THERE WAS a dead tortoise in my car. She had survived 50 years in the Mojave Desert, the hottest and driest desert in North America, growing from a two-inch hatchling to a fully armored 12-pound beast on a diet of tiny wildflowers, cacti, and dried plants. She and her ancestors had roamed this land for 15 million years, but California's historic drought likely killed her. Tortoise conservationist Tim Shields and I were bringing her carcass to a makerspace in Barstow. There, his company, Hardshell Labs, could create a 3D-printed model of her-a "techno-tort"-that could be used in experimental tortoise conservation. Along with drought, ravens are a major threat to desert tortoises, having learned that juveniles make a tasty snack (their shells don't fully harden for five to eight years). Though ravens are native to the Mojave Desert, their numbers have exploded as they have followed humans into this inhospitable terrain. "Look at this place from the point of view of a raven," Shields said, gesturing toward the scattered homes and crumbling shacks in the scrubby desert outside Joshua Tree National Park as we drove by. "Ravens in the numbers we're seeing would not hack it out here without humans. The only water in many of these valleys is from humans. They know they can get a drink and some shade at each of these structures. I've seen a couple of roadkills just this morning; each one creates a reliable cafeteria for them." He shook his head and sighed. "Ravens are ecological vacuum cleaners. We've imported mobile, highly motivated, highly intelligent, adaptable predators into prime desert tortoise habitat. It's an eco-systemic disaster."
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