Spying on Whales: The Past, Present, and Future of Earth's Most Awesome Creatures

by Nick Pyenson Narrated by Nick Pyenson

Overview

“A palaeontological howdunnit...[Spying on Whales] captures the excitement of...seeking answers to deep questions in cetacean science.” -Nature
*
Called “the best of science writing” (Edward O. Wilson) and named a best book by Popular Science, a dive into the secret lives of whales, from their four-legged past to their perilous present.


Whales are among the largest, most intelligent, deepest diving species to have ever lived on our planet. They evolved from land-roaming, dog-sized creatures into animals that move like fish, breathe like us, can grow to 300,000 pounds, live 200 years and travel entire ocean basins. Whales fill us with terror, awe, and affection--yet there is still so much we don't know about them. Why did it take whales over 50 million years to evolve to such big sizes, and how do they eat enough to stay that big? How did their ancestors return from land to the sea--and what can their lives tell us about evolution as a whole? Importantly, in the sweepstakes of human-driven habitat and climate change, will whales survive?

Nick Pyenson's research has given us the answers to some of our biggest questions about whales. He takes us deep inside the Smithsonian's unparalleled fossil collections, to frigid Antarctic waters, and to the arid desert in Chile, where scientists race against time to document the largest fossil whale site ever found. Full of rich storytelling and scientific discovery, Spying on Whales spans the ancient past to an uncertain future--all to better understand the most enigmatic creatures on Earth.

Editorial Reviews

AUGUST 2018 - AudioFile

Nick Pyenson, the Smithsonian's curator of fossil marine mammals, is fascinated by whales—not only the massive ones living in our oceans but also the smaller prehistoric land whales that once lived in what is now India. Pyenson's narration often bubbles with excitement. When he takes listeners on a tour of a whale bone vault, he finds delight in the waxy oil smell. His voice has a softer thoughtful side when he tells of modern chemicals' toxic effects on whale blubber. Pyenson's thrill at expeditions comes through, but he's educating listeners as well. He outlines the history of whales and explains their ecology and the matriarchal structure of their communities. Pyenson succeeds at his mission to bring listeners into the process of discovery. J.A.S. © AudioFile 2018, Portland, Maine

Publishers Weekly

04/02/2018
Smithsonian paleontologist Pyenson winningly combines science and travel writing to create what he describes as “a kind of travelogue to chasing whales, both living and extinct.” Writing in a contagiously enthusiastic style, Pyenson brings the reader along on an exploration of the evolution of whales, from their prehistoric origins as land-roaming organisms to the at-risk aquatic species of today. He travels to, among other spots around the globe, an ancient whale graveyard on the coast of Chile to investigate fossilized skeletons and an Icelandic whaling station to better understand whale anatomy. Whether describing the technological advances that allow lasers to create 3-D replicas of whale skeletons, or old-fashioned fossil hunting with his son, Pyenson communicates a love of natural history and scientific discovery. Not shying away from charged topics, such as climate change and the human impact on dwindling whale populations, he covers these issues in an evenhanded fashion that avoids polemic. At one point, Pyenson writes, “The best stories of scientific discovery are, at their heart, stories about people.” Using this philosophy, he has delivered a fascinating and entertaining look at whales and the scientists who study them. Agent: Bridget Matzie, Aevitas. (June)

From the Publisher

 Praise for Spying on Whales:

“[Pyenson] draws out one of the most fascinating stories in the history of life.” —The New Yorker

“A palaeontological howdunnit embedded in a travelogue devoted to chasing living and extinct whales…[Spying on Whales] captures the excitement of suction-cup tagging of humpback whales, and of digs in Panama, seeking answers to deep questions in cetacean science.” —Nature

“Spying on Whales represents the best of science writing. The subject is inherently fascinating, the author is an authentic scientist by virtue of his personal research on the subject, and the text reads like the epic it truly is.” —Edward O. Wilson, Pulitzer Prize-winner and New York Times bestselling author of The Origin of Creativity and The Meaning of Human Existence

"This is a fantastic book. Nick Pyenson writes with a rare combination of passion, scientific insight, and knowledge of Deep Time. I couldn't put it down." –Sy Montgomery, author of The Soul of an Octopus


"Reading Spying on Whales leaves a strong impression, based on the principles of ecology, evolution, and physiology, that a world including whales seems awesomely improbable.  And, of course, wonderful.  Nick Pyenson guides us through this world, and in the process achieves that rare state of grace for a writer of science—producing prose that is both scientific and beautiful.  This is a moving, informative, evocative book." —Robert Sapolsky, author of Behave

"Spying on Whales is a delight on many levels. It's an introduction to the science of whales, but it's also the odyssey of a scientist—and whether he's tracing the fossil history of whales or describing the dissection of a giant whale heart, Pyenson tells his story with warmth and wit." —Carl Zimmer, author of She Has Her Mother's Laugh

"Knowing whales means following them when they dive out of sight, tracing their evolution through desert fossils, and reading great writers as well as the unpublished journals of dozens of scientists who, little by little, chipped away at vast mysteries. If that doesn’t seem easy, it could explain why only one person has done it all. You’re holding his fantastic book in your hands. " —Carl Safina, author of Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel

"Nick Pyenson's Spying on Whales is both a lucid deep-dive into the natural history of these animals and, more subtly, an artful portrait of our own species' enchantment with them. It's an enthralling book about everything we know and our compulsion to know it. "—Jon Mooallem, author of Wild Ones and American Hippopotamus

"With captivating prose, Nick Pyenson takes us on a scientific tale as big as a blue whale. Give your inner paleontologist a treat and learn what it’s like to study the largest animals the world has ever seen." —Jonathan Losos, author of Improbable Destinies

"There are very few creatures that so fully capture our imagination as do whales — and Pyenson proves why they continue to pique scientific and popular curiosity.  Part science, part memoir, and all about whales, Pyenson’s fantastic book is a must-read for any science and nature enthusiast." —Lydia Pyne, author of Seven Skeletons

"For the first time anywhere, Nick Pyenson skillfully pieces together the multi-faceted cetacean story—from humble origins among four-legged river-dwellers, to the staggering global diversity of modern whales, and into an uncertain future. Spying on Whales is an engaging tour-de-force that propels you along this journey. " —Scott D. Sampson, author of How to Raise a Wild Child and host, PBS Kids Dinosaur Train
 
“A wondrous read … Pyenson’s enthusiasm is contagious." —Bookpage

"Contagiously enthusiastic…. A fascinating and entertaining look at whales and the scientists who study them." —Publishers Weekly

“A hard-to-put-down quest to understand whales and their place on Earth.” —Booklist (starred)

"Pyenson sheds light on the mystery of life below the seas without dimming its majesty.” —Library Journal (starred)

School Library Journal

★ 09/01/2018
Pyenson, the Smithsonian's curator of fossil marine mammals, offers a captivating, accessible glimpse of the complicated, fascinating world of whales, moving from Deep Time (50 million years ago) to the present and the future. What is a whale? To answer that question, the author says, it's crucial to understand these creatures' long evolution as they moved from the sea to land and back to the sea, what they are today, and how they may change in the future as they interact with humans and a changing biome. This is no dry recitation; Pyenson treats facts the way he does life—as an adventure. Details such as blue whales having more than 300 million miles of blood vessels are woven into tales of his own and historical, exciting, sometimes dangerous expeditions in search of whales and whale fossils. VERDICT A fast, fun, and informative read that is ideal for research and pleasure alike.—Gretchen Crowley, formerly at Alexandria City Public Libraries, VA

AUGUST 2018 - AudioFile

Nick Pyenson, the Smithsonian's curator of fossil marine mammals, is fascinated by whales—not only the massive ones living in our oceans but also the smaller prehistoric land whales that once lived in what is now India. Pyenson's narration often bubbles with excitement. When he takes listeners on a tour of a whale bone vault, he finds delight in the waxy oil smell. His voice has a softer thoughtful side when he tells of modern chemicals' toxic effects on whale blubber. Pyenson's thrill at expeditions comes through, but he's educating listeners as well. He outlines the history of whales and explains their ecology and the matriarchal structure of their communities. Pyenson succeeds at his mission to bring listeners into the process of discovery. J.A.S. © AudioFile 2018, Portland, Maine

Kirkus Reviews

2018-04-03
A paleontologist and self-styled whale chaser weaves his own adventures into a rich account of the largest creatures on our planet.Pyenson, the curator of fossil marine mammals at the Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of Natural History and prolific author of scientific articles in newspapers and popular magazines, is both enthusiastic and highly knowledgeable about whales. His research has taken him around the globe, from the Atacama Desert in Chile to examine newly discovered whale skeletons to a whaling station in a fjord in Iceland, where whalers carve up freshly caught whales. He has looked for answers to his questions about their evolution, biology, and behavior in the Arctic and Antarctic, Panama, and North Carolina's Outer Banks. He vividly shows how scientists work and the significant physical demands required to extract fossils from sand and rocks and dissect blubber and flesh from bones. Pyenson divides his account into three parts: the past, the present, and the future. He asks questions about how whales evolved from four-legged land animals, how they grew so big, how and what they eat, how they live today, and what the age of the Anthropocene holds for them. Although the book is packed with information, the author is quick to remind readers that, even among scientists, much about whales remains unknown. Many fossils that would reveal their evolution have not been found, and their behavior is often hidden in the deep ocean world. One particularly intriguing question arises: What can humans learn about surviving in a changing world from these creatures who for millennia have survived on a planet where oceans rose and fell and land masses shifted?What keeps readers going in this occasionally challenging work are Pyenson's clear love of his subject, his thrill at making a scientific discovery, and his depiction of the world of scientists at work.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940172024023
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	06/26/2018
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

1.
How to Know a Whale
I sat transfixed by a sea littered with a million fragments of ice, all rising and falling in time with the slow roll of the waves. We had spent the morning looking for humpback whales in Wilhelmina Bay, threading our rubber boat between gargantuan icebergs that were tall and sharp, like overturned cathedrals. Now we stopped, cut the engine, and listened in the utter stillness for the lush, sonorous breath of an eighty-thousand-pound whale coming to the water's surface. That sound would be our cue to close in. We had come to the end of the Earth to place a removable tag on the back of one of these massive, oceangoing mammals, but we took nothing for granted in Antarctica. As we sat waiting on the small open boat, I came to feel more and more vulnerable, a speck floating in a sea of shattered ice. "Don't fall in," my longtime collaborator and friend Ari Friedlaender deadpanned.
I struggled to remember how long we had been away from the Ortelius, our much larger oceanic vessel with its ice-hardened steel hull. In every direction, we were enclosed by a landscape of nunataks, jagged spires of rock that pierced the creamy tops of surrounding glaciers. Where the glaciers met the sea, they ended in sheer, icy cliffs towering over the bay. Without a human structure for scale, these landforms seemed both near and far at the same time. This otherworldly scene of ice, water, rock, and light warped my sight lines, bending my sense of distance and the passage of time.
If you hold your fist with your left thumb out, your thumb is the western Antarctic Peninsula; your fist, the Antarctic continent's outline. The Gerlache Strait is part of a long stretch of inner passageway along the outer side of Antarctica's left thumb, and Wilhelmina Bay cuts a rough cul-de-sac off the Gerlache. The Gerlache is a hot spot for whales, seals, penguins, and other seabirds, and Wilhelmina Bay is the bull's-eye. All come here to hunt for krill, small crustaceans that form the centerpiece of Antarctic ocean food webs. Consider your hand again: individual krill are about the length of your thumb, but whales pursue them because they explode into great aggregations, or swarms, during the Antarctic summer. With the right mixture of sunlight and nutrient-rich water, dense clouds of krill form a sort of superorganism that can stretch for miles and concentrate in hundreds of individuals per cubic foot. By some measures, there is more biomass of krill than of any other animal on the planet. Calorie-rich swarms of them lurked somewhere, not far, just under our boat.
Where there are krill in sufficient quantities, there will be whales, but the fundamental problem with studying whales is that we almost never see them, except when they come to the surface to breathe or when we dive, in our own limited fashion, in search of them. Whales are inherently enigmatic creatures because the parameters of their lives defy many of our tools to measure them: they travel over spans of whole oceans, dive to depths where light does not reach, and live for human lifetimes-and even longer.
In Wilhelmina Bay our goal was to attach a sleek plastic tag to the back of a whale to record audio, video, depth, changes in the whale's speed, and even pitch, yaw, and roll. Our tags would provide crucial context for how humpbacks interact with their environment by relaying, in a time-stamped way, how they feed on krill. Ari and his colleagues have tagged and tracked whales along the Antarctic Peninsula for nearly two decades, charting their movements against the backdrop of changes in krill-patch density, water temperature, daylight, and other variables. As climate change warms the poles faster than the rest of the planet, every year counts.
I sat on the gunnel of the boat while Ari scanned from the bow. We were several days into a multiweek expedition with high hopes to tag as many humpbacks as possible-ideally, a pod feeding together-but thus far we had been skunked. Ari stood rigid like a figurehead, holding a twenty-foot-long carbon-fiber pole in folded arms. The pole flexed in synchrony with the swell, the teardrop-shaped tag bobbing at one end. I watched clouds shift slowly overhead, mirroring the dappled quicksilver of the water, and wondered whether any other place on Earth could feel as alien as Antarctica. Then a loud gurgle interrupted my daydreaming, followed by a trumpeting blast of water vapor bursting from flaring, paired nostrils. A whale's blow.
We knew to expect more plumes of water immediately thereafter. A pod of whales synchronize when they surface to breathe-sometimes nearly simultaneously or split seconds apart. They usually breathe a few times in a row, in quick succession, before resubmerging-unless they're asleep or truly exhausted, whales tend to act like surfacing is a nuisance and they'd rather be deep underwater. Their tight coordination in breathing likely has a lot to do with maximizing time spent below the surface engaged in the cooperative tasks of finding food and avoiding predators. Some species travel or hunt in pods that are tightly knit family genealogies, while others, such as the humpbacks before us, form short-lived associations, seemingly a matter of happenstance.
"Oh, that's right," Ari called out. The vapor from the blow lingered in the cold air. Ari pointed to a small patch of water a dozen yards from the boat, perfectly calm against the waves at the surface. This patch, called a flukeprint, betrayed the whale's movement, unseen deep below our tiny boat. The single flukeprint bloomed into several, each the size of our boat, rising up from the depths, whirling and spreading into the smooth geometry of a lily pad. We were right. "He's got buddies," Ari said. Without the aid of an echo sounder—which would also tip off the whales about our location—we used the ephemeral patterns on the surface to read their path.
We started up the engine, throttling ahead slightly to a spot beyond the last flukeprint. Within seconds, right on cue, a pair of enormous nostrils bubbled at the surface, releasing a thundering tone and then a spray that carried past us as we kept up with the whale. A dorsal fin surfaced, and a second and third blow exploded nearby. "Pull up behind this last one. We have about three more breaths until they go down," Ari shouted.
We trailed the laggard of the group, maneuvering the boat into position. Ari lowered himself across the bow and held the pole against his torso, extending the tip with the tag just ahead of the dorsal fin as we motored close to the behemoths moving yards away. Then, in a decisive motion, Ari launched the tip of the pole toward the whale's back, where the tag's suction cups hit the skin with a satisfying thwack. The whale rolled beneath the surface as we pulled back to pause and wait for it to return. We spotted its sleek, shiny back as it arose again, marked with a neon tag, and we cheered. The whale took one last breath before it raised its monstrously wide tail flukes out of the water and slipped down into emerald darkness with the others. Ari radioed back to the Ortelius. "Taaaaag on," he said with a hint of swagger as he grinned at me.
The whole rodeo of tagging is a bit like sticking a smartphone on the back of a whale, complete with the logistics of getting close enough to a forty-ton mammal in the first place. Just as your smartphone can record movies, track where you go, and automatically rotate images, the same technology—miniaturized and cheap, combining video, GPS, and accelerometers all in one device—has fueled a revolution in understanding how animals move throughout their world. Scientists call this new way of recording organismal movement biologging, and it has captured the interest of ecologists, behavioral biologists, and anatomists, all interested in knowing the details of how animals move through space and over time. Biologging has been especially important for revealing the daily, monthly, and even annual meanderings of animals that are extremely difficult to study. Stick a tag on a penguin, a sea turtle, or a whale, and there's a chance to know how it swims, what it eats, and everything else it does whenever you're not around to watch it-which is most of the time, for animals at sea.
The logistics of studying whales places them in a realm truly apart from every other large mammal on land or at sea. To know anything about them in the wild takes time on a boat, sticking a tag on their back, sliding a camera underwater, or spying overhead with a drone—if you're lucky enough to come upon them in the first place. Biologging is helping us overcome this challenge by giving us a remote view into their lives, an extension of our senses more intimate and sometimes more detailed than any telephoto lens. In the case of humpbacks, tag data have revealed how these gulp-feeding whales lunge at large schools of krill and other prey, oftentimes in coordinated attacks. It's a form of pack hunting, which might seem strange for a species celebrated as gentle giants. But baleen whales are serious predators, not like grazing cows but more like wolves or lions, pursuing their quarry with strategy and efficacy. Don't be fooled by their lack of teeth, or just because krill don't bleat in terror.
Hours later the Ortelius prowled silently through Wilhelmina Bay, with a pair of massive spotlights leading the way in search of icebergs in our path. Outside on the bow, I watched heavy snowflakes drift through the cones of light as Ari unfolded the metal radio antenna that would lead us back to our tag. The tags we were using had to be re-collected to yield their data; we would have to find and physically pluck them out of the water, provided that they'd already been knocked off the whales' backs. By design, they can last minutes, hours, or even days from the force of suction alone, before being scraped, being bumped, or falling off. Its buoyant neon housing would keep the whole device floating on the surface until we triangulated its position.
Over the course of his career, Ari has probably tagged more species of whales than anyone, in all circumstances and in every ocean. Beyond friendship, mutual colleagues, shared ambitions, and wry humor, we were working together in Antarctica to build a bridge between our disciplines—paleontology for me, ecology for him—because questions about how whales evolved to become masters of ocean ecosystems over fifty-odd million years need to be grounded in the facts of what whales do today. Bridging gaps between disciplines sometimes necessitates spending time side by side. All the better if it's in the field.
The metal prongs that Ari assembled looked like an elaborate set of rabbit ears from an old television set. He plugged the antenna into a small receiver with a speaker, and after a few moments, we heard a series of intermittent beeps. "That gap between the beeps tells us that the whale is sleeping, rising up to the surface to breathe, and then sinking back down." Ari smiled. "Just dozing, belly full of krill. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night." We would need to come back later and listen again for our tag until it floated freely, beeping uninterrupted.
Most large baleen whale species alive today belong to the rorqual family, which feed on krill and other small prey by lunging underwater. They comprise the more familiar members of the cetacean bestiary, including humpbacks, blue whales, fin whales, and minke whales. Rorquals are also the most massive species of vertebrates ever to have evolved on the planet—far heavier than the largest dinosaurs. Even the smallest rorquals, minke whales, can weigh ten tons as adults, about twice as much as an adult bull African elephant. Rorquals are easy to distinguish from any other baleen whale, such as a gray whale or a bowhead whale: Look for the long, corrugated throat pouch that runs from their chin to their belly button. (And yes, whales have belly buttons, just like you and me.) The features that make rorquals so obviously different from other baleen whales also play a critical role in how they feed.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Spying on Whales"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Nick Pyenson.
Excerpted by permission of Penguin Publishing Group.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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