
As droughts become more frequent and severe under climate change, conflicts with wildlife aren’t just anecdotal – they’re measurably increasing.
A new analysis reveals that for every inch drop in annual rainfall during drought years in California, reports of conflicts with carnivores rose by roughly two to three percent.
The pattern emerges from seven years of incident records maintained by the California Department of Fish and Wildlife (CDFW), and researchers say the signal likely applies well beyond the state’s borders.
Study lead author Kendall Calhoun is a postdoctoral researcher and conservation ecologist affiliated with UCLA and UC Davis.
“Climate change will increase human-wildlife interactions, and as droughts and wildfires become more extreme, we have to plan ways to coexist with wildlife,” said Calhoun.
“Animals coming into human spaces are generally framed as wildlife trying to take resources from humans, but it’s often because we’ve taken the resources away from the wild areas.”
The researchers dug into CDFW’s Wildlife Incident Reporting database to track how drought intensity maps onto human-wildlife conflict.
The team’s metric wasn’t casual sightings. Instead, they focused on higher-impact reports, such as property damage and “nuisance” incidents, filtering out lower-level concerns and simple observations.
Across species, the drought effect persisted. With each 1-inch shortfall in annual rain, reported conflicts climbed about 2.1% for mountain lions, 2.2% for coyotes, 2.6% for black bears, and 3% for bobcats.
Those changes stack up in dry years and signal a wider shift in how wildlife moves. When natural food and water run short, animals start probing the edges of towns.
They are drawn to sprinklers, trash, pet food, fruit trees, and ornamental ponds that provide easy calories and moisture.
“That’s the big question, and it often depends on the person reporting it,” Calhoun said. “If you have birds in an agricultural area, they could provide ecosystem services like eating harmful insects, or they could be raiding the crops.”
“One person might have sympathy for wildlife grazing from their tomato garden, while another person might call it property damage.”
Importantly, the database used in the study does not include attacks on people, which are rare and tracked separately. The focus here is the kind of friction that’s common but costly.
Such conflicts include ripened orchard rows nibbled overnight, chicken coops breached, siding torn by curious claws, or a backyard mess after a nocturnal rummage through unsecured bins.
Are there genuinely more carnivores roaming cities and suburbs in drought, or does human stress sharpen our sensitivity to their presence?
“It’s unclear whether the number of reports increases because there are subjectively more conflicts, or because people perceive wildlife more negatively when their own resources are more stressed,” Calhoun said.
“Regardless, it’s clear that climate change will mean more conflict between humans and animals if we don’t create more climate-resilient landscapes for wildlife.”
Either way, the outcome is the same for managers on the ground: more calls, more traps set and relocated, more community outreach, and more pressure on already constrained budgets.
The study doesn’t just diagnose the problem; it points toward practical fixes. In dry years, ecological “safe zones” that reliably provide food and water can keep wildlife from pushing deeper into towns.
Riparian restoration, drought-resilient native plantings, wildlife-friendly water sources away from neighborhoods, and better protection of green corridors help anchor animals where they’re less likely to collide with people.
“Now that we know how droughts make wildlife interactions worse, why couldn’t we make them better?” Calhoun said. “Mitigating how much water we take out of natural landscapes could mitigate conflict.”
On private property, common-sense actions make a real difference. Locking down trash and securing coops can cut back on nighttime raids.
Removing attractants, adding electric fencing where needed, and managing water features further reduce the chances of wildlife wandering in.
Calhoun’s broader research centers on megafires, another climate-driven force reshaping animal movements.
Animals can often outrun flames in the short term, but the aftermath is brutal: scorched forage, empty waterholes, den sites turned to ash.
Surviving wildlife fan out into unburned patches that frequently overlap with farms, roads, and neighborhoods.
“I look at ways to improve human-wildlife interactions, and climate change is going to make that path more difficult,” Calhoun explained.
“But if we can make it worse, then we can make it better. People just need to be invested in their local environment to make conservation work.”
There are few robust, long running public databases gathering community-reported wildlife incidents, which makes CDFW’s system unusually valuable. It offers a statewide lens on how people and animals actually intersect.
The system includes the exact kind of evidence managers need to target interventions.
It shows where to prioritize water-saving habitat projects and which neighborhoods need the most outreach in drought years. It also indicates when to surge personnel for conflict response.
As the West warms and dries, what used to be exceptional is becoming normal. The signal from this study is clear: when rains fail, the boundaries between wildlands and the places we live blur.
Planning for coexistence will determine whether those encounters end in fear and loss or in workable, durable peace.
The research is published in the journal Science Advances.
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