It’s surprisingly hard to catch a sloth. Although they’re slow — very, very slow — if you climb a tree to catch one, it will move along to the next tree. Once you climb the new tree, it will move back again.
My team does this regularly, as we conduct the Sloth Backpack Project, a data-logging initiative here in Costa Rica, where many sloths coexist with people. In 2017, I wanted to do more than research, so I started the Sloth Conservation Foundation.
In this photograph, I’m fitting a backpack to a brown-throated three-fingered sloth (Bradypus variegatus) that we named Baguette, after a nearby bakery. The backpack will collect data on her location, movement and living patterns.
We had found Baguette about 20 minutes earlier, balancing atop construction fencing as she attempted to escape two pit bulls. Baguette wasn’t all that grateful. She’s a feisty old girl. She’s old: she’s missing fingers, and she’s got scars on her face.
I adore sloths, but I also envy them. They’re a powerful symbol of the slowness that our society needs more of. They don’t let anything stress them out unless it’s really important — they just get on with life.
The backpack project will help us to understand sloth behaviour, so we can better protect them as the urban environment grows. This year, I received a €50,000 (US$52,220) Future For Nature award, which we will use to train a dog to detect sloth faeces. We can use faeces as a proxy for sloth numbers and locations in the region, and ultimately work out the boundaries of the species, how fast populations are declining and which conservation measures work.
I’m happy I’ve moved away from academia — I can put all my energy into conservation as opposed to bashing out papers. That’s what I feel ecology should focus on — how we can use what we’re learning to give back to other species.