I remember the park rangers saying, “Why are you going up there? There is no water on the top, and you’re not going to find any frogs.” I said, “Well, I’m going to check it out.”

The Espinhaco mountain range in the east of Brazil is a very special place, and it’s mostly unknown. My house looks on to the mountain in Pico do Itambe state park, so I have my breakfast looking at it each morning. You’re surrounded by thunderstorms and strong winds, and the humidity is high. I waited for heavy rains and went to climb to the top.

What had caught my eye were the bromeliad plants, which look like the top of a giant pineapple. Each plant can hold up to 2 litres of water, and inside there is so much happening. Larvae, beetles, all kinds of invertebrate (无脊椎动物) live in there—it's a whole ecosystem in a tiny space. The central cup holds loads of rainwater, and I thought there could be some frogs using them.

Sure enough I was right. And this led me to discover a new species of frog, which I have committed my life to protecting. That day, I found a frog in the very first bromeliad I looked inside. I thought, wow, I’ve never seen such a tiny frog; it was the size of my nail. I couldn’t catch it—the plant was complicated inside.

I looked in the next bromeliad and there was another frog. They all had them in. I saw about 20 frogs that night, and caught three. I took them to the museum for identification, but couldn’t find a match. I ended up walking around with three little frogs in my bag for a year, preserved in a jar. I would take them to meetings with me, and ask people if they had ever seen them before.

Then I met an expert who took one look at them and said it was a new species.

During my research, part of the area where these frogs live was destroyed by fire.

Police Outpost Lake is as far south as you can go in Canada. In fact, next to the lake are the protected wetlands, where songbirds, ducks, and Canada geese glided by on the breeze, touching down briefly on the water’s surface before flapping (振翅) their way back up into the sky.

Standing at the lake’s edge, my cousin, Allan, and I cast our fishing lines separately onto the smooth-as-glass water. Down the shoreline was Allan’s father, my uncle Rick. He liked to fish alone, away from distractions, noise, and other people.

Allan shouted, “Dad, where should I stand?”

Uncle Rick pressed his finger to his lips, pointed to a shady spot by a large rock where he had cast his line and shook his head gently.

“He wants us to be quiet or else we won’t catch any fish.” I whispered.

“Why do I have to be so quiet?” asked Allan. “All those birds are making more noise than I ever could!”

I ignored him, pulling back on my rod gently and squinting into the glare of the sun. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a few great northern loons (潜鸟) gathering together not far from the shoreline. What were they doing there? Loons usually travel alone, but here were five of them in a cluster. Maybe it was a family? Just then one loon, making a loud painful cry, swam away from the group, toward me.

“Allan! Come here. Now!”

Allan laid his fishing rod down on the dirty sand, darting toward me.

“Come here. Take a look at that loon. It’s swimming toward us, not far away from us. It’s trying to get our attention.”

The loon finally stopped in the shallow water near shore, not ten feet away from us. It was so close that we could see its round red eyes. Strangely, the bird’s wings were held tight against its body.

Wading into the water and getting closer to the loon, we both saw a fishing line wrapped tightly around its neck and a shiny red hook (鱼钩) in its body. Left like this, the loon couldn’t fly or fish or survive. It was asking us to help!

“Go fetch the scissors from the fishing box,” I urged Allan.

As I set down the loon on the water, it joyfully flapped its wings.

“I don't want to go.” Maria moved her feet slightly and hung her shoulders. Mom continued packing a bag. “We're going to Uncle Rich' s in Montana for summer vacation. He's your father's brother, and we go there every year.”

Maria stormed out of her mom's room and said angrily, “Nobody ever thinks of me!” “That's enough. We're going.” replied Mom angrily, too.

Their August vacation came sooner than Maria wanted. Before she knew it, she and the family were at Uncle Rich's farm. Uncle Rich grabbed her dad and hugged him. Maria grabbed her bag, “I'm going to my room.”

“Wait a minute, Maria,” said Uncle Rich. “I have got something to show you.” At the barn (牲口棚) Maria saw the horse. It was of medium size. It had a fine, soft black coat and one white foot. There was a wide white patch (斑) that ran down the center of its face. Maria fell in love with it at first sight. “Wow! What a horse!”

“He's a mustang,” said Uncle Rich. “Mustangs are free horses who live in the wild. We found him stuck in the mud down by the river. My friend and I roped him and managed to get him out.”

Maria kicked the dirt. “Can I help care for him?” Then she felt her heart beating in expectation.

Uncle Rich laughed. “You bet. The more hands we have, the better. Just don't get too attached. Once we're sure he's okay, we will have to set him free. Mustangs went from over a million at the beginning of the 20th century to less than 17,000 in 1970. They were hunted illegally for meat.”

Hearing this, Maria felt her stomach turn.

Maria hurried back to the barn in a flash.