Deforestation in the Brazilian Amazon has fallen to its lowest level in 13 years, according to new satellite data from Brazil’s National Institute for Space Research (INPE), continuing a decline that began after President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva returned to office in 2023. INPE’s DETER alert system detected 2,874 square kilometers (1,110 square miles) of deforestation in the Amazon between August 1, 2025, and July 31, 2026. That was 36% below the previous 12-month period and 55.6% below the average of the preceding decade. The total is the lowest since INPE introduced the current DETER system in 2015. Including data from its predecessor system, the last time alerts were lower was the 2012/13 deforestation year, when 2,766 sq km were recorded. Accumulated deforestation for Aug 1-Jul 31 in recent years according to INPE’s DETER alert system. Image by Mongabay DETER is designed as a rapid-response system for enforcement agencies. It uses satellite imagery to identify new forest clearing quickly enough for authorities to investigate and intervene. It differs from PRODES, INPE’s higher-resolution annual monitoring system, which provides Brazil’s official deforestation rate. Preliminary PRODES figures for the year ending July 31 are expected in October or November. PRODES data for the year ending July 2025 had already put Amazon forest loss at its lowest level in 11 years. The latest DETER figures indicate that clearing fell further during the following year. If PRODES shows a decline similar to that recorded by DETER, Brazil could register its lowest official Amazon deforestation…This article was originally published on Mongabay
A tiger once put its head beside a passenger in Vinod Rishi’s jeep. Its face, he wrote years later, wore a “quizzical expression.” Then it moved away, leaving the men unharmed. Rishi called it “a King with a big heart.” Decades after the encounter, he could still recall the position of the tiger’s head and the look on its face. Rishi, who died in Dehradun on July 29, held some of the highest positions in Indian wildlife administration. He was the first director of Project Elephant, additional director general of forests for wildlife, and director of the Indira Gandhi National Forest Academy. During 38 years in the Indian Forest Service, he worked in the Sundarbans and Buxa tiger reserves, Jaldapara Wildlife Sanctuary, and the national parks of Singalila and Neora Valley. Born in Jalandhar, Punjab, he trained as an engineer at the Indian Institute of Technology Delhi and graduated in 1968. He joined the forest service the following year. His engineering background clearly influenced the way he approached conservation. He paid close attention to methods, evidence, and whether a plan would work in the field. His early career in West Bengal brought him into contact with tigers, rhinos, elephants, and the administrative problems surrounding each of them. At Darjeeling Zoo, he studied animal biology at close range. The experience later contributed to work on captive breeding for snow leopards and the conservation of red pandas in Singalila. In the Sundarbans, he worked on conflict between people and tigers. When newspapers…This article was originally published on Mongabay
A backcountry ski run can depend on decisions made years before the snow falls. Forest plans determine where motorized vehicles may travel. Congressional appropriations affect whether trails are maintained and land-management agencies can enforce their rules. Public meetings give skiers, snowmobilers, conservationists, and local residents a chance to argue over how mountains should be used. David Page knew this work in detail. He also knew how to describe what it felt like to move through those mountains. Page, the executive director of Winter Wildlands Alliance, died on July 7th in a multi-vehicle crash on Teton Pass in Wyoming. He was 57. Rio, the family dog who often accompanied him outdoors, died in the accident as well. He had come to conservation advocacy through writing. Raised in Denver, he studied history and Spanish literature at Dartmouth, comparative literature at Berkeley, and creative writing at the University of California, Irvine. He wrote for the New York Times, Men’s Journal, Skiing, and other publications, and became a senior correspondent for POWDER. His guide to Yosemite and the southern Sierra Nevada went through three editions. His articles were closely reported and attentive to the people in them. “The Human Factor,” an examination of the decisions that lead experienced skiers into avalanche danger, was a finalist for a National Magazine Award in 2015. It was later used in avalanche courses. Another article described the immigrant workers whose labor sustains many ski towns. He also wrote about major descents, disappearing whitebark pines, solitary skiers, remote slopes,…This article was originally published on Mongabay
In November 2025, Brazilian authorities, supported by Interpol, disabled 277 dredges used for illegal gold mining along the Madeira River. The machinery was valued at about $6.8 million. The operation dealt a substantial blow to one of the Amazon’s busiest mining frontiers, yet its effect was likely temporary. After all, dredges can be replaced, miners can relocate, and financiers can redirect their money. Satellite monitoring reveals how quickly the industry is spreading. A basin-wide monitoring initiative led by Amazon Mining Watch detected more than 37,000 hectares of new mining expansion across the Amazon in 2025. Of that total, more than 14,000 hectares lay within 222 protected areas and Indigenous territories. Since mining is generally restricted in such places, much of this activity was presumed to be illegal. The immediate drivers of illegal gold mining are familiar. Enforcement is thin across vast stretches of forest, and illicit gold passes too easily into lawful commerce. The broader economic incentive comes from a global market in which gold prices have risen sharply and legitimate demand has become unusually strong. Central banks are an important part of that story, though hardly the only one. Over the past four years, they have bought an average of roughly 1,000 metric tons of gold annually, twice the average of the preceding decade. A 2026 World Gold Council survey found that 89 percent of participating reserve managers expected official gold holdings worldwide to rise over the following year. Investors, jewelry buyers and manufacturers also contribute to demand. Central…This article was originally published on Mongabay
At the former Umatilla Chemical Depot in eastern Oregon, the weapons were gone, though their presence had shaped the land. Concrete bunkers stood among sagebrush and dry grass. Pronghorn moved through the open country. Badgers, once common there, had largely disappeared. Their absence mattered to the small owls that lived close to the ground. Burrowing owls do not usually dig their own homes. They occupy tunnels made by mammals, especially badgers and prairie dogs. At Umatilla, the decline of those animals had removed much of the owls’ shelter. By the late 2000s, only a few breeding pairs remained. David H. Johnson, who died on June 15th, aged 69, decided that the shortage of burrows could be addressed. He and his collaborators buried plastic barrels and connected them to the surface with lengths of pipe. The structures were crude substitutes for badger burrows, intended to keep the population breeding while the recovery of its habitat remained a longer-term task. The owls accepted them. Within a year, the number of breeding pairs had risen. Over the following decade, the depot became home to one of the region’s most closely studied burrowing-owl populations. Researchers banded chicks, recorded calls, tested nest designs, and tracked the birds’ movements. By 2024, they were monitoring more than 100 nesting attempts and had banded nearly 500 chicks that season. Johnson had been interested in owls since childhood. At 11, while camping alone, he heard an eastern screech owl calling outside his tent. The bird landed close enough for…This article was originally published on Mongabay
The plane sprayed the soy fields beside the forest. Residents of Khikatxi said the single-engine aircraft appeared several times during each harvest and passed over Wawi Indigenous Territory. They worried about pesticides reaching their water, gardens, animals, and homes. People reported itching and diarrhea. Crops weakened, streams grew cloudy, and some game animals seemed to smell of agricultural chemicals. For years, Khuiusi Khisêtjê watched the farms advance around his people’s land. In 2018 he made a decision. The community would rebuild its village ten kilometers deeper in the forest. Leaving a village is difficult. Houses must be rebuilt, paths cleared, gardens planted, and daily routines restored. The old place contained years of work and memory. Khuiusi Khisêtjê had already lived through several such upheavals. He knew what was lost when people were forced from their land. He also knew when it had become unsafe to remain. The move took the Khisêtjê farther from the expanding agricultural frontier. It was one more decision in a life devoted to the survival of his people. Khuiusi, who died in Goiânia on July 3rd, at about 80, belonged to a generation that saw the Khisêtjê come close to extinction. He was born when his people still lived beyond the settled frontiers of central Brazil. Their villages lay among rivers, forest, and savanna in a region that would later form part of the Xingu Indigenous Territory and the adjoining Wawi Indigenous Territory in Mato Grosso. Contact with outsiders brought disease, violence, and displacement. Epidemics killed…This article was originally published on Mongabay
When Mongabay Latam began publishing in 2016, the decision felt like a logical next step. Mongabay Indonesia, launched four years earlier, had shown that a locally led, local-language newsroom could build an audience for sustained environmental reporting. Spanish offered the chance to apply that approach across a region extending from Mexico through Central America and the Andes to Chile and Argentina. The political and ecological conditions varied widely, but the need was similar: important environmental stories were going unreported, or receiving attention only after a crisis became difficult to ignore. Latin America and the Caribbean are the most biologically diverse region on Earth, holding nearly half of the world’s tropical forests and unusually large shares of its mammals, birds, fish, insects, reptiles, amphibians, and plants. The Spanish-speaking countries in Mongabay Latam’s coverage area include some of the richest parts of the Amazon rainforest, the tropical Andes, Mesoamerica, the Chocó, and the eastern Pacific. These landscapes face growing pressure from mining, agriculture, infrastructure, organized crime, and climate change. Macaws in Peru. Image by Rhett Butler for Mongabay. I was also drawn to the region’s cultural and intellectual range. Latin America has produced many responses to these pressures, including Indigenous territorial governance, community forestry, new legal approaches to nature, and locally designed conservation programs. A regional news service could document environmental damage while also examining how people were responding to it. Mongabay Latam’s staff and contributors built the newsroom that followed. Editors developed the judgment, relationships, and institutional memory needed to…This article was originally published on Mongabay
For much of the year, migratory songbirds were treated as temporary visitors to the tropics. They arrived from the north, spent the winter, and departed again. Ornithologists paid more attention to their journeys and breeding grounds than to the months they passed farther south. The birds were often described as transients, moving through tropical forests without becoming part of them. What they did there, and how firmly they occupied those places, remained poorly understood. Years of catching, banding, and watching them suggested a different account. In the forests of southern Mexico, individual birds returned to familiar patches and defended feeding territories. They were regular members of tropical bird communities for months at a time. A bird that appeared to be a passing visitor might return to the same small area year after year. Its life in the tropics was structured, local, and essential to its survival. Migration could not be explained only as an escape from northern winters. Its origins might instead lie in dispersal from warmer regions, as birds gradually extended their ranges toward seasonal food and breeding opportunities. John Hilton Rappole, who died on June 30th, aged 79, pursued this argument for much of his career. It became known as the dispersal theory of bird migration. The theory challenged a long-standing explanation for why birds crossed continents. His commitment to it reflected his approach to science. He relied on sustained field observation, questioned established assumptions, and was prepared to defend an idea over many years. He was less…This article was originally published on Mongabay
The bear came out of the forest with enough force to kill him. It mauled the hunter badly and cost him an eye. He spent three months in a hospital recovering. There, he began asking himself questions that had not troubled him much before. Why was he hunting? Why was he killing? Hunting had come to him through his family. His father and grandfather were known around Sreemangal, in northeastern Bangladesh, for killing leopards, wild boars, and other animals that threatened people or crops. As a boy, he accompanied his father into the forest. After his father died, he continued hunting. He became a gunsmith and a guide, familiar with animal tracks, forest paths, and the habits of creatures that most people encountered only by accident. Sitesh Ranjon Deb holds a pair of jungle cats in his house in Sreemangol, Bangladesh. Image via Agence France-Presse (AFP) After the bear attack, Sitesh Ranjan Deb, who died on July 14th, gave up hunting. He began capturing injured animals, removing snakes from houses, treating wildlife recovered from traffickers, and returning animals to the forest. The grounds of his home became a treatment center. It eventually developed into the Bangladesh Wildlife Service Foundation, one of the country’s best-known privately established wildlife-rescue institutions. The center remained closely tied to his household. Its patients occupied bedrooms, courtyards, cages, and improvised treatment spaces. Jungle-cat cubs, pythons, slow lorises, monkeys, birds, and other animals passed through. Those requiring constant attention stayed close to the family. Deb kept photographs…This article was originally published on Mongabay
His nephew recalled that the children were taught to chant, “Hyenas are beautiful!” as often as possible. On visits to Kruger National Park, he got them out of bed at midnight to look for bushbabies and again at five in the morning to search for big cats. Wildlife was often most active at inconvenient hours, and he expected anyone accompanying him to adjust. Michael “Gus” Mills, who died on July 13th, spent more than 40 years studying Africa’s large carnivores, especially hyenas, wild dogs, and cheetahs. He published more than 150 scientific papers, chapters, and reports, advised conservation bodies, and trained younger researchers. Much of his working life was spent in a vehicle on a sandy track, waiting beside an animal that might sleep for most of the day. Gus and Margie Mills. Sourced via the Endangered Wildlife Trust At school he had seemed an unlikely future scientist. He described himself as a “very bad student,” failed South Africa’s high-school leaving examination, and was told that science was beyond him. After passing the examination on a second attempt, he joked that he had earned an MA: “Matric Again.” Three years of psychology persuaded him that he did not want to be a psychologist. Zoology held his attention. A visit to Kruger in 1954, when he was eight, had already pointed him toward field biology. “It did something to me,” he said. From then on he wanted to work in the bush. After studying at the University of Cape Town and…This article was originally published on Mongabay
By some accounts, in the Philippine reefs of the 1970s, large groupers appeared every 50 feet or so. Some seemed as large as Volkswagen Beetles. Around them were snappers, fusiliers, wrasses, turtles, and corals, along with fish whose identities were still uncertain. A young biologist could spend his days diving and still feel he had only begun to understand what was there. Kent E. Carpenter arrived in the Philippines at 22, soon after graduating from the Florida Institute of Technology. The Peace Corps assigned him to the Philippine Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources and put him in charge of coral-reef research. He later called it “the best job there ever was or ever will be in the Peace Corps.” It gave him access to reefs across the archipelago and set the direction of his career. Carpenter was shot dead at his home in Sibulan, Negros Oriental, on July 12th. He was 73. According to police, three men entered the house late at night. A special task group was formed to investigate, and no motive had been established when his death was announced. Kent Carpenter. Image via Old Dominion University Pollution and destructive fishing were already damaging Philippine reefs during his early years there. The large predators he had seen so often became harder to find. He spent much of the next half-century recording marine life in increasing detail: which species lived where, how they were related, how populations changed, and what made them vulnerable. After completing a doctorate in…This article was originally published on Mongabay
A field station is usually a working place. It may have bunkrooms, trails, a generator, stored specimens, weathered notebooks, drying boots, a small lab, and staff who know when the road floods, where to find a mobile network signal, or which hillside burned five years ago. Its value is easy to miss because it is often measured through other things: papers, students, monitoring plots, visiting researchers, restored forest, fewer snares, or a longer record of what changed. A new BioScience paper argues that these stations deserve a larger role in conservation policy, especially in the tropics. The authors describe tropical field stations as institutions that can help turn global environmental commitments into local work. Governments have promised to protect more land and sea, restore degraded ecosystems, slow extinctions, and make conservation more equitable. These goals require information, trust, capacity, and persistence. Field stations can supply much of that infrastructure. Cabang Panti research station in Gunung Palung, Indonesia. Photo by Rhett Ayers Butler The argument is strongest in places where conservation decisions affect both biodiversity and livelihoods. A station in a forest, savanna, wetland, or coastal ecosystem is more than a base for visiting scientists. It can support long-term monitoring, train local researchers, employ people from nearby communities, and keep conservation connected to park staff, farmers, fishers, Indigenous groups, and officials. More data, harder answers That gap is important because conservation has become data-rich and answer-poor. Satellites can detect tree-cover loss within days. Acoustic sensors can record birds, frogs, insects,…This article was originally published on Mongabay
The Amazon is often described in terms of how much carbon it stores. It also moves vast amounts of water. Its trees draw moisture from the soil and return it to the air through transpiration. Some rain caught by the canopy also evaporates back into the atmosphere. That moisture falls again, some of it inside the basin and some of it far downwind. For much of South America, the forest helps sustain rainfall, farming, hydropower, and urban water supplies. A recent paper in Nature, by Nico Wunderling and colleagues, gives this hydrological role greater weight in the climate case for the Amazon. The authors used a dynamical systems model and atmospheric moisture tracking to estimate how deforestation and warming interact across the basin. Without deforestation, their model finds a critical global warming threshold of about 3.7 to 4.0 degrees Celsius, beyond which up to a third of the Amazon forest risks losing stability. When deforestation is included, the risk becomes much larger at a lower level of warming. Under deforestation of 22% to 28% of the biome and warming of 1.5 to 1.9 degrees Celsius, the model finds a near system-wide transition affecting 62% to 77% of the forest. Rain over the Amazon. Photo by Rhett Ayers Butler Those numbers should be treated carefully. The Amazon is not a single ecological unit. Western forests, southern forests, flooded forests, upland forests, secondary forests, and fire-damaged edges differ in species composition, rainfall, soils, and drought tolerance. A model cannot capture every…This article was originally published on Mongabay
At night on Mansouri beach, the first evidence was often a track in the sand. The beach lies south of Tyre, near the border with Israel, where checkpoints, shelling, and evacuation orders have long shaped daily life. It is also one of Lebanon’s important nesting grounds for loggerhead and green sea turtles. The turtles come ashore after dark. They dig, lay, cover, and return to the water. For the hatchlings, the distance from nest to sea is only a few yards. It is still dangerous. Dogs and foxes dig up eggs. Crabs and birds take the young. Lights from roads and resorts pull them away from the water. Plastic drifts offshore. Fishing nets catch adults that have survived for decades. Even a footprint can trap a turtle no bigger than a child’s palm. Mona Khalil gave much of her life to that narrow strip of beach. She was 76 when she died on June 19 from wounds sustained after an Israeli airstrike struck her home at Mansouri beach earlier that month. Her assistant was also injured, suffering severe burns. The house, known to visitors and volunteers as the Orange House, had been the base of her conservation work for more than 25 years. Mona Khalil in 2004 in Lebanon. Photo by Joseph Barrak/AFP/Getty Images She had not set out to become a conservationist. Born in Lagos to Lebanese parents, she later left Lebanon during the civil war. In the Netherlands she worked as a porcelain restorer, a trade that required…This article was originally published on Mongabay
Suriname is being presented with a familiar proposition: foreign agribusiness, whether Brazilian, Mennonite, or otherwise, will modernize agriculture, create jobs, and bring prosperity. It is an appealing narrative. It is also one that has played out throughout tropical America, from Mexico to Mato Grosso. The result has rarely been shared prosperity. Instead, it has often meant felled forest, poisoned water, long-term loss of control over land and resources, and local populations watching the wealth pass through on its way to somewhere else. Suriname should pause before replicating this model. The employment benefits are often wildly overstated. Industrial soy and cattle production are highly mechanized systems designed to minimize labor, often conducted by a skeleton crew running combines and GPS-guided sprayers. A few operators can manage thousands of hectares. The jobs that are created tend to be temporary, low-paid, and sometimes filled by external labor rather than local hires because this business model is predicated on keeping labor costs as close to zero as the machinery allows. In contrast, existing sectors—smallholder agriculture, fisheries, and forest-based livelihoods—support far more people and are deeply embedded in local economies. The environmental risks are even more significant. Large-scale monoculture depends on heavy use of agrochemicals like glyphosate and phosphorus fertilizer, applied in huge quantities. These inevitably enter river systems, including those that provide drinking water and food for a large part of Suriname’s population. Fish — the primary protein source for many communities — are directly affected. A brutal imbalance is created: beef and soy…This article was originally published on Mongabay
Montañita is a place many people intend to pass through. They come for surf, sun, music, and a stretch of Ecuador’s coast known for surf, music, and its free-spirited nature. Some stay longer. They open small businesses, learn the workings of the communes, put children into local schools, and begin to notice what visitors often do not see: the sewage that is not properly treated, the public works that arrive without answers, the land whose ownership becomes uncertain, and the turtles whose nesting beaches are treated as available ground. For a woman from northern Poland, the change of country became something beyond expatriate life. Ecuador was where she made a home, ran a hostel, raised two daughters, and became part of Santa Elena’s disputes and loyalties. Monika Silva Koniuszek, who was found dead on June 8th at her home in Montañita, was 41. The circumstances of her death remain under investigation. In the weeks before she died, she had spoken publicly of warnings that there was a plan to kill her. She had alerted authorities and sought protection. After her death, Polish diplomats, the European Union, human-rights groups, and the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights called for a thorough and independent inquiry. Her public work began with local problems. Montañita’s inadequate sewage system troubled her. So did the way decisions about beaches, mangroves, public land, and services seemed to benefit the same networks of power. She came to see poverty, malnutrition, poor infrastructure, and environmental damage as linked by…This article was originally published on Mongabay
Williams electric blue day gecko is a small Tanzanian reptile whose recovery shows what focused conservation can do, reports Mongabay contributor, Manuel Fonseca. Once heavily collected for Europe’s pet trade, the species is now rebounding because pressure from trade has eased, captive breeding has reduced demand for wild animals, and local people are helping restore the forest it needs. The gecko (Lygodactylus williamsi) lives in only two small forest reserves in central Tanzania, Kimboza and Ruvu, and depends almost entirely on screwpines for shelter, food, basking and breeding. That dependence made it vulnerable. Collectors cut down screwpines to reach the geckos, and by 2009, researchers estimated that tens of thousands had been taken from the wild. The species was later listed as critically endangered, and international commercial trade was banned under CITES, the global wildlife trade convention, in 2017. The work on the ground has mattered just as much. In Kimboza, forest ecologist Charles Kilawe and people from surrounding villages have worked with rangers to remove invasive Spanish cedar, which had spread through the reserve and displaced native habitat. Since 2016, they have cut down nearly 100,000 cedar trees, reduced forest fires by around 80%, and planted about 5,000 native trees a year. Those efforts are helping the gecko’s population return toward earlier levels. They are also improving habitat for other wildlife, including blue monkeys (Cercopithecus mitis), white-chested alethes (Chamaetylas fuelleborni) and trumpeter hornbills (Bycanistes bucinator). For species with tiny ranges, conservation can be very specific work: Keep trade pressure…This article was originally published on Mongabay
In the American South of the late 1950s, segregation was part of the daily architecture. Airports had separate facilities. Restaurants barred Black customers or served them apart. Schools, buses, waiting rooms, and lunch counters carried the same instructions. The system depended on law, custom, and the expectation that most white people would accommodate it. Resistance often began with small acts that carried real costs. A professor might drive arrested students back to campus. A family might refuse to send its children to segregated schools. A group of faculty members might walk toward a restaurant door together and be met in the parking lot by men who intended to stop them. The work required patience, and it also required a willingness to be arrested, disliked, and misunderstood. Peter Klopfer, who died on June 5 at 95, spent nearly seven decades at Duke University as a zoologist, teacher, and builder of institutions. He helped develop behavioral ecology, studied mother-offspring bonding, and co-founded the Duke Lemur Center, which became the world’s largest collection of lemurs outside Madagascar. He was also the named plaintiff in a Supreme Court case that extended the Sixth Amendment right to a speedy trial to state courts. The civil-rights defendant and the lemur scientist were the same man, formed by the same habits of attention and conscience. He was born in Berlin in 1930 and raised in a German immigrant family in the United States. He attended Friends schools and later studied at UCLA and Yale. At UCLA he…This article was originally published on Mongabay
On the far north coast of New South Wales, the old rainforest had mostly disappeared. The Big Scrub once covered about 75,000 hectares of rich basalt country, a lowland subtropical forest of figs, vines, palms and fruit doves. By the time modern conservationists took stock of it, little more than one percent remained, divided among small patches on farms, roadsides and reserves. Weeds pressed in from the edges. Cattle and clearing had done the rest. What remained needed legal protection, science, money, landholders, seedlings and years of follow-through. It also needed someone who could make committees matter. Rainforest restoration can sound gentle, a matter of saplings and goodwill. In the Big Scrub it required persistence of a less decorative kind. Private landholders had to be brought in. Government agencies had to be pressed. Botanists, bush regenerators, nursery owners, donors and volunteers had to keep working together after the first enthusiasm had passed. The work was local, technical and repetitive. It suited Tony Parkes. Tony Parkes. Photo by Kim Honan / ABC North Coast He came to it late. Born in Hobart, he grew up close to bush and estuary. Later came science, business management and investment banking. He retired at 56 after a successful career in Sydney, and might have chosen a comfortable retirement. Instead he and his wife Rowena bought land in the Northern Rivers, learned the history of the Big Scrub and began planting rainforest on their own property. A private restoration project became a second public life.…This article was originally published on Mongabay
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