Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Modelling forests from space

This is the text of a talk I gave on ABC radio a year or so ago. It's a bit technical, but was written for a 'lay'(non-technical) audience, so I hope you find it worth reading. 



And of course, there are forests, and forests. The top picture is Diana at the base of a giant spruce in Oregon; the bottom one two friends, at a conference, in a plantation in Brazil
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Forests are diverse and fascinating ecological communities. They range from the luxuriant rainforests of the tropics, where the warm, wet and stable conditions encourage enormous plant and insect biodiversity, to the biologically hardy but impoverished forests of the boreal regions. In between, there are temperate deciduous and coniferous forests and mixed and broad-leaved evergreen forests. These include the Eucalyptus forests of Australia. In some countries they are protected and well managed but in others economic pressures, and those associated with growing human populations, are bringing about their destruction.

Forests are important for their aesthetic, ecological and direct economic values, and because they absorb around 20% of the carbon dioxide that modern human activities emit into the atmosphere. (The oceans absorb about 30%.) If we are to manage forests, assess their economic value, evaluate whether the changes taking place in them are sustainable, and improve our estimates of the amount of carbon dioxide they are likely to absorb or emit, we need to know the mass of material in them. We also need to know how fast they are growing.

So the business of modelling forests is concerned with determining the mass of material in them – their biomass – and their growth rates. The models we use, like all mathematical models, are sets of equations that describe how we think forests grow. We provide them with input data, press the buttons on the computers and out come estimates of forest biomass and growth rates that can be mapped and tabulated and used in decision making.

The question that has to be answered is: how do we develop and test such models?

Conventional estimates of the amount of wood in a forest, and how fast it’s growing, are based on laborious, time consuming and expensive measurements. Standard-sized plots, which are necessarily rather small, are located across selected areas, taking pains to sample the variations caused by differences in soil type and topography. The dimensions of all the trees in those plots are measured. Equations must be developed for each species to convert the diameters and heights of the trees to wood volume. Biomass and carbon content are calculated using knowledge of wood density. As you can imagine, for complex natural forests, with a number of tree species and a range of unhelpful tree shapes, it can be difficult to get accurate values. Furthermore, although vast amounts of work have been done all over the world in forest biometrics, only a tiny fraction of the world’s forests has been sampled.

However, we can now estimate forest mass and growth rates from measurements made by some of the wonderful range of earth-observing satellites carrying all sorts of instruments in various orbits that provide complete coverage of our earth. These instruments continuously record enormous amounts of information in digital form.  They include the instrument called lidar — which is the­ acronym for light detecting and ranging  - from which laser beams are projected directly downwards. The beams bounce back to receivers with intensities that vary depending on the amount of foliage they strike, or on whether they hit gaps in the canopy. The differences between reflections from the top of the canopy and out of gaps provide estimates of forest height.

Radar, projected both sideways and downwards, can provide an accurate picture of the three-dimensional structure of forests. The return signals from radar of different frequencies reflect differences in the size of objects in their pathway. Small objects like leaves return higher frequency waves. Larger objects, such as tree trunks, reflect lower frequencies. Combining all this with data from lidar, it becomes possible to estimate the above-ground biomass, and hence the carbon content, of the forest stands.

To calibrate these satellite-derived estimates of tree heights and biomass, and test their accuracy, research in various places around the world is comparing them with conventional, ground-based measurements of the type I outlined earlier. The areas where measurements have been made on the ground are identified by what the remote sensing people call georeferencing – made much easier nowadays with GPS. Agreement between directly measured and satellite-derived estimates of forest mass is generally excellent.

Therefore, because the forest biomass in small areas can be accurately estimated from space, we can confidently use satellite measurements to estimate it for any area of the earth.

The next question is: what about growth rates?

On the basis of what we know about tree physiology and growth from thousands of measurements by scientists all over the world, over many years, we can construct models that allow us to calculate how fast forests are growing. For these we need the right input data, which we can either collect on the ground or get from satellite measurements.

We know that plants capture carbon dioxide through the process of photosynthesis, which converts carbon dioxide into carbohydrates. Photosynthesis is driven by radiant energy from the sun, absorbed by foliage. Some satellites provide estimates of cloud cover and from these, and the date and latitude, we can calculate the amount of solar radiation reaching the earth at any location on any day. Now, if we know how much foliage a forest is carrying, and something about the photosynthetic characteristics of that foliage, we can calculate how much solar energy the forest is absorbing and therefore how fast it is capturing carbon dioxide and how fast it is growing. Rates of growth are also affected by temperatures.

There are instruments on satellites that monitor the radiation reflected from surfaces in the visible and near-infra-red wavebands. The amount of foliage carried by vegetation in any pixel can be estimated from the reflectance ratios in different wavebands. The optics in satellite sensors can also indicate differences in the greenness of the leaves, in the same way that our eyes can detect those differences. Conventional physiological research has shown that leaf greenness can be equated with different nitrogen content in the leaves, which is associated with changes in photosynthetic capacity.  The water status of forests – that is, whether they are well-watered or suffering from drought – is also indicated by the reflective properties of the leaves, so the development of drought, which affects the uptake of carbon dioxide by vegetation, can be identified from sequential scans and factored into estimates of photosynthesis rates.

So satellite measurements allow us to estimate the amount of foliage per unit ground area. They provide data on solar radiation and allow us to keep track of changes in greenness, and of indices of plant water status. Land surface temperatures can be estimated from their emissions of long-wave radiation.  Putting all this information into our models, and integrating over seasons, we can calculate how much carbon dioxide has been fixed by the forest and used for above-ground and below-ground growth.

The obvious question that now has to be answered is: what evidence do we have that these modeled estimates of forest growth rates, based on satellite measurements, are correct? Do they accurately reflect reality?

To estimate growth rates from conventional forest biometrics the whole on-ground measurement exercise has to be repeated at intervals. These are usually a few years. Growth is then calculated as the difference between sequential sets of measurements, but the uncertainty in the results is considerable. Also, because soils, topography and microclimate all vary, the results are not transportable: that means you can’t, with any confidence, apply estimates of growth rates obtained from one forest region – or even one stand – to another. And the growth of trees is determined by weather, acting on physiological processes, so even if the forest is undisturbed we can’t assume that the growth rates determined over some interval will apply over the next one – particularly if the climate is changing. Finally, when there is a disturbance, caused by harvesting or fire or storm or insect attack, there’s no way, on the basis of conventional measurements, that you can predict with any confidence how the forest is going to recover.

Despite all that, areas for which good biometrics data exist serve as benchmarks against which modelled estimates of forest biomass and growth, derived from satellite measurements, can be compared. Many such comparisons have been made. The satellite-derived estimates are usually within the error of the ground-based measurements.

We can also test models against direct measurements of the rate of carbon dioxide capture by forests.

The rate of exchange of carbon dioxide between forests and the atmosphere, and the flow of water vapour into the atmosphere from forests, can be measured continuously using sophisticated instruments placed on towers situated above different types of vegetation. The towers have to be placed in quite large areas – a square kilometre or more - with uniform topography covered by forest of uniform age and composition. The difference between the downward flow of carbon dioxide because of uptake by photosynthesis during the day, and the upward flow because of respiration, at night – gives a direct measure of the rate of carbon capture by photosynthesis, and hence forest growth rates. Around the world, hundreds of these ‘flux’ towers, as they are called, have been installed in different types of forest. They provide the ‘gold standard’ against which to compare our models. We have seven of them over forests in Australia, covering tropical rainforest and several types of eucalyptus.

There have been many comparisons between measurements of forest photosynthesis, made from flux towers over days, weeks and seasons, and estimates derived from models using satellite measurements of forest structure, foliage area, radiation interception and foliage condition, associated with the area round the towers.  The results indicate that the models can be used with confidence to predict the rates at which forests capture carbon dioxide and convert it into carbohydrates.

So the evidence from two entirely independent techniques indicates that we can satisfactorily model forest growth rates from measurements made in space.

And we can do more. Forests are disturbed and damaged by logging, wildfires, insect attacks or climate change. The remarkable array of sensors on earth-observing satellites allows us to identify these disturbances, and the areas affected across the whole globe. We can monitor, over time, the recovery – or progressive degradation – of the forests. To identify the effects of climate change we need models that allow us to evaluate the importance of extended droughts or increasing temperatures. We also need to evaluate the effects of pollutants or other factors that change the structure and productivity of forests. The ubiquitous satellites above us provide us with the information we need to do all this.

The whole business is fascinating, exciting and very important. I just regret that I am no longer involved with it – but then I’m even older than Robyn Williams so am comfortably retired.

Life report




I wrote this a few months ago in response to a request from a columnist who writes for the New York Times for 'life reports' from older Americans; he wanted to do a piece about their experiences. I'm not an American, but I am older, so I sent in my piece which, not surprisingly, he didn't refer to. I wasn't too hurt; he did say he got thousands of offerings and, as I said, I am not an American. However, thought it might be worth putting up on my blog, so here it is.

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I was born in 1938 in the country then known as Rhodesia. An African farm was a good place for a boy free to wander in the bush, much of the time with an air rifle. I was vaguely aware that things were tough for my parents, and also aware that the African people who worked for us were extremely poor, but concern over that, and the fact that we — the white people — had taken over their country, only came much later. My mother taught me until I was 11, when I was packed off to boarding school.



Seven undistinguished years later school was over and, after 18 weeks national service training I took an excruciatingly boring job in a government office. To the undisguised relief of my boss, I resigned after about 18 months. Which left the question: what to do now?  My school results were marginally good enough to get me into a South African university (there was no university in Rhodesia at that time) so, after difficult discussions  with my long-suffering parents I applied to study agriculture and they found the money to fund my first year. After that, assuming I passed (an event that my relatives all assumed was unlikely), I was on my own.



If you don’t enjoy being an undergraduate you have a problem. I did enjoy it. Also, an element of stubbornness (the idea of proving my relatives correct was not attractive) and the emergence of a surprising capacity to focus, combined to get me through my first year. Later I learned how to study effectively. Money problems were sorted out by loans and a small scholarship and after four years, to everyone’s surprise, I emerged with a first class degree and a beautiful fiancĂ©e: Diana had one year to go when I finished.



My first job was on an agricultural research station in rangeland country in the southern part of Rhodesia. There was a staff of about 20 white professionals and of course (this was still a white-ruled country) many more black assistants and labourers. The research we were doing wasn’t particularly high-powered, but it was interesting and potentially very useful to the country. Diana and I were married not long after she finished her degree and she had to adapt to life in a rather limited community. She managed fine, but I got an itch to get more involved with science — to publish papers and test myself in a  wider world,. This led to us moving to South Africa and then, through a set of curious chances[1] to Scotland on a one-year fellowship, intended to support one post-graduate.



We had four little girls by that time — we were good Catholics and anyway, it took us a while to figure out what was causing them — so this move was, in the view of my wife’s parents anyway, irresponsible lunacy. But we went. My wife is a brave lady; it was the only chance we were going to get to go overseas and we reckoned we would survive somehow. It was the key move of our lives. Life wasn’t easy because we were really dirt poor, but we survived the Scottish climate, and the social customs — the third time we had had to adapt to a community new to us. It’s different when you have kids.



I also had to learn a lot of new science quickly: I became an ecophysiologist working on the interactions between weather and trees. That’s been my area of research ever since then. The fellowship was extended from one year to three and I began to work my way into the sub-culture of scientists with PhDs from Oxford and Edinburgh and Stanford. There were opportunities to go to international meetings and I found that I could get scientific papers published in international journals. A job came up in England leading a small team, so we moved there. Another community. Dreams of returning to Africa were pushed ‘onto the back burner’.



The girls knew they were African, but settled comfortably for England. Diana taught school and ran girl guides. I obtained my PhD and gradually moved up (if that’s the right word) through the system: more meetings, more publications. Eventually I noticed that some younger scientists were seeking ME out! Science was exhilarating and satisfying.  I was a visiting lecturer[2] in Western Australia for a year we all enjoyed then, when we had been in England longer than we ever thought we’d stay, I was appointed to a senior research management job in Australia’s premier scientific organization. So, it seemed, the boy from the African bush had made it in the world of international science.



We have been in Australia for 30 years. The girls are all married — apparently happily: we were blessed with comely, smart kids, who can manage their lives. (Maybe we did things right in their growing up.) They are our greatest friends and we have 12 grandchildren. I am now retired — we’re in yet another community — my third book was published last year and my golf game is deteriorating  (old age is not a condition I would recommend, except for the alternative).



Regrets: not many, except for the usual embarrassing events that we probably all have locked in our memories, undoubtedly far more important to us than to anyone else who may remember them. With regard to the big decisions — no regrets. We took our chances and they paid off.  If I were to presume to give advice to young people, I would say: ‘go for the thing that will let you challenge yourself; take the long, high-risk shots (unless, perhaps, the consequences of failure could be catastrophic.) That way lies fulfillment.’



But there’s a price to be paid for a peripatetic life. Every time you move you have to adapt to a new community and that takes time and effort and, sometimes, a psychological toll. We have lived in five different countries and I have worked in several others for extended periods — including the United States, at Oak Ridge National Laboratories, TN, and with NASA in Washington DC. We have left a trail of great friends round the world, but we seldom, if ever, see most of them. At this stage of my life I find myself looking back with vain regret: it would have been good to have ended up in Africa, where my roots are, in the community that I grew up with. Many are gone but a nucleus remains. And most Africans are great people, although Zimbabweans are currently afflicted with an appalling kleptocratic tyranny.



I might presume to say a word about marriage. The central support through my life has been — and is — my wife. The essential ingredient for a happy and successful marriage, we believe, is that the first consideration in any decision must be what is best for your partner. What does she/he want to do? It might seem that Diana has made all the concessions for my career, and indeed she worked very hard for it, but for 17 years in Australia I supported her, financially and practically, in the work with youth that she loved and did so well. (For that she was rewarded with a national medal.) We are not calculating balance sheets, just trying to fill with rewarding activity the time we have left.









[1] With acknowledgements to ‘The Mikado’
[2] ‘professor’ in the American system