This Toad Is Fighting for Survival—and It Has a Lawyer

High in the Andes, a winding road clings to the mountainside, linking the roughly 7,000 people who live in the rural Angamarca River Basin, to the coast—and the rest of Ecuador. It’s a landscape of steep mountainsides and narrow valleys. Farms are interspersed with páramo, a type of high tundra. The current motorway is too narrow for heavy trucks transporting goods or for patients to speed toward the nearest city for medical care at night. But progress is coming. An expansion project has started to widen the road to two lanes. Access to markets, universities, tourism, and medical care beckon.

But the construction brings road crews, dirt, and dynamite, and humans aren’t the only creatures that call Angamarca home. The road cuts directly through the only existing habitat of the Jambato harlequin toad (Atelopus ignescens). A bit smaller than a human thumb, the toad is dark—almost black—on top. The surprise is on the bottom, where its tummy flashes a lively orange yellow. Its call is a soft, squeaky peep, like a very small dog toy. With only a few hundred toads left, the expansion could spell doom for the species, which was once thought to be lost entirely.

However, the toad is not defenseless. The Ecuadorian constitution is unique in that, since 2008, it has included the “rights of nature”—the legal premise that nature, from a mountain to a river to a toad, has rights to exist, to persist, and to thrive. The legal distinction goes beyond how species and ecosystems are protected in the United States, under the Endangered Species Act (ESA) or Environmental Protection Act. Legally speaking, the U.S. and most other countries consider nature as a resource for human use. In Ecuador, the federal government has a mandate to prevent activities that “might lead to the extinction of species, the destruction of ecosystems and the permanent alteration of natural cycles.” Here, nature has rights, just like a person. And yes, this toad has lawyers.

A legal team has sued the local government on the toad’s behalf to stop road construction, stating that the road expansion lacked environmental safeguards, and impedes the toads’ right to exist as a species. Construction has been paused, until the government can provide correct environmental safeguards. The decision could set new precedents for the rights of species all over the country. Outside of Ecuador, other communities and even countries, such as Aruba and Ireland, are considering adding rights of nature to their constitution. The toad’s victory adds to legal precedent in Ecuador, which could shape when and how such laws are implemented and enforced.

But what about the community, which still needs a road? The Jambato offers a pivotal test of the constitutional mandate, and the philosophy it stands on. In the past, cases that ruled in the favor of species also typically had an upside for some humans: like preventing a mine that would ruin a habitat and perhaps contaminate human drinking water. Here, the road clearly benefits the local farming community, and without correct environmental safeguards, it will destroy the toad’s habitat.   

Can the modern infrastructure rights of a rural, underserved community truly coexist with the rights of an individual species to not go extinct? Giving nature rights, it turns out, isn’t so simple.

(Uganda joins the rights-of-nature movement but won’t stop oil drilling.)

The Jambato harlequin toad gets its name from the word “hampatu,” which means “toad” in the Indigenous Kichwa language and  is technically ex-extinct. It used to be a common sight, says Juan Guayasamín, a herpetologist at the Universidad San Francisco de Quito in Ecuador and a National Geographic Explorer. Everyone from Spanish explorers in the 1800s to herpetologists in the 1970s, he says, “talk[ed] about this species in the hundreds and thousands.”  

But a decade later, the Jambato was gone. Scientists suspect a combination of hot, dry weather and a nasty fungal infection called Batrachchytrium dendrobatidis, or Bd, doomed the toad. By the 90s, it was considered extinct in the wild, with the last known sighting in 1988.

Then, in 2016, a 12-year-old boy from Angamarca found a Jambato. “The Jambato became now this symbol of hope,” Guayasamín says.

The Angamarca River Valley is the toad’s last stronghold. In a 2021-22 survey of the valley, Guayasamin and his colleagues found 71 Jambato toads. Today, activists estimate that there are between 92 and 359 individuals left in the world.

The survey was part of the work of Alianza Jambato, a group of scientists, ecotourism leaders, and local Indigenous leaders and volunteers who want to conserve the Jambato, formed in 2021. Maria del Carmen Vizcaíno, co-founder and CEO of the nonprofit, immediately set out to involve the community. At first, all was well. The nonprofit worked with the parish government and volunteers to set aside land as a sanctuary for the toad and held “toad day” celebrations where local kids dressed as toads in black outfits with large orange bowties.

But soon local government officials and Vizcaíno’s nonprofit found themselves on opposite sides of the road.

Friction between the toad’s supporters and the community began in 2024 when the Cotopaxi provincial government approved the construction project to widen the only road into the river valley. (The provincial government did not respond to requests for comment.)

For many locals, it was long overdue. “We have carried our products on animals, walked long distances, and, in the most critical moments—when someone from the highland communities gets sick at night or in the early morning—we haven't had a road that allows for timely transport to a health center or hospital,” says Romeo Vichicela, the president of the Angamarca Parish Government.

Expansion means blasting through rock. When construction began, debris began to rain down the side of the road and into the river. The Alianza Jambato and local volunteers, including Nayerli Canizares, a university student from Angamarca, were horrified. While the community needs a road, “I want a road planned well with technical studies,” she says.  

But moving the road elsewhere would be a difficult and expensive proposition. “From a technical, territorial, and public investment efficiency perspective, it is not reasonable to modify the route or propose an alternative in another area,” Vichicela says.

Alianza Jambato decided to take matters into their own hands. In September of 2024, the group worked with CEDENMA, an organization that represents conservation groups across Ecuador, to file a measure with a local judge to stop the construction, stating the toad was in imminent danger. CEDENMA did not object on behalf of the Alianza Jambato, but on behalf of the toad itself. “I’m the toad’s lawyer,” says Gustavo Redín, the vice president of CEDENMA. “The toad is my client.”

His client has a case in part because, the federal government’s constitutional mandate to protect all species. “Whenever there is an impact on nature, you actually have the duty to complain, and the state has the duty to respond,” explains Kelly Swing, a zoologist at the Universidad San Francisco de Quito who is not involved in the toad’s case.

It’s rare for an amphibian to be so well-represented. As of 2022, 24 countries have passed rights of nature laws, or affirmed rights of nature through court cases. Some are sweeping, others focus on specific ecosystems or rivers. In the U.S., the rights-of-nature movement has not seen many large victories. While local communities in the U.S., from the city of Santa Monica to Indigenous groups, have incorporated the rights of nature into their laws, there is no federal legal principle that ecosystems or species have rights—but that hasn’t stopped the courts from considering it.

In a well-known 1972 Supreme Court case, the Sierra Club sued the Department of the Interior  attempted to block the construction of a ski resort in California’s Mineral King Valley because it , would harm the local ecosystem. Ultimately, the court declared that the Club’s members did not have the standing to sue because the resort would not be harm them enough. U.S. law prioritizes human concerns. Species should exist because we enjoy them, canyons so we can hike them. Under that framework, the mountains and forests in question had no rights in the discussion. Still, in a famous dissent, Justice William Douglas argued against the court’s majority that nature didn’t deserve rights, and that ecosystems, rivers, and more should be granted legal personhood for their protection.

(This Canadian river is now legally a person. It’s not the only one.)

Even the ESA, which passed a year later, does not actually declare that species have a right to be conserved, and tends to support human economic interests over rights of other species—unless that species is directly headed for extinction. Even then, Congress can carve out exceptions, when it feels human interests outweigh those of the nature in question. That is the weakness of a legislative act, says Grant Wilson, the executive director of Earth Law Center, who is not involved in the toad’s case.

(Here’s what proposed changes to the Endangered Species Act mean for wildlife.)

But in Ecuador, “the rights of nature, because it’s constitutional, that’s the supreme law of the land.” The Jambato’s case, he says, is an application of a legal concept from human rights called the precautionary principle—where a person (or a toad) could suffer sudden and irreparable harm. Extinction certainly would seem to qualify.

In most of the rights of nature cases filed in Ecuador, human interests have largely aligned with those of the ecosystems or threatened species that serve as plaintiffs. “Many believe that the rights of nature are designed to stop development,” says Hugo Echeverria, a lawyer specializing in Ecuadoran environmental law, who has filed numerous amicus statements on behalf of the rights of nature. But actually, “the rights of nature are about trying to set an equilibrium among human interests and nature's interest.” The goal is that people and nature thrive together, not remain at odds.

One of most famous cases involved mining in the Los Cedres Protected Forest, home to endangered species like the brown-headed spider monkey and the spectacled bear. In 2021, the Constitutional Court of Ecuador ruled that mining was out of the question; it placed the environment at too much risk. But the case also involved Indigenous rights and potential water pollution, placing local livelihoods at risk. The court “ended up using laws that protect people and people's rights to apply to a certain place that happens to coincide with an endangered species,” says Swing.

The Jambato, however, offers a different test. In this case, choosing human interests might mean the toad goes extinct, in violation of the constitution. In most legal cases, the rights of some people are pitted against the rights of others, and in theory, they are allowed to plead their cases. The toad cannot plead, and humans must do so on its behalf.   

The legal battle kicked off in earnest in January 2026, when a local judge stopped the road construction until the provincial government could prove it was not having a major environmental impact. An environmental report noted that road debris had been dumped into the environment but did not find the elusive toads. With so few, “it's difficult to find one of them,” Vizcaíno says. “So they didn't find them and they put in the official report that there is no Jambato.” So, the judge ordered that construction could go ahead. Then in February, a higher-level court granted a protection action for the Jambato. The judge also requested that the federal government take up the toad’s protection. At this point, though construction has halted, the section through the Jambato’s habitat is mostly complete. 

As the case made its way through the courts, both sides of the debate have said they want to work together so that the toad and road can coexist. “The Jambato toad is vitally important to me and the people of Angamarca because this territory is, in practice, its last refuge worldwide,” says Vichicela. Angamarca has “a historical and strategic responsibility for its conservation.”

But public statements pit asphalt and amphibian against each other. Facebook posts from local media say the efforts to protect the toad offer the people no benefit, while posts from the nonprofit allege that its members have been treated unfairly by the local government. In January, Vichicela and the parish community expelled Vizcaíno from Angamarca, declaring her persona non grata, “due to the breakdown of trust and the absence of collaborative work with the community,” he says.

Expelled she may be, but Vizcaíno insists she is not unwelcome: “There are a lot of community [members] that believe in me, that open the doors for me.”

Despite the toad’s temporary victory, the legal fight could drag on. The next appeal will resume on October 12. Redín, for one, hopes that the rights of nature will eventually prevail. “I believe that Ecuador has the opportunity, with the rights of nature, to think in different ways,” he says. “To believe that a different world and a different way of doing things is possible.”

Even if they ultimately win, it could be too late for the toad. “We currently do not know the exact status of the remaining Jambato population. We have not been allowed to safely enter the territory to conduct biological monitoring, and no other institution is carrying out systematic monitoring either,” Vizcaino says. So far, the toad has proved tiny, but tough. Supporters continue to send pictures and video documenting its presence. 

But given that only a few hundred individuals are thought to remain, it’s possible the construction that has already taken place could have put the toad on a path to doom down the line. If the Jambato does go extinct, Ecuador “will be responsible for not having prevented such extinction,” Echeverría insists. “There are no precedents on how to proceed on a case like this.” Giving the toad rights means that someone presumably must bear responsibility for killing it. The question is, who? The provincial government allowed the road to be built, and apparently without sufficient safeguards in place. The federal government swore to prevent extinctions. Failure to do so would put an unprecedented strain on Ecuador’s constitution.

The constitution’s language is plain, but the philosophical questions are perhaps harder: Can humans live within a natural context without considering it expendable? In Angamarca, “for some, the ruling might not feel like a victory, but rather a loss,” with real consequences for the town’s connection to the outside world, says Jenny García Ruales, a legal anthropologist at the Philipps University of Marburg in Germany who has been closely following the case. The case “challenges some of the romanticized narratives within the Rights of Nature movement,” she adds. Some Indigenous people, for example, sit on both sides of the fight. Everyone—from herpetologists to government officials—may hold many beliefs about the project at the same time, she adds.  

No matter the outcome, the case adds to the large body of law Ecuador has built around the rights of nature. Law that other countries could eventually turn to when they add rights of nature to their own constitutions, Wilson says. “Does the rights of nature work? Well, Ecuador’s built this whole field of law” to prove it—or not—in practice.

Echevarria remains certain that human and nature rights are not fundamentally in conflict. “In Ecuador, the rights of nature do not collide [with] human rights. On the contrary: These rights reinforce each other,” he says. “So, depending upon how this case is resolved, we will see how these legal interests are able to coexist.”

A different world may be possible. But in this one, when nature and people’s rights and needs are up against each other, it is the people who determine whether or not nature gets a chance at all.