too.
Not unlike humans who can’t escape the heat, when pika can’t cool down, overheating causes biological stress, said Dana Nelson, a Wyoming Game and Fish biologist who studies specifically nongame species. “They just can no longer cope,” she said.
Nelson helped lead a statewide surveying effort in 2020, which marked the first time wildlife biologists gained a comprehensive understanding of pika distribution across Wyoming. The state was interested in how the sensitive species would adapt to a warming climate, be it by limiting daytime activity, or finding cooler spaces, and for how long they could do that.
The data collected from these surveys helps state agencies evaluate proposed land-use changes and development projects while building a broader picture of climate impacts. But all that fieldwork is a tall order.
Pikas are just one of many species the Wyoming Game and Fish Department tracks, like bears, pronghorn and the elusive pocket gopher. That requires funding and staffing beyond what the state currently has, Nelson said. Logistics for the original baseline 167 surveys conducted at 100 unique sites were also grueling. Researchers backpacked into remote wilderness areas for days at a time, driving across the western side of the state from bases in Lander.
“We set up [the survey] to be repeated about every five to six years,” Nelson said. “But I have to tell you, we have not repeated it yet due to limited funding.”
To bridge the gap, wildlife managers now combine research with recreational backpacking trips and recruit volunteers such as Dunlop to gather data faster and more efficiently.
As an indicator species, pikas serve as a key signpost for how climate change is affecting the American West. State officials currently list the pika as a species of “Greatest Conservation Need” in Wyoming.
While scientists expect high-altitude habitats such as the 8,000-foot-high Teton Pass to remain largely intact in the short-run, lower-altitude populations across Wyoming face a more uncertain future.
“We are still worried about them,” Nelson said.
When pika populations suffer, the alpine food web feels the impact.
“They are part of that alpine ecosystem,” Nelson said. “Because they do not hibernate, [pikas] serve as year-round prey for other species, especially weasels, but also things like coyotes and martens.”
Just minutes into Dunlop’s search on Teton Pass, a sharp call echoed across the rocks.
“Aha, hear that? That’s a pika. That’s an alarm call,” Dunlop said. “So we have our first pika of the morning.”
She marked a code on her data sheet from a list of signs to choose from: “PS” for pika sighting, “FS” for fresh scat, “OH” for old haypile, to name a few. She recorded the time, temperature and cloud cover.
Then, as if to prove Nelson’s point, a reddish-brown pine marten, a natural predator of the pika in the weasel family, slunk down the rock, darting after the last squeak.
After a successful half hour of data collection, mostly tallying pika peeps off in the distance, Dunlop picked her way back to the car, collecting crushed beer cans and plastic trash on her way to the trail. Along with her field notes, Dunlop collected photographs of the animals at her assigned coordinates.
“I just hope I can make a small contribution to being able to monitor these really beautiful animals,” Dunlop said. “Most people don’t know they’re there, and maybe they hear them, but they never see them. Once you spend some time watching them, they have the most incredibly sweet characteristics.”
She plans to return to the monitoring site the next month.
