
Osprey came back from the brink once. Now chicks are dying in nests, and some blame overfishing
'The birds never laid here this year,' said Watts, near the mouth of Virginia's Chesapeake Bay. 'And that's a pattern we've been seeing these last couple of years.'
Watts has a more intimate relationship with ospreys than most people have with a bird — he has climbed to their nests to free them from plastic bags, fed them by hand and monitored their eggs with telescopic mirrors.
The fish-eating raptor known for gymnastic dives and whistle-like chirps is an American conservation success story. After pesticides and other hazards nearly eliminated the species from much of the country, the hawk-like bird rebounded after the banning of DDT in 1972 and now numbers in the thousands in the U.S.
But Watts has documented an alarming trend. The birds, which breed in many parts of the U.S., are failing to successfully fledge enough chicks around their key population center of the Chesapeake Bay. The longtime biologist blames the decline of menhaden, a small schooling fish critical to the osprey diet. Without menhaden to eat, chicks are starving and dying in nests, Watts said.
Osprey are an environmental indicator
Watts's claim has put him and environmental groups at odds with the fishing industry, trade unions and sometimes government regulators. Menhaden is valuable for fish oil, fish meal and agricultural food as well as bait.
U.S. fishermen have caught at least 1.1 billion pounds of menhaden every year since 1951. Members of the industry tout its sustainability and said the decline in osprey may have nothing to do with fishing.
But without help, the osprey population could tumble to levels not seen since the dark days of DDT, said Watts, director of the Center for Conservation Biology at The College of William & Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia.
'The osprey are yelling pretty loudly that, hey, there's not enough menhaden for us to reproduce successfully,' Watts said. 'And we should be listening to them to be more informed fully on the fisheries side, and we should take precaution on the fisheries management side. But that hasn't won the day at this point.'
Decline linked to menhaden in studies
Watts, who has studied osprey on the Chesapeake for decades, has backed his claims of population decline by publishing studies in scientific journals. He said it boils down to a simple statistic — to maintain population, osprey pairs need to average 1.15 chicks per year.
Osprey were reproducing at that level in the 1980s, but today in some areas around the main stem of the Chesapeake, it's less than half of that, Watts said. In particularly distressed areas, they aren't even reproducing at one-tenth that level, he said. And the decline in available menhaden matches the areas of nesting failure, Watts said.
Also called pogies or bunkers, the oily menhaden are especially important for young birds because they are more nutritious than other fish in the sea. Osprey 'reproductive performance is inextricably linked to the availability and abundance' of menhaden, Watts wrote in a 2023 study published in Frontiers in Marine Science.
Conservationists have been concerned for years, saying too many menhaden have been removed to maintain their crucial role in the ocean food chain. Historian H. Bruce Franklin went so far as to title his 2007 book on menhaden 'The Most Important Fish In The Sea.'
Fishing industry pushes back
Menhaden help sustain one of the world's largest fisheries, worth more than $200 million at the docks in 2023. Used as bait, the fish are critical for valuable commercial targets such as Maine lobster. They're also beloved by sportfishermen.
The modern industry is dominated by Omega Protein, a Reedville, Virginia, company that is a subsidiary of Canadian aquaculture giant Cooke. The company pushed back at the idea that fishing is the cause of osprey decline, although it did acknowledge that fewer menhaden are showing up in some parts of the bay.
Federal data show osprey breeding is in decline in many parts of the country, including where menhaden is not harvested at all, said Ben Landry, an Omega spokesperson. Climate change, pollution and development could be playing a role, said Landry and others with the company.
Blaming fishing 'just reeks of environmental special interest groups having an influence over the process,' Landry said.
New rules could be on the way
The menhaden fishery is managed by the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission, an interstate body that crafts rules and sets fishing quotas. Prompted by questions about ospreys, it created a work group to address precautionary management of the species in the Chesapeake Bay.
In April, this group proposed several potential management approaches, including seasonal closures, restrictions on quotas or days at sea, and limitations on kinds of fishing gear. The process of creating new rules could begin this summer, said James Boyle, fishery management plan coordinator with the commission.
The osprey population has indeed shown declines in some areas since 2012, but it's important to remember the bird's population is much larger than it was before DDT was banned, Boyle said.
'There are big increases in osprey population since the DDT era,' Boyle said, citing federal data showing a six-fold increase in osprey populations along the Atlantic Coast since the 1960s.
Environmentalists says bird's decline could worsen
To a number of environmental groups, any decline is too much. This irritates some labor leaders who worry about losing more jobs as the fishing industry declines.
Kenny Pinkard, retired vice president of UFCW Local 400's executive board and a longtime Virginia fishermen, said he feels the industry is being scapegoated.
'There are some people who just don't want to see us in business at all,' he said.
But Chris Moore, Virginia executive director for Chesapeake Bay Foundation, said the country risks losing an iconic bird if no action is taken. He said Watts's studies show that the osprey will fail without access to menhaden.
'Osprey have been a success story,' Moore said. 'We're in a situation where they're not replacing their numbers. We'll actually be in a situation where we're in a steep decline.'
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles


Hamilton Spectator
an hour ago
- Hamilton Spectator
‘Losing an old friend': Retired fighter pilot selling replica of P-40 Warhawk
INDUS - Wayne Foster spent much of his life chasing the horizon as a fighter pilot, but he could be facing his toughest battle yet: parting with the warbird he built by hand. At 88, Foster is selling one of his planes: a smaller-scale replica of a P-40 Warhawk with the Royal Air Force's 1940 Desert colours of the 112 Squadron. The asking price is $45,000. 'It's like losing an old friend,' he said, sitting in front of the plane stored inside a Quonset hut in Indus, Alta., a hamlet southeast of Calgary. Foster, who joined the Canadian Forces in 1956, served in the navy, spent three years in France and worked at an electronic warfare unit in Montreal for another four years. It was in the navy that he earned his nickname, Butch. 'I got the name Butch from Butcher, from dogfighting, I guess,' Foster said in an interview. 'We had a couple of guys in the squadron whose name was Wayne. I got Butch and my wingman got Chopper.' During his time, he said, they did a lot of dogfighting in Europe. Dogfighting is a series of tactical manoeuvres used in close-range aerial combat. 'I learned how to dogfight fairly well ... by trial and error,' he said. 'Thankfully, I could do a lot of errors when no one was shooting at me.' He also had a tour in Puerto Rico. He was transferred to the United States Air Force for three years, where he trained pilots on the art of dogfighting. 'That was a wonderful tour. I flew the T-38 Talon — it goes like hell,' he chuckled. He remembers briefly sharing the sky with Chuck Yeager, an American flying ace and record-setting test pilot who, in October 1947, became the first pilot in history confirmed to have exceeded the speed of sound. Foster said he tried to 'bounce' Yeager, an unexpected attack to initiate a dogfight. 'He was coming up from Spain in a 104 and I couldn't catch him,' Foster laughed. 'He was much faster than I was, but I got the opportunity to talk to him later on in Germany.' In selling his replica, Foster admits he never got to fly a real P-40 Warhawk. 'But I've flown the P-51s and it's very similar in some ways. It doesn't have a big honking engine on it, but fortunately, this one here doesn't have a big honking engine on it either,' he said. Mechanic Pieter Terblanche has been working on the Warhawk. 'It's in very good shape for the time it's been sitting,' he said. 'Everyone that buys a plane has their own idea on what needs to be done to the plane. It can be done pretty fast.' Foster's daughter Tracy said the plan was to have it placed in a museum, but there have been several people who expressed interest in buying it. Offers have been outlandish, she added. 'We've had a couple of crazy offers, like $500 and a case of beer, and I went nope. And then it was $5,000 and a case of beer,' she said. One person offered $200, she said, but it turned out he thought it was a model he could fly using a remote control. Her father has never spoken much about his time as a fighter pilot, she said. 'Now that he's getting a little older, he's opening up a little bit more as to what he experienced.' This report by The Canadian Press was first published July 20, 2025. Error! Sorry, there was an error processing your request. There was a problem with the recaptcha. Please try again. You may unsubscribe at any time. By signing up, you agree to our terms of use and privacy policy . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google privacy policy and terms of service apply. Want more of the latest from us? Sign up for more at our newsletter page .


Hamilton Spectator
2 hours ago
- Hamilton Spectator
D-Day veteran and TikTok star ‘Papa Jake' Larson dies at 102
PARIS (AP) — D-Day veteran ″Papa Jake″ Larson, who survived German gunfire on Normandy's bluffs in 1944 and garnered 1.2 million followers on TikTok late in life by sharing stories to commemorate World War II and his fallen comrades, has died at 102. Tributes for 'Story Time with Papa Jake' poured in from followers across the United States, where he had been living in Lafayette, CA., and from towns around Normandy still grateful to Allied forces who helped defeat the occupying Nazis. 'Our beloved Papa Jake has passed away on July 17th at 102 years young,' his granddaughter McKaela Larson posted on his social media accounts. 'He went peacefully and was even cracking jokes til the very end.″ 'As Papa would say, love you all the mostest,' she wrote. Born Dec. 20, 1922, in Owatonna, Minnesota, Larson enlisted in the National Guard in 1938, lying about his age since he was only 15 at the time. In January 1942, he was sent overseas and was stationed in Northern Ireland. He became operations sergeant and assembled the planning books for the invasion of Normandy. He was among the Allied troops who stormed the Normandy shore on D-Day, June 6, 1944, surviving machine-gun fire when he landed on Omaha Beach. He made it unhurt to the bluffs that overlook the beach, then studded with German gun emplacements that mowed down American soldiers. After D-Day, he fought on through the Battle of the Bulge. In recent years, he made repeated trips to Normandy for D-Day commemorations. 'We are the lucky ones,' Larson told The Associated Press at the 81st anniversary of D-Day in June, speaking amid the immaculate rows of graves at the American cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach. 'They had no family. We are their family. We have the responsibility to honor these guys who gave us a chance to be alive.' Error! Sorry, there was an error processing your request. There was a problem with the recaptcha. Please try again. You may unsubscribe at any time. By signing up, you agree to our terms of use and privacy policy . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google privacy policy and terms of service apply. Want more of the latest from us? Sign up for more at our newsletter page .


San Francisco Chronicle
2 hours ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
Knitting is popular in the Bay Area. So why are California wool mills disappearing?
Mimi Luebbermann wants to make yarn for the rest of her life. And on a warm, breezy July afternoon, she was doing just that on a long wooden table at her farm: separating wool tufts the color of storm clouds that will be milled into plush, durable strands — which might be knitted together into a cozy pair of socks or a winter sweater. Nearby, her 25 sheep stood in a dry, golden pasture in the distance, eyeing a palette of green apples on the other side of the fence. 'There are so few things that are satisfying in the modern world,' she said. 'But wool does that — it makes you happy, and we want happy people.' There's an existential threat facing Bay Area shepherds like Luebbermann, who's 80 and has raised sheep on her Windrush Farm outside of Petaluma for the past 30 years. ' The problem is that the mills are shutting down,' she explained. 'I will have to stop raising sheep because there's no way to get the wool processed.' The reason for mill closures is a familiar one to American industrialists: Much of the wool industry has been pushed to other countries for cheaper production. Meanwhile, synthetic wool is less expensive to produce and buy, meaning fewer consumers are choosing to purchase higher grade organic wrool. If that threat to the regional wool industry prevails, Luebbermann's heaps of cloud-like fleece might never become sweaters and socks to be passed down for generations, her pastures will sit empty and the educational field trips of eager students will stop coming to learn about land and animal stewardship. Luebbermann stepped out into the pasture, calling to her sheep in operatic falsetto. They came running, lifting their heads into her awaiting hands for scratches. 'We're kind of an endangered species,' she said. Earlier this year Mendocino Wool and Fiber in Ukiah (Mendocino County), a primary mill for small scale yarn producers in Northern California, closed. Further south along the Central Coast, Morro Fleece Works announced that it will sell its operation or shut down. It's not just a California problem. Mills have closed in recent years across the nation — including Zeilinger Wool Company in Michigan, a 115-year-old mill passed down through four generations. 'It doesn't seem like there's a quick or easy solution,' said Marcail Williams, owner of Valley Oak Wool Mill in Woodland (Yolo County), which is one of the outer Bay Area's last small-scale mills. It's where Luebbermann processes her wool. 'Right now, I would love for it to keep going on, but if it doesn't, then I gotta just move on.' Ironically, knitting culture is thriving in the Bay Area. 'There's a lot of knitting groups, like, so, so, so many,' said Sarah Laoyan, 32, who learned to knit in third grade but picked it back up during the pandemic and joined a San Francisco knitting circle. 'I would say that a lot of the influx of it has to do with sustainability — a lot of people are interested in making their own clothes that will last a long time.' Yet, despite the popularity, most Bay Area knitting stores have a limited supply of local yarn, if any, because the imported and synthetic material is much cheaper both for stores and their customers. 'It's tricky because (local wool growers) are having a hard time competing price wise,' said Katelyn Randolph, the owner of the San Francisco knitting shop Imagiknit, which opened a second location in Berkeley last year. In April, Williams, 39, was weighing large paper bags of wool destined to be skeins of yarn at her mill in Woodland, where she grew up. She gestured to even more bags of wool stacked on the mill's shelves that she hasn't gotten to yet, because demand for processing is so high. The pressure to keep her operation going is a lot, she said. Money is tight, and she's in debt. American wool used to have much deeper pockets. But federal funding for the domestic wool industry — through tariffs that once sheltered American wool from wool overseas — has fallen from around $200 million in the 1950s to just $2.25 million in the 2010s. The industry began moving overseas by the 1980s, where costs are often less expensive than in America. These days, the rise of synthetics and cheaper production costs in places like Australia and China have compressed American wool into a husk of its former self. In her book, 'Vanishing Fleece,' author and knitter Clara Parkes details this history of 'an industry and a way of life that has been hard-hit but refused to die.' 'It's very hard to make a living at this,' said Liebe Patterson, a shepherdess who's been working desperately to keep the small-scale, local industry alive — and she also relies on Williams to transform her wool into a product. In March, Patterson opened the gate to her barn in Marin. A flood of 30 brown, tan and white sheep took off running toward a hilly pasture. She patted the fluffy head of a tan sheep as it waited in line for its turn at the low-hanging oak tree branch that doubles as a scratching post for the flock. In 2023, Patterson opened West Marin Wool Shed, a brick-and-mortar shop in the heart of Point Reyes Station. It only sells locally produced yarn and wooly goods grown by people like Luebbermann and processed by people like Williams. Unlike others in her industry, Patterson doesn't rely on her sheep and their wool to survive, and she wants to be a resource for those who do. 'A challenge is cash flow,' she said. 'That's, I think, the one thing I can help with.' Patterson's shop is a place where people can see and feel local wool and invest in its future, which gives Luebbermann and Williams some hope. 'We're consistently growing in sales, and people are getting to know where we are and what we do,' Patterson said. 'I'm hopeful because I'm seeing a lot of people connect — they're drawn to it.' Patterson and Luebbermann are optimistic that with the rise of artificial intelligence and other modern technologies, people will find deeper appreciation for the local and tactile. Like produce in large grocery chains, mass-produced wool is often refined toward homogeneity. To Luebbermann, it lacks luster and heart. '(Local yarn) has a life and a vigor to it that … I find commercial yarns are dead,' Luebbermann said. 'The life has been processed out of them.' Still, what it will take for yarn like hers to find its audience in Bay Area knitting circles and yarn shops remains to be seen. 'If you go to a yarn store and you pick up one really nice indie skein of yarn, it's like $30 — an entire sweater is like six to eight skeins of yarn, so that's like $300 for a sweater,' Laoyan said. Meanwhile, mass-produced or acrylic yarn can run for as little as $5 per skein. And that price difference is a big problem for local producers. ' If you can think of it as an investment into something that you're not gonna throw away, that you should pass on to your grandchildren, it's just a different product,' Luebbermann said. She believes small farms, especially near urban centers like San Francisco, are essential to the well being of animals and humans. '(Sheep) share with us their wool, and we take care of them,' she said. 'That's an important exchange that should never get obsolete — it should be a part of our life as humans sharing a planet.'