A drunken forest in Siberia caused by melting permafrost NASA/Wikimedia Commons
Quote; "GOOSE LAKE, Northwest Territories—In a fragile landscape where
footsteps leave an imprint for years, Jennifer Baltzer stood and
surveyed the surrounding bog of green sphagnum moss. Black spruce trees
tilted here and there like drunkards.
Using a metal rod, Baltzer, an ecologist with Wilfrid Laurier University in Waterloo, Ontario, pierced the ground near a spruce.
“You are jamming into ice there,” she said. Without that freeze, the
unstable spruce trees would entirely lose their footing and drown.
Goose Lake is at the knife’s edge of climate change. Half a century
ago, this region, which is 250 miles from the Arctic Circle, used to
contain mostly permafrost, or perennially frozen ground. Today, the
ground has partially thawed and the region is predominantly wetland.
The rapid changes have been catalyzed by climate change, which has
warmed these environs by 4 degrees Fahrenheit in the past half-century.
Scientists worry that, as permafrost thaws, a portion of the carbon
stored in the northernmost ecosystems will be released to the atmosphere
and trigger runaway global warming. The biggest threat at present is
posed not by the frozen tundras of the Arctic, but by the soils of the
boreal—the southern reaches of the deep freeze in Canada, Alaska and
other parts of the world—like at Goose Lake, where the permafrost is
thin and sporadic, the soil temperature close to melting point, and the
land already disturbed by oil and gas exploration.
Baltzer and her fellow scientists are based at a nearby research camp
named Scotty Creek, where they are studying how permafrost melt is
reverberating through the landscape. They begin each March, snowmobiling
like lynxes over blankets of snow. As the sun gets stronger and the ice
melts, lakes become transport routes for canoeing graduate students. By
September, snow blankets the ground again and the scientists pull up
their tents, dismantle their makeshift bench press (two 40-pound
sandbags hung on a log) and head home for the year.
Scotty Creek is the only research station located in the western
boreal taiga of Canada. It is part of FORESTGeo, a global effort
spearheaded by the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute to understand
how global warming is altering the planet’s forests. It is one of the
few groundtruthing stations for NASA’s ABoVE (Arctic Boreal
Vulnerability Experiment) initiative, meant to help understand how a
warming sub-Arctic will respond to climate change in the next century.
Climate models say that if humans continue emitting at present-day
rates, between 37 and 174 gigatons of carbon could be lost from
permafrost by 2100, according to a
study published in April in
Nature. Most of the release would be in the form of CO
2 and methane. President Obama highlighted the risk at a conference in Alaska this August.
“If we do nothing, temperatures in Alaska are projected to rise
between 6 and 12 degrees by the end of the century, triggering more
melting, more fires, more thawing of the permafrost, a negative feedback
loop, a cycle—warming leading to more warming—that we do not want to be
a part of,” he said.
Plunging into a warming unknown
At Scotty Creek, Baltzer, 37, chatted with her fellow scientists in the
weather haven, a semi-permanent shelter that doubles as a kitchen and
meeting hall. In 2014, a fire had ravaged the forest across Goose Lake,
turning all aboveground vegetation to charcoal. Baltzer had installed
experimental stations at the burn site to track the forest’s recovery.
Bill Quinton, a hydrologist at Wilfrid Laurier, mentioned that his
experiments at the burn site might overlap with Baltzer’s. Baltzer asked
him to eliminate the overlap, and he agreed.
Baltzer is consumed by her research in the boreal and the Arctic.
This summer, she spent six weeks on field trips studying how the
Northwest Territories’ 2014 fire season, the worst on record, had
affected the boreal ecosystem. She is running three research projects
and is coordinating with the Smithsonian and NASA on two of them. The
punishing schedule keeps her away from her two young daughters.
When Baltzer speaks about her research, her words seem to be directly lifted from a grant proposal.
“[The boreal] is such a large biome on the planet and, as a
consequence, changes in that system have direct impacts on the global
climate,” she said one evening, sitting on a dock jutting out into Goose
Lake. Flies flitted around, and a loon laughed in the background.
“I’m not doing a very good job explaining this,” she said suddenly, with a sigh.
The boreal covers 5.3 million square miles in Europe, Asia and North
America, and is an ancient carbon sink. About 20,000 years ago, ice
sheets that had covered all of Canada rolled back into the Arctic.
Coniferous forests rapidly expanded northward, their roots firmly
planted on permafrost.
As the planet entered the summer-like Holocene Epoch 11,500 years
ago, some of the southern reaches of the permafrost thawed and forests
there turned to bogs and fens, which are known in Canada as muskeg. In
that sense, the boreal has always been a shifting landscape.
Quinton, 50, arrived at Goose Lake with a colleague in 1999, on a
helicopter. The region is at the delta of the Mackenzie River, where
members of the Jean Marie River First Nation tribe traditionally hunt
moose and caribou. From the air, the land appears as muskeg and ever
more muskeg, separated by stands of conifers.
Fens are peculiar surfaces. They consist of blankets of sedges and
sphagnum with mostly open water beneath. The helicopter pilot was a
novice. He hovered 10 feet above the ground and shouted to the
scientists, “OK, throw your stuff out! Now!”
Quinton looked at his colleague, who stared back. They threw out
their backpacks, which landed on the fen with a splash and quickly sank
in. The scientists jumped out and sank waist-deep. “Oh, my God! This is
awful,” Quinton shouted.
He spotted conifers that seemed to be on stable ground. This is due
to a quirk of permafrost. The freeze lifts soil out of the wetland to
form plateaus that are dry enough for trees to grow on. Without
permafrost plateaus, tree roots would drown.
“If the trees can stand, I can stand,” he thought. The scientists
walked to the plateau and established their research station, named
after a Scottish hermit who lived and died around here.
In addition to rooting trees, the permafrost serves as a reservoir of carbon. One
study estimates
that there is roughly 1,095 gigatons stored in the boreal, about 95
percent of it contained in the soil. An unquantified fraction of that
occurs in frozen, peat-rich soils similar to Scotty Creek. Overall, the
boreal is one of the largest carbon sinks in the world.
Scientists are concerned that permafrost will thaw and the deep carbon
reserves consisting of the remnants of partially decayed, ancient
vegetation will dry out and decompose, releasing carbon to the
atmosphere. But they have struggled to accurately model the scale of the
problem, with certainty so low that the information is useless to
policymakers.
Climate modelers, who use computers to mathematically represent the
Earth and project its future, do not use these values in their
simulations. Their models at present find that nations can emit 485
gigatons more of CO
2 before the world approaches the
threshold of dangerous climate change. But without the permafrost
releases, this carbon budget may be an overestimate.
April brings the onset of spring thaw to Goose Lake, and the start of
the growing season, which has advanced by a day and a half every decade
since the 1980s. Temperatures have warmed by 4 degrees Fahrenheit since
1970. Wintertime temperatures have increased by 7.3 F.
The warming has triggered a chain reaction in this frozen, peat-rich
landscape, which also occurs in circumpolar Asia and Europe. Permafrost,
which typically occurs 1.6 feet below ground here, has plunged to 10
feet at places and disappeared entirely elsewhere. Permafrost plateaus
have collapsed and formed bogs.
Since 1947, 30 percent of land at Goose Lake has switched from boreal
forest to wetland. The rate of forest loss in the early 21st century
was three times as high as in the previous decades, Baltzer said. She
has done a census of every tree at a nearby 50-acre plot to see if there
are any changes in species composition over time. She is also tracking
changes in soil carbon and the rate of photosynthesis. She will redo the
measurements in five years’ time to track any changes.
“The landscape is reorganizing due to permafrost thaw,” Quinton said.
But thaw does not automatically translate to a net loss of carbon at
Scotty Creek. Oliver Sonnentag, 41, an atmospheric scientist and wannabe
float plane pilot, keeps a close eye on the CO
2 and methane
entering and exiting the site from a monitoring station on top of a
$90,000, 165-foot-tall tower. This August, he dispatched his field
technician, Karoline Wischnewski, to clean the sensors. A large spider
appeared above her on the harness rope, and Wischnewski eyed it. She is
usually unfazed by the challenges of living in the north, an attitude
reflected in a wooden plaque she has hung at the weather haven that
reads, “Life isn’t living with the ponies.”
“I don’t like spiders,” she shouted down to Sonnentag, and then
calmly polished the sensors. The measurements here follow the protocols
established through FLUXNET, a global network of 500 sites tracking
local changes in the CO
2, water and energy balance in order
to construct a detailed picture of Earth system changes. Sonnentag said
this tower was particularly difficult to install, since it is founded in
permafrost that is susceptible to degradation. Over three years, the
ground has subsided by 20 centimeters.
“If the permafrost [completely] thaws out, then this thing has no
foundation, it is gone,” he said, standing at the base of the tower.
Sonnentag is also tracking the amount of carbon carried in channels
of water, as bogs drain into the Mackenzie River, which joins the Arctic
Ocean. Sonnentag thinks that, overall, the landscape changes at Scotty
Creek have released as much carbon as its plants are taking up for
photosynthesis. The sphagnum moss, particularly, is thriving.
Fires help a CO2 sink to become a source
“Overall, these preliminary results suggest that there is more methane coming out, but at the same time, more CO
2 is taken up,” he said. Once the bogs drain out and dry in the future, they may become sources of CO
2.
The complexity of the carbon balance at Scotty Creek illustrates why
it is difficult to predict whether the boreal sink will become a source
of carbon as the planet warms. There are two large, opposing trends that
will determine its fate, said Steven Wofsy, an environmental scientist
at Harvard University, in an interview last October.
The northern edge of the boreal is expanding into the treeless tundra
in places, responding to a longer growing season and warmer
temperatures. And at intermediate locations, like Goose Lake, bogs are
ramping up CO
2 uptake.
But at the southern edge of the boreal, farther south than Scotty
Creek, where temperature changes are outpacing precipitation, trees are
dying. Throughout the circumpolar boreal, wildfires, which are a quick
way to turn trapped soil carbon into CO
2, have become more frequent and are burning larger areas.
“A big concern about what is happening is that you’ve got drier
conditions that promotes more frequent big fire years and more severe
fires,” Baltzer said.
Scientists witnessed this threat at Scotty Creek in June 2014, when
lightning set off a fire on a permafrost plateau during a record drought
and fire season. The province dispatched tankers to fight the blaze,
and when it was done, the ground was scorched. The scientists set up
experiments to see whether the blackened ground would speed thawing.
Quinton is studying the flow of water in the ecosystem, and Baltzer is
looking at how vegetation recovers after a wildfire at this site and 30
others across the Northwest Territories.
The scientists and graduate students, who sometimes spend months with
each other at this remote camp without modern distractions, incessantly
tease each other.
This August, at the burn site, blackened twigs and sticks poked out
of the black ground. Flecks of green suggested plants were finding a
roothold. At the edge of the burn site, the permafrost plateau had
collapsed into bog. The bright orange of fire retardant was hardly
visible.
So far, the scientists have found that the permafrost layer has
dropped almost 8 inches within months, Quinton said. The buzz of a drone
filled the air, and the machine came into view, high over the canopy,
maneuvered by a graduate student photographing landscape changes.
“It is Baltzer, her eye in the sky,” Quinton said. “I’m afraid
there’s going to be a loudspeaker on it, ‘Quinton, back to the camp!’”
Tomorrow: When the warming tundra burns.
Reprinted from Climatewire with permission from Environment & Energy Publishing, LLC. www.eenews.net, 202-628-6500" Go to:
http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/permafrost-meltdown-raises-risk-of-runaway-global-warming/
