What lizard is among the largest in the Western Hemisphere, has striking red eyes to reduce the sun’s glare, and has been called the “Gardener of the Forest” in their native ecosystem?
A male Grand Cayman blue iguana sunning himself Image credit: David Jeffrey Ringer via iNaturalist (CC-BY-NC)
Big, Blue, and Totally Cool
As its name suggests, the Grand Cayman blue iguana is native to the largest of the Caribbean’s Cayman Islands. An example of island gigantism, the Grand Cayman blue iguana is also among the largest lizards in the Western Hemisphere, measuring five feet (1.5 m) from nose-to-tail, and weighing as much as 30 pounds (14 kg).
Adult iguanas are typically dark gray in color, matching the karst rock of the landscape. In the presence of other individual iguanas, however, they change their color to blue to signal to one another and establish territorial boundaries. Grand Cayman blue iguanas also exhibit sexual dimorphism, or noticeable physical differences between genders. Males are larger, are dark gray to turquoise blue in color, have more prominent crests along the back, and larger femoral pores (secretory glands which release pheromones, or chemical signals) on their thighs. Females are smaller than males, are typically colored olive green to pale blue, and have smaller and less prominent dorsal crests and femoral pores. Both genders have black feet, and, as equally striking as their skin color, have eyes sporting gold or blue-ish gray irises and red sclera. The red coloration of the sclera (the “white” part of the eyes in humans) is an adaptation to protect the pupils from the sun’s powerful glare in their tropical habitat.
Speaking of habitat, this iguana prefers dry, rocky forests in coastal areas of the island, but may also be found in scrub woodlands, semi-deciduous forests, and dry-to-subtropical, moist forests. Iguanas as a whole are rather adaptable, and can be found in manmade habitats as well, especially farmlands bursting with their favorite foods, such as flowers, fruits, leaves, nuts, and stems of over 45 different plant species. Although predominantly herbivorous, the Grand Cayman blue iguana has occasionally been observed feeding on fungi, insects, crabs, slugs, soil, small rocks, bits of shed skin, and feces.
The Grand Cayman blue iguana is diurnal, or most active during daylight hours. They begin their day basking in the sun to warm up, and at the end of the day, retreat to rock crevices, caves, tree cavities, and in more urbanized locations, buildings and piles of construction material. Adults are primarily terrestrial, and while not known to be arboreal (tree-dwelling), individuals have been observed climbing trees 15 feet (4.6 m) and higher. Younger individuals tend to be more arboreal. This iguana’s large size also comes with a few additional benefits: adults have no natural predators, and while their average longevity is not known, the species can live in excess of 50 years! One wild-caught individual (appropriately named Godzilla) who was transferred to the Gladys Porter Zoo in Brownsville, Texas was estimated to be 69 years of age upon his death in 2004. Notice how I said that adults have no natural predators? Hatchlings are preyed upon by the native snake the Grand Cayman racer, as well as rats, while iguanas of any age can fall victim to feral, free-roaming dogs and cats introduced by humans.
Headshot of a male Grand Cayman blue iguana at the Smithsonian’s National Zoo, Washington, D.C. Image credit: Sienna Weinstein
An Important Lizard and an Ongoing Conservation Success Story
The Grand Cayman blue iguana is considered a flagship species of the Cayman Islands–a symbol of not only the area’s unique biodiversity, but also the broader conservation effort due to its public appeal as a strikingly colorful species of Grand Cayman. This iguana plays a pivotal role within its habitat as a keystone species–one that plays a crucial role in maintaining the health and diversity of their native ecosystems, as their actions significantly impact the environment and other species. As Grand Cayman’s largest native herbivore, this iguana helps distribute native fruit and plant species across the island via their feces. This has led to them being called the “Gardener of the Forest” by tropical field biologist and conservationist Ian Redmond–a worthy title indeed. Through this role as a living, breathing forest-growing machine, they help to maintain the delicate balance between the climate and vegetation necessary for all species to survive in the island’s ecosystem.
The main threats facing the Grand Cayman blue iguana are predation of adults by feral cats and dogs, habitat conversion (mainly from fruit farms to grasslands for cattle grazing), deaths from vehicle collisions, trapping and shooting by farmers, being mistaken for the invasive green iguana and retaliated against, and occasional illegal capture of iguanas for the local pet trade. In 2002, only 10-25 individuals were recorded, making this iguana one of the most critically endangered lizards on Earth. Thanks to an extensive recovery program, among other conservation partnerships, as of July 2018, wild Grand Cayman blue iguana numbers have rebounded to over 1,000 individuals, moving on the IUCN’s Red List from Critically Endangered to Endangered. Ongoing conservation needs for the Grand Cayman blue iguana include additional research to manage the genetic diversity of the species, controlling populations of feral cats and dogs, and continuous public education and outreach efforts to combat the threats this unique species of iguana still faces today.
Sienna Weinstein is a wildlife photographer, zoologist, and lifelong advocate for the conservation of wildlife across the globe. She earned her B.S. in Zoology from the University of Vermont, followed by a M.S. degree in Environmental Studies with a concentration in Conservation Biology from Antioch University New England. While earning her Bachelor’s degree, Sienna participated in a study abroad program in South Africa and Eswatini (formerly Swaziland), taking part in fieldwork involving species abundance and diversity in the southern African ecosystem. She is also an official member of the Upsilon Tau chapter of the Beta Beta Beta National Biological Honor Society.
Deciding at the end of her academic career that she wanted to grow her natural creativity and hobby of photography into something more, Sienna dedicated herself to the field of wildlife conservation communication as a means to promote the conservation of wildlife. Her photography has been credited by organizations including The Nature Conservancy, Zoo New England, and the Smithsonian’s National Zoo and Conservation Biology Institute. She was also an invited reviewer of an elephant ethology lesson plan for Picture Perfect STEM Lessons (May 2017) by NSTA Press. Along with writing for Bio4Climate, she is also a volunteer writer for the New England Primate Conservancy. In her free time, she enjoys playing video games, watching wildlife documentaries, photographing nature and wildlife, and posting her work on her LinkedIn profile. She hopes to create a more professional portfolio in the near future.
What tree wears needles in summer, gold in autumn, and nothing at all in winter, yet never forgets to bloom again?
Photo by Adrianna Drindak
The trees are silent. Last fall’s leaves crunch under my feet as I follow a faint trail through the woods. I know every rock and overturned leaf of this forest. Here I trampled over ferns, snowshoed in the light of a full moon, splashed in the gentle brook, and wandered for hours upon hours of my childhood. I wander back into these woods, dense with Eastern Hemlock, American Beech, hobblebush, trillium, and suddenly I’m young again, young enough to only see the beauty in the world, and I’m home. The old trail fades, and it’s time to journey beyond, along a path that lives in my mind like a memory. I recognize the surrounding trees, the pull of a small clearing in the distance. I may be off the trail, but I know where to walk, which steps will lead me through the thicket of trees, curving past the rickety rock wall, down by the bog, where a grove of evergreens grows, hemlocks and pines, and where a rare find in this forest thrives. Meet the tamarack.
In this forest, at the foothills of the Adirondacks, tamaracks are an uncommon sight. I’ve wandered through these woods for years, and these are the only ones I’ve been able to find. The marsh here, tucked into the creaky wood, creates an ecosystem where the tamarack thrives. Just beginning to grow, this small pocket of evergreens and tamaracks reminds me to remember my roots, deep in the bog, on a path I’ve come to know.
The name “tamarack” originates from “Hackmatack”, which is an Abenaki word meaning “wood for making snowshoes.” (Source) Tamaracks (Larix laricina) are found throughout North America, including all Canadian provinces and territories (Source). These trees thrive in bogs, but are also found in upland areas in the northern extent of their range (Source).
Tamarack trees are special. Known as deciduous conifers, they shift their appearance through the seasons. “Deciduous” refers to trees that drop their leaves for a portion of each year, while “evergreen” trees keep their leaves throughout the seasons (Source). “Conifer,” on the other hand, defines the tree as one that reproduces using a cone structure, thus a cone-bearing plant (Source). While many conifers are evergreen, the tamarack is rare in its ability to drop and regrow its needles in response to seasonal changes throughout the year. In bundles of 10 to 20, the needle clusters of these trees fade from a vibrant green to bright yellow during the fall months, alongside many other tree species in the northeast (Source). These yellow needles fall as the cold weather returns, a golden blanket over the tamarack’s roots (Source).
By Adrianna Drindak
It has been years since I visited this small pocket of tamaracks in person. Yet I am here often in this is the place of my dreams. It has always been a place of wonder and peace, which lives on in my imagination. I close my eyes, and I’m back there, winding between trees, following the path imprinted in my soul. This is a place I know. How powerful it is to know the trees, the esker that runs along through the forest, the curve of the river as it bends away from my course.
I know this place, but it’s changed – I’ve changed. I’m not the same young girl who used to look for colorful rocks in the riverbed, my camera steady in my hands as the heron landed gracefully in its nest, and observed the beaver dams protruding from the murky marsh. But this place will always be a part of me, no matter where I find myself in the future, no matter how much I change, no matter how much this forest changes. The little pocket of evergreens and whimsical tamaracks, tucked in the bog entrenched in my memory, continue to grow, evolving and shifting with the seasons. There is such beauty in change.
Adrianna Drindak is a rising senior at Dartmouth College studying Environmental Earth Sciences and Environmental Studies. Prior to interning at Bio4Climate, she worked as a field technician studying ovenbirds at Hubbard Brook Experimental Forest and as a laboratory technician in an ecology lab. Adrianna is currently an undergraduate researcher in the Quaternary Geology Lab at Dartmouth, with a specific focus on documenting climate history and past glaciations in the northeast region of the United States. This summer, Adrianna is looking forward to applying her science background to an outreach role, and is excited to brainstorm ways to make science more accessible. In her free time, Adrianna enjoys reading, baking gluten free treats, hiking, and backpacking.
What animal was revered and worshipped by ancient American civilizations, whose name means “he who kills with one leap”, and who has the strongest bite force relative to size among the big cats?
A female jaguar observed in Brazil Image Credit: Paul Steeves via iNaturalist (CC-BY-NC)
It was a typical hot and humid day while I was on my lunch break at the Stone Zoo. I was doing my usual photography rounds, scouting out opportunities for taking shots of the zoo’s animals. I came upon the jaguar enclosure to find Seymour, a gorgeous individual seeking relief from the heat underneath a large makeshift shelter. Against the dark confines of his shelter, the afternoon sun cast an incredible glow, highlighting his face. I crouched down to his level and took what I believe to be the best photograph of my “career”. Said photo can be seen further down in this profile, and is responsible for making me appreciate this species of cat all the more–grateful to know that this big cat calls the Americas home.
One Big Cat, and a Lengthy Resumé of Worship and Uniqueness
Scientists categorize the “big cats” based upon two qualities: they belong to the Panthera genus, and they have a specialized two-piece hyoid bone in their throat which allows them to roar. The jaguar is the sole member of the big cat family to reside in the Americas, and the third largest of the big cats after the tiger and lion. Their range extends from the Southwestern United States across Mexico and much of Central America, the Amazon rainforest, and further south to Paraguay and northern Argentina. They are extinct in El Salvador and Uruguay. Within this vast range, jaguars are found in a variety of habitats, including wet and dry forests, savannas, and shrublands. In addition to being strong climbers (unlike the stereotype regarding most cats), jaguars are also powerful swimmers. In fact, jaguars are highly dependent upon large swarths of territory per individual as well as healthy freshwater systems for their survival.
While they may look like the leopards of Africa and Asia, jaguars are distinguished not only by their fondness for water, but their stockier and heavier build, a distinct “blockiness” to the head, and the coat featuring strikingly large rosettes with distinct internal spots.
The name “jaguar” is derived from the Tupi-Guarani word “yaguareté” or “yaguar”, which can translate to “he who kills with one leap” and “true, fierce beast”, among other intimidatingly mighty monikers.
Jaguars were historically worshipped by various civilizations from Mesoamerica down to the Amazon as authoritative and martial symbols, gods, and for having the ability to move between the mortal world and underworld. Today, among some indigenous religions, jaguars are still viewed with high regard, as shown with ritualistic dances, music, and shaman-based practices connected to this powerful feline.
Headshot of a male jaguar at the Stone Zoo, Stoneham, Massachusetts Image credit: Sienna Weinstein
A Powerful Apex Predator Under Threat
Depending upon their habitat, the jaguar’s diet is varied, consisting of numerous mammals, reptiles, and birds. While the bite force of bone-crunching hyenas and Arctic polar bears clocks in at 1,100 and 1,200 pounds per square inch (psi), respectively, that of the jaguar measures 1,500 psi. This power allows the jaguar to crush the shells of turtles and tortoises, and easily pierce through the skin of caimans.
As the top predator in their range, jaguars are classified as a keystone species–one that plays a crucial role in maintaining the health and diversity of their native ecosystems, as their actions significantly impact the environment and other species. By regulating the numbers of prey species, jaguars indirectly influence the abundance and distribution of other species, contributing to the overall richness and stability of the ecosystem. This top-down control has cascading effects, influencing everything from plant life to soil quality.
Despite their status as a keystone species and a cultural icon of the southern Americas, the jaguar is listed as Near Threatened on the IUCN Red List. It is estimated that their populations have decreased by up to 25% over the past few decades. Jaguars face numerous threats to their survival, including habitat loss and fragmentation, competition for prey by human hunters, and human hunting of jaguars for trophies, the illegal body part trade, and retaliation for livestock killing.
Various conservation actions have been implemented in countries where the jaguar is found, including, but not limited to: developing national, regional, and local monitoring programs for jaguars and their prey; monitoring and safeguarding jaguar core populations (aka Jaguar Conservation Units, or JCUs); and finally, understanding and addressing the hunting of jaguars, as well as raising awareness of the laws governing wildlife hunting and the need to adopt sustainable hunting practices.
Luckily, specific conservation plans for jaguars have been developed in Mexico, Panama, Honduras, and Brazil. Only time and plenty of actions will tell whether this unique cat of the Americas will continue to lurk, hunt, and inspire cultural legends for years to come.
Sienna Weinstein is a wildlife photographer, zoologist, and lifelong advocate for the conservation of wildlife across the globe. She earned her B.S. in Zoology from the University of Vermont, followed by a M.S. degree in Environmental Studies with a concentration in Conservation Biology from Antioch University New England. While earning her Bachelor’s degree, Sienna participated in a study abroad program in South Africa and Eswatini (formerly Swaziland), taking part in fieldwork involving species abundance and diversity in the southern African ecosystem. She is also an official member of the Upsilon Tau chapter of the Beta Beta Beta National Biological Honor Society.
Deciding at the end of her academic career that she wanted to grow her natural creativity and hobby of photography into something more, Sienna dedicated herself to the field of wildlife conservation communication as a means to promote the conservation of wildlife. Her photography has been credited by organizations including The Nature Conservancy, Zoo New England, and the Smithsonian’s National Zoo and Conservation Biology Institute. She was also an invited reviewer of an elephant ethology lesson plan for Picture Perfect STEM Lessons (May 2017) by NSTA Press. Along with writing for Bio4Climate, she is also a volunteer writer for the New England Primate Conservancy. In her free time, she enjoys playing video games, watching wildlife documentaries, photographing nature and wildlife, and posting her work on her LinkedIn profile. She hopes to create a more professional portfolio in the near future.
Which species of bear is the smallest and most arboreal, has the longest tongue of all bears, and are so smart, they can pick locks with their claws?
Courtesy Pexels
Made for the trees
If there is perhaps one thing to know about the sun bear, it’s that they are built for life in the trees.
If you were to design a near-perfect specimen for the arboreal life, you might end up with something pretty close to a sun bear.
Think about it. Its front paws turn inward like a pigeon’s, giving extra grip when climbing, while its strong, curved claws act like hooks to pull it upward. A flattened chest streamlines the body, reducing drag as the bear moves among a complex array of branches. Bare paw pads help add even more traction. And that thick coat? It helps protect these climbers from stings, scrapes, and tropical downpours…regular hazards of the trade. Even its eyes are set slightly forward compared to other bears, improving depth perception and giving their balance a boost high off the ground.
Sun bears are the smallest of all bear species, at 3.5-4.5 feet (1.1-1.4 m) long, and weighing 60-145 pounds (23-65 kg); males are almost 25 percent larger than females. Despite their awkward-looking gait on the ground due to their inward-facing front paws, their small size allows them to be quick-moving and flexible within their habitat, resulting in an ability to climb up to 40 feet (12.2 m) into the canopy! This impressive climbing feat makes the sun bear the one of the highest-climbing bear species of them all.
By hugging the tree more effectively with those inward-turned paws we just learned about, the sun bear can use its powerful forearm and chest muscles to climb. The inward angle essentially helps the front paws act like grappling hooks–preventing slipping while the hind legs push upward. For such a small bear, there’s a lot of muscle involved!
Shy and reclusive, sun bears are largely solitary (except for a mother and her cubs), and are typically most active during the day, foraging for food in the trees, and sunbathing in tree crevices, fallen logs, and especially nests they create out of twigs and leaves among the branches of the trees. They tend to be found far from human activity and can adjust their activities to be more nocturnal in order to avoid humans and any potential consequences that may result from such an encounter.
Sun bears are opportunistic omnivores, primarily eating fruits, insects (especially bees and termites), lizards, rodents, and their absolute(ly cliché) favorite: honey! Using their sharp claws, they break tree bark and beehives and use their impressive 8-10 inch (20-25 cm) long tongue (!!!) to lick up the insect and honey goodies. Their love for honey has unsurprisingly given them the nickname of “honey bear”, beruang madu, in Malay and Indonesian.
And they’re smart, too. A 2019 study discovered that, like humans and gorillas, sun bears use facial mimicry to communicate with one another. The study concluded that sun bears use distinct open-mouthed expressions during play, which could be used to communicate an interest in play or to strengthen social bonds. This power of observation extends to a little harmless tomofoolery, too. A captive sun bear was once observed carefully watching as sugar was locked away in a cupboard. Later, it used one of its claws like a key to open the lock and reward itself by snatching the sweet treat.
Sun bears play an important role in helping maintain the health and diversity of their native ecosystems, as their actions, routines, and behaviors significantly impact the environment and other species. While searching for beetles and other insects to eat, sun bears tear into tree trunks with their claws, leaving behind gashes and hollows. What begins as a little collateral damage later becomes a gift to the forest: the openings provide nesting spots and shelter for birds, reptiles, and other smaller animals. In addition, as fruit and seed-eaters, sun bears aid in the regeneration of their forest habitats by dispersing seeds through their feces as they move around. Finally, they can be considered pest controllers as a result of their diet consisting of insects and small rodents.
The sun bear is listed as Vulnerable on the IUCN Red List. Due to their secretive nature, it is unknown just how many wild individuals remain. But we do know they are in steep decline, with observable populations shrinking by more than 30% over the past three decades. Farming, logging, and poaching for meat or traditional medicine have stripped away both their habitat and safety, while the illegal pet trade adds further pressure. Their tendency to raid palm oil plantations and other crops has also fueled conflict with people.
While it is illegal to kill sun bears, laws protecting them are rarely enforced, and those laws that exist are poorly executed. There is A LOT that needs to be done in order to protect the sun bear on national, international, and local levels. Additional studies to further our knowledge of sun bear ecology, population distribution, conservation status, and the effect of threats, along with intense actions designed to reduce the trade in bear parts and to reduce habitat loss and degradation are some of the conservation actions needed to ensure that the smallest bear in the world remains free to climb trees and slurp up honey for years to come.
Sienna Weinstein is a wildlife photographer, zoologist, and lifelong advocate for the conservation of wildlife across the globe. She earned her B.S. in Zoology from the University of Vermont, followed by a M.S. degree in Environmental Studies with a concentration in Conservation Biology from Antioch University New England. While earning her Bachelor’s degree, Sienna participated in a study abroad program in South Africa and Eswatini (formerly Swaziland), taking part in fieldwork involving species abundance and diversity in the southern African ecosystem. She is also an official member of the Upsilon Tau chapter of the Beta Beta Beta National Biological Honor Society.
Deciding at the end of her academic career that she wanted to grow her natural creativity and hobby of photography into something more, Sienna dedicated herself to the field of wildlife conservation communication as a means to promote the conservation of wildlife. Her photography has been credited by organizations including The Nature Conservancy, Zoo New England, and the Smithsonian’s National Zoo and Conservation Biology Institute. She was also an invited reviewer of an elephant ethology lesson plan for Picture Perfect STEM Lessons (May 2017) by NSTA Press. Along with writing for Bio4Climate, she is also a volunteer writer for the New England Primate Conservancy. In her free time, she enjoys playing video games, watching wildlife documentaries, photographing nature and wildlife, and posting her work on her LinkedIn profile. She hopes to create a more professional portfolio in the near future.
One summer in high school, a close friend confessed that her parents had committed a crime when she was little. They released their two pet goldfish into a small pond behind her house to see what would happen. As far as experiments go, it was uneventful: the pair of fish grew to a respectable size, enough so that someone staring intently at the little pond could catch flashes of orange now and again. My friend’s goldfish fared well in her tiny pond, but could have also succeeded in a larger, more competitive environment. Goldfish thrive in most settings, so it is likely that they would outcompete native fish for food resources in the process of survival. However, the goldfish is not the only exotic pet with this potential. Governments around the world recognise this, which is why the release of pets into the wild is a legislated issue.
Many species can illustrate the need for these laws well, but one particularly dramatic story exists in the Florida Everglades: that of the Burmese python. What was once a popular pet has now become Florida’s nightmare, a situation so dire that massive swaths of Florida society have mobilized to hunt these former pets and their descendants en masse through the Everglades. While the Burmese Python has found a comfortable habitat in Florida, its tendency to eat everything in sight has made the state unable and unwilling to accommodate it.
Burmese Python Basics
The simplest way to understand what a Burmese python looks like? Ask a kindergartener to describe a snake. The Burmese python is a massive, formidable serpent. Although female Burmese pythons grow to larger sizes relative to their male counterparts, the average python commonly reaches lengths of 10-15 feet, but can grow over 20 feet and weigh in at 200 pounds. At this size, they can easily suffocate small mammals and other similar-sized prey.
The Burmese python is an r-selected species with reproductive traits ideal for turbulent situations. The Burmese python reaches reproductive age between four and five years old and can reproduce throughout its life. The average Burmese python lives to be 15-30 years old, depending on if it’s in the wild or captivity, and reproduces once per year. One clutch of eggs can be anywhere between 50 and 100 individuals. The average clutch has only a 38% survival rate, but this is all part of the snake’s plan of quantity over quality of maternal care. This reproduction strategy, combined with the python’s unfussy diet, allow it to adapt to new environments, and even outcompete native species for food and resources to the detriment of the ecosystem’s health: the definition of an invasive species.
Burmese Python’s native range in Asia. Courtesy Animalia.
Burmese pythons exist in a variety of settings with varying degrees of success. Firstly, they often exist in captivity as a lucrative part of the exotic pet trade. The python is an apex predator in the wild, and the only notable threats adult members of the population face are from humans, namely, poaching and industrial development. These issues are most prevalent in certain areas in the Burmese Python’s native range in Southeast Asia. In some zones, populations have declined by 80% in a single decade. The Burmese python is therefore globally classified as a “threatened” species. Overall, the Burmese python has found the most success in the Florida Everglades, where it can hide in the vast, untouched, and diverse ecosystem.
The Florida Everglades, a Biodiverse Haven
The Florida Everglades is one of the largest wetlands in the world and an incredible source of tourism for the state. It is also the primary freshwater source for a third of Floridians, and provides water for most of the state’s agricultural ventures. None of these vital functions, however, are the reason that Everglades National Park was created. Instead, early local conservationists, such as the Florida Audubon Society and Marjory Stoneman Douglas, believed that the area’s unique and considerable biodiversity was worth preserving. These voices won despite fierce opposition from game hunters and other interested parties, and Everglades National Park was authorized by Congress in 1934 with the Everglades Act and formally established in 1947. It became the first US national park created to preserve biodiversity.
As biodiversity continues to decrease globally, the statistics comprising the Everglades become even more significant: the many endangered, endemic, and otherwise rare species comprising the Everglades should serve as a shining example of the importance of ecosystem preservation in the US. Instead, the Everglades today is only 50% of its original land size and faces an onslaught from many familiar sources. For one, agricultural activity in the greater Everglades Agricultural Area (EEA) has predictably led to fertilizers and pesticides being found in the Everglades system.
Everglades National Park Moni3, public doman
Increased industrial and residential development in Florida has also had an impact. Many of these projects date back to the 1940’s, when large swaths of the Everglades were drained for industrial and agricultural purposes. These have resulted in a 70% reduction of water flow from Lake Okeechobee to the Everglades and beyond. The secondary effects of this decreased water capacity are serious. In addition to many rare species, the Everglades feature acres of peatland, consisting of soil incredibly dense with decomposed organic matter, leaving behind carbon and nitrogen. As these areas have received less water and experienced drought, allowing oxygen to move in and decompose the peat, releasing carbon, nitrogen, and other material into the atmosphere. Finally, the Burmese python has spent decades wreaking havoc on the Florida Everglades. In the face of these challenges, the Florida and federal governments have had limited success.
Other entities, however, have voiced concerns over the situation, as well as a desire to be involved in decision making, such as the local Seminole and Miccosukee tribes, who have called the Everglades home for generations. The Second Seminole War began in 1835 over the Seminole and Miccosukee peoples’ forced relocation west of the Mississippi from their reservation north of Lake Okeechobee in what is now central Florida. Many native forces used the Everglades as a refuge and meeting place during the conflict. By the third Seminole war, most of the nation had moved west, those who stayed dug deeper into the Everglades.
Today, the Seminole tribe is heading the ambitious Everglades Restoration Initiative, a $65 million dollar project that is mostly focused on improving the Everglades water system. The initiative aims to clean the water of pollutants, increase water storage capacity, and lobby for decreasing development projects in the greater Everglades area. Furthermore, the Miccosukee people have been successfully lobbying governments on behalf of the Everglades for decades, including fighting legal designations that would force the native population to vacate the Everglades. It is this continued ignorance from the government that has led organizations such as the National Academies to call for increased cooperation between the groups: after all, ancestral knowledge of the ecosystem predates western scientific knowledge. For one, the Miccosukee and Seminole peoples have a better understanding of how a restored Everglades should look. The governments of the United States and Florida have also had limited successes in addressing other issues plaguing the Everglades, such as an aforementioned invasive species.
A Long Way From Home
Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was the Florida Everglades branch of the Burmese python family. The first pythons in Florida arrived in the 1970s and early 80s as a popular exotic pet. However, breeders and owners alike allowed many snakes to escape into the wild. These individual cases mostly slipped by undetected. The real catalyst for today’s python crisis was Hurricane Andrew, which hit Florida in 1992 and led to many snakes escaping from a breeding facility.
These snakes rapidly found a home in the familiar, subtropical Florida Everglades, where their r-selected tendencies helped them thrive.
But what exactly is the problem with the Burmese python being in the Everglades? An invasive species thrives at the expense of the health of a larger ecosystem. Much like their fellow invasive species, such as the Asian Carp, the Burmese python is a predator with an appetite so large that their new ecosystem cannot provide enough food. It’s what’s known as a carrying capacity overshoot. In the Everglades, their unchecked predation devastated native mammal populations.
Although the snake primarily snacks on small mammals, no creatures are really safe. A widely cited 2012 study found that between 1997 and the publication, raccoon numbers in the Everglades (once an incredibly common sight) had declined by 99.3 percent. Fellow common mammals in this study barely fared better, with all population crashes being over 85%. Most damningly, sightings of these animals were often in areas where pythons were not present or had only been recently introduced. Other species, like marsh rabbits and foxes, “effectively disappeared over that time.” Today, estimates of their population in the Everglades range from 100,000 to 300,000 individuals.
Female Burmese Python with eggs Photo: Tigerpython
A Serpentine Smear Campaign
It wasn’t until 2000 that the Burmese python was officially recognized as an established species in the Everglades. In 2006, the Florida government took a soft approach to eliminating pet python releases with the new Exotic Pet Amnesty program.Through this program, pet owners could connect with parties interested in taking their unwanted pets free of charge. Two years later, the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission (FWC) decreed the python as a “reptile of concern.” This distinction meant that the Burmese python could only be kept as a pet after a potential owner jumped through bureaucratic hoops.. The effectiveness of these solutions to the python’s presence in the Everglades was limited, as working to prevent snake releases does not address the already-established local population.
It is important to note that during this early period, the most effective and robust solutions to the python invasions came from local and national non-profits. In 2008, the Nature Conservancy launched its Python Patrol program for the Florida Keys, an initiative that trained volunteers in the best methods of python seeking and euthanizing. The Nature Conservancy partnered with Everglades National Park in 2010 and the FWC took over the program following its success.
A parallel yet arguably more impactful program was that of the local Conservancy of Southwest Florida. Unlike the Nature Conservancy, their efforts comprise a larger number of innovative strategies. Firstly, they considerably publicized the efforts of their eradication and removal volunteer crews: several videos went “viral” on a global scale, which helped raise awareness toward the issue. They also pioneered a high-tech elimination strategy that involved catching and airtaging male pythons of breeding age in order to track their movements to python nests.
In 2012, the Obama-era US Fish and Wildlife Administration decided to weigh in on the python problem. The Burmese python, along with several other exotic snakes, was designated as a Prohibited Species under the Lacey Act. This act is one of the oldest pieces of conservation legislation in the United States. Dating back to 1900, it bans the interstate sale and purchase, importation, exportation, etc, of a list of specific plant and animal species without a permit. Later amendments were more comprehensive and dealt with wildlife shipment labelings, timber supply chains, and other mechanisms affecting the transport of foreign species. The ability to own one of these animals, such as the Burmese python, is a matter left for individual states to decide.
Despite a myriad of eradication efforts, experts and officials share the opinion that eradicating the Burmese python from Florida is nearly impossible.
Lessons Learned
Unfortunately, it is far too easy to blame the processes of government in this story, as decisive action was quite delayed. Legal theorists over the years have also pointed out that the Lacey Act has a loophole, whereby government agencies cannot take action against an already established invasive population. In the future, should it be the responsibility of the government to take preemptive preventative measures to protect biodiversity? Despite their smaller role in this story, I would venture a yes: as development projects threaten the stability of the Everglades as a water purifier and essential ecosystem, the law is needed to stop these endeavors in spite of the market forces demanding their creation.
The state of Florida remains an absolutely essential player in hopes of preserving the Everglades. However, the old and continuing story of Everglades conservation is absolute proof of the power of non-government entities to motivate legal and public policy actions. The state would therefore be wise to consult not only pioneering non-profit conservationists, but the longtime local experts that call the national park home.
Alexa Hankins is a student at Boston University, where she is pursuing a degree in International Relations with a concentration in environment and development policy. She discovered Bio4Climate through her research to develop a Miyawaki forest bike tour in greater Boston. Alexa is passionate about accessible climate education, environmental justice, and climate resilience initiatives. In her free time, she likes to read, develop her skills with houseplants, and explore the Boston area!
What species has a hard outer shell that protects from predation, is found across the Midwest of the United States, and inspired the name of a Big Ten mascot?
The distinctive fruit and leaves of the Ohio Buckeye Jmasis, CC-BY-NC
The Buckeye Tree (Aesculus glabra)
Growing up in Ohio, otherwise known as ‘The Buckeye State’, the tree seemed to be everywhere. I saw it around my hometown, on THE Ohio State University (OSU) sweatshirts, and featured in the display cases of local stores selling buckeye-inspired chocolate peanut butter desserts. In Ohio, the buckeye is a cultural icon.
These trees are abundant in the Cleveland Metroparks: fields, trails, and forests peppered around the wilderness I’ve wandered with friends and family all my life. I remember seeing a buckeye while visiting an arboretum in second grade. A small plaque beside the tree signified its status as a crucial part of Ohio’s history and ecological community. Each year, as the air cools and jackets become a necessity, I can vividly imagine the Buckeye Tree’s nuts littering the grass, intermixed with yellow and brown leaves – even when far from my home state of Ohio.
But while the tree has become a staple of Ohio’s culture, what makes it stand out within Ohio’s flora and fauna?
Buckeyes typically reach about 30 feet in most understory areas, but can grow up to 70 feet tall. Their flaky, grey trunks reach up to two feet in diameter. The trees have leaves that palmate, or spread out like fingers on a hand, and are typically made up of five-toothed leaflets. They flower from April to May, and their sprouting yellow petals are common charms of Ohio’s spring landscape. Similarly, the pumpkin-orange of the leaves in the fall is integral to most Ohioans’ autumn experience. Lining forest exteriors and park pathways, the buckeye’s noble appearance is appreciated year-round.
Closer up, the tree has small fruits, which are rough capsules that split open when ripe to release nuts (2-5 cm long): the most iconic part of the species. Their smooth, dark-brown exteriors have a lighter, rough spot that imitates an eye and serves as the reason for the trees’ namesake.“Buckeye” comes from the Shawnee word ‘hetuck’, which means ‘eye of the buck deer,’ named so for its resemblance to the deer’s ocular organ. Over time, the etymology of this word has changed, and today it serves as a title of pride for Ohioans to reference the aesthetic, sturdy, and valuable aspects of the tree and its nut.
Despite its small size, the Buckeyes’ seed hides an elegant, layered defense system like that of a medieval castle.
It’s a great example of plant adaptation to predation. The seed’s large size and sturdy shell help protect it physically, while toxins act as a chemical defense. If a predator can’t crack the tough outer shell, the seed survives to germinate. This ability to deflect predators also means that the genes’ strongest seeds are the ones passed down to the next generation, allowing the population to become stronger and stronger! Still, if a larger predator does manage to break in, the toxins deliver a poisonous surprise that deters future predation (Mendoza & Dirzo, 2009).
While Brutus (OSU’s mascot) has a cheery disposition, the tree’s seed—like those of other buckeye species—is a mighty fighter in a small shell!
Other parts of the buckeye can also be quite dangerous to interacting fauna. The leaves, bark, and fruit are all highly toxic if ingested, primarily because of the high levels of glycoside aesculin, saponin aescin, and alkaloids found in the plant (USDA). While ingestion is dangerous, the buckeye has more topical applications.
The buckeye seed (often confused for a nut)
The buckeye has long been used by Indigenous communities across Ohio and the Midwest for its medicinal abilities. Specific compounds in the buckeye, like tannins, contain anti-inflammatory and astringent properties that aid the treatment of swollen joints, rheumatism, and sores on the body.
Recent research is giving new life to the buckeye’s potential as medicine. Scientists at Ohio State have found promising compounds in the tree’s bark that might one day be used to help treat cancer (Velazquez Cruz, 2024). In particular, they discovered antioxidants called procyanidins and signs that some of the bark’s properties may help destroy harmful cells.
Such research demonstrates the importance of listening to Indigenous practices, ecologies and medicines for solutions that come from the native plants around us. In utilizing the tools literally in our backyard, localized knowledge can be used to help fellow ‘Buckeyes’ around the world!
Current buckeye populations are thriving, but this reality might change if climatic shifts intensify faster than populations can adapt. The USDA Climate Atlas notes concerns over the buckeyes’ ability to properly establish seeds and resist fire topkill (the ability to succeed after repeated interactions with burns) in a warmer climate. Annual coldest and warmest temperatures in areas below Ohio will increase beyond a level manageable if carbon emissions continue at a ‘moderate level’.
Shifts in average temperatures and rainfall caused by emissions will undoubtedly impact the Ohio Buckeye’s current habitat. Already, there is a record of latitudinal shifts; as areas north of Ohio become warmer, buckeye populations in Canada and Michigan have been growing steadily over the past two decades (Henry, 2008). The introduction of the buckeye to these new areas poses a threat to local flora and fauna, as well as the individual species’ ability to grow.
However, the buckeye nut isn’t so easy to crack. Local researchers at Kent State University are studying species mix as a tool for resilience. A large part of their project is utilizing cleared land that has yet to be developed. By turning barren spaces into groves of trees, the project managers are increasing local carbon sequestration, learning about trees’ adaptability, and facilitating species’ growth.
As a powerful part of Ohio’s identity, the buckeye is a resilient contributor to the State’s biodiversity. From the symbolism of resistance encapsulated within the seed, to the untapped medicinal potential of the tree, the buckeye is a part of my personal history that continues to astound me. I want to protect the places I care about from the impacts of a changing climate, while also helping this iconic species continue to thrive in the Buckeye State!
Ryan Hill is currently an undergraduate student at Dartmouth College studying Environmental Studies and Studio Art. He is passionate about the conservation of local biodiversity and learning more about the ecosystems that make up our planet. He takes artistic inspiration from the natural world and admires the beauty of small insect colonies, to widespread old-growth forests.
What tiny creature glows in the dark, digests cellulose, and can propel themselves up to 20 times their body length in the air without even using their legs?
II first discovered fire click beetles a few years ago while on a vacation to Florida in 2019. It was dark out, and my family and I sat at a firepit, joined by my younger cousins who we were visiting at the time. My brother and I had a tradition of catching fireflies, so we took our cousins to a grassy lawn bordered by trees and tall grasses on the other side of our hotel. Fireflies were dancing around in the air, and we had a lot of fun chasing them. I saw a light coming from the grass, and went towards it, thinking that trapping a firefly from below would be easier than jumping for one as it flew past me. I parted the grass to take a look, and saw that the glowing light wasn’t from a firefly at all!
At the time, I didn’t know that there were insects other than fireflies that could glow, much to my surprise. It was shinier than a firefly, without the characteristic red-yellow head, and the greenish glow was coming from two spots that looked like eyes! I didn’t try to pick it up, because I wasn’t sure if it would bite me, and instead went to share this unexpected finding with my parents. When I brought them over to see, it had disappeared. Later (with the help of Google, of course) I found out it was a click beetle; specifically, a fire click beetle (genus Pyrophorus). I had never seen one before. As someone who loves entomology, I started to read more, and I found them to be fascinating! Let’s take a look at what makes fire click beetles so unique.
Bioluminescence
As you know, fireflies are able to produce light, and fire click beetles are able to as well. Within an insect, the front section is the head, the middle section is the thorax, and the back portion is the abdomen. Pyrophorus has two glowing spots on its thorax, near the head. This beetle also has a spot underneath its abdomen, which is only visible when a beetle opens its wings to fly. These spots can glow yellow or green, and unlike fireflies, don’t really turn on and off. Fireflies can flash their lights at will, but fire click beetles cannot. These beetles can only control the brightness of their light at a given moment, changing intensity to adapt to the present environment and conditions. Fire click beetle eggs, larvae, and pupae glow, too!
Image: a fire click beetle with spread wings; Leonardo Adrián LEIVA (CC BY-NC 4.0 via iNaturalist)
Fireflies and fire click beetles produce their light in the same way: a chemical reaction. Both creatures have glowing “light organs”, which have special cells that contain a molecule called luciferin. Luciferin is stable by itself, but if it breaks down in a certain way, the energy within the molecule is released as light. Enzymes help break this chemical down using oxygen; the main enzyme involved is called luciferase (the suffix -ase means that it breaks down its namesake chemical, luciferin).
Interestingly, fireflies and fire click beetles have varying genes for luciferase. Since enzymes are coded for by DNA, scientists were able to compare the genes of the two insects to see the similarities and differences. The DNA turned out to differ significantly! This result indicates that these two insects did not get their bioluminescence in the same way, since there isn’t a common ancestor that passed the ability down. Each evolved to have bioluminescence separately, and it ended up working the same way. It’s no surprise that luciferins are one of the most efficient ways to create light!
Image: a fire click beetle showing off its mesosternal lip; Janet Guardiola (CC BY-NC 4.0 via iNaturalist, image is rotated)
On a side note, the word “luciferin” has no direct correlation with the devil; lucifer is a Latin word meaning “light-bearing”. Luciferin, which produces light, was named by adding the suffix “-in”, which is commonly used for many molecules and compounds.
Clicking Powers
Click beetles (family Elateridae) – believe it or not – can click! They get their name from a loud and sharp snap they can produce. This sound is produced through a latch mechanism, where they build up energy that suddenly releases, propelling themselves in the air and releasing a click. It works kind of like snapping your fingers; when you press your fingers together, the friction between your fingertips keeps them from moving until enough energy has built up that it overcomes resistance, and your finger slips, making a snapping sound. Click beetles have a little notch at the base of their thorax that acts as a hinge; when they bend backwards, the notch slips into a latch that holds it in place. When they try to bend forwards, the pressure builds up until it, metaphorically, explodes.
Now, in your case, your middle finger (or whatever finger you use to snap), slips fast and hits your palm. Click beetles don’t have a release like this; instead, the force flings their whole body into the air (given how small they are, this doesn’t actually take that much energy; they’re usually only about an inch long). They can go up around twenty times their body length, and one species, Athous haemorrhoidalis, can “jump” up to a foot in the air.
This motion only works when the beetles are on their back. If they were standing normally, they would technically be propelled down into the ground. They use this technique to flip themselves over when they are stuck on their back. At the same time, if the beetle is in danger, it could also be used to get up and away from a predator much faster than if they tried to fly.
Fire click beetles have no extra mechanism for making sure they land right-side–up; most animals, if they fall, are able to at least somewhat orient themselves in the air. Fire click beetles, and most insects, cannot. Still, they land right-side-up 2 out of 3 times. How? Well, it is actually quite simple – they act like a weighted coin. Their underside is much heavier than their top, since their exoskeleton there is thicker and denser. Therefore, when they are falling, their bottom side tends to go first, and ends up below, where it belongs. Of course, this is not a foolproof method, as they still land upside down a third of the time. In that case, they can just do it again!
Why don’t fire click beetles get hurt when they fall? When they’re in the air, they accelerate very fast, up to 300 times the force of gravity. That’s fast enough to kill a human, but the beetles are not injured at all – with the capacity to crawl and fly immediately. This ability is a result of their hard exoskeleton that protects them on the outside, and their soft tissue inside, which is designed to absorb impact to avoid internal damage. Coupled with their size, this structure allows most smaller insects to survive their terminal velocity. This means that, if you dropped one from as high as an airplane, it would survive the fall! (risks from air pressure, wind speed, or an unlucky bird encounter notwithstanding).
Fire click beetle larvae live in soil or decaying wood, where they feed on a mix of decomposing plant material and small invertebrates. In this way, they help recycle nutrients in their ecosystems. Adults of some click beetle species feed on pollen, nectar, and occasionally soft-bodied insects, though the diet of Pyrophorus adults is bit less well documented.
It’s worth talking here about cellulose, for a minute, a carbohydrate found in the lining of plant cells. Cellulose is one of the main “leftover” materials that needs to be broken down in the environment, since other animals only tend to digest proteins, lipids, and certain carbohydrates. Cows, for example, also have the right enzymes and gut microbes to digest cellulose; that’s why they can rely on grass as a food source, unlike humans. In our diets, cellulose is typically a fiber; we do not get energy from it, but it helps us in other ways (including helping digestion go smoothly, and helping diversify our gut microbes). However, these beetles are believed to tolerate and digest cellulose rather easily.
Since fire click beetles often eat pollen and plant matter, warm, leafy areas like the tropics, subtropics, and temperate regions are a favorite. They can be found in Central and South America, as well as the surrounding islands. They can even be found as far north as Mexico or, rarely, southern US, although they have recently been disappearing from there, along with many other insects in the area. Habitat loss and deforestation, pesticide and herbicide use, and temperature and precipitation variations due to climate change are some of the major contributors to fire click beetle disappearance. These beetles are usually referred to as cocuyos in areas south of Florida.
Also, remember when I mentioned aphids before? Some fire click beetle adults eat them, as well as other soft-bodied pests. This predator-prey relationship keeps aphid populations in check. Other species play a role in managing fire click beetle populations, such as large insects, moles and shrews, and some birds, which are all common predators of Pyrophorus.
Every species in an ecosystem has a specific role to play in the flow of energy and cycling of nutrients. Some of the main roles in a food web are producers, consumers, and decomposers. If any of these groups become too abundant or too small, the ecosystem might become unstable. A trophic cascade is a series of impactful and often harmful effects in a food web caused by a change in one of the populations in the ecosystem; the addition or removal of just one species causes the entire thing to fall apart.
For example, if most of the fire click beetles in a certain environment suddenly died, aphid populations could grow exponentially. This action could cause other harmful effects, starting with the death of plants that the aphids feed on. Animals that feed on the click beetles might also decrease in size, as they would lack this creature as a food source. In turn, other species those animals eat would increase in size, and the ecosystem would become unstable.
These potential consequences present the main reasons why it’s concerning that these beetles, and other insects and animals, are disappearing from certain locations. Climate change and human activities are causing ecosystem instability at much faster rates than usual, which puts environments at risk.
The potential for this kind of ecosystem collapse is part of the reason why invasive species or endangered species are such a big deal. Ecosystems are interconnected, and the presence or absence of a given species has the power to entirely change or destroy how other organisms interact with the environment.
I hope you’ve learned a little about a fascinating tiny insect that I love, and their weird features like bioluminescence and clicking. I also hope you’re more knowledgeable about the important roles species play, which are often critical to maintaining a stable ecosystem. Decomposers and little critters that feed in the soil are necessary for the flow of energy and nutrient cycling through an ecosystem. Consumers, like the adults, help keep populations in check and maintain a balance between different species.
I hope this introduction to the fire click beetle encourages us to dive into any curiosities we have, like I did with these beetles. I also hope that this reflection helps us become more aware of the natural world and our place in it, and consider how we affect other species and individuals in our ecosystem.
Anya Reddy is a high school student at Blue Valley North. She loves biology and biochemistry, as well as entomology, ecology, and environmental science in general. Some of Anya’s non-science passions include archery and all kinds of 2D and 3D art. She enjoys learning about all kinds of organisms and how they connect and interact with others in their environment; she hopes to use writing to help share fascinating details about them, helping others like the weird and interesting organisms she loves.
I flicker and float in warm evening air, Like nature’s own fireworks, more care than scare. No sound, just light as I drift and play What glowing insect lights up your way?
Fireflies in upstate New York Image credit: Alexandra Ionescue
Fireflies
We’re doing Featured Creature a little differently this week. Instead of a written piece, we’re publishing this conversation between Adrianna Drindak (Science Communications Intern) and Brendan Kelly (Communications Manager), with media and contextual commentary from Alexandra Ionescu (Associate Director of Regenerative Projects).
Brendan
Hi Adrianna.
Adrianna
Hi Brendan.
Brendan
So, Alexandra Ionescu had this idea of exploring fireflies for Featured Creature this weekend. It’s obviously Fourth of July in the United States and we typically celebrate with fireworks, and she made this great observation from the woods in Upstate NY, about fireflies being nature’s fireworks, and I thought that was so great and left open so much room to explore not just the ecology and biochemistry, but also I think our collective childlike awe and fascination with them.
Alexandra
Exactly! Thank you both and I’m so bummed I have to miss the rest of this conversation, but yes I wanted to give a little more context.
This summer I shared a really beautiful moment with my dad while he was visiting from abroad.
I took him to one of my favorite spots in Upstate NY near my husband’s parents house to see the beavers. We went at dusk and were able to catch a beaver and a few tail slabs. It was nearly dark by this point and the path back to the car cut through the forest. And what unraveled was this beautiful transition from being in the presence of a beaver and observing its movement through the water, and then walking back to the car through the dark forest.
Except, it wasn’t.
The forest was lit up by probably thousands of fireflies. Wherever you looked you could see them flickering and communicating and signaling. There were rhythms and waves of dots and points and flashes of light dancing all around us.
And it’s fascinating to realize that firefly season coincides with the 4th of July, especially if we think of fireflies as nature’s own fireworks. (Only, it happens through chemistry, with absolutely no sound the human ear can detect, and no pollution.)
How does nature illuminate, versus how humans illuminate?
Maybe it all comes down to an intentionality of being—one that respects the web of life, that practices co-existence, where illumination doesn’t disturb the ways of other beings, but coexists alongside them—through silence, wavelengths, and chemistry.
So I invite everyone this weekend—and beyond—instead of going to see the violent, explosive fireworks, the human–made fireworks, go see nature’s own fireworks instead.
By Alexandra Ionescu
Brendan
Thanks Alex, that’s such a beautiful way to set course for this conversation and our hope is to circle back around to some of those themes by the end. Okay, Adrianna, what do we know about fireflies?
Adrianna
Thanks Alex! Yes, let’s talk about fireflies. Or lightening bugs, depending on where you live or grew up.
Brendan
I was raised in Kansas, they’ve always been lightening bugs to me.
Adrianna
As a New Englander, it’s fireflies.
Brendan
Agree to disagree.
Adrianna
Sure. So this probably won’t come as a surprise to anyone, but fireflies are unique in that they are one of the few organisms that are able to produce their own light.
Brendan
You’re talking about bioluminescence?
Adrianna
That’s right, bioluminescence. Oxygen inside the firefly’s light organ, or lantern, mixes with three other components: adenosine triphosphate (ATP), a molecule called luciferin and the enzyme luciferase. And researchers believe that different fireflies can give off different intensities of light that they’re producing based on the level of oxygen that’s being supplied to the light organ, to the lantern.
During that reaction, nearly all the energy is released as light, not heat. It’s one of the most energy-efficient light sources in nature.
Brendan
That’s really neat. I’m reading right now that they’ve even inspired energy-saving LED technologies. If Alex was still here I think she’d have a lot to say about biomimicry!
I see that one way LED designers have drawn from fireflies is by adding microscopic surface structures that help light escape more efficiently. In most LEDs, those structures are symmetrical, but fireflies have asymmetric, angled microstructures on their lanterns. This boosts light output in two ways: First, the greater surface area increases light interaction, so less of it gets trapped. And second, the uneven angles scatter the light more randomly, giving it more chances to exit. It’s really clever. I’ll send you the article. The close-up images are wild.
Adrianna
And kind of like how you can buy different color LEDs, there are different colors of light amongst fireflies.
Brendan
Oh, interesting. Is it involuntary? I was reading about how, we can get into this in a second, but how the light is used to signal and communicate, where males will have their own flash patterns and specific sequences. So is what you’re talking about the mechanism by which that is controlled or are we talking about two separate things?
Adrianna
We’re talking about two separate things. Oxygen and chemical regulation can vary between species, which is why you get different colors and hues of light from different species of firefly. Separately, yes, each firefly can control the sequence of signals it sends.
But, it’s important to note that some firefly species are active during the day instead of at night. They don’t produce light, so instead of flashing, they communicate using pheromones.
Brendan
Yeah, I saw something similar in a recent report, just a couple years old. So…what do you call a lightning bug that doesn’t light up? Just a bug?
I’ll be honest I’m not entirely sure where that leaves us.
Adrianna
Communication.
Brendan
Right. One of my more recent feature creature articles was about African gray parrots and I focused pretty much exclusively on the communication aspect because what I love about those birds is that their vocalizations are hyperlocal and they have their own dialects based on where they live in the forest. Almost like accents. And it almost seems like there’s a similar phenomenon going on here with this sort of language of light.
Photo by Jud McCranie. Butler Island Plantation, Georgia
Adrianna
Yes! There are around 2,000 species of fireflies, which is wild to think about. When multiple species live in the same area, they each occupy a specific “signaling niche.” That means they might share habitats, but they’ll come out at different times of night, and they use distinct flash patterns to communicate. So even if they’re in the same place, they’re not getting their signals crossed, each species is speaking its own visual language, on its own schedule.
Brendan
That’s such a cool thing to know. If you’re observing fireflies in your backyard or local area, you can probably start to notice patterns, like what time they come out, how they flash. And then maybe when you’re somewhere else in the summer, you could compare what you’re seeing and pick up on the differences. I’m not sure if there’s a whole firefly-watching community out there like birders, but it’s fun to think about!
I was reading that the whole thing is kind of like a dance, at least when it comes to mating. The males are the ones flying around, flashing their little signals like peacocks, trying to get attention. The females stay on the ground or in low vegetation, and if they spot a male they like, they flash back. That’s how they find each other and connect.
Adrianna
That’s right. The male sends a flash of light and then the female will see the signal from a male of her species, and they communicate and find each other. They navigate their way towards each other through those sequences of flashes.
Brendan
It’s almost melancholy though because when you see them you get excited but they’re at the end of their life basically if you see them flying around flashing, right?
Adrianna
Yep. I’m looking at a diagram now and they are eggs for about 3 weeks, in their larva stage for about one to two years, in their pupa stage for about three weeks, and then they’re adults for only three to four weeks.
Brendan
Okay now I read this in a few reports so I have a degree of confidence about it. In some species, like Photuris fireflies, the females will actually mimic the flash patterns of a different firefly species to lure in unsuspecting males. The male thinks he’s found a mate, but when he arrives, it’s a total bait-and-switch…she eats him instead. It’s a wild example of aggressive mimicry.
Adrianna
That’s crazy.
Brendan
Yeah. Who knew the life of the lightening bug could be so hostile. But I guess on that point, it can be a hostile life!
Adrianna
It can, for sure. I came across a recent Penn State project studying threats to fireflies, and one key point was how climate change is affecting their development. For many U.S. species, the seasonal temperature patterns they rely on (warmer summers and cooler winters) are shifting. Unseasonal heat or cold can disrupt their life cycles. Changing rainfall patterns are also a problem: both droughts and flooding can interfere with firefly development at different stages.
Brendan
That makes sense. Fireflies usually need some level of moisture, so drier conditions are definitely a concern. But the issue of light pollution stood out to me. As cities expand and the night gets brighter, the bioluminescent signals fireflies use to find mates can get drowned out. If the flashing is less visible, then males and females may just miss each other altogether.
It’s a reminder that habitat isn’t just about physical space, it’s also about light, temperature, and other environmental cues that species depend on.
Adrianna
Definitely. I’ve never lived in a city before and I think it’s been really interesting for me to notice those kinds of changes and to think about those kinds of shifts in what organisms I’m seeing and which organisms I’m not seeing. I was just home last weekend in upstate New York like Alexandra, and we were walking in the woods and there were fireflies everywhere. And then I come back to D.C., where I’m living this summer, and it’s just very different.
Brendan
I didn’t see many fireflies when I lived in D.C. either, and I think that makes sense. When you’re out of the city, you can look up and see the stars clearly. But in the city, even on a clear night, you look up and the stars are hidden by all the light. And I think it’s probably the same for fireflies. To our eyes, a star and a firefly are about the same size. If we can’t see the stars, we’re not going to see the lightning bugs either. And more importantly, they might not see each other.
I’m sure pesticides are a factor too, but light pollution alone feels like a big deal.
Photo by Bernd Thaller. Graz, Austria
Brendan
Bringing this full circle, I’ve been thinking about how deeply embedded fireflies are in our collective memory, especially for those of us who grew up in suburban or rural areas in the U.S. They’re not like pets, exactly, but I’d still put them up there with cats and dogs in terms of how familiar and emotionally resonant they are. Almost everyone seems to have a memory: running barefoot through the yard at dusk, chasing little flashes of light, maybe at a cookout or camping trip. All of mine are social. Playing with friends, watching them float above the grass while the adults talked nearby. Even now, fireflies still feel special. You can’t be alone in the woods at night if there are fireflies all around.
There’s something about them that’s instantly nostalgic. Mention catching one in a jar and people don’t need an explanation…they just nod, like, “Yeah, I remember that.”
Adrianna
Yeah, and going back to how Alex opened this conversation with that contrast between fireflies and fireworks. On one hand, you’ve got fireflies, which have this quiet, calming, joyful presence. And then on the other, fireworks, which are loud and disruptive to so many living things. It’s just a really different kind of relationship you can have with each of them.
Adrianna Drindak is a rising senior at Dartmouth College studying Environmental Earth Sciences and Environmental Studies. Prior to interning at Bio4Climate, she worked as a field technician studying ovenbirds at Hubbard Brook Experimental Forest and as a laboratory technician in an ecology lab. Adrianna is currently an undergraduate researcher in the Quaternary Geology Lab at Dartmouth, with a specific focus on documenting climate history and past glaciations in the northeast region of the United States. This summer, Adrianna is looking forward to applying her science background to an outreach role, and is excited to brainstorm ways to make science more accessible. In her free time, Adrianna enjoys reading, baking gluten free treats, hiking, and backpacking.
Alexandra Ionescu is a Certified Biomimicry Professional, Ecological Artist and 2024 SUGi Fellow. Her aim is to inspire learning from and about diverse non-human intelligences, cultivating propensities for ecosystem regeneration through co-existence, collaboration and by making the invisible visible. She hopes to motivate others to ask “How can humans give back to the web of life?” by raising awareness of biodiversity and natural cycles to challenge human-centric infrastructures. At present, Alexandra is immersed in expanding her knowledge of ecological restoration through Miyawaki forests, beaver-engineered landscapes, and constructed floating wetlands. In her spare time, Alexandra is part of the Below and Above Collective, an interdisciplinary group that combines art with ecological functionality to build constructed floating wetlands.
Brendan Kelly began his career teaching conservation education programs at the Columbus Zoo and Aquarium before relocating to Washington, DC. Since then, he has spent a decade as a journalist and policy communications strategist, designing and driving narratives for an array of political, advocacy, and institutional campaigns, including in the renewable energy and sustainable architecture spaces. Most recently before joining Bio4Climate, Brendan was working in tech, helping early and growth stage startups tell their stories and develop industry thought leadership. He is interested in how the intersection of informal education, mass communications and marketing can be retooled to drive relatable, accessible climate action. While he loves all ecosystems equally, he is admittedly partial to those in the alpine.
What species is the tallest tree in the world, produces fog, and provides habitat for many organisms?
Adrianna Drindak
Let me introduce you to this ecosystem, beginning with a moment of meeting.
The metal boardwalk presses into my back, creating small indentations along my spine. A few meters away, a stream whispers, with the sound of swirling eddies lingering in my ears as the water glides and splashes. The surrounding ecosystem dazzles with green as the ferns dance from the nudge of a passing breeze. There is a deep silence in this forest. A silence that penetrates your soul, a true peace that quiets every internal murmur. Your attention drifts away from both the mundane and real challenges of the world, and shifts to look one way – up.
Now, let’s go for a walk to see the tallest trees in the world.
Adrianna Drindak
We step foot into the forest, with gigantic trees limiting our vision of the sky above. Today we’ll be meandering through the forest, stopping to explore and learn more about the vitality of the coast redwoods and the critical roles they play in this environment. But what does a redwood look like? The tallest known coast redwood is 379 feet (115 m) tall, which is similar to about 38 regulation height NBA hoops stacked on top of each other. This tree has a diameter of up to 26 ft (8 m) which is the equivalent to the length of about one stretch limousine. Recent research has found that there is more carbon stored aboveground in old-growth redwood networks than any other forest system.
Where did these enormous trees, towering above our heads, come from?
There are three species of redwoods found around the world, with each organism populating different biomes: Coast Redwood (Sequoia sempervirens), Dawn Redwood (Metasequoia glyptostroboides), and Giant Sequoia (Sequoidendron giganteum). The redwoods originated from conifers that grew alongside dinosaurs in the Jurassic period, about 145 million years ago. With shifts in the climate, the redwoods became constrained to their present geographic regions. Today the Dawn Redwood is found in central China and the Giant Sequoia thrives in the rugged terrain of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California. The Coast Redwood is distributed along the coast of southern Oregon and northern California, and stands as the tallest known tree species on the planet.
Adrianna Drindak
We are walking down a gentle dirt path, deep within a redwood forest along the California coast, with our necks craned upwards to the giants above. As we wander amongst the trees, some over 2,000 years old, the branches above our heads are draped with lush greenery. Ferns, saplings, lichens and mosses rest within the tree; not causing harm, rather living peacefully from a higher viewpoint. These plants reposed in the canopy of the coast redwood are referred to as epiphytes. The quiet flutter of other biota sounds from above, such as the endangered Marbled Murrelets chirping from a nest and Wandering salamanders leaping between branches. The rumbling of a stream nearby is a reminder that while we cannot see below our feet, the redwoods are also building relationships below. Coast redwoods shade these aquatic environments and reduce erosion, which cools these areas for salmon populations. In exchange, the salmon provide marine nutrients to the ecosystem and the coast redwoods as they reproduce and decay.
Fog weaves through the afternoon sunlight, making our vision of the path ahead hazy. We pause, with one of the redwoods extending far below our feet, roots entangled with a neighbor, and many meters above our heads, branches draped. This redwood does not only provide habitats for a wide range of organisms, but also facilitates the local climate to support them. Redwoods play a central role in the water cycle of this coastal ecosystem, particularly through their relationship with fog. Coast redwoods require increased moisture levels to reach such extraordinary heights, and use a chemical called terpene to remove moisture from the air. This chemical causes these water droplets to condense, which creates low-lying clouds. This cycle of fog production, fueled by the nearby ocean, sustains the growth of redwood forests.
Adrianna Drindak
The fog slowly lifts and we continue our walk on the dirt path. The forest rustles as we reach a fallen redwood, obscuring part of our trail. The giant lies on its side, resting, with an immense root system exposed. There are ferns and mosses that have grown from the tree and a banana slug inches across the surface, leaving a slimy trail on the rough bark. Fallen redwoods give back to the community in many ways. The Yurok people have cultural traditions that involve working with fallen redwoods to create canoes and other structures. David Eric Stevens, a Yurok Canoe Builder, tells us the story of how the redwood canoe originated. “There’s a story of a redwood tree that wanted to live among humans, and the creator gave him the opportunity to live among humans by giving us canoes.” The canoes carved from fallen redwoods can take approximately seven years to create. Canoe Captain Julian Markussen describes, “If you take care of them properly, they can last for over 100 years.” These fallen redwoods continue to live even after falling, whether that be as habitat for organisms or in an extended life as canoes.
We step past the fallen redwood to continue our meander, dodging the ferns sprouting from the decaying bark. But as we walk, something changes in the forest. The redwoods seem to reach further and expand wider. The vegetation is more vibrant and green than anywhere else in the forest. The sunlight trickles through the branches above, dancing between lichen-covered branches. This is an old-growth redwood forest. Old-growth forests are hubs of biodiversity, with these trees acting as central to underground communication networks, providing habitat, and facilitating an interconnected ecosystem. The few trees that surround us are some that have been protected from historical logging in the region, as only 5 percent of these ancient coast redwood forests remain. We pause here and take a step back in time. There are hundreds of years of history captured in the lush undergrowth and full canopy.
We have reached the end of the path, emerging from the cool shade. We turn to look back, marveling once more at the incredible organisms we had the opportunity to meet. Coast redwoods regulate this vibrant, green ecosystem, endless beyond our sight. It is time to leave this magical forest, with the magnificent, ancient giants that shoot up out of our eyes’ reach. We have peered into an interconnected world, where these trees interact with the atmosphere, flourishing plant life, and abundant critters. There is a pause before we turn to go. What does this forest teach us?
I think back to that moment of meeting, lying on the boardwalk looking up. My first encounter with the coastal redwoods was magical, to say the least. There are no words to describe the might of these ancient beings, as their uppermost branches, or crown, beckon you to look up. In the sharing of gentle silence, as I laid down on the boardwalk surrounded by an ecosystem teeming with life, I dared my eyes to look farther and memorize every detail. I felt a deep desire to cherish and protect these organisms, and to share my joy for the incredible ways they shape their ecosystems and our planet. Most of all, the redwoods revived a deep sense of wonder. This wonder, inspired by such magnificent organisms, pulls you to be present. Just by nature of being and interacting with the redwoods, these trees inspire care, generosity, and resilience. How lucky we are to walk amongst such powerful beings.
Adrianna Drindak is a rising senior at Dartmouth College studying Environmental Earth Sciences and Environmental Studies. Prior to interning at Bio4Climate, she worked as a field technician studying ovenbirds at Hubbard Brook Experimental Forest and as a laboratory technician in an ecology lab. Adrianna is currently an undergraduate researcher in the Quaternary Geology Lab at Dartmouth, with a specific focus on documenting climate history and past glaciations in the northeast region of the United States. This summer, Adrianna is looking forward to applying her science background to an outreach role, and is excited to brainstorm ways to make science more accessible. In her free time, Adrianna enjoys reading, baking gluten free treats, hiking, and backpacking.
I live where the forest is humid and deep, I chatter and mimic, I laugh and I weep. With feathers of gray and a mind that’s quite bright, I talk with my flock from morning to night.
Perched on the sturdy branch of a Kapok tree deep in the Congo Basin rainforests, an adult African grey parrot listens as dawn begins to wake the parts of the forest that had been asleep.
Not long ago there had been many other roosts that would be waking up at this time, their overlapping songs passed from bird to bird, fragmenting into dialects and quips that only birds of a certain feather understood.
Now the forest stews in a silence that doesn’t fall all at once, but settles slowly.
Logging and habitat fragmentation have eroded away at the networks that bring the forest canopy to life. Roosts that once echoed with dozens of unique signatures have gone silent. Routes once marked by familiar voices are quieter now. The loss is not just physical territory, but a breakdown in the sonic landscape that makes community possible. When one parrot calls out to the forest, more and more often the forest doesn’t answer back.
Even so, at dawn the space between the trees begins to come alive. Slowly, the chorus starts with whistles and clicks, high-pitched mimicries and melodic chatter, weaving through the canopy with the morning light. To the untrained ear, certainly to mine, the parrot’s calls might sound like a kind of white noise, like a beautiful but nonsensical Youtube soundtrack titled Nature Jungle Ambiance 2. But to those birds in the know, it’s a language of memory, bond, warning, and belonging.
Communication is…everything to the African grey. These parrots live in fission-fusion flocks, where individuals join, leave, and rejoin subgroups throughout the day. In such fluid communities, each bird develops a unique vocal signature, a kind of name, that other parrots remember and respond to. Mates and family groups share contact calls, using them to locate one another in dense foliage or across long distances.
This writeup is not an exploration of physiology, but it’s important to understand how these parrots’ bodies are designed for communicating. Whereas we use vibrating vocal cords to speak, parrots produce sound using a complex organ called the syrinx, a structure of muscle and membrane. They control both airflow and tension in the syrinx’s membranes with remarkable precision, allowing them to mimic complex sounds, including human speech, with impressive clarity.
These are not purely instinctive habits; they’re learned, practiced, and honed as the parrots interact with each other and neighboring roosts. In a very real way, African greys don’t just make sounds, they participate in culture.
Young parrots learn by imitation, listening to their parents, flockmates, and the wider jungle soundscape. The mimicry is not random. They imitate that which surrounds them, other birds, local sounds, and occasionally the distant echo of chainsaws or human speech drifting from nearby villages and cities. These learned sounds are woven into their daily communication and social behavior.
They use alarm calls to signal predators, appearing to modulate their tone and pitch depending on the urgency of the situation, and reserving certain calls for specific threats. We’ve even seen strong evidence that some parrots can use reference-like calls, calls that refer to specific individuals, objects, or situations. In a way, we’re essentially talking about the capability for vocabulary, a primitive but very real form of symbolic language.
Communication among African greys also shapes their emotional reality. When separated from bonded partners, parrots often call persistently, showing signs of stress and vocal distress. Reunion is met with preening, soft warbles, and mutual mimicry.
If there’s anything we establish with this little exploration of African grey communication, it’s that these aren’t just functional instincts, they’re expressions of connection and culture. There’s really a month’s worth of Featured Creature essays we could fill up on the African grey, but I wanted to focus on communication because isn’t that what biodiversity really is at the end of the day? The exchange between living things? Trees share signals through their roots, grasses respond to grazing, coral reefs pulse with chemical messages. And the more we learn, the more it seems like life on Earth is always in conversation.
Brendan began his career teaching conservation education programs at the Columbus Zoo and Aquarium before relocating to Washington, DC. Since then, he has spent a decade as a journalist and policy communications strategist, designing and driving narratives for an array of political, advocacy, and institutional campaigns, including in the renewable energy and sustainable architecture spaces. Most recently before joining Bio4Climate, Brendan was working in tech, helping early and growth stage startups tell their stories and develop industry thought leadership. He is interested in how the intersection of informal education, mass communications and marketing can be retooled to drive relatable, accessible climate action. While he loves all ecosystems equally, he is admittedly partial to those in the alpine.
I prowl the woods, both fierce and lean, With golden eyes and coat unseen. Once a ghost upon the land, Now brought back by careful hand. Who am I, wild and free, Yet bound by fate and history?
Many moons ago, for two years during college and one year after, I worked at the Columbus Zoo & Aquarium in central Ohio (for those keeping score at home, that’s Jack Hanna’s zoo. Yes I met him.)
I spent thousands of hours over hundreds of days at that zoo. I got to know every path, every Dippin’ Dots stand, and every habitat under the zoo’s care.
The Columbus Zoo & Aquarium has an incredible collection of creatures (they’re one of the only institutions outside of Florida with manatees). While I was enamored with all of them, my favorite were the Mexican Wolves, a critically imperiled species.
In a place full of more diversity and creatures than I could ever count, the zoo’s Mexican wolves were different. As part of the (American) Association of Zoos and Aquariums’ Species Survival Plan, a nationwide conservation effort. There were excellent educators of the impact one creature can have on an ecosystem, and what can happen when we don’t take care of them.
A Mexican Wolf at the Columbus Zoo and Aquarium. Credit: JCaputo via Flickr. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0
A Predator on the Brink
The Mexican wolf (Canis lupus baileyi) is both the rarest and most genetically distinct subspecies of the more well known gray wolf. It is notably smaller than its northern relatives, with adults weighing standing about two feet tallat the top of the shoulder. Despite this (relatively) diminutive stature, the Mexican wolf is an apex predator in its environment, finely tuned by evolution for survival in the rugged, often unforgiving landscapes of the southwestern United States and northern Mexico.
Consider those landscapes for a moment. What does it take for a species already up against the ropes to survive there? What would it take for you to survive there?
You’d have to have exceptional endurance to hunt in vast, open environments. Long, slender legs and a streamlined body would allow you to cover these great distances while tracking prey, often over the course of 30 miles in a single day. You’d require an acute sense of smell and keen eyesight to pick up on the movements of smaller creatures from far away, even in the dim light of dawn or dusk when your prey is most active.
You’d be an expert of efficient thermoregulation, that is, keeping cool in the heat and warm in the cold. And you’d have to be, an expert, when your world ranges from scorching desert heat to bitter mountain cold, these wolves have developed a double-layered coat that provides insulation in winter while shedding excess warmth in summer. The coat’s coloration, a mixture of gray, rust, and buff, serves as excellent camouflage against the rocky and forested landscapes they inhabit.
A Wolf’s Role
It’s old news to you, I know, but it bears repeating. For ecosystems to function, predators must play their part. Like other wolves, the Mexican wolf is a keystone species, regulating prey populations and influencing plant communities. Without them, the system unravels.
The Mexican wolf primarily hunts elk, white-tailed deer, mule deer, and occasionally livestock, but they will also take smaller mammals like rabbits and rodents when such larger prey is scarce. When they hunt, they do so together, as cooperative pack hunters. Their strong social structure is as essential a tool as their razor sharp incisors in felling prey much larger than themselves. Beyond the hunt, these [ack dynamics are critical to their survival—each member has a role, from rearing the pups learning the ropes to experienced hunters leading coordinated chases.
Both on the hunt and at home, communication is central to the wolves’ social structure. Howling serves as both a bonding ritual and a way to locate packmates over vast distances. Body language, like tail positioning and ear movement, helps maintain hierarchy within the group. You may even recognize a few of these traits in your own dog, barking or howling to communicate, using their tail and ears to express emotion, or learning through playful wrestling as a puppy.
Packs are tight-knit, usually number four to six members, though some may grow larger depending on prey availability. They establish territories spanning up to 200 square miles, marking them with scent and vocalizing to warn off intruding wolves and other creatures.
A Mexican wolf and her pup. Image by Bob Haarmans, CC BY 2.0
In the absence of wolves, prey populations, especially elk and deer, explode, stripping vegetation and weakening forests. Overgrazed lands mean fewer young trees, degraded soil, less cover for smaller animals and heightened wildfire risk. This domino effect, known more scientifically as trophic cascade, ripples through the entire ecosystem. Beavers lose the young saplings they rely on for food and dams. Birds struggle to find nesting spots. Streams warm without tree cover, altering aquatic life.
But when wolves return, balance begins to restore itself. Just ask Yellowstone National Park. Wolves keep elk and deer moving, preventing over-grazing in sensitive areas. Carcasses left behind provide food for scavengers, including ravens, eagles, foxes, and even bears. Their presence reshapes the landscape, not just through their actions but through the fear they instill in prey. They don’t just hunt; they change the way the river of life flows.
A Fragile Comeback
Conservation and reintroduction of Mexican wolves has been an uphill, if slightly progressive, endeavor since the first captive-bred wolves were reintroduced into Arizona and New Mexico in 1998.
Ranchers in the area saw them as a renewed threat to livestock, and illegal killings were common practice. Some reintroduced wolves were shot before they had a chance to establish packs. Others were relocated after venturing too close to human settlements and industry.
Populations have grown slowly. From a low of just seven wolves in 1980, there are now about 250-300 Mexican wolves in the wild today. This precarious population is still critically small, vulnerable to disease, low genetic variation, and continued conflict with humans.
Climate change has also complicated things.
Rising temperatures are altering the Mexican wolf’s habitat. More frequent and severe droughts in the American Southwest threaten prey availability, pushing elk and deer into different ranges. Increased wildfires, driven by hotter, drier, and more flammable conditions, destroy the forests that wolves depend on for cover and prey.
Mexican Wolf experimental population area map. Courtesy U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.
Last Word
I know zoos can be complicated, controversial places at times. I’m not really here to weigh in on that. But I think like many things in life, there is great value in the best parts of them. As we all continue to advocate for a less-extractive relationship with the rivers of life beyond our front door, I think the ability to educate, connect, and inspire others to care about the world around them is critically important. I saw the Columbus Zoo do that well time and time again, and I think every time we share a featured creature, post a picture of our gardens, or take someone along for a Miyawaki planting, we do the same.
Brendan Kelly began his career teaching conservation education programs at the Columbus Zoo and Aquarium. He is interested in how the intersection of informal education, mass communications and marketing can be retooled to drive relatable, accessible climate action. While he loves all ecosystems equally, he is admittedly partial to those in the alpine.
What creature used to live on the ground but now hangs in trees, has hair that grows in the opposite direction than most mammals, and turns green because of the algae that thrives in their fur?
Would you be surprised if I told you that sloths aren’t lazy, but slow and careful?
Sloths have been labeled as some of the laziest animals due to their slow movements and the (unfair and misguided) assumption that they sleep all day. This belief isn’t helped by the fact that the word sloth literally means “laziness,” as does its common name in many other languages. But as we’ll learn, there’s a lot more to this creature than meets the eye, and their chill, methodical nature is actually a quite ingenious survival mechanism.
The six surviving species of sloths are categorized into two groups: Bradypus, the three-toed sloths, and Choloepus, the two-toed sloths. Even with this naming, all sloths have three toes on their back limbs – whereas two-toed sloths only have two digits on their front limbs. Both groups descend from ancestors that were mostly terrestrial (meaning they lived on the ground) that existed about 28 million years ago. Some of them reached sizes rivaling those of elephants! The sizes of modern sloths vary, with three-toed sloths typically ranging from 60-80 cm in length (24-31 inches) and weighing between 3.6-7.7 kg (8-17 lbs), while two-toed sloths can be slightly larger, particularly in weight.
Found in the tropical rainforests of Central and South America, you can identify them by their rounded heads, tiny ears, and a facial structure that makes them look like they’re always smiling. They have stubby tails and long limbs ending in curved claws that, historically used for digging, now work with specialized tendons and a grip strength that is twice as strong as a humans to climb tree trunks and hang upside down from branches effortlessly. It is believed that over time, sloths evolved into a suspensory lifestyle to have easy access to plentiful food (mainly leaves), stay safe from predators (like jaguars and ocelots), and conserve energy.
Sloths have a very low metabolism, meaning their bodies take quite a while to turn food into energy, thus the characteristically sluggish pace. Sloths move at about 4 yards per minute, and in an entire day, they may cover only around 120 feet, which is less than half the length of a football field. These languid movements are the reason why sloths can survive on a relatively low-energy diet, like leaves. While three-toed sloths are almost entirely herbivorous, two-toed sloths have an omnivorous diet that includes insects, fruits, and small lizards.
Even though leaves are the main food source for sloths, they provide very little nutrients and don’t digest easily. These lethargic tree-dwellers have large, slow-acting, multi-chambered stomachs that work for weeks to break down tough leaves. In fact, up to two thirds of a well-fed sloth’s body weight consists of the contents of its stomach. What other animals can digest in hours takes sloths days or weeks to process! Due to their slow digestion, sloths descend every week or so to defecate on the ground. Why exactly they do this is still a mystery to scientists, especially because sloths are at much more risk to predators on the ground.
Did you know that baby sloths learn what to eat by licking the lips of their mother?
Perhaps one of the most fascinating things about our slow-moving friends is what lives in their fur. Believe it or not, it’s a miniature world! Acting as a mobile home for a variety of different insect, fungi, and microbial species, sloths are, in fact, thriving ecosystems. But first, let’s set the scene.
Sloth fur grows in the opposite direction than it does on other animals. Normally, hair will grow towards the arms and legs, but because sloths spend so much of their lives upside down in the canopy with their limbs above their bodies (eating, sleeping, even giving birth hanging upside down), their fur grows away from their extremities and towards their bodies, giving them protection from the elements.
The layered and grooved structure of sloths’ shaggy coat is the perfect environment to host many species of commensal beetles, mites, moths, fungi, as well as a symbiotic green algae. While the sloths don’t directly consume and gain nutrients from the algae (legend held for many years that sloths were so lazy, they’d rather eat the algae off their back than search for food), its presence helps protect the sloths from predators by aiding in their camouflage, hiding them from predators like harpy eagles.
Sloths are an integral part of tropical rainforest ecosystems. They regulate plant growth through their consumption of leaves, provide a unique habitat for smaller organisms like algae and moths in their fur, and contribute to nutrient cycling by depositing their feces on the forest floor, dispersing seeds and fertilizing new plant growth.
Some species of sloths are at risk because of deforestation, contact with electrical lines, and poaching and animal trafficking. The health of these creatures is wholly dependent on the health of the tropical rainforest. If their habitat begins to deteriorate, sloths are forced to live elsewhere in places that cannot support healthy populations.
Luckily, The World Wildlife Fund (WWF) works with communities, governments, and organizations to encourage sustainable forestry, and collaborates to expand areas of forests under responsible management. WWF has worked with the Brazilian government since 2003 on the Amazon Region Protected Areas (ARPA) initiative, helping it become one of the largest conservation projects in the world. Not to mention, The Sloth Institute of Costa Rica is known for caring, rehabilitating, and releasing sloths back into the wild.
Northern Atlantic Forest Three-toed Sloth, Bradypus variegatus (Image Credit: Kevin Araujo via iNaturalist (CC-BY-NC))
More than meets the eye
While sloths are well-known for their slow-moving pace and are labeled as lazy, to believe that that is the only notable thing about them is largely inaccurate. Similar to how judging a person based on one aspect of their personality is not an accurate judgment of their character, judging sloths based on their sluggishness is not an accurate judgment of sloths as creatures. It overlooks how they’ve adapted from life on the ground to life in the trees, how they use their muscles and long claws to hang upside down and save a ton of energy, their role as ecosystem engineers, how they create habitats for other organisms, and how they help maintain the health of the forest.
So the next time we come across a creature – whether in the wild or at a sanctuary – we might ask, “What else can this creature do?”
Abigail Gipson is an environmental advocate with a bachelor’s degree in humanitarian studies from Fordham University. Working to protect the natural world and its inhabitants, Abigail is specifically interested in environmental protection, ecosystem-based adaptation, and the intersection of climate change with human rights and animal welfare. She loves autumn, reading, and gardening.
What insect spends years hidden underground, preparing for a brief but spectacular emergence into the sunlight, filling the air with the deafening, iconic song of summer?
The cicada (Cicadoidea)!
Sub Alpine Green Cicada (Image Credit: Julie via iNaturalist)
Every time I return to the south of France, there’s one sound that immediately signals to me that summer has arrived—the unmistakable hum of cicadas. Their chorus, loud and unrelenting, fills the air in the warm Mediterranean heat and acts as a personal cue to pause, take a breath, and unwind. For me, it’s not just the start of summer; it’s the sound of nostalgia, the reminder of countless days spent hiking through the pine forests, picnicking under the shade of olive trees, or simply soaking in peaceful serenity at the beach. The cicadas’ song is always complemented by the sweet, earthy smell of ripening figs. It’s a sensory symphony that epitomizes the region’s charm.
These moments, marked by the rhythmic buzz of cicadas, offer a unique connection to nature—one that I’ve come to cherish as a deeply rooted part of my experience in the region. The cicadas’ song is a call to slow down, reconnect, and embrace the simple beauty of life in the south of France.
As much as these personal experiences have shaped my connection to cicadas, there’s so much more to learn about these fascinating creatures. From their complex life cycles to the essential roles they play in ecosystems around the world, cicadas are much more than the soundtrack of summer.
The Backstory
If the name “cicada” doesn’t quite ring a bell, you might recognize it from Animal Crossing. It’s a common insect that players can encounter in the game.
Cicadas are the loudest insect species in the world, known for their buzzing and clicking noises, typically sung during the day. This song, produced by males to attract females, is a highly specialized mating call. Each species of cicada has its own unique variation, which is genetically inherited rather than learned, unlike the calls of other animals such as birds. Some cicada species, like the double drummer, even group together to amplify their calls, deterring predatory birds by overwhelming them with noise. Others adapt by singing at dusk, avoiding the attention of daytime predators.
If you’re curious about the fascinating science behind how cicadas create their iconic sound and want to dive deeper into their unique anatomy, I highly recommend checking out the following video. It’s a captivating look at how these incredible insects make their music!
But there’s more to cicadas than their songs. If you’ve ever tried to catch one, you might have discovered their quirky behavior firsthand—cicadas pee when they fly! This “cicada rain” is simply their way of excreting excess liquid after consuming large amounts of plant sap. While it’s harmless, it’s something to keep in mind if you’re ever under a tree full of buzzing cicadas—or reaching out to grab one!
With more than 3,000 species worldwide, cicadas are primarily found in temperate and tropical climates, avoiding regions with extreme cold. Their life cycle consists of three stages: egg, nymph, and adult. After hatching, nymphs burrow underground and feed on plant root sap for years before emerging, molting, and transforming into adults.
Watching a cicada emerge from its nymphal shell is like witnessing a miniature metamorphosis in real-time—its delicate wings unfurling as it prepares to take flight. If you’ve never seen this magical process, here’s a fascinating video that brings it to life.
While most species are annual cicadas, emerging every year, some, like the periodical cicadas of North America, emerge every 13 or 17 years. These synchronized groups are referred to as “broods.” A brood consists of all the cicadas of the same lifecycle group that emerge in a specific year within a particular geographical area. This classification system helps scientists and enthusiasts track and study the various populations of periodical cicadas.
These mass events, involving millions of cicadas, are a marvel of nature and the unique cycle remains a topic of scientific curiosity. In exceptionally rare cases, two different broods can emerge simultaneously, creating a spectacle of overlapping generations. This video explains more about these extraordinary dual emergence events and why they capture the fascination of entomologists and nature enthusiasts alike.
Showstoppers: Stunning Species from Around the World
Across the globe, these fascinating insects showcase an incredible range of colors, patterns, and sizes, rivaling even the most vibrant creatures of the animal kingdom. Here’s a look at some standout species that prove cicadas are as much visual marvels as they are auditory icons:
Tacua speciosa: Native to Southeast Asia, Tacua speciosa is among the largest cicadas, boasting a black body with a striking yellow or chartreuse pronotal collar and cyan or yellow tergites and shimmering blue-green wings. Found in Southeast Asia, this giant cicada commands attention not just with its size but with its bold elegance. (Image Credit: Valentinus-Tikhonov via iNaturalist)
Zammara Smaragdina: Found in tropical regions, this species stuns with its bright turquoise coloration, a rare hue in the insect world that gives it a truly jewel-like appearance. (Image Credit: Benoît Guillon via iNaturalist)
Salvazana mirabilis imperialis: This species, found in Cambodia, China, Laos, Thailand, and Vietnam, displays an amazing blend of greens and reds on their wings. (Image Credit: xtbg-eec via iNaturalist)
Cicadas vs. Locusts: Clearing Up the Confusion
Cicadas are often mistaken for locusts, a confusion that dates back to early European colonists who likened the sudden mass emergence of cicadas to the biblical plagues of locusts. However, cicadas and locusts are very different insects with distinct behaviors and ecological impacts.
Locusts, a type of grasshopper, are infamous for forming destructive swarms that can devastate crops and vegetation, causing severe agricultural damage. In contrast, cicadas do not consume foliage in a way that harms plants or crops. While their synchronized emergences can be dramatic, cicadas are not considered pests and pose no threat to agriculture.
Cicadas’ Impact: How They Shape the Ecosystem
Cicadas play a crucial role in maintaining ecosystem balance at every stage of their life cycle. During their subterranean nymph stage, they engage in burrowing activities that profoundly impact soil structure and health. By creating tunnels, they aerate the soil, facilitating root respiration and improving water infiltration, which enhances soil moisture distribution. Their burrowing also redistributes nutrients, mixing organic matter and minerals from different soil layers, which boosts soil fertility and supports plant growth.
These tunnels also provide microhabitats for other soil organisms, such as insects, microorganisms, and invertebrates, fostering biodiversity. Upon their emergence, adult cicadas become a vital food source for various predators, such as birds, mammals, and reptiles, boosting the survival and reproduction of these species.
When cicadas die, their decomposing bodies enrich the soil with nutrients, stimulating microbial activity and increasing the diversity of soil microarthropod communities (Microarthropods are like miniature insects such as springtails or soil mites). This nutrient flux improves plant productivity and even impacts the dynamics of woodland ponds and streams, underscoring their importance in nutrient cycling.
Cicadas as Ecological Signals: What They Tell Us About Nature
Cicadas are valuable bioindicators, reflecting the health of their environments. As root feeders, their abundance can tell us a lot about the integrity of root systems and the availability of water and nutrients. Cicadas also require well-structured, uncompacted soil to create their burrows, making their presence an indicator of healthy soil conditions.
The Cicada-MET protocol, which involves counting cicada exuviae (shed skins), offers a standardized method to assess environmental quality. Additionally, acoustic methods to analyze their songs are used to study the impacts of disturbances like wildfires and can guide conservation strategies.
Challenges Facing Cicadas: The Threats to Their Survival
Cicadas face various threats that jeopardize their populations and the ecosystems they support. Habitat loss due to urbanization is a significant challenge, as forests and grasslands are replaced with buildings and infrastructure, reducing the availability of suitable
environments for their life cycles. Planting native trees, preserving green spaces, and advocating for wildlife-friendly urban planning are simple but effective ways to help restore their habitats. For example, oak, pine, and olive trees in Mediterranean areas, or sycamore and dogwood in North America, are ideal choices. Climate change is another major threat, particularly in regions like Provence, where extreme heat waves can suppress cicada singing and disrupt mating behaviors, potentially forcing them to migrate to cooler areas, altering both new ecosystems and those they leave behind.. Additionally, some cicada species are vulnerable to invasive pathogens, such as fungi like Massospora cicadina, which manipulate their behavior and spread infections. While this fungus predominantly affects periodical cicadas, similar threats could arise for other species. If you have the opportunity, I would recommend participating in citizen science projects to report sightings of infected cicadas and track population health.
A Month of Delight
Cicadas have a way of sparking curiosity and creativity in those who encounter them. Whether it’s collecting their delicate, shed exoskeletons to study, transforming them into art, or pausing to listen to their summer chorus, these insects invite us to engage more deeply with the natural world. By paying closer attention to creatures like cicada’s, we can gain a greater appreciation for their fascinating life cycles, and develop a stronger connection to the ecosystem that sustains them.
Naturalist Jean-Henri Fabre once said, “Four years of hard work in the darkness, and a month of delight in the sun––such is the Cicada’s life, We must not blame him for the noisy triumph of his song.” By understanding and appreciating these extraordinary creatures, we can ensure their songs—and the inspiration they bring—continue to resonate for generations to come.
Lakhena
Lakhena Park holds degrees in Public Policy and Human Rights Law but has recently shifted her focus toward sustainability, ecosystem restoration, and regenerative agriculture. Passionate about reshaping food systems, she explores how agroecology and land management practices can restore biodiversity, improve soil health, and build resilient communities. She is currently preparing to pursue a Permaculture Design Certificate (PDC) to deepen her understanding of regenerative practices. Fun fact: Pigs are her favorite farm animal—smart, playful, and excellent at turning soil, they embody everything she loves about regenerative farming.
Growing up, the slim outline of the staghorn sumac lined the perimeter of my backyard, reaching out its limbs, dotted with dark red berries. In the bored heat of summer, my brothers and I would grab the plant’s thin trunk and shake, raining berries down on us and gathering as many in our hands and pockets as we could.
These wide and angular branches give the staghorn sumac its name, resembling the sharp antlers of a deer. And much like the thin, soft velvet that covers young antlers, the staghorn sumac’s stem is lined with a fine velvety layer of hair (or trichomes). In addition to serving as a protective layer from insects and the elements, this fuzz distinguishes the staghorn sumac from its common relative, the smooth sumac. These two plants share quite a few traits, both having pinnate (feather-like leaves) and producing red fruit. However, the smooth sumac, as the name suggests, lacks the fine velvety texture on its stems that characterizes the staghorn.
Budding branch of staghorn sumac (WikiMedia Commons by Krzysztof Ziarnek)
Planting roots
Beyond its striking leaves and vibrant berries, the staghorn sumac has a unique way of multiplying and thriving in the wild.
Growing from a large shrub to a small tree, the staghorn sumac ranges in size from about 3 to 30 feet in height. It is native to the eastern half of the United States and flourishes on the edges of forests, clearings, and dry, rocky, or gravelly soils.
The staghorn is a colony forming plant, meaning that they cluster in groups of genetically identical clones, connected through an underground network of roots. The plant reproduces new clones via a process known as root suckering, where vertical growths originate from its root system. In addition to producing colonies, the staghorn sumac also naturalizes through self seeding, the dispersal of its own seeds.
The flowers of a staghorn sumac are crimson, hairy, and bloom through May to July. Berries form tightly pyramidal clusters and are usually ripe by September, persisting into the winter, even after the staghorn sumac has lost its leaves, though this timeline can vary by geography.
Staghorn sumac in the winter (photo by author)
The staghorn sumac is dioecious, male staghorn sumac and female staghorn sumac flower separately. The female staghorn sumac produces flowers and seed, while the male staghorn sumac only produces flowers. Due to the staghorn sumac’s colony forming habits we just learned about, and while not always the case, groves of predominantly female-only or male-only trees can be found. The colony of staghorn sumacs that grew around my childhood backyard were all seed bearing, and therefore a colony of female-only sumacs.
Staghorn sumac flowers (Trent Massey via iNaturalist)Staghorn Sumac berries (Trent Massey via iNaturalist)
Berries and Beyond
The berries produced by the female staghorn sumac hold the same shade of deep red as the flowers, but also have finer hairs and a denser, round body. As children, my brothers and I were convinced that these velvety, red berries were poisonous, and we handled them with a slight air of suspicion. However, despite their vibrant color, the berries lining our pockets were not poisonous. While brightly colored fruits may have a reputation for being dangerous, many use bright colors to attract different pollinators. In this case, the bright Staghorn sumac berries are an edible fruit that has been used by humans for centuries. They are high in vitamin c and have a strong, tart taste. Upland game birds, songbirds, white-tailed deer, and moose also eat the tree’s leaves and twigs, while rabbits eat even the plant’s bark.
The staghorn sumac has been utilized by Indigenous peoples in North America for a variety of different purposes—including traditional medicine—over hundreds of years. The fresh twigs of the staghorn sumac, once peeled, can be eaten, and have been used in dishes such as salads. These same twigs, along with the leaves, can be brewed into medicinal tea, traditionally used to relieve post pregnancy bleeding, alleviate respiratory conditions such as asthma, and assist in digestion. In addition, the roots of the staghorn sumac have historically been used for their supposed antiseptic and anti-inflammatory properties.
A common use for sumac berries is to make sumac-aide, a lemonade-like beverage with a strong, tart taste. Sumac-aide has been used for its believed medicinal properties, or simply as a refreshing summer drink. Sumac berries are ready to be harvested and used for culinary purposes during late summer, once they turn dark red in color.
The staghorn sumac trees that once grew lush in my childhood backyard are all gone now, leaving an empty patch of dirt in their wake. Although my family does not understand the events that lead to their demise completely, potential disease could be one contributing factor. The staghorn sumac is a resilient tree that is able to flourish under a variety of conditions. However, like all plants, the staghorn sumac is still susceptible to disease. Fungal diseases such as anthracnose, powdery mildew, and root rot, and bacterial diseases such as leaf spot can infect and kill groves of the staghorn sumac. In addition, invasive pests such as Japanese beetles can strip the staghorn sumac by skeletonizing its leaves and damaging flowers.
Recently, I was walking along an icy boardwalk near my childhood home and noticed little fuzzy flowers, bright red against the white snow. It took me a closer inspection of these cute crimson flowers to notice the large group of staghorn sumac arching above the boardwalk and over my head. The trees bore their rich red flowers despite the other snow encrusted barren trees of the landscape.
If you know where to look, the staghorn sumac is everywhere, dotting the sides of highways, bike paths, playgrounds, and perhaps even your own backyard.
Helena Venzke-Kondo is a student at Smith College pursuing psychology, education, and environmental studies. She is particularly interested in conversation psychology and the reciprocal relationship between people and nature. Helena is passionate about understanding how communities are impacted by climate change and what motivates people towards environmental action. In her free time, she loves to crochet, garden, drink tea, and tend to her houseplants.
What creature grows backwards and can swallow a tree whole?
The strangler fig!
A strangler fig in Mossman Gorge, Queensland. (Image by author).
A Fig Grows in Manhattan
I recently wrapped a fig tree for the winter. Nestled in the back of a community garden, in the heart of New York City, I was one of many who flocked not for its fruit but for its barren limbs. An Italian cultivar, and therefore unfit to withstand east coast winters, this fig depends on a bundle of insulation to survive the season. The tree grows in Elizabeth Street Garden, a space that serves the community in innumerable ways, including as a source of ecological awareness.
Wrapping the fig was no small task. With frozen fingers we tied twigs together with twine, like bows on presents. Strangers held branches for one another to fasten, and together we contained the fig’s unwieldy body into clusters. Neighbors exchanged introductions and experienced volunteers advised the novice, including me. Though I’d spent countless hours in the garden, this was my first fig wrapping. My arms trembled as the tree resisted each bind. Guiding the branches together without snapping them was a delicate balance. But caring for our fig felt good and I like to think that after several springs in the sunlight it understood our efforts. Eventually, we wrapped each cluster with burlap, stuffed them with straw and tied them off again. In the end, the tree resembled a different creature entirely.
Elizabeth Street Garden, New York, NY. (Image by author)
Growing Down
Two springs earlier, I was wrapped up with another fig. I was in Australia for a semester, studying at the University of Melbourne, and had traveled with friends to the northeast coast of Queensland to see the Great Barrier Reef. It was there that I fell in love with the oldest tropical rainforest in the world, the Daintree Rainforest.
The fig I found there was monumental. Its roots spread across the forest floor like a junkyard of mangled metal beams that seemed to never end. They climbed and twisted their way around an older tree, reaching over the canopy where they encased it entirely.
Detail, strangler fig encases support tree. Al Kordesch, iNaturalist, CC0A strangler fig in Mossman Gorge, Queensland. (Image by author).
The strangler fig begins its life at the top of the forest, often from a seed dropped by a bird into the notch of another tree. From there it absorbs an abundance of light inaccessible to the forest’s understory and sends its roots crawling down its support tree in search of fertile ground. Quickly then, the strangler fig grows, fueled by an unstoppable combination of sunlight, moisture, and nutrients from the soil. Sometimes, in this process, the fig consumes and strangles its support tree to death, hence its name. Other times, the fig can actually act as a brace or shield, protecting the support tree from storms and other damage. Even as they may overtake one tree, strangler figs also give new life to the forest.
As many as one million figs can come from a single tree. It is these figs that attract the animals who disperse both their seeds and the seeds of thousands of other plant species. With more than 750 species of Ficus feeding more than 1,200 distinct species of birds and mammals, the fig is a keystone resource of the tropical rainforest —the ecological community depends upon its presence and without it, the habitat’s biodiversity is at risk.
Fig-Wasp Pollination
Like the strangler fig, its pollination story is also one of sacrifice. Each fig species is uniquely pollinated by one, or in some cases a few, corresponding species of wasp. While figs are commonly thought of as fruit, they are technically capsules of many tiny flowers turned inward, also known as a syconium. This is where their pollination begins. The life of a female fig wasp essentially starts when she exits the fig from which she was born to reproduce inside of another. Each Ficus species depends upon one or two unique species of wasps, and she must find a fig of both the right species and perfect stage of development. Upon finding the perfect fig, the female wasp enters through a tiny hole at the top of the syconium, losing her wings and antennae in the process. She will not need them again, on a one way journey to lay her eggs and die. The male wasps make a similar sacrifice. The first to hatch, they are wingless, only intended to mate with the females and chew out an exit before dying. The females, loaded with eggs and pollen, emerge from the fig and continue the cycle.
The life cycle of the fig wasp. (U.S. Forest Service, Illustration by Simon van Noort, Iziko Museum of Cape Town)
The mutualistic relationship between the fig and its wasp is critical to its role as a keystone resource. As each wasp must reproduce additional fig species in the forest at different stages of development, there remains a constant supply of figs for the rainforest.
However, climate change threatens these wasps and their figs. Studies have shown that in higher temperatures, fig wasps live shorter lives which makes it more difficult for them to travel the long distances needed to reach the trees they pollinate. One study found that the suboptimal temperatures even shifted the competitive balance to favor non-pollinating wasps rather than the typically dominant pollinators.
Another critical threat to figs across the globe is deforestation, in its destruction of habitat and exacerbation of climate change. In Australia, this threat looms large. Is it the only developed nation listed in a 2021 World Wildlife Fund study on deforestation hotspots, with Queensland as the epicenter of forest loss. Further, a study published earlier this year in Conservation Biology concluded that in failing to comply with environmental law, Australia has fallen short on international deforestation commitments. Fortunately, the strangler figs I fell in love with in the Daintree are protected as part of a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1988 and Indigenous Protected Area in 2013.
The view flying into Cairns, Queensland. (Image by author)Four Mile Beach in Port Douglas, Queensland. (Image by author)
Stewards of the Rainforest
The Daintree Rainforest has been home to the Eastern Kuku Yalanji people for more than 50,000 years. Aboriginal Australians with a deep cultural and spiritual connection to the land, the Eastern Kuku Yalanji have been fighting to reclaim their ancestral territory since European colonization in the 18th century. Only in 2021 did the Australian government formally return more than 160,000 hectares to the land’s original custodians. The Queensland government and the Eastern Kuku Yalanji now jointly manage the Daintree, Ngalba Bulal, Kalkajaka, and Hope Islands parks with the intention for the Eastern Kuku Yalanji to eventually be the sole stewards.
Rooted in an understanding of the land as kin, the Eastern Kuku Yalanji people are collaborating with environmental charities like Rainforest Rescue and Climate Force to repair what’s been lost, reforesting hundreds of acres and creating a wildlife corridor between the Daintree Rainforest and the Great Barrier Reef. The corridor aims to regenerate a portion of the rainforest that was cleared in the 1950s for agriculture.
Upon returning to Cairns from the rainforest, we set sail and marveled at the Great Barrier Reef. My memories of the Daintree’s deep greens mingled with the underwater rainbow of the reef. At the Cairns Art Gallery the next day, a solo exhibition of artist Maharlina Gorospe-Lockie’s work, Once Was, visualized this amalgamation of colors in my mind. Gorospe-Lockie’s imagined tropical coastal landscapes draw from her work on coastal zone management in the Philippines and challenge viewers to consider the changes in our natural environment.
Maharlina Gorospe-Lockie, Everything Will Be Fine #1 2023 From the solo exhibition Once Was at the Cairns Art Gallery. (photo by author).
On the final day wrapping our fig in New York, I lean on a ladder above the canopy of our community garden and in the understory of the urban jungle. Visitors filter in and out, often stopping to ask what we’re up to. Some offer condolences for the garden and our beloved fig, at risk of eviction in February. We share stories of the burlap tree and look forward to the day we unwrap its branches.
The parallel lives of these figs cross paths only in my mind, and now yours. Perhaps also in the fig on your plate or the tree soon to be planted around the corner.
Jane Olsen is a writer committed to climate justice. Born and raised in New York City, she is driven to make cities more livable, green and just. She is also passionate about the power of storytelling to evoke change and build community. This fuels her love for writing, as does a desire to convey and inspire biophilia. Jane earned her BA in English with a Creative Writing concentration and a minor in Government and Legal Studies from Bowdoin College.
The first time I saw the vibrant blossoms of the ‘ōhi’a lehua tree, I was walking on a dirt path in Kauai’s Waimea Canyon State Park, gaping down at the most colorful red and green gorges I had ever seen. Needing a breather from the steep visual plunge, I looked up from the canyon and noticed bright red flowers on the side of the path. As I got closer and could see the plant more clearly, the first thought that popped into my head was how similar the flowers looked to those fiber optic light toys I had played with as a kid. (If you don’t know what fiber optic light toys look like, look them up. You’ll see exactly what I mean.)
After my trip to Waimea Canyon, I saw ‘ōhi’a lehua everywhere. When I drove along the coast between the beach and the sloping mountains, when I hiked the volcanic craters of Haleakala, and when I visited parks and gardens across the islands that protect native plants and animals. ‘Ōhi’a lehua is the most common native tree in Hawaii, so seeing its fiery red, orange, or yellow blossoms every day felt so very ordinary. But ‘ōhi’a lehua is far from ordinary.
Let Me Introduce You to My New Friend, ‘Ōhia Lehua
Endemic to the six largest islands of Hawaii, ‘ōhi’a lehua is the dominant tree species in native forests, present in approximately 80% of the total area of these ecosystems and covering close to one million acres of land across the state. Depending on where exactly it grows, its size can vary widely, from a small shrub to a large tree. Found only in the Hawaiian archipelago, ‘ōhi’a lehua grows at elevations from sea level to higher than 9000 feet, and in a variety of habitats like shrublands, mesic forests (forests that receive a moderate amount of moisture throughout the year), and more wet, or hydric, forests.
You can easily identify the ‘ōhi’a lehua blossoms by their mass of stamens – the part of the flower that produces pollen – which are slender stalks with pollen-bearing anthers on the end. It’s what made me think the ‘ōhi’a lehua looked exactly like those fiber optic light toys. These powder puff-like flowers are most often brilliant shades of red and orange, but yellow, pink, and sometimes even white ones can be found.
‘Ōhi’a lehua grows slowly, reaching up to 20-25 meters (66-82 feet) in certain conditions.
With a little help from the wind, the seeds of ‘ōhi’a lehua travel from the tree and settle in cracks in the ground of young lava rock. It is, in every sense, a true pioneer plant. As one of the earliest plants to colonize and grow in fresh lava fields, ‘ōhi’a lehua stabilizes the soil and makes it more habitable for other species.
Even though ‘ōhi’a lehua can blanket Hawaii’s native forests, this flowering tree also grows alone, as you can see in the photograph below. Plants like ‘ōhi’a lehua fill me with happiness because they are able to grow in the most harsh, barren, and disrupted places, and they make it possible for other species to do the same. Plants like ‘ōhi’a lehua fill me with surety that even though sometimes poorly treated, the natural world will continue to be strong. Plants like ‘ōhi’a lehua make me believe in the resilience of nature.
Biodiversity forms the web of life we depend on for so many things – food, water, medicine, a stable climate, and more. But this connection between human beings and natural life is not always clear, understood, or appreciated. But there is a concept in Hawaiian culture called aloha ‘āina, or love of the land, which teaches that if you take care of the land, it will take care of you. The ‘ōhi’a lehua in particular takes care of the Hawaiian people in a pretty special way.
One of the most important characteristics of this flowering evergreen tree is that it’s a keystone species, protecting the Hawaiian watershed and conserving a great amount of water. The way I see it, ‘Ōhi’a lehua is an essential glue that holds Hawaii’s native ecosystems together. The leaves of ‘ōhi’a lehua are excellent at catching fog, mist, and rain, replenishing the islands’ aquifers and providing drinking and irrigation water for Hawaiian communities. ‘Ōhi’a lehua’s ability to retain water, particularly after storms, not only makes that water accessible for other plants, but it helps mitigate erosion and flooding. The tree provides food and shelter for native insects, rare native tree snails (kāhuli), and native and endangered birds like the Hawaiian honeycreepers (‘i’iwi, ‘apapane, and ‘ākepa). ‘Ōhi’a lehua trunks protect native seedlings and act as nurse logs, providing new plants with nutrients and a growing environment.
‘I’iwi, the Scarlet Hawaiian Honeycreeper, perched on an ‘ohi’a tree (Image Credit: Nick Volpe)
The Myth of ‘Ōhi’a Lehua
‘Ōhi’a lehua may have a disproportionately large effect on Hawaii’s ecosystems as a keystone species, but its presence as a meaningful part of Hawaiian culture could be even larger. There are many versions of mo’olelo (story) about the origin of the ‘ōhi’a lehua tree, but the most common one is about young lovers named Ōhi’a and Lehua. Pele, the goddess of the volcano, changed herself into a human woman and tried to entice ‘Ōhi’a. When he denied her, Pele became enraged and transformed ‘Ōhi’a into a tree. When Lehua found out, she was so heartbroken that she prayed to the gods to somehow help her reunite with him. Answering her prayers, the gods transformed Lehua into a flower and placed her on the ‘ōhi’a tree’s limbs. To this day, it’s believed that whenever a lehua flower is picked, the skies will open up and rain will fall, because the lovers have been separated.
‘Ōhi’a Lehua as a Cultural Symbol
In Hawaiian culture, the ‘ōhi’a lehua is a symbol of love, resilience, and ecological harmony. The transformation of Ohia and Lehua into tree and flower represents the inseparable bond between two people who love each other, and between the tree and its flowers. The term pua lehua, or lehua flowers, is often used to describe people who express the same grace, strength, and resilience of the ‘ōhi’a lehua. Pilina, a Hawaiian word that means “connection” or “relationship,” is an important value in Hawaiian culture because it is a critical way for people to connect with and understand the world around them. The ‘ōhi’a lehua tree is a symbol of pilina, and embodies this relationship between the Hawaiian landscape and its people.
Hula dancers performing at the Merrie Monarch Festival Thomas Tunsch (CC BY-SA )
The ‘ōhi’a lehua is also incredibly important to hula. Hula is the narrative dance of the Hawaiian Islands, and it is an embodiment of one’s surroundings. Dancers use fluid and graceful movements to manifest what they see around them and tell stories about the plants, animals, elements, and stars. ‘Ōhi’a lehua trees and forests are considered sacred to both Pele, the goddess of the volcano as you may recall, and Laka, goddess of hula. To enhance their storytelling and evoke the gods, dancers traditionally wear lehua blossoms or buds in lei, headbands, and around their wrists and ankles.
The Dependability of ‘Ōhi’a Lehua
‘Ōhi’a lehua has long been a part of daily life. Historically, the hardwood of the tree was used for kapa (cloth) beaters, papa ku’i ‘ai (poi pounding boards), dancing sticks and ki’i (statues), weapons, canoes, and in the construction of houses and temples. Today, the tree’s wood is used for flooring, furniture, fencing, decoration, carving, and firewood. ‘Ōhi’a lehua blossoms decorate altars for cultural ceremonies and practices. Flowers, buds, seeds, and leaves form the base of medicinal teas that can stimulate appetite and treat childbirth pain.
Threats to ‘Ōhi’a Lehua
As a native tree, ‘ōhi’a lehua competes with invasive species for moisture, nutrients, light, and space. Plants like the strawberry guava plant (Psidium cattleyanum) grow in dense thickets and block the growth of ‘ōhi’a seedlings. The invasive fountain grass (Pennisetum setaceum) can dominate barren lava flows, making it difficult for ‘ōhi’a to compete. ‘Ōhi’a lehua is also threatened by non-native animals. Hooved animals like pigs, cattle, goats, and deer disturb the soil, eat sensitive native plants, and trample the roots of ‘ōhi’a lehua trees.
The most dangerous threat to ‘ōhi’a lehua is a virulent fungus called Ceratocystis fimbriate, which attacks the tree’s sapwood, preventing it from uptaking water and nutrients, and killing the tree within weeks. It’s been given the name Rapid Ohia Death (ROD) because of how quickly it suffocates the tree, turning the leaves yellow and brown and the sapwood black with fungus. Infections spread through a wound in the bark, which can be caused by animals trampling roots, lawn mowing, or even pruning, and can be present in the tree for up to a year before showing symptoms. ROD is spread by an invasive species of wood boring Ambrosia beetle that infests the tree and feeds off the fungus. When colonizing trees, the beetle produces a sawdust-like substance made of excrement and wood particles called frass, which can contain living fungal spores that get carried in wind currents and spread by sticking to animals and human clothes, tools, and vehicles.
Since its discovery in 2014, ROD has killed more than one million ‘ōhi’a lehua trees across 270,000 acres of land, making it a significant threat to biodiversity and cultural heritage. The International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) classifies ‘ōhi’a lehua’s conservation status as vulnerable, and has recorded a decline in mature trees since 2020. Because ROD can spread long distances, it has the potential to wipe out ‘ōhi’a lehua across the entire state. If ‘ōhi’a lehua disappears, it will lead to a collapse of the Hawaiian watershed and radically change the ecosystem.
How the Hawaiian People Care for ‘Ōhi’a Lehua
Scientists, researchers, and native Hawaiians are working together to ensure the long-term health and resilience of ‘ōhi’a and Hawaii’s native forests by mitigating the spread of Rapid Ohia Death. Hawaii’s Forest Service monitors the land to track the spread of ROD and mortality of trees, has developed sanitation and wound-sealing treatments, and collaborates with hunters and game managers to reduce disease transmission. Scientists rigorously test ‘ōhi’a trees to understand the disease cycle, find out how it can be broken, and to identify trees resistant to the infection that could be used in potential reforestation efforts.
To prevent the spread, Hawaii has announced quarantine restrictions, travel alerts, and sanitation rules. If you are shipping vehicles between islands, you should clean the entire understory with strong soap to remove all mud and dirt from the tires and wheel wells. People who go into ‘ōhi’a forests are advised to avoid breaking branches or moving wood around, to clean their shoes and clothes, and to decontaminate any tools used with alcohol or bleach to kill the fungus. Even hula practitioners are forgoing the use of ‘ōhi’a lehua.
Mālama the ‘āina is a phrase that means to care for and honor the land. ‘Ōhi’a lehua is a wonderful representation of the interconnection between people and nature and I hope learning about this beautiful tree has encouraged you to appreciate the relationship we have with the Earth and what the natural world does for us.
Remember, if you take care of the land, it will take care of you.
Abigail
Abigail Gipson is an environmental advocate with a bachelor’s degree in humanitarian studies from Fordham University. Working to protect the natural world and its inhabitants, Abigail is specifically interested in environmental protection, ecosystem-based adaptation, and the intersection of climate change with human rights and animal welfare. She loves autumn, reading, and gardening.
What Mediterranean tree is uniquely equipped to withstand wildfires with armor-like bark and high, out of reach, branches?
The stone pine!
The stone pine in Casa de Campo, Madrid. (image by author)
In his 1913-1927 novel, In Search of Lost Time, French writer Marcel Proust described the power of a soft, buttery madeleine cookie dipped in tea to transport the story’s narrator back to his childhood, unlocking a flood of vivid memories, emotions, and senses. Since then, the term “Proustian memory” has come to describe the sights, smells, sounds, or tastes that bring us back to a particular place in time, one that reminds each of us that we are home.
This is how my partner talks about the stone pine (Pinus pinea) in Spain. Raised in Madrid, she moved to the U.S. when she was twenty-three. For the next decade she’d go long stretches without returning home (blame grad school, work, a global pandemic, and high airfare).
But on those occasions where she was able to return home for a visit, before that first sip of cafe con leche, it was the stone pines flickering past the taxi cab window that brought her back to the youth she’d spent running beneath them, and told her soul that she was home.
There are few markers more reliable than the stone pine to remind you that you are in the Mediterranean. Its branchless trunk rises 25-30 meters from the dry ground. Deep grooves run up the thick, rugged bark in shades of rust and ash-gray. It is bare all the way up to a rounded crown that seems to hover above the landscape. Branches bearing clusters of slender needles splay out horizontally and cast large soft shadows on the ground, giving the tree its nickname, the parasol (umbrella) pine. Its high canopy offers nesting sites and vantage points for many birds of the Med, like Eurasian Jays and Red Kites.
The stone pine’s unique silhouette foreshadows its individuality among its relatives in the genus Pinus.
stone pine bark detail. (Photo by dmcd25)(CC-BY-NC via iNaturalist)
The Parasol Pine
It is a resilient tree with few natural predators. High branches keep its cones away from most ground-dwelling herbivores, and that hardy bark helps shield against both prying insects and wildfire, perhaps its most common threat in the Mediterranean. The clustering of branches high above the brush also helps it withstand fire events more successfully than other species in the area. That said—it’s important to understand that pests (like the pine tortoise scale) and runaway fires do remain serious threats, even if the stone pine is better prepared to meet them.
The tree also stands apart from other species of pine in its lack of hybridization—that is, its failure to crossbreed with other pine species, despite existing in close proximity. It does not demonstrate a tendency to interbreed with its neighbors like Pinus halepensis (Aleppo pine) or Pinus pinaster (maritime pine), and that is unusual among pines. It’s really just out here doing its own thing.
This pattern of genetic isolation is a product of circumstances. The stone pine’s pollination window doesn’t often line up with other species and, even when they do, the tree’s genetic makeup has remained distinct enough (while others have hybridized) that fertilization is increasingly improbable.
And unlike other pine species, stone pine seeds are not effectively dispersed by the wind, perhaps contributing to this isolation. Instead, they rely on the few animals that can reach them, particularly birds, to shake them free and drop them elsewhere.
I hope we’ve established that the stone pine is one tough, rugged cookie, designed from the root up to thrive in a variety of ecosystems around the Mediterranean. But what’s going on below the surface?
To really understand any tree, you’ve got to look down. When we talk about “siliceous” soils, we’re talking about soils that are made up mostly of silica—essentially a mineral of silicon and oxygen that comes from rocks like quartz and sandstone. These soils are characteristically sandy and drain water quickly, but offer fewer nutrients—making them less fertile and more inhospitable for many trees. They also tend to be more acidic.
On the other half of the pH scale (which measures the acidity of acids on one end, and alkalinity of bases on the other) are what are known as “calcareous” soils—that is, soils rich in calcium carbonate from sources like limestone or chalk, but light on most other important nutrients.
Both of these types of soil are found along the rocky Mediterranean. And while its preference is for the former, more siliceous soils, the stone pine does well in both. In fact, it’s this ability to thrive in these rocky soils that earned the tree its name, the stone pine. Of course, the tree’s deep roots alone are not always enough to survive in these nutrient-deficient soils. Like other pines around the world, Pinus pinea benefits from ectomycorrhizas, the symbiotic relationship between the tree and fungi in the ground that help facilitate nutrient exchange in soils where they are harder to come by. It’s a fascinating relationship that certainly deserves its own essay, but it is important to understand the critical role Ectomycorrhizal fungi (EMF) play in maintaining thriving forest ecosystems. They form mutually beneficial relationships with trees, where the fungi exchange those coveted soil nutrients for carbon compounds produced by the trees during photosynthesis. This natural partnership supports nutrient cycling and enhances tree health and growth, allowing pines just like the stone to survive under more challenging soil conditions.
Explore visualizations of how Ectomycorrhizal fungi support forest growth.
In the course of human events
We know quite a bit more about where the stone pine is, rather than where it’s from. Pinpointing its native range has proven difficult because the tree has been harvested, traded, and replanted by human since prehistory—first for their edible pine nut seeds, then by later civilizations like the Romans for their ornamental status. Even today, it is common throughout the region to find a street or garden lined with the distinctive tree.
Today, pine nuts from the stone pine remain big business, and their cultivation has been seen as an alternative crop in regions where the arid soil would make other agricultural endeavors too difficult.
Pine nuts served on a dish of roasted peppers. Via Pexels.
I’ve realized there is more to learn about the stone pine than I could ever hope to fit on a page. In my naivety or ignorance, I did not expect that. Its deceptively simple silhouette belies a complex story of resilience, symbiosis, and ancient history and, for at least one Spaniard, a reminder that she’s home.
Brendan began his career teaching conservation education programs at the Columbus Zoo and Aquarium. He is interested in how the intersection of informal education, mass communications and marketing can be retooled to drive relatable, accessible climate action. While he loves all ecosystems equally, he is admittedly partial to those in the alpine.
Sometimes the smallest creatures hide the largest secrets/mysteries. At just about 10 inches long and weighing up to 2 pounds, the slow loris is, in my opinion, no exception. This small, tailless primate with large (and iconic) moon-like eyes inhabits rainforests. As omnivores, slow lorises feed on both fruit and insects. There are nine species total, all inhabiting the Southeast region of Asia ranging from the islands of Java and Borneo to Vietnam and China.
True to their name, slow lorises are not light on their feet and move slowly. Despite this, slow lorises are not related to sloths, but are instead more closely related to lemurs. But in the rainforest, that’s not such a bad thing. Their leisurely, creeping gait helps them conserve energy and ambush their insect prey without being detected.
Adaptations
Living in the dense, verdant rainforest isn’t for everyone.The jungle is riddled with serpentine vines, thick vegetation, and towering trees. But slow lorises have developed multiple adaptations that allow them to thrive in such an environment.
Their fur markings serve as a warning to other animals that they are not to be trifled with. This is known as aposematic colouration. Similar to skunks, contrasting fur colors and shapes signal that they are venomous which makes predators think twice about attacking.
Slow lorises are nocturnal, and those large eyes allow them to significantly dilate their pupils, letting in more light and allowing them to easily see in near total darkness.
Even eating is no small feat in the rainforest. Slow lorises have specialized bottom front teeth, called a toothcomb. The grouping of long, thin teeth acts like a hair comb, allowing the slow loris to strip strong bark and uncover nutritious tree gum or sap. Equipped with an impressively strong grip, they can hang upside down and use their dexterous feet to hold onto branches while reaching for fruit just out of reach for most other animals. A network of capillaries called retia mirabilia allows them to do this without losing feeling in their limbs. With these adaptations, slow lorises are ideally suited for a life among the trees.
Slow lorises are the only venomous primate on Earth. They have brachial glands located in the crook of their elbow that secrete a toxic oil. When deploying the toxin, they lick this gland to venomize their saliva for a potent bite. And no one is safe– slow lorises use this venom on predators, and even each other. Fiercely territorial, they are one of the few species known to use venom on their own kind. In studying this behavior, scientists have found many slow lorises, especially young males, to have bite wounds.
The venom can be used as a protective, preventative defense mechanism as well. Female slow lorises have been observed licking their young to cover them in toxic saliva in hopes of deterring predators while they leave their babies in the safety of a tree to forage.
Whether you’re a natural predator, human, or another slow loris, a bite is very painful. Humans will experience pain from the strong bite, then a tingling sensation, followed by extreme swelling of the face and the start of anaphylactic shock. It can be fatal if not treated in time with epinephrine.
There are two major threats to slow loris populations – the illegal pet trade and habitat destruction. Because of their unique cuteness, soft fur, and small size, these creatures are often sold as illegal pets. Poachers will use flashlights to stun and capture the nocturnal slow loris, clip or remove their teeth to avoid harmful bites to humans and, because of their endearing, teddy bear-like appearance, sell them off as pets. Slow lorises are nocturnal and not able to withstand the stress of being forced to be awake during the daytime. They are also often not fed a proper diet of fruit, tree sap, and insects which leads to nutritional deficiencies and poor health.
Habitat loss from agricultural expansion is another threat. As farms grow, slow loris habitat shrinks. Land cleared to plant crops encroaches upon the rainforest which results in less territory and food sources for the slow loris.
However, one scientist found a way to reduce the canopy-loss from farming and restore slow loris territory. After observing wild slow lorises using above-ground water pipes to traverse farmland, researcher Anna Nekaris had an idea. Through her organization, the Little Fireface Project, she worked with local farmers to add more water pipes to act as bridges for slow lorises to use to move about the area. These unnatural vines provided a highway connecting isolated spots of jungle to each other. Not only did the slow loris population benefit by gaining more arboreal access to trees and food sources, but the community also benefited. Nekaris worked with the farmers to provide more water pipes to their land while showing human-animal conflict can have a mutually beneficial solution.
Every species of slow lorises is threatened, according to the IUCN, which monitors wild populations. Slow lorises may seem like an odd and somewhat unimportant creature on the grand ecological scale, but they are very important pollinators. When feeding on flowers, sap, or fruit, they are integral in spreading pollen and seeds across the forest. Through foraging and dispersal, slow lorises maintain the health of the ecosystem’s flora.
The slow loris garners attention for its cute looks, but beneath its fuzzy face and moon-like eyes, is a creature connected to the/its environment. Slow lorises are a perfect example of how species are tethered to their habitat in an integral way – their existence directly impacts forest propagation. As a pollinator, they disperse pollen stuck on their fur to new areas and increase genetic diversity throughout the forest. Slow lorises are proof of Earth’s interconnectedness.
To see the slow loris in action climbing from tree to tree and foraging for food, watch this short video.
Climbing up and away for now, Joely
Joely Hart is a wildlife enthusiast writing to inspire curiosity about Earth’s creatures. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in creative writing from the University of Central Florida and has a special interest in obscure, lesser-known species.
The chevrotain is an incredibly unique animal native to India and Southeast Asia. This creature is just 12 inches tall and about 29 inches long – the size of a rabbit. It weighs approximately 4-11 pounds and sports a reddish-chestnut brown coat with white markings on its chest. The chevrotain is the world’s smallest hoofed mammal. The chevrotain is also called the mouse-deer, but is not related to either a mouse or deer. Entirely a species of its own, the chevrotain is a one-of-a-kind creature.
There are ten species of chevrotain, nine of which reside in Asia while one – the water chevrotain – is native to Africa, spanning from Southern Benin to the Democratic Republic of Congo. This particular species lives near rivers and lakes as its name implies. When threatened, the water chevrotain will submerge itself underwater for up to four minutes to escape a predator. All chevrotains are very small with the tiniest being the lesser Malay chevrotain at 4 pounds and the largest being the water chevrotain at 33 pounds.
These miniature ungulates are herbivores and feed on vegetation like grasses, leaves, roots, flowers, and fruit. The chevrotain is a ruminant and has a 4 chambered stomach similar to that of a cow’s. This stomach helps digest fibrous plant material and extract nutrients from plant matter. Chevrotains inhabit jungles and forage for low hanging and fallen fruit as well as ground plants that are easy to reach due to their short stature.
Fangs
Despite looking like mini-deer, chevrotains do not have antlers. Instead, they have elongated incisors. In males, these teeth protrude beyond the mouth like tusks which are used when fighting. Chevrotains also use their long fangs to expose roots for consumption.
Chevrotains are known for being solitary, quiet, and difficult to find amongst dense forests. One species in particular has remained hidden from scientists for nearly 30 years – until recently. The silver-backed chevrotain, native to Vietnam, had not been seen for decades, despite camera traps and excursions to find the creature. But in 2017, that all changed. A camera trap captured the elusive silver-backed chevrotain, the first sighting since 1990. Still, so little is known about this species that the IUCN has assigned the status of “data deficient”.
Conservation ensures that no species is lost to history and reinforces the importance of a diverse ecosystem where every organism has a vital role to play. Even when all hope seems lost, life finds a way.
Treading quietly away for now, Joely
Joely Hart is a wildlife enthusiast writing to inspire curiosity about Earth’s creatures. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in creative writing from the University of Central Florida and has a special interest in obscure, lesser-known species.
The Cork Oak is a unique tree species whose bark is an ancient renewable and biodynamic material that supports a valuable Portuguese industry. Portugal produces 50% of the world’s cork, thanks to the abundance of the native Cork Oak that covers 8% of the country’s total land area and makes up 28% of its forests.
The harvested cork is made into the wine stoppers we all know, but cork is also used to create flooring, furniture, a variety of household items, and has even broken into the fashion industry in the form of clothing and accessories. Across Portugal, (where the Cork Oak is the National Tree), you’ll find locals sporting cork backpacks, wallets, sandals, and belts, to name a few.
On a recent trip to the Douro Valley in northeastern Portugal, I was inspired by the locality of the wine-making process, exemplified by the roadside Cork Oaks whose harvested bark was used to plug the bottles of Portuguese wine made with grapes grown on the same hills.
The material is gaining more international recognition as a highly renewable and biodegradable resource that can replace traditional, more carbon intensive materials like wood, plastic, leather, and cotton in a wide variety of settings.
The Cork Oak, or Quercus Suber, is an evergreen oak species native to the Mediterranean region, most commonly in Portugal, Spain, Italy, Algeria, Morocco, and Tunisia. A lover of full sun, mild winters, and well-drained soil, the Cork Oak grows to a height of 40-70 feet. Its rounded crown consists of ovular, four-inch leaves that are dark green and leathery on top with a fuzzy, gray underside. The tree is characterized by its recognizable, fissured bark.
Cork Oaks are environmental stalwarts, working hard to prevent erosion and increasing the moisture level in the soil. These services are crucial: Cork Oaks are on the front lines as desertification creeps northward in Africa. These Mediterranean Forests are home to surprisingly biodiverse ecosystems with nearly 135 plant species per kilometer, including other oaks and wild olive trees. These forests shelter a wide variety of animal species and are final strongholds for crucially endangered species like the Iberian Lynx and Imperial Eagle. Their acorns serve as food for native birds and rodents, their yellow flowers feed pollinators, and their unique ability to regenerate their bark makes them a valuable resource for humans.
What sets Cork Oaks apart is their thick, fissured bark with the rare capacity to regenerate every 9-12 years. Its harvest is a heavily regulated process in Portugal that takes place between May and August each year. Laws allow the harvest of a single tree only once every nine years starting at age 25. The process leaves the tree standing, and allows time for the bark to regenerate completely between harvests. Large swaths of the outer bark is cut and peeled off by hand, exposing the tree’s striking, reddish-brown trunk. The last number of the harvest year is then marked on the tree in white paint, as seen below with a tree in the Douro Valley whose bark was harvested in 2023. This tree will be ready for another harvest in 2032, nine years later. With a lifespan of around 200 years, a single cork oak can be harvested up to 15 times!
Photo by Morgan Moscinski (Douro Valley, Portugal)
Once the cork has been aged slightly, pressurized, and boiled (a six-month process), it becomes the lightweight and elastic material we find in our wine bottles. Naturally impervious to liquid while allowing a little air movement over time (this helps wine mature), the Ancient Greeks were the first to use cork as a bottle stopper over 2,000 years ago! It remains the preferred closure solution of contemporary winemakers.
With immense environmental and economic value, the Cork Oak is a unique species working hard to keep the deserts at bay and the wine drinkers happy. A protected species in Portugal since the 13th century, the ancient practice of cork bark harvesting is more important than ever. The tree is not harmed by this process; it actually helps it become a larger carbon sink. The photosynthesis required to regrow its bark results in additional carbon dioxide drawn down from the atmosphere after each harvest. This fascinating process is a rare win-win in the search for biodynamic and sustainable materials. How will we use it next?
So, the next time you celebrate a special occasion, share a bottle with friends, or enjoy a glass of Douro Valley Moscatel after dinner (something I recommend), take a moment to think about the wonderful uniqueness of the material at play. And don’t forget to compost those corks at the end of the night!
Off I pop! Ryan
Ryan Pagois is a climate advocate and systems thinker serving as an Associate Director at Built Environment Plus, helping to drive sustainable building solutions in MA. He is passionate about urban ecology, carbon balance, and rewilding cities. He is excited to pursue a Masters of Ecological Design at the Conway School starting this fall, to explore how low-impact urban development can be our greatest climate solution and community resilience tool. He grew up in Minnesota and studied environmental policy and international relations at Boston University.
The iconic red plumage of the Northern Cardinal is a staple of backyard gardens across the Eastern United States and Mexico, and is a rare example of a species thriving amidst the expansion of the built environment. While Cardinalis cardinalis is a marker of springtime in New England, these non-migratory birds make permanent homes in open woodlands, thickets, and backyards, their striking red feathers bringing a welcome burst of color to the white backdrop of northern winters.
When March rolls around, starting the cardinal breeding season, you’ll begin to hear the mating calls of female birds. Some of the most vocal songbirds around, the Northern Cardinal has a wide variety of chirps, whistles, calls, and songs – even duets unique to mated pairs – that serve a range of purposes. Their vocal acrobatics and flashy appearance have made them a favorite among birders and state governments alike. The Northern Cardinal is the state bird of Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, North Carolina, Ohio, Virginia, and West Virginia – the nation’s most popular choice with 7 state titles.
Cardinals were originally named for the male bird’s resemblance to the bright red robes and caps of the cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church. In 1983, the “Northern” qualifier was added to differentiate the bird from its Southern cousins, including species like the Yellow Cardinal. Male Northern Cardinals possess those iconic red feathers, while the female is less flamboyant: brown in color with a reddish tint that is most noticeable while in flight. The male’s vibrancy may be useful to attract a mate, but the more neutral brown of the female helps to camouflage the nest during the incubation of eggs and subsequent brooding of chicks. This results in a natural division of parenting duties.
Mating calls announce the start of nesting season in early March, and the cardinals’ prolific musical repertoire can be heard through late August or September. Northern cardinals select one mate for the extent of the breeding season and divide up the parenting responsibilities. With the red of the males easily spotted by predators, only the females sit on the nest. The males are resigned to foraging, allowed back to the nest only when a chirp from the female signals the coast is clear.
Cardinal chicks feed primarily on nutrient-rich insects until they leave the nest 10 days after hatching. After the chicks fledge, or grow their flight feathers, the parents continue to feed the young birds for another month or more, transitioning them to a granivorous diet consisting of seeds and grain – easily shelled by their conical, orange beaks – with the occasional berry or insect. Around June, the cardinal parents are free to start their next brood. Northern cardinals often raise two rounds of chicks, ranging from 1-3 eggs per nest for a total of 3-5 eggs per season. Territories are fiercely defended by males, who are often seen attacking their own reflection in windows and mirrors. You can’t be too careful!
When the mating season winds down in late summer, it is not uncommon to spot the occasional bald cardinal, but don’t worry, the birds aren’t sick! Cardinals usually replace their crest feathers gradually throughout the summer, but sometimes they’re all molted at once, exposing their dark skin. The effect is only temporary, with their notable crest growing back in a matter of weeks.
Image by Ryan Pagois (Eagan, MN)
A well-adapted species
While most species around the world are confronting immense challenges and population declines as a result of urbanization and global warming, the range and population of Northern Cardinals is actually increasing. The growth of suburbs has increased their nesting habitat, as the birds favor the thick branches of bushes and shrubs, common in woodland edges and backyard gardens. Their expansion has been aided by the presence of birdfeeders, providing cardinals with an easy food source in urban areas that give them an advantage over most native bird species. (Sunflower seeds are a cardinal’s preferred snack, for anyone looking to attract these beautiful birds.)
Cardinals may be more protected in urban areas with an absence of larger predators, but they still play a role in their local ecosystems. They serve as seed-dispersers as they forage for food, and can become a meal for the occasional predator. Domestic cats and dogs do pose a threat to them, as do hawks and owls, while small snakes, squirrels, chipmunks, and blue jays tend to go after cardinal eggs. However, cardinals have proved exceptionally adaptable in the age of human expansion. Their range has crept northward to Maine and southern Canada in the past 100 years as temperatures increase, with Northern Cardinals now numbering around 130 million.
While not a species of concern, may we continue to pay attention to and take inspiration from the Northern Cardinal, a proven adapter to the Anthropocene and a gentle backyard reminder of the beautiful sights and sounds of the natural world.
With a spring in my step, Ryan
Ryan Pagois is a climate advocate and systems thinker serving as an Associate Director at Built Environment Plus, helping to drive sustainable building solutions in MA. He is passionate about urban ecology, carbon balance, and rewilding cities. He is excited to pursue a Masters of Ecological Design at the Conway School starting this fall, to explore how low-impact urban development can be our greatest climate solution and community resilience tool. He grew up in Minnesota and studied environmental policy and international relations at Boston University.
In the lush landscapes of North America, the Northern Red Oak stands as a timeless symbol of strength, resilience, and enduring beauty. Revered for its towering stature, vibrant foliage, and essential ecological contributions, this iconic species holds a cherished place in both natural ecosystems and human communities.
The state tree of New Jersey, the Northern Red Oak is sometimes referred to as the “champion oak,” and it certainly qualifies as a biodiversity and climate champion!
The Northern Red Oak, or Quercus rubra, is an impressive hardwood tree that graces the forests of Eastern and Central North America. Its grandeur is exemplified by its towering height, often reaching between 70 to 90 feet, and its robust, straight trunk. Adorned with deeply lobed, glossy green leaves, the Northern Red Oak undergoes a breathtaking transformation in the autumn, as its foliage turns into a symphony of red, russet, and orange hues, captivating onlookers and adding a burst of color to the landscape.
I got to know my oaks over the past few years as I’ve dived more deeply into the native ecology of New England. Like maples and tulip trees, oaks have fairly recognizable leaves, and make an accessible place to start with species identification. It took me a bit longer to discern between different types of oaks, from the sharp edged Northern Red Oak leaves to the rounded edges of the Swamp White Oak leaves, but it’s a satisfying journey to take to get to know these hallmarks of the landscape better. As I learn trees’ names, patterns, life cycles, and roles, I get to establish a greater kinship with these beings, and witness the beautiful ways they interact with the people, birds, insects, and animals in the ecosystem.
Beyond its visual allure, the Northern Red Oak plays a crucial role in maintaining the health and balance of its ecosystems. Its extensive root system helps prevent soil erosion, and improves the soil sponge for water infiltration, buffering against the intensifying drought and flood cycles affecting our environments. These trees also provide essential food and habitat for a biodiverse array of wildlife.
As many scientists and foresters are beginning to recognize in greater numbers, the more we can preserve and plant keystone native species of our ecosystems, the more deeply and powerfully those ecosystems can mitigate the extreme effects of climate change and global warming. Healthy ecosystems are full of complexity, and in part it is the relationships between different species of vegetation, fungi, microbes, and wildlife that make the whole so successful. Northern Red Oaks are particularly valuable bulwarks of the forest ecosystems of the Eastern and Central US, where they support almost 500 different of butterfly and moth species, which in turn feed the larger food chain. These trees’ acorns also directly supply vital sustenance for many types of wildlife, including blue jays, woodpeckers, turkeys, squirrels, raccoons, and deer. Finally, as old trees begin to decay and die, their trunks and branches go on to house many animals’ dens and nests, continuing to provide throughout the stages their life cycle.
The Northern Red Oak has traditionally been valued for its economic significance, which characterizes a lot of the information you can find on this beautiful tree. Revered for its durable wood, the Northern Red Oak is a prized timber species, notable for its strength, durability, and attractive grain pattern. Its wood can be found in various woodworking applications, including furniture, cabinetry, flooring, and veneer. So next time you see a product boasting its oak hardwood, imagine the long history of that material that lies beneath the surface.
Image by Nicholas A. Tonelli from Northeast Pennsylvania, USA, CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons
Vital and Versatile
Adaptability is another hallmark of the Northern Red Oak, as these trees thrive in a wide range of soil types and environmental conditions. From lush forests to urban parks, this resilient species can flourish in diverse habitats, underscoring its importance as a cornerstone of biodiversity.
In urban forestry and landscaping, Northern Red Oaks are treasured for providing shade, natural beauty, and environmental benefits to parks, streetscapes, and residential areas. Sometimes, biodiversity value and hardiness to poor soil conditions and urban stressors are thought of as tradeoffs that urban foresters must navigate. However, the Northern Red Oak (and many other remarkable trees) prove that sometimes, you can have it all.
Northern Red Oak sapling in our Danehy Park Miyawaki Forest (Image by Maya Dutta)
Despite its resilience, the Northern Red Oak faces threats from pests, diseases, and habitat loss from logging, degradation, and fragmentation, underscoring the need for transforming our relationship to forests and vegetation, these powerful systems for cooling and carbon sequestration. By protecting and preserving Northern Red Oak populations, prioritizing biodiversity and holistic ecosystem health in our climate resilience efforts, we can make a cooler, greener, healthier world for ourselves and the many species we share our home with.
May we make that dream a reality,
Maya
Maya Dutta is an environmental advocate and ecosystem restorer working to spread understanding on the key role of biodiversity in shaping the climate and the water, carbon, nutrient and energy cycles we rely on. She is passionate about climate change adaptation and mitigation and the ways that community-led ecosystem restoration can fight global climate change while improving the livelihood and equity of human communities. Having grown up in New York City and lived in cities all her life, Maya is interested in creating more natural infrastructure, biodiversity, and access to nature and ecological connection in urban areas.
Groundhogs are famous rodents who enjoy the spotlight in early February, when people in the US and Canada celebrate Groundhog Day. These critters also go by woodchuck, whistle-pig, wood-shock, whistler, marmot, thickwood badger, red monk, land beaver, weenusk, monax, and groundpig.
Beyond their supposed (and generally debunked) prowess at predicting seasonal changes, these cuddly creatures exhibit a fascinating blend of behaviors and ecological significance. Groundhogs belong to the squirrel family as one of the 14 species of marmots, which are also aptly known as ground squirrels. Indeed, groundhogs’ fifteen minutes of fame, and their lives outside of it, are shaped by their burrowing talent and how that ties into their seasonal habits.
A defining characteristic of groundhogs is their habit of hibernating through the winter months. They spend the warmer seasons gorging themselves on vegetation, accumulating ample fat reserves to sustain them through the winter slumber. During hibernation, their heart rate drops and their body temperature lowers, enabling them to conserve energy in their underground burrows.
Burrowing is a hallmark behavior of groundhogs, with complex, multi-chambered burrows extending up to a total of 65 feet in length. These subterranean dwellings serve as multi-functional spaces where groundhogs sleep, raise their offspring, and even excrete waste in specific, separate tunnels. Intriguingly, the burrows also provide refuge for other wildlife species, which helps support the overall biodiversity of their habitats. Much like the dens of the related prairie dog, these burrows can shelter other species in times of need, offering a place of refuge during fires or cold snaps, or simply a home base to hide out from the usual predators.
Cultural and Ecological Connections
Groundhog Day, celebrated on February 2nd each year, has captured the imagination of people across the United States and Canada. According to tradition, if a groundhog emerges from its burrow and sees its shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter, and if it doesn’t see its shadow (which happened this year), spring will come early. However, a study conducted in 2021 surveying years of predictions and seasonal records revealed that groundhogs’ predictions seem to be pure chance, with accuracy rates hovering around 50 percent.
Despite their failed reputation as predictors of seasonal changes, groundhogs excel in other aspects of survival. They are skilled foragers, feeding on a variety of vegetation, including leaves, flowers, and field crops. Their burrowing activities also play a crucial role in mixing and aerating the soil, a process which enhances nutrient absorption essential for plant growth.
While groundhogs are classified as species of least concern on the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) Red List, they face challenges in areas where they are overly abundant. Considered pests by some due to their burrowing activities, groundhogs occasionally come into conflict with humans, particularly farmers who may experience damage to gardens and crops.
Groundhogs are integral components of their ecosystems, providing shelter for various wildlife species and contributing to soil health through their burrowing activities. While adults are known to defend themselves fiercely against predators using their powerful claws and teeth, young groundhogs are more vulnerable to predation, particularly from birds of prey like hawks and other raptors.
Check out this short and sweet video from the Missouri Department of Conservation on Groundhogs:
Let us honor Groundhog Day as a reminder to be attentive to the organisms and ecosystems around us. The more we learn from one another, the better we can participate in the complex web of life in which we all play a role.
Burrowing away now,
Maya
Maya Dutta is an environmental advocate and ecosystem restorer working to spread understanding on the key role of biodiversity in shaping the climate and the water, carbon, nutrient and energy cycles we rely on. She is passionate about climate change adaptation and mitigation and the ways that community-led ecosystem restoration can fight global climate change while improving the livelihood and equity of human communities. Having grown up in New York City and lived in cities all her life, Maya is interested in creating more natural infrastructure, biodiversity, and access to nature and ecological connection in urban areas.
What furry feline has stealthy skills, built-in snow gear, and a surprising screech?
The Canada lynx!
Photo by Kevin Pepper
The Canada lynx, also known as Lynx canadensis or the Inuktut name of ᐱᖅᑐᖅᓯᕋᖅ (‘piqtuqsiraq’), is a charismatic mammal of the Northernmost parts of North America. This furry, fierce cousin of the bobcat can be found in Canada, of course, as well as Alaska and in some parts of Northern Maine.
This forest feline may resemble a larger version of a housecat, but its predatory prowess is nothing short of formidable. With a heavy coat of fur, including distinctive tufts at its ears and a short, black-tipped tail, large paws that help navigate snowy terrain, and excellent vision and hearing, the Canada lynx is extremely well adapted to its environment.
Photo by Laura Lorman from National Wildlife Federation
Prime Predator
In terms of physical attributes and behavior, the Canada lynx possesses exceptional senses, including large eyes and acute hearing, making it an adept nocturnal hunter. In fact, they are able to detect prey in the darkness from as far as 250 feet (76 m) away.
Although not known for speed, these stealthy predators rely on their knack for stealth. They often lie in wait, concealed in strategic hiding spots, before making a calculated pounce on unsuspecting prey. Patiently biding their time for hours on end is not uncommon in their pursuit of sustenance.
Exhibiting a very specific carnivorous diet, these lynxes primarily subsist on snowshoe hares, and fluctuations in hare populations directly correlate with the rise and fall of lynx numbers. When it is available, a single lynx might consume an entire hare for a meal, storing remnants for later consumption. In the absence of hares, they resort to hunting small mammals, birds, and occasionally larger prey such as caribou.
Photo from Shuttershock
Suited to the snow
Characterized by a compact body, diminutive tail, and elongated legs, the Canada lynx sports a dense, lengthy, and gray fur coat during winter, while transitioning to a shorter, lighter brown coat in summer. Their facial appearance appears broad due to elongated fur patches extending from their cheeks that can give the appearance of a two-pronged beard. They also sport distinctive black-tipped, bobbed tails and elongated tufts on their triangular ears.
Closely resembling the southern-dwelling bobcat, the key difference lies in their tails— the Canada lynx boasts completely black-tipped tails compared to the bobcat’s tail that features a white ring below the black tip. Moreover, the lynx’s sizable, heavily furred paws act as natural snowshoes, with a high surface area to support their movement over deep snow, aiding their mobility during winter hunts.
Residing across forested regions spanning Canada, Alaska, and certain parts of the contiguous United States, Canada lynxes prefer making dens under fallen trees, tree stumps, rock formations, or dense vegetation. These territorial animals are mostly solitary, particularly with male lynxes leading an almost entirely solitary existence.
Photo from National Geographic
However, young lynxes stay in the care of their mothers for about a year, and some females have been observed living and hunting in pairs, raising questions for scientists about the social behavior of these big cats. Recently, a team of researchers has begun delving into the social lives of lynxes by tracking their vocalizations. And whether or not you are engaged in studying lynx populations, it’s well worth checking out the haunting sounds of the lynx call:
Big Cats of the Boreal
The Canada lynx, a native denizen of the expansive Boreal Forest, relies heavily on this vast and biodiverse habitat for survival. The boreal ecosystem, characterized by its dense forests of coniferous trees, provides the ideal cover and sustenance for these elusive predators. The lynx thrives amidst the rich tapestry of dense vegetation, fallen trees, and rocky outcrops, creating a mosaic of hiding spots and denning sites crucial for their survival. However, threats to the Boreal Forest, including deforestation, habitat fragmentation, and climate change, pose significant risks to the Canada lynx population.
Deforestation for logging, mining, and human settlement disrupts the lynx’s habitat, diminishing their hunting grounds and safe havens. Fragmentation of the forest reduces connectivity between lynx populations, affecting genetic diversity and hindering their ability to roam and find suitable mates. Climate change exacerbates these issues, altering the boreal ecosystem and impacting prey availability, which is pivotal for the lynx’s sustenance. The cumulative effect of these threats imperils the Canada lynx, highlighting the urgent need for conservation efforts to safeguard both the lynx and its vital habitat in the Boreal Forest, which in turn plays an essential role regulating the carbon and water cycles and overall stability of our climate.
The Canada lynx is more than just an example of might and physical prowess in nature. A true embodiment of the northern forests, these elusive creatures and their unique lifestyle are treasures of the wild. Let us work for ecological integrity in all forests and ecosystems, Boreal and beyond.
For my fellow cat lovers,
Maya
Maya Dutta is an environmental advocate and ecosystem restorer working to spread understanding on the key role of biodiversity in shaping the climate and the water, carbon, nutrient and energy cycles we rely on. She is passionate about climate change adaptation and mitigation and the ways that community-led ecosystem restoration can fight global climate change while improving the livelihood and equity of human communities. Having grown up in New York City and lived in cities all her life, Maya is interested in creating more natural infrastructure, biodiversity, and access to nature and ecological connection in urban areas.
What Nat King Cole, Mel Torme’ and Bing Crosby Were Singing About
According to legend, songwriter Robert Wells, trying to stay cool during the hot summer of 1945, put to paper his favorite parts of winter, eventually turning those thoughts into “The Christmas Song.” First on his list – “chestnuts roasting on an open fire.”
Now maybe, if you are like me, you find that a curious choice. Were chestnuts really that important to the Christmas experience? Before yuletide carols and Jack Frost? Before turkeys and mistletoe and tiny tots who can’t sleep because “SantaSantaSanta?” Why, when penning his favorite parts of winter, did his first thought turn to chestnuts?
Which brings us to the Columbian Exchange.
What is the Columbian Exchange?
The Columbian Exchange, for those who don’t know, refers to the massive transfer of plants, animals, germs, ideas, people, and more that occurred in the wake of Christopher Columbus’ arrival in the Americas. While a detailed analysis of all the impacts of the Columbian Exchange is far beyond the scope of this piece, from a strictly biological standpoint, it began a fierce evolutionary battle as previously unseen species entered new territory for the first time.
One of the most notable victims of this exchange turned out to be the American Chestnut Tree.
For more than 2,000 years, the American Chestnut dominated the mountains and forests of the Eastern United States, allowing adventurous squirrels to travel, according to legend, from Georgia to New England without ever touching the ground or another species of tree. Each year it provided much of the diet for many species, including black bears, deer, turkeys, the (now extinct) passenger pigeon and more.
The chestnuts, which grew three at a time inside the velvety lining of a spiny burr, contained more nutrients than other trees in the East, making them especially valuable to Indigenous peoples who relied on them as a food source and used them in traditional medicines. Europeans would later use the nuts as feed for their animals, or forage to use them for food or trade. In addition, since the trees grew faster than oak and were highly resistant to decay, the lumber was highly-prized for construction—to this day American chestnut, reclaimed from older buildings, is sometimes used to create furniture.
Harvesting an American chestnut at TACF’s Meadowview Research FarmsOpen bur of an American chestnut Young green burs at Meadowview Research FarmsWild American chestnut seedling in NY
The chestnuts were, in fact, such a staple that, in the late fall and early winter after the trees had delivered their harvest, city streets would be lined with carts roasting the nuts for sale. They are reported to be richer and sweeter than other varieties of chestnut and were a much sought-after wintertime treat. Today, roasted chestnuts are typically imported, and either European or Chinese chestnuts are used and, if our great-grandparents are to be believed, those species are just not as good. In addition, the loss of the American Chestnut deprived the United States of an important export.
So, What Happened?
After Columbus arrived, a fella by the name of Thomas Jefferson danced into his Virginia home-sweet-home with some European chestnuts to plant at Monticello. Somebody else imported Chinese chestnuts and, before too long, ink disease had practically eliminated the American chestnut in the southern portion of its range.
Then, in 1876, Japanese chestnuts were introduced into the United States in upstate New York and, a few decades later, a blight was discovered at the Bronx Zoo (then known as New York Zoological Park) that, by 1906, had killed 98% of the American chestnuts in the borough. Since Asian chestnuts, and to a lesser extent European chestnuts, had evolved alongside the blight, they were able to survive. But the American Chestnut tree (and its cousin the Allegheny Chinquapin) could not. Over the coming decades the airborne fungus, which could spread 50 miles in a year and kill an infected American Chestnut within ten years, had rendered the American Chestnut functionally extinct.
Canker and blightBlight on young chestnut trees.
What Does That Mean, “Functionally” Extinct?
While the American Chestnut may be “functionally” extinct, that is not the same as being extinct. The root systems of the trees in many cases have survived, as the blight only kills the above-ground portion, and the below-ground components remain. Every so often a new shoot will sprout from the roots not killed when the main tree stem died. These shoots are only able to grow for a few years before they are infected with the blight, and they never reach a point of bearing fruit and reproducing, but they do grow. For that reason, the tree is classified as “functionally” extinct, but not extinct. In addition, isolated pockets of the species have been found, or planted, west of the trees’ historical range where the blight has not yet reached.
A Tufted Titmouse sits on the limb of an American chestnut
Red-spotted purple butterfly on an American hybridGray Tree Frog in Chestnut Tree
Will I Ever Get to Eat a Roasted American Chestnut?
While you probably won’t get to have the full roasted chestnuts experience as Robert Wells once did, there is hope for this species and hope that maybe your grandchildren will enjoy them as your great-grandparents once did. Programs at several universities such as the University of Tennessee and the State University of New York along with the USDA, US Forest Service and some non-profits like the American Chestnut Foundation are actively working to bring the species back by either cross pollinating blight-resistant specimens or combining them with more resistant species. You can learn more about these efforts toward resilient chestnuts by exploring the sources below.
Ho ho ho,
Mike
Mike Conway is a part-time freelance writer who lives with his wife, kids, and dog Smudge (pictured) in Northern Virginia.
With over 1,600 species of bamboo worldwide, this subfamily (Bambusidae) has a great deal of diversity, and well-earned acclaim. These plants are actually the largest grasses, or members of the family Poaceae.
This talented family boasts a remarkable diversity, with bamboo species native to every continent besides Antarctica and Europe. People and cultures across the world have come to prize bamboo for its amazing growth rates, its extraordinary flexibility and strength, and its ecological contributions to clean air, soil, and water. Whether as a symbol of luck and fortune, a provider of adaptable materials, or an ecosystem restoration MVP, bamboo reminds us of nature’s incredible ability to captivate and nurture.
The word “bamboo” is thought to originate in the Malay word “mambu.” During the late 16th century, the Dutch adopted the term and coined their own version, “bamboes,” which eventually became the “bamboo” we know and love today.
One great grower
Bamboo holds the crown for being the fastest-growing plant on Earth. Some species can achieve astonishing growth rates of up to 90 centimeters (35 inches) in just 24 hours. While giant sea kelp (actually an algae) can surpass bamboo’s growth rates in ideal conditions, the rapid growth of bamboo remains unparalleled among vegetation and land-based photosynthesizers.
Another of bamboo’s most notable qualities is its ability to be harvested without uprooting the plant. This feature allows for comparatively sustainable manufacturing processes, as bamboo regenerates quickly from its robust root system and does not require its rhizomes to be replanted.
Over centuries, people have found uses for bamboo in various industries, such as construction, furniture, textiles, and paper, and in the present day many are looking to bamboo for greener alternatives to traditional materials. You might see this trend taking off in the latest utensils, toothbrushes, or toilet papers hitting the market, but experiments using these plants are no new fad.
One of the most famous examples of bamboo taking a central stage in innovation came in 1880, when Thomas Edison used carbonized bamboo fiber to conduct electrical current through a lightbulb. After testing a wide variety of materials, he found the bamboo fiber to perform the best, lasting 1,200 hours as the conductor.
Bamboo harvested at Murshidabad, India (Photo by Biswarup Ganguly, CC by 3.0)
Bamboo is particularly renowned for its unique combination of flexibility and strength. This exceptional quality has made it a popular choice in construction. Notably, in Sichuan, China, a thousand-year-old bridge made of bamboo stands as a testament to the plant’s durability. The bridge is still in use today with ongoing maintenance, showcasing the long-lasting potential of bamboo.
People have naturally turned to bamboo for some of our most fundamental activities, like creating shelter, harvesting firewood, making clothing and home goods, and of course, eating. Bamboo shoots are featured in dishes across Asia, while its sap, seeds, leaves, and even the hollow stalks can be used in cooking or fermentation processes. Bamboo textiles offer durability, hypoallergenic properties, natural cooling, and moisture-wicking capabilities, making them ideal for bedding and clothing. Bamboo has also been used to create paper, writing implements, musical instruments, weapons, fishing and aquaculture equipment, baskets, firecrackers, medicine, and more. Truly, what can’t this plant do?
Bamboo trays used in mussel farming in Abucay, Bataan, Philippines (Photo by Ramon F. Velasquez, CC by 3.0)
An asset to the ecosystem
While humans have found many ways to work with harvested bamboo, I think these amazing grasses are most impressive as living organisms in their environment. Bamboo plays a vital ecological role in its surroundings, working to regulate intact ecosystems and repair degraded ones.
Bamboo’s extensive root system helps control soil erosion, preventing the loss of vital topsoil and providing stability to sloped areas and river systems. Some bamboo species are able to stabilize and hold in place up to six cubic meters of soil with their long roots. Additionally, bamboo can be extremely effective at absorbing carbon dioxide and releasing oxygen into the atmosphere. In particular, “clumping” types of bamboo that grow thickly in dense clusters can filter air up to 30% more effectively than other plants.
Park signage in New Delhi featuring good filtering plants, including bamboo (Photo by Maya Dutta)
Bamboo thrives in diverse environments, from tropical to high-altitude regions. It demonstrates exceptional resilience, withstanding extreme cold below -20°C (-4°F) in the Andes and Himalayas and heat up to 50°C (122°F). Notably, bamboo groves were the only plant life to survive the atomic bombings in Hiroshima, Japan, in 1945, and were among the first to resprout after the devastation.
Some species of bamboo are able to survive and thrive even in areas of high pollution, making them an extremely important ally in remediation efforts to remove heavy metals or other toxic substances from soil or wastewater. As a result of these advantages, many people have introduced bamboo species outside of their native areas. In doing so, it is essential to be aware of the potential for displacing vegetation important to local wildlife.
Some bamboo that clusters densely can easily crowd out competition, while other bamboo species can produce allelopathic compounds (natural herbicides) that prevent other plants from growing. In any interventions we make, especially for the good of our environments, a comprehensive systems approach is key. Understanding the elements of an ecosystem and the dynamics that make it function, as well as what outcomes you want to bring about, can help prevent single-minded solutions and unintended consequences that harm biodiversity and ecosystem function in the long run.
Bamboo under Spring Rain by Xia Chang (Image from Wikimedia Commons)
Strength in symbolism
Given its history of cultivation that dates back around 6000 years, it is unsurprising that Bamboo holds deep symbolic significance in cultures around the world. In China, it represents various values, including fairness, beauty, virtue, and strength. Its tall, upright growth is associated with integrity and the ability to adapt to challenging circumstances. In India, bamboo is considered a symbol of friendship and enlightenment, embodying qualities of unity and harmony.
One myth with several variants around Asia tells us that humanity emerged from a bamboo stem. If that is the case, then we are coming back to our roots. Let us embrace all this might mean for us — flexibility, fairness, adaptability, strength, and, of course, our interdependence with the biodiverse wonders of this world.
Rooted in admiration,
Maya
Maya Dutta is an environmental advocate and ecosystem restorer working to spread understanding on the key role of biodiversity in shaping the climate and the water, carbon, nutrient and energy cycles we rely on. She is passionate about climate change adaptation and mitigation and the ways that community-led ecosystem restoration can fight global climate change while improving the livelihood and equity of human communities. Having grown up in New York City and lived in cities all her life, Maya is interested in creating more natural infrastructure, biodiversity, and access to nature and ecological connection in urban areas.
You’ve never heard of Pando? Neither had I, till Paula Phipps here at Bio4Climate suggested it as a Featured Creature!
Pando is a 108-acre forest of quaking aspens in Utah, thousands of years old, in which all of the trees are genetically identical! These trees are all branches on a shared root system that is thousands of years old, so the whole forest is one single organism!
Known as the “Trembling Giant,” Pando is more than just your average arbor. It’s so unique it has a name. In a sense, Pando “redefines trees,” says Lance Oditt, who directs the nonprofit Friends of Pando (you will see his name on some of the photos in this piece). Pando also has symbolic significance to many people. Former First Lady of California Maria Shriver puts it this way: “Pando means I belong to you, you belong to me, we belong to each other.”
Aerial outline of Pando, with Fish Lake in the foreground. Lance Oditt/Friends of Pando (Wikimedia Commons)
Pando (Latin for “I spread”) is a single clonal organism, i.e., it is one unified plant representing one individual male quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides). This living organism was identified as a single creature because its parts possess identical genes with a unitary massively-interconnected underground root system. This plant is located in the Fremont River Ranger District of the Fishlake National Forest in south-central Utah, United States, around 1 mile (1.6 km) southwest of Fish Lake. Pando occupies 108 acres (43.6 ha) and is estimated to weigh collectively 6,000 tonnes (6,000,000 kg), making it the heaviest known organism on earth.
Its age has been estimated at between 10,000 and 80,000 years, since there is no way to assess it with any precision due to the irrelevance of branch core samples to the age of the whole creature. Its size, weight, and prehistoric age have given it worldwide fame. These trees not only cover 108 acres of national forestland, but weigh a shocking six million kilograms (13 million pounds). This makes Pando the most massive genetically distinct organism. However, the title for the largest organism goes to “the humongous fungus,” a network of dark honey fungus (Armillaria ostoyae) in Oregon that covers an amazing 2,200 acres. I had no idea such single living organisms could exist! I was instantaneously intrigued, and wanted to learn more about this curious entity.
Deer eating Pando shoots. (Lance Oditt/Friends of Pando)
Pando is also in trouble, because older branches (since it is not composed of individual “trees” despite its appearance, but sprouts from one extensive root system) are not being replaced by young shoots to perpetuate the organism. The reason is difficult to determine, between issues of drought, human development, aging, excessive grazing by herbivores (cattle, elk and deer), and fire suppression (as fire benefits aspens). The forest is being studied, and fencing has been put up around most of the area to prevent browsing animals from entering the forest and eating up the young shoots sprouting from this unified root system. Scientists believe that both the ongoing management of this area and uncontrolled foraging by wild and domestic animals have had deeply adverse effects on Pando’s long-term resilience. Overgrazing by deer and elk has become one of the biggest worries. Wolves and cougars once kept the numbers in check of these herbivores, but their herds are now much larger because of the loss of such apex predators. These game species also tend to congregate around Pando as they have learned that they are not in any danger of being hunted in this protected woodland.
An Epic History
Despite its fame today, the Pando tree was not even identified until 1976. The clone was re-examined in 1992 and named Pando, recognized as a single asexual entity based on its morphological characteristics, and described as the world’s largest organism by weight. In 2006 the U.S. Postal Service honored the Pando Clone with a commemorative stamp as one of the “40 Wonders of America.”
Genetic sampling and analysis in 2008 increased the clone’s estimated size from 43.3 to 43.6 hectares. The first complete assessment of Pando’s status was conducted in 2018 with a new understanding of the importance of reducing herbivory by mule deer and elk to protect the future of Pando. These findings were also reinforced with further research in 2019. But Pando is constantly changing its shape and form, moving in any direction the sun and soil conditions create advantages. Any place a branch comes up is a new hub that can send the tree in a new direction. If you visit the tree and see new stems, you are witnessing the tree moving or “spreading” out in that direction.
Botanists Burton Barnes and Jerry Kemperman were the first to identify Pando as a single organism after examining aerial photographs and conducting land delineation (basically, tracking its borders). They revealed their groundbreaking discovery in a 1976 paper.
Today, perhaps the person who knows the most about Pando’s genetics is Karen Mock, a molecular ecologist at Utah State University in Logan. She and three other scientists ground the aspen’s leaves into a fine powder and then extracted DNA from the dried samples. “When we started our research, I was expecting that it wouldn’t be one single clone,” as is the case with other systems, Mock says. “I was wrong. Pando is a ginormous single clone.” They published their findings in a 2008 study. The group also confirmed that this quaking giant is male, creates pollen and constantly regenerates itself by sending new branches up from its root system in a process called “suckering.”
“The original seed started out about the same size as an aphid,” Mock says. “It’s tiny, and to think that it started this one little tree, its roots spreading and sending up suckers to become one vast single clone.” For context, Pando’s current size is about 10-11 times bigger than that!
Their research has forever changed the way that the scientific community approaches Pando and helped raise public awareness of this unique clone growing in southern Utah while providing it additional protection. For example, Friends of Pando has fixed numerous broken fences that were allowing deer access to the tree.
A wintry vista on Monroe Mountain gives us an idea of what the land the Pando Seed sat down in may have looked like (Lance Oditt/Friends of Pando)
Speculating about how Pando started, biologists have woven a rough image of its early origins. They describe Pando as a tree that transcends nearly every concept of trees and natural classifications we have today. Pando is simultaneously the heaviest tree, the largest tree by land mass, and the largest quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides). A masterpiece of botanical imagination, how Pando came to be is even more improbable than the challenge of classifying it. One possibility is that on one of the first warm spring days of the year, thousands of years after the last ice age, a single Aspen seed floating 9,000 feet in the sky came to rest on the southeastern edge of the Fishlake Basin, a land littered with massive volcanic boulders, split apart along an active fault line, carved by glaciers, littered with mineral rich glacial till and shaped by landslides and torrential snow melts that continue to this day.
But what would appear to be a wasteland to the untrained eye made for a perfect home for the Pando seed. This was a prime location along the steep side of a spreading fault zone that provides water drainage to the lake below and a barren landscape with rich soil laid down by glaciers. Therefore this was a place where the light-hungry Pando seed would face no competition for sunlight. Underground, a tumultuous geologic landscape favored Pando’s sideways moving roots system over other native trees that prefer to dig down.
If we were to see the first branch of Pando, we might think nothing of it, not knowing what was in store for this organism with the ability to grow up to 3 feet per year. Those first years, any number of disasters could have destroyed the tree altogether.
In fact, for Pando to exist at all, at least one disaster likely set the tree on a new course that created the tree we know today. As a male tree, Pando only produces pollen so, to advance itself over the land, Pando has to replicate itself by sending up new stems from its root, a process called suckering. Probably at some time during those first 150 years of Pando’s life, something disrupted the growth hormones underground and within its trunk, creating an imbalance so Pando began to sucker. Although there’s no way to tell what that force was, we do know that was the moment Pando started to self-propagate, to spread both across the land and toward us in time. And today, that one tree has become a lattice-work of roots and stems that a rough field estimate indicates would conceivably be able to stretch as far as 12,000 miles or about halfway around the world.
Opinions do seem to vary on different estimates of Pando’s real weight and age. One source said Pando’s collective weight was 13 million pounds, double the estimate stated above, with the root system of these aspens believed to have been born from a single seed at the end of the last major ice age (about 2.6 million years ago). As we cannot measure Pando’s true age, we are left with intelligent guesses. This reminds me of what I often jestfully say might be an academic’s ideal state of mind, to be “unencumbered by facts or information and thus free to theorize”!
While Pando is the largest known aspen clone, other large and old clones exist, so Pando is not totally unique. According to a 2000 OECD report, clonal groups of Populus tremuloides in eastern North America are very common, but generally less than 0.1 hectare in size, while in areas of Utah, groups as large as 80 hectares have been observed. The age of this species is difficult to establish with any precision. In the western United States, some argue that widespread seedling establishment has not occurred since the last glaciation, some 10,000 years ago, but some biologists think these western clones could be as much as 1 million years old.
Pando encompasses 108 acres, weighs nearly 6,000 metric tons, and has over 40,000 stems or trunks, which die individually and are replaced by new stems growing from its roots. The root system is estimated to be several thousand years old with habitat modeling suggesting a maximum age of 14,000 years, but others estimate it as much older than that. Individual aspen stems typically do not live beyond 100–130 years and mature areas within Pando are approaching this limit. Indeed, the worry is that there are so few younger stems surviving that the whole organism is being placed at risk. This is why the scientists are trying to restrict herbivore access to this protected area.
A 72 year aerial photo chronosequence showing forest cover change within the Pando aspenclone. Base images courtesy of USDA Aerial Photography Field Office, Salt Lake City, Utah
This ancient giant, however, has been shrinking since the 1960s or 70s. This timing is no coincidence. As human activity has grown in the western United States, so has our impact on the surrounding ecosystems. The biggest factor behind this shrinking is a lack of “new recruits.” The shoots that form from Pando’s ancient rootstock are not making it to maturity. Instead, they are being eaten while they are still small, soft, and nutritious. Mule deer are the main culprits. Cattle are also allowed to browse in this forest for brief intervals every year, and the combined herbivory has thwarted Pando’s efforts to keep up with old dying trees.
These changes have led to a thinning of the forest. One study used aerial imagery to identify these changes, showing that Pando isn’t regenerating in the way that it should. Researchers assessed 65 plots that had been subjected to varying degrees of human efforts to protect the grove: some plots had been surrounded by a fence, some had been fenced in and regulated through interventions like shrub removal and selective tree cutting, and some were untouched. The team tracked the number of living and dead trees, along with the number of new stems. Researchers also examined animal feces to determine how species that graze in Fishlake National Forest might be impacting Pando’s health.
The problem is that with enough loss of old trees, the grove will lose its ability to regenerate. A dense forest can feed its roots with fuel from photosynthesis, and is able to send up new shoots regularly. But as it loses leaves and their photosynthetic capability, it can start to shrink.
A map showing the extent of Pando as well as recent fencing installations to protect its growth Image courtesy of Paul Rogers and Darren McAvoy, St. George News
As part of this new study, the team analyzed aerial photographs of Pando taken over the past 72 years (see previous image above with photos from 1939 to 2011). These impressions drive home the grove’s dire state. In the late 1930s, the crowns of the trees were touching. But over the past 30 to 40 years, gaps begin to appear within the forest, indicating that new trees aren’t cropping up to replace the ones that have died. And that isn’t great news for the animals and plants that depend on the trees to survive, researcher Paul C. Rogers said in a statement.
Fortunately, all is not lost. There are ways that humans can intervene to give Pando the time it needs to get back on track, among them culling voracious deer and putting up better fencing to keep the animals away from saplings. As Rogers says, “It would be a shame to witness the significant reduction of this iconic forest when reversing this decline is realizable should we demonstrate the will to do so.”
Though it seems easy to blame these changes on deer, the real blame still lies with us humans. Throughout the 20th century, deer populations have been hugely impacted by humans. Human impacts on ecosystems are complex and far-reaching. A major problem is the lack of apex predators in the area; in the early 1900s, humans aggressively hunted animals like wolves, mountain lions and grizzly bears, which helped keep mule deer in check. And much of the fencing that was erected to protect Pando isn’t working: mule deer, it seems, are able to jump over the fences. So we need to monitor all ecosystems to understand how they respond to human activity if we are to minimize damage, and take steps to compensate for the imbalances we create.
The aspen clone is one of the largest living organisms on the planet. (Lance Oditt/Friends of Pando)
Though it is hotly contested by ranchers wanting to protect their cattle, wolf reintroduction is ongoing in the West. Hunting is also regulated by federal and state agencies, which artificially adjust deer populations. The effects of these changes are not always immediately apparent. Forest managers do their best to replicate historical levels and manage new threats.
However, we lack good historical data on herbivory in Pando or many other surrounding areas. Controlling herbivory with more hunting is one remedial option. Reduced cattle grazing in the grove has also been suggested by researchers.
Reproduction and Threats
As mentioned, the asexual reproductive process for this entity is not like that of a regular forest. An individual stem sends out lateral roots that, under the right conditions, send up other erect stems which look just like individual trees. The process is then repeated until a whole stand, of what appear to be individual trees, forms. These collections of multiple stems, called ramets, all together form one, single, genetic individual, usually termed a clone. Thus, although it looks like a woodland of individual trees, with striking white bark and small leaves that flutter in the slightest breeze, they are one entity all linked together underground by a single complex system of roots.
Lance Oditt demonstrates how to use a 360-degree camerafor the Pando Photographic Survey. As of July, Oditt and his team had taken around 7,300 photos (Credit: Tonia Lewis)
A healthy aspen grove can replace dying trees with young saplings. As dying trees clear the canopy, more sunlight makes it to the forest floor, where young shoots can take advantage of the opening to rapidly grow. This keeps the forest eternally young, cycling through trees of all ages, as new clonal stems start growing, but when grazing animals eat the tops off newly forming stems, they die. This is why large portions of Pando have seen very little new growth.
The exception is one area that was fenced off a few decades ago to remove dying trees. This area excluded elk and deer from browsing and thus has experienced a successful regeneration of new clonal stems, with dense growth referred to as the “bamboo garden.”
Some other amazing features of Pando rise from the way aspens grow and develop. In Canada, aspen have earned the nickname “asbestos forests” as they have two unique characteristics that make them more fire tolerant. Aspen store massive quantities of water, allowing them to thwart low and medium intensity fires by simply being less flammable. They also do not create large quantities of flammable volatile oils that can make their conifer cousins so fire prone. Second, their branches reach high rather than spreading densely at the base, allowing them to avoid catching flame from fires that move over the land below.
Living where the growing season is short and winters are harsh, Pando features another advantage over other trees. It contains chlorophyll in its bark which allows it to create energy without leaves during the dark, cold winter months. Although this process is nowhere near as efficient as the energy production of the leaves in summer, this small energy boost allows Pando to get a head start by surging into bloom once temperatures reach 54 degrees for more than 6 days each spring.
However, the older stems in Pando are affected by at least three diseases: sooty bark canker, leaf spot, and conk fungal disease. While plant diseases have thrived in aspen stands for millennia, it is unknown what their ongoing ecosystemic effects might be, given Pando’s lack of new growth and an ever-increasing list of other pressures on the clonal giant, including that of climate change. Pando arose after the last ice age, so has had the benefit of a largely stable climate ever since, but that stability may be changing enough to endanger Pando’s long-term survival.
A scientist can plug in the metadata of a particular tree within the clone and be taken directly to that tree without having to navigate the entire forest virtually. (Intermountain Forest Service, USDA Region 4 Photography (Public domain via Wikimedia Commons)
Insects such as bark beetles and disease such as root rot and cankers attack the overstory trees, weakening and killing them. A lack of regeneration combined with weakening and dying trees, in time, could result in a smaller clone or a complete die-off. So the Forest Service in cooperation with partner organizations are working together to study Pando and address these issues. Over the years, foresters have tested different methods to stimulate the roots to encourage new sprouting. Research plots have been set up in all treated areas to track Pando’s progress, as foresters learn from Pando and adapt to their evolving understanding.
With regard to our changing climate, Pando inhabits an alpine region surrounded by desert, meaning it is no stranger to warm temperatures or drought. But climate change threatens the size and lifespan of the tree, as well as the whole complex ecosystem that it hosts. Aspen stands in other locations have struggled with climate-related pressures, such as reduced water supply and heat spells, all of which make it harder for these trees to form new leaves, which lead to declines in photosynthetic coverage and the continued viability of this amazing organism.
With more competition for ever-dwindling water resources (the nearby Fish Lake is just out of reach of the tree’s root system), with summertime temperatures expected to continue to reach record highs, and with the threat of more intense wildfires, Pando will certainly have to struggle to adjust to these fast-changing conditions while maintaining its full extent and size.
Age Estimates for Pando
Due to the progressive replacement of stems and roots, the overall age of an aspen clone cannot be determined from tree rings. In Pando’s case, ages up to 1 million years have therefore been suggested. An age of 80,000 years is often given for Pando, but this claim has not been verified and is inconsistent with the Forest Service‘s post ice-age estimate. Glaciers have repeatedly formed on the Fish Lake Plateau over the past several hundred thousand years and the Fish Lake valley occupied by Pando was partially filled by ice as recently as the last glacial maximum, about 20,000 to 30,000 years ago. Consequently, ages greater than approximately 16,000 years require Pando to have survived at least the Pinedale glaciation, something that appears unlikely under current genetic estimates of Pando’s age and the likely variation in Pando’s local climate.
Its longevity and remoteness have enabled a whole ecosystem of 68 plant species and many animals to evolve and be supported under its shade. However, this entire ecosystem relies on the aspen remaining healthy and upright. Though Pando is protected by the US National Forest Service and is not in danger of being cut down, it is in danger of disappearing due to several other factors and concerns, as noted above.
Estimates of Pando’s age have also been affected by changes in our understanding of aspen clones in western North America. Earlier sources argued germination and successful establishment of aspen on new sites was rare in the last 10,000 years, implying that Pando’s root system was likely over 10,000 years old. More recent observations, however, have disproved that view, showing seedling establishment of new aspen clones as a regular occurrence, especially on sites exposed to wildfire.
More recent research has documented post-fire quaking aspen seedling establishment following the 1986 and 1988 fires in Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks, respectively, where seedlings were concentrated in kettles and other topographic depressions, seeps, springs, lake margins, and burnt-out riparian zones. A few seedlings were widely scattered throughout the burns. Seedlings surviving past one season occurred almost exclusively on severely burned surfaces. While these findings haven’t led to a conclusive settling of Pando’s age, they do leave us with much to marvel over in this species’ longevity and history.
“Geologic Map of Fishlake Basin in Utah. Inset, an illustration of a Graben shows forces that continue to shape the land today.” (Friends of Pando)
Pando’s Uncertain Future
Pando is resilient; it has already survived rapid environmental changes, especially when European settlers arrived in the area in the 19th century, and after the rise of many intrusive 20th-century recreational activities. It has survived through disease, wildfires, and too much grazing before. Pando also remains the world’s largest single organism enjoying close scientific documentation. Thus, in spite of all these concerns, there is reason for hopefulness as scientists are working to unlock the secrets to Pando’s resilience, while conservation groups and the US Forest Service are working diligently to protect this tree and its associated ecosystem. A new group called the Friends of Pando is also making this tree accessible to virtually everyone through a series of 360˚ video recordings.
If you were able to visit Pando in summertime, you would walk under a series of towering mature stems swaying and “quaking” in the gentle breeze, between some thick new growth in the “bamboo garden,” and even venturing into charming meadows that puncture portions of the otherwise-enclosed center. You would see all sorts of wildflowers and other plants under the dappled shade canopy, along with lots of pollinating insects, birds, foxes, beaver, and deer, all using some part of the rich ecosystem created by Pando. In the summer the green, fluttering leaves symbolize the relief from summer’s heat that you get coming to the basin. In autumn the oranges and yellows of the leaves as they change color give a hint of the fall spectacular that is the Fish Lake Basin. All this can give us a renewed appreciation of how all these plants, animals, and ecosystems are well worth defending. And with respect to Pando, we can work to protect all three.
But attempts to do so have had some surprising consequences that were quite unexpected. When land managers, recognizing the stress that Pando was under from herbivores, fenced off one part of the stand to protect it from browsing, they split the grove into three parts: an unfenced control zone, an area with a fence erected in 2013, and another area that was first fenced in 2014. The 2014 fence was built from older materials to save money. This fence quickly fell into disrepair, such that mule deer could easily get around it until it was repaired in 2019. As a result, though they did not design it this way, managers had effectively created three treatment zones: a control area, a browse-free zone, and an area that experienced some browsing between 2014 and 2019. Unfortunately, these good intentions confused Pando. In 2021, it appeared that Pando was fracturing into three separate forests. With only 16 percent of the fenced area effectively keeping out herbivores, and over half of Pando without fencing, a single organism was effectively cut into 3 separate parts and exposed to varying ecological pressures.
The diverging ecologies of the world’s largest living organism, an aspen stand called Pando. Credit: Infographic Lael Gilbert
Bottom of Form
As Rogers explained, “Barriers appear to be having unintended consequences, potentially sectioning Pando into divergent ecological zones rather than encouraging a single resilient forest.” So not only does the stubborn trend of limited stand replacement persist in Pando, but by applying three treatments to a single organism, we also encouraged it to fracture into three distinct entities. The stumble makes sense; it is hard to understand whether fencing will work unless we compare the treatment to a control group. But the strategy does show our failing to understand Pando as one entity. After all, we would not apply three treatments to a single human. These surprising outcomes fuel vital learning experiences for researchers.
Furthermore, it may be that fencing Pando is not a solution to its regeneration problems. While unfenced areas are rapidly dying off, fencing alone is encouraging single-aged regeneration in a forest that has sustained itself over the centuries by varying growth. While this may not seem critical, aspen and understory growth patterns at odds from the past are already occurring, said Rogers. In Utah and across the West, Pando is iconic, and something of a canary in the coal mine.
As a keystone species, aspen forests support high levels of biodiversity—from chickadees to thimbleberry. As aspen ecosystems flourish or diminish, myriad dependent species follow suit. Long-term failure for new recruitment in aspen systems may have cascading effects on hundreds of species dependent on them.
Additionally, there are aesthetic and philosophical problems with a fencing strategy, said Rogers. “I think that if we try to save the organism with fences alone, we’ll find ourselves trying to create something like a zoo in the wild,” said Rogers. “Although the fencing strategy is well-intentioned, we’ll ultimately need to address the underlying problems of too many browsing deer and cattle on this landscape.”
Pando’s Songs?
“Microphones attached to Pando”. Photo Credit: Jeff Rice
Lance Oditt, Executive Director of Friends of Pando, is always searching for better ways to get his head around a tree this enormous. And he started wondering: “What would happen if we asked a sound conservationist to record the tree? What could a geologist, for example, learn from that, or a wildlife biologist?” So, Oditt invited sound artist Jeff Rice to visit Pando and record the tree.
“I just dove in and started recording everything I could in any way that I could,” says Rice, after making his pilgrimage to the mighty aspen. Rice says his sound recordings aren’t just works of art. “They also are a record of the place in time, the species and the health of the environment,” he says. “You can use these recordings as a baseline as the environment changes.” The wonders of science and curiosity never cease, do they?
In mid-summer, the aspen’s leaves are pretty much at their largest. “And there’s just a really nice shimmering quality to Pando when you walk through it,” says Rice. “It’s like a presence when the wind blows.” So that’s what Rice wanted to capture first — the sound of those bright lime green leaves fluttering in the wind. He then attached little contact microphones to individual leaves and was treated to a unique sound in return. The leaves had “this percussive quality,” he says. “And I knew that all of these vibrating leaves would create a significant amount of vibration within the tree.” Rice then set out to capture that tree-wide vibration in the midst of a thunderstorm. “I was hunkered down and huddling, trying to stay out of the lightning. When those storms come through Pando, they’re pretty big. They’re pretty dramatic.” All that wind blowing through the innumerable leaves offered Rice a sonic opportunity to record the tree.
A hydrophone was placed in contact with the roots of a tree (or “stem”) in the Pando aspen forest in south-central Utah. The sound captures vibrations from beneath the tree that may be emanating from the root system or the soil. The recording was made during a July 2022 thunderstorm and represents perhaps millions of aspen leaves trembling in the wind. It was made by Jeff Rice as part of an artist residency with the non-profit group Friends of Pando. Rice gives special thanks to Lance Oditt for his help in identifying recording locations, including the mysterious “portal to Pando.”
“We found this incredible opening in one of the [stems] that I’ve dubbed the Pando portal,” he says. Into that portal, he lowered a mic until it was touching the massive tangle of roots below. “As soon as the wind would blow and the leaves would start to vibrate,” Rice says, “you would hear this amazing low rumble.” The vibrations, he says, were passing through Pando’s branches and trunks into the ground. “It’s almost like the whole Earth is vibrating,” says Rice. “It just emphasizes the power of all of these trembling leaves, the connectedness, I think, of this as a single organism.” Rice and Oditt presented these recordings at an Acoustical Society of America meeting in Chicago.
“Field Technicians Rebekah Adams and Etta Crowley take vegetation measurement under Pando, the world’s largest living organism. A recent evaluation of the massive aspen stand in south-central Utah found that Pando seems to be taking three disparate ecological paths based on how the different segments are managed.” Credit: Paul Rogers
“This is the song of this ecosystem, this tree,” says Oditt. “So now we know sound is another way we can understand the tree.” In fact, the recordings have given Oditt research ideas, like using sound to map Pando’s labyrinth of roots. But above all, they’re a sonic snapshot of this leviathan at this moment in time. “We have to keep in mind,” says Oditt, “that it’s been changing shape and form for like 9000 years. I call it the David Bowie problem. It’s constantly reinventing itself!” And now, we’ve turned up the volume to hear Pando as the baritone soloist it has always been.
Pando as Teacher and Metaphor
Pando is seen as an inspiring symbol of our connectedness, in many engaging statements found here. I put just a few of them below, to give you the idea of how various people have reacted to Pando and its potential significance.
From The Rev. Ed Bacon, Former Senior Rector, All Saints Church, Pasadena, and Board Member, Pando Populus:
“‘We are already one but we imagine that we are not.’ Thomas Merton said those words just before his accidental death. A few months earlier in 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King in his last Sunday sermon notes that the ‘universe is constructed’ in an interdependent way: my destiny depends on yours. If there is one truth that will see us through whatever threats and chaos lie before us, it is that there will be no future without policies and attitudes based in the kind of Oneness we see in the one-tree Forest, Pando.”
FromJohn B. Cobb, Jr., Member, American Academy of Arts and Sciences, and Board Chair, Pando Populus:
“The one-tree forest we call Pando is a community. The health and well-being of every tree contributes to the whole of the root system and lives from it. But does it make sense today for Pando to be the symbol of what we aspire to in this country, when there are such intense political feelings and competing fears? Yes, it is in just such circumstances that seeking community is most important. If you are in any of the country’s opposing camps, you can begin by formulating the way people in other camps view the world and you. You do not have to agree. But if you understand why so many people feel so disturbed and even threatened by you and your values and beliefs, you have the beginning of community. Even that beginning might save us from the worst.”
From Paul Rogers, Chief Scientist for the Pando Aspen Clone and Director of the Western Aspen Alliance:
“In recent decades resource misuse – comorbid to a warming planet – have left a long-thriving colossus gasping for breath. In Pando, as in human societies, it is easy to forget vital relations between individuals and communities. Impulses are shared as mortality portends rebirth. Vast root networks maintain a single immense colony: e pluribus unum. Pando’s 47,000 stems with enumerable variation remain linked by DNA. Humans, though genetically distinct, are joined by need, desire, and innate dependence on Mother Earth. Pando’s paradox implores us to mutually foster communities and individuals. He is the trembling giant. She is the nurturing spring.”
From Devorah Brous, environmental consultant:
“To foster wholesale systems change, go to the roots. We gather in a sacred grove and branch out to feed shared roots – as descendants of colonizers and the colonized. We break bread as formerly enslaved peoples and enslavers, as immigrants, as indigenous peoples, as refugees. As ranchers and vegans. As scientists and spiritualists. As non-binary changemakers, and established clergy. As creatives, pioneers, and politicians. To study the known and unknown teachings of the trees – we sit still under a canopy of stark differences and harvest the nature of unity. We quest to feed and water a dying tree of life.”
* * * * *
I’ve written such a lengthy piece about Pando because it has so many fascinating and unusual characteristics. Who could ever imagine all the wondrous things that Nature creates? I think Her endless spontaneity in developing biodiverse life-forms is a truly intriguing phenomenon that motivates so many of our ‘Featured Creature’ essays. And exploring them is such an interesting process. We learn new aspects of Nature’s mysteries every time. Perhaps Pando has additional lessons for us as well!
So let us continue to root for this amazingly unified tree named Pando…
Fred
Fred is from Ipswich, MA, where he has spent most of his life. He is an ecological economist with a B.A. from Harvard and a Ph.D. from Stanford, both in economics. Fred is also an avid conservationist and fly fisherman. He enjoys the outdoors, and has written about natural processes and about economic theory. He has 40 years of teaching and research experience, first in academics and then in economic litigation. He also enjoys his seasonal practice as a saltwater fly fishing guide in Ipswich, MA. Fred joined Biodiversity for a Livable Climate in 2016.
As the movement to restore native biodiversity grows, we are seeing trends like No-Mow May, Leave the Leaves, and pollinator-friendly gardens gain popularity as ways to support the intricate web of biodiversity. Often, part of the campaign for preserving and nurturing these essential soil-plant-insect-animal interactions involves highlighting some of the charismatic creatures who stand to benefit from rewilding efforts. If you are looking for a creature to champion in the work for native biodiversity, look no further than the Luna Moth!
When I was little I used to think the woods were magic. I read Enid Blyton’s The Magic Faraway Tree and imagined what fantastical creatures I might meet if I got to wander through the forest. For the most part, my adventures were confined to chasing fireflies in New York City parks, but that was enough to convince me I was onto something. Those lucky enough to meet the tree-dwelling luna moth might agree, because these big bright fluttering beauties would fit right into any fantasy setting.
The luna moth, or Actias luna, is a species of giant silk moth endemic to North America. It is known for its distinctive shape, green color, and shockingly long wingspan of up to 7 inches! In discussing the biodiversity we are fighting for by restoring landscapes and rewilding our built environment, the lovely luna moth has come up several times for the sheer wonder it brings people. Like a real-life tinkerbell, this intricate insect inspires us with its beauty and shows how much transformation a single individual can undergo in a lifetime.
While many animals (and particularly insects), can challenge our human perspective of time with their fleeting life spans, the luna moth takes this to new extremes. Not only do adult luna moths live for just a week, but they have a very clear purpose in that time to mate and reproduce. They are so single-minded that they don’t undertake one of the other major activities of the natural world – eating! The luna moth emerges from its cocoon with all the energy needed to carry out its week of mature adult life.
Though it may be brief, the luna moth’s existence, from egg to adult stage, with all the growth and survival that entails, is anything but simple.
Like other moths and butterflies, luna moths undergo a dramatic transformation in their life cycle from their humble beginnings as eggs. After approximately 10 days, they hatch into their larval stage on the underside of the leaves where they were laid. Caterpillar larvae actually undergo several stages of molting in which they grow in size and change in appearance, sporting spots and changing color from a bright green to a darker yellow or orange. They cocoon themselves after several weeks as larvae, entering the pupal stage for 2-3 weeks before finally emerging as the beautiful moths we’ve come to recognize.
With a name derived from the latin word for moon, these nocturnal creatures can be observed during the evening in late Spring or early Summer, depending on the region. While they range from Canada to Florida in areas east of the Great Plains, the timing and duration of their life cycles vary by location and climate. Indeed, Northern populations of luna moths have just one generation per year, while further South in warmer conditions, they’ve been known to have as many as three generations per year.
As caterpillars, luna moth larvae feast on the leaves of the trees they call home. They love several species of broadleaf trees, including walnut, hickory, sumac, and sweet gum. While they can be Very Hungry Caterpillars, voraciously consuming leaves to grow, populations of luna moths tend not to reach a density that starts to harm their host plants. Instead, they are a beautiful feature of the ecosystems of trees that they dwell in, and themselves become food for other species, including birds, bats, and some parasitic flies.
Survival with a flourish
The adult luna moth uses a very special survival strategy to evade bats who are out hunting at night. While their green camouflage might keep them safe from predators relying on eyesight to hunt, they need to try something different to out-maneuver a bat’s echolocation. The long curved tails of the luna moth serve just this purpose. When under pressure from a bat’s pursuit, luna moths spin the frills at the end of their tails, disrupting the vibrations through the air that help the bats navigate and giving moths an essential boost in getting away. These beautiful features offer the moth both form and function.
The luna moth is a stunning example of the creativity, elegance, and transience of the natural world. While a single luna moth may not live very long, their impact persists across generations, inspiring naturalists young and old who are lucky enough to catch a glimpse. These creatures are one of many reasons to keep preserving and planting native trees. When we do, living wonders await.
With that, I’ll flutter off for now! Maya
Maya Dutta is an environmental advocate and ecosystem restorer working to spread understanding on the key role of biodiversity in shaping the climate and the water, carbon, nutrient and energy cycles we rely on. She is passionate about climate change adaptation and mitigation and the ways that community-led ecosystem restoration can fight global climate change while improving the livelihood and equity of human communities. Having grown up in New York City and lived in cities all her life, Maya is interested in creating more natural infrastructure, biodiversity, and access to nature and ecological connection in urban areas.
At Bio4Climate, we LOVE beavers. We’re borderline obsessed with them (or maybe not so borderline) because they do SO much for Earth’s ecosystems, natural cycles, and biodiversity. These furry, water-loving creatures are finally beginning to receive the recognition they deserve in mainstream media now that more people see how their existence and behaviors lead to numerous benefits for everyone’s climate resilience.
We are one of the many organizations advocating for their reintroduction across North America and some places in Europe. For this reason, when I spotted one on a hike during my time in Tennessee, I did what any Bio4Climate team member would do: jump in excitement, yell out “Oh my gosh it’s a BEAVER!” and take a picture that I’ll treasure forever.
Photo by Tania Roa
The rockin’ rodent
Beavers live in family groups of up to eight members. Offspring stay with their parents for up to two years, meanwhile helping with newborns, food gathering, and dam building. To create dams, beavers use their large teeth to cut down trees and lug over branches, rocks, and mud until they successfully slow down the flow of water. These dams include lodges that beavers use as bedrooms and to escape from predators. Dams are designed according to the water’s speed: in steady water, the dam is built straight across, and in rushing water the dam is built with a curve. These engineers build their dams in a way that makes them nearly indestructible against storms, fires, and floods.
Look at those bright orange teeth! The color is thanks to an iron-rich protective coating. Beaver teeth grow continuously, and require gnawing on trees for trimming.
Beaver dams are what make these rodents, the largest ones in North America, so special. When dams alter the flow of water, they create ponds that stretch out a river into a wide wetland. These ponds filter pollutants and store nutrients that then attract a variety of wildlife including fish seeking nurseries, amphibians looking for shelter, and mammals and birds searching for food and water sources.
The abundance of wildlife and the storage of necessary nutrients in beaver ponds classifies these places as biodiversity hotspots, meaning they are “biogeographic regions with significant levels of biodiversity that are threatened by human habitation” (Wikipedia). Beaver ponds also store sediment, and this helps recharge groundwater. Due to the sheer wetness of these ponds, and how deep the water filters into the soil, fires are often extinguished as soon as they reach a beaver pond. In this way, beavers are nature’s firefighters, of which we need many more in areas where extreme heat is increasing.
“There’s a beaver for that” — Ben Goldfarb
Wetland Creation
Biodiversity Support
Water Filtration
Erosion Control
Wildlife Habitat
Flood Management
Drought Resilience
Forest Fire Prevention
Carbon Sequestration
They’re Cool (pun intended)
Beavers are considered ‘ecosystem engineers’ because they actively shift the landscape by fluctuating the flow of water and the placement of plants and trees. Muskrats, minks, and river otters also find refuge in beaver lodges. When beavers take down trees, they create pockets of refuge for insects. Using their constructive talents, beavers significantly modify the region and, in turn, create much-needed habitat for many. Numerous creatures rely on beaver dams for survival, and the local ecosystem dramatically changes when a beaver family is exterminated; for these reasons, we also consider them ‘keystone species.’
Disliked dam builders
Despite the positive impact beavers have on biodiversity and ecosystems, we humans have viewed them as fur, pests, and perfume. By 1900, beavers went nearly extinct across Europe and North America. We hunted them for their fur in response to fashion trends, and trapped them for their anal musk glands, or castors, which produce castoreum, a secretion that beavers use to mark their homes and that humans use to make perfume. When beaver populations plummeted, so did the number of dams and ponds, meaning vast swaths of land were drastically altered during this time – and not for the better. To this day, we kill beavers when they wander into military bases or near urban areas since we see their dam-building behaviors as potentially damaging to man-made properties.
Thankfully, as more ‘Beaver Believers’ speak out against these practices and more authorities recognize the importance of beaver benefits, these rodents are beginning to return to their original homes. California recently passed a program specifically for beaver reintroduction efforts across the state. Washington, Utah, and Massachusetts are other states witnessing the return of beavers. People like Skip Lisle of Beaver Deceivers are designing culverts that prevent beaver dams from damaging infrastructure, but allow the beavers to create their biodiverse-filled ponds. These are just a few examples of the ways we can coexist with beavers, and in turn heal our communities.
There are places in North America where water sources are decreasing for all living things, and in other regions the amount of rainfall is increasing while the amount of snow is decreasing. These weather conditions are detrimental to all of our health, unless we welcome back beavers.
As the effects of climate change and biodiversity loss increase, storing water, preventing runoff and erosion, and protecting biodiverse hotspots become more important by the hour. By restoring local water cycles, beaver ponds provide a source of life. By spreading water channels and creating new ones, beaver dams prevent flooding and stave off wildfires. By encouraging the cycling and storage of nutrients, beaver ponds nurture soil health and that leads to carbon sequestration. We all have something to gain from beavers as long as we allow them to do what they do best: build those dams.
To learn more about beavers, watch the video below and the two in the ‘Sources’ section. We also highly recommend Ben Goldfarb’s Eager: The Surprising Secret Life of Beavers and Why They Matter for further reading.
This year I took two trips – one to Nashville, Tennessee and another to the Northeast, specifically to White Mountain National Forest in New Hampshire (Abenaki Penacook land). Both of these places have more trees than I’m used to in Southern California, so I was instantly amazed by everything that grew throughout these forest wonderlands, especially the turkey tails.
Turkey tails have three scientific names (depending on whom you ask): Trametes versicolor, Coriolus versicolor, and Polyporus versicolor. The common name, turkey tail, derives from the mushroom’s bands that resemble a wild turkey’s tail in color and shape. The ‘versicolor’ in the scientific names refers to the mushroom’s cap and its many colorations, from white, red, orange, to dark brown. This part of the mushroom has a fuzzy texture, almost as if it had tiny hairs all over, and is extremely flexible so you can bend it without breaking it. The ‘trametes’ in one of the scientific names refers to the genus, and the ‘polyporus’ refers to the placement of the pores. Turkey tails are a type of mushroom with pores on their undersides, in contrast to other mushrooms that have gills on their sides.
Polyporous mushrooms tend to grow on dead logs. Turkey tails can be found on fallen trees in nearly every forest worldwide. They grow year-round, but will be extra easy to spot when it’s time to release their spores (in North America, this happens between May and December). You can identify a family of turkey tails by their banding pattern – all the offspring of one individual will sport the same pattern as their ‘parent.’ It’s a fungal fingerprint!
Apart from their colors and tail-like shapes, turkey tails are extra intriguing for their health benefits. They contain numerous properties, including:
Antioxidants, such as phenols and flavonoids, which reduce inflammation and oxidative stress (an imbalance in our systems when we’re unable to detoxify).
Protein-bound polysaccharides (carbohydrates), one being Krestin which promotes immunity to toxins and regulates immune responses. It also activates white blood cells which protect our bodies from harmful bacteria.
Prebiotics, which foster beneficial bacteria. They also regulate our gut microbiome, leading to better digestion and lower cholesterol.
Fiber, found in many mushrooms, which also promotes better digestion.
People who consume turkey tail extract report better athletic performance, less fatigue, and when combined with chemotherapy, increased effectiveness of cancer treatments. By promoting our body’s natural production of beneficial compounds, and counteracting substances that harm us, turkey tails improve overall health when taken as a supplement.
There are some mushrooms you can eat right after foraging, but turkey tails are not one of those. To receive the many benefits from Trametes versicolor, you’ll need some prep work.
Due to the thick and woody structure of turkey tails, they’re extremely difficult to consume and, therefore, essentially inedible. However, when you dry them out and grind them to create a powder, you can reap their benefits in no time. After letting them dry, and cleaning them to ensure no dirt or insects remain, you can grind them up. The resulting powder can be put into capsules to be taken as a pill-based supplement, or you can brew some tea to extract the most beneficial compounds. Other mushrooms require a process that involves alcohol before eating, but not turkey tails!
If you’re feeling creative, you can also add the powder to your everyday meals. Since these mushrooms are relatively plain in flavor, people will add the extract to smoothies, oatmeal, or soup to add taste. The powder can be stored for years as long as it’s in an airtight container and kept in the pantry, away from the heat and sun.
We can thank ancient teachings for these turkey tail tips. Traditional Chinese medicine is the first documented time people practiced the art of extracting beneficial compounds from turkey tails. They originally used the extract to treat lung, liver, and spleen issues.
If you try any of these recipes, let us know your experience (you can email us at staff@bio4climate.org)!
A word of caution: If you do decide to forage, for turkey tails or any other organisms, please do so with consideration for the local ecosystem’s health. Only forage what you need, so as to not exploit natural resources.
It’s also best to forage with others when starting out (and it’s more fun this way!). You could join a local foraging group to gain access to resources regarding ecosystem health and potential contaminants in the area. This way, you can learn how to forage without causing harm to your body, other people, or the landscape.
Tea time, anyone?
Tania Roa
Tania graduated from Tufts University with a Master of Science in Animals and Public Policy. Her academic research projects focused on wildlife conservation efforts, and the impacts that human activities have on wild habitats. As a writer and activist, Tania emphasizes the connections between planet, human, and animal health. She is a co-founder of the podcast Closing the Gap, and works on outreach and communications for Sustainable Harvest International. She loves hiking, snorkeling, and advocating for social justice.
The Banded Mongoose is a small mammal with a mass of approximately ≤2kg (or 4 lbs) found in (and indigenous to) various parts of Africa. While most other mongoose species live a solitary life, the banded mongoose is gregarious living in groups of approximately 5-40 individuals with at least one breeding male and female. They are named so due to the black stripes across their greyish-brown dorsal area (back) while their ventral area (chest and stomach) is lighter than other parts. This species is commonly known for its ability and behavior to attack, kill, and eat snakes – even venomous ones!
Banded mongooses are mostly found occupying covered areas like savannahs, open forests, and grasslands for vigilance. They sleep and nurture their young in dens such as abandoned termite mounds, buildings, and even under bridges. By possessing short muscular limbs with strong claws, banded mongooses can dig to find food and get creative at creating and modifying their dens. Because they live in large groups as compared with other mongooses, their burrows have many entrances to ensure their escape during an attack and for sufficient ventilation. Despite having such nice dens, they are not sedentary to the specific den but rather frequently move from place to place every few days to avoid and distract their enemies. However, they can return to their favorite den after a certain time. In addition, their body color allows them to blend with several habitats and hence ensures their safety.
Like other animals, banded mongoose adults, especially males, are responsible for the safety of the whole group. Unlike many other animals, all adult members are fully responsible for raising their young who are born synchronously (all matured female members get pregnant and give birth at the same time). Having muscular limbs, banded mongooses can stand by using their hind limbs just like their cousins (meerkats) to ensure the area is safe.
These animals also exhibit altruistic behaviours whereby adults are ready to give up their life for the safety of the group. They were recorded standing and fighting against lions, birds of prey, and other animals, and while doing so other group members evacuated from the area. Additionally, since they are small in size, they move in groups and close to each other so that they may be seen as one large animal. And as they move, the young ones are located in the middle and the adult ones around them.
Diet and behavioral adaptation
The banded mongoose is a meso-carnivore with a diet consisting primarily of invertebrates such as beetles, millipedes, scorpions and others. Nevertheless, they also eat vertebrates such as snakes, rats, amphibians, mice, young birds and eggs. And in the case of plants, they eat wild fruits (if they’re available). Normally, they move together while locating the food area but each member finds and eats its food. In urban areas, they are mostly found around damp areas during their mealtime because there is plenty of food there, and then they rest in the covered areas mostly at noon to avoid the day heat.
On other hand, banded mongooses cope with food problems by using different symbiotic relationships with other animals like birds, warthogs (watch the video below to see this in action), elephants, and others (see more from attached YouTube links in the References). In this way, they become more successful in foraging and thriving in nature. They also use other animals, especially birds, to be alerted of various threats around them.
Though they are social animals, banded mongooses also exhibit inter-group territorial behaviour and their territories are marked with various scents, especially urine. Not only are territories scent-marked but so are group members. This is well seen when new pups are taken out for their first foraging and adults urinate over the young ones. When two different groups meet, they normally fight and the winning group takes over the area that they fought for. However, during the fight, some mature males and females from each group may mate.
Communication
Banded mongooses mainly communicate through sounds and scents. They possess various sound pitches, each with a different meaning and message to other members. They also developed anal and cheek glands which assist in the marking of their territory and young. They have a well-developed sense of smell, which they use to detect food.
Threats
Currently, banded mongooses are not faced with any critical danger and are listed as a“Least Concern” species due to their large population number and distribution in most parts of Africa. But this does not mean they don’t need any concern at all. I found some of them died in road accidents, and for those in urban areas most people used to attack them. Remember, even extinct species were once “Least Concern” and where are they now? Therefore, let’s give attention to every species in the world before their situation becomes worse.
Lesson to humanity
From such a small animal, we may think that there is nothing to gain, but there is a lot to learn from it. Banded mongooses, as said before, are ready to sacrifice their safety and even life just to make sure their groups are safe. This act shows love for others, something which nowadays very few people can do to others regardless of whether the one in need is their relative or not. I also like the way they raise their family. All group members are fully responsible for that, and if people were to do the same, there would be no street children and other problems also could be solved.
This lesson shows how we can learn from banded mongooses, but it is not just this species that we can learn things from. The whole of nature provides us with enough knowledge, materials and services that are essential for our survival. Therefore, let’s love nature and put our individual or organizational efforts into conserving it to ensure its natural existence lasts and more generations to come will continue to gain what we are gaining now.
Ladybugs, or beetles of the family Coccinellidae, are small, often colorful rounded insects beloved by children’s rhymes and gardeners alike.
Ladybugs are thought to be a sign of luck in many cultures and urban myths. Whether it’s because of their cuteness or their supposed powers of good fortune, people often hold ladybugs as an exception to their aversion to insects. Perhaps the lovely ladybug can pave the way to a more widespread appreciation for insects and their importance in the web of life.
There are a variety of superstitions or myths around ladybugs, as people of different cultures have developed different takes on what kind of luck this little critter brings. Some view ladybugs as portents of love, and say that the redder they are the more luck they bring. Others say that it’s the number of spots that count – predicting the number of years of good luck you’ll have, or the number of months until your greatest wish comes true, depending on whom you ask.
In Norway, it’s said that if two people catch sight of a ladybug at the same time, they will fall in love. Whether ladybugs are said to bring luck in love or in the year’s coming harvest, it’s widely believed that killing a ladybug confers bad luck, so steer clear!
In all likelihood, ladybugs have become associated with luck because of the very real help they provide to farmers and growers. Ladybugs prey on aphids, mealybugs, and other insects that can damage crops by latching on and sapping them of their nutrients. While a number of artificial pesticides can be used to control such problems, these dangerous chemicals often have unintended consequences, harming not only the insects they target, but also killing beneficial insects, running off and seeping into groundwater, poisoning soil, and altering ecosystems. Ladybugs provide a natural alternative to chemical pesticides because they target the pests specifically, leaving plants, other insects and animals, and humans all unharmed.
Ladybug larvae feast on aphids, mealybugs, and other soft-bodied insects, and can consume up to 50 aphids a day. They continue to maintain this diet in their pupal and adult forms, and may eat up to 5000 insects in a lifetime. Even through metamorphosis, some things never change!
Check out this short video showing the life cycle of the ladybug:
A diverse family
Also known as “ladybirds” or “lady beetles”, ladybugs are found pretty much everywhere around the globe, and there are over 5000 different species of them. While ladybugs (at least here in the Northeast US) are famous for sporting a pattern of red shell with black spots, they can actually have a variety of colors and patterns.
Their bright color and patterning signals to predators that they should stay away, or face a very disappointing meal. Indeed, when under threat, ladybugs release a distasteful fluid from their joints. As is often the case with many other familiar plants and animals, these insects are more than meets the eye.
Ladybugs are a great example of a creature that is beloved for its contributions to its ecosystem, enabling plant life and complex networks of creatures to thrive. When we pay attention to the way other organisms help out in their own habitats, we come to realize that you don’t need luck when you have healthy ecosystems. By using natural means of pest control and working with other life forms to keep systems in balance, we can make our own good fortune.
Fingers crossed,
Maya
Maya Dutta is an environmental advocate and ecosystem restorer working to spread understanding on the key role of biodiversity in shaping the climate and the water, carbon, nutrient and energy cycles we rely on. She is passionate about climate change adaptation and mitigation and the ways that community-led ecosystem restoration can fight global climate change while improving the livelihood and equity of human communities. Having grown up in New York City and lived in cities all her life, Maya is interested in creating more natural infrastructure, biodiversity, and access to nature and ecological connection in urban areas.
Atlas moths live throughout India, China, Indonesia and Malaysia. This wide distribution covers secondary forests, shrublands, tropical areas, and rainforests.
The name “Atlas” likely came from the moth’s vibrant, unique patterns that resemble geological formations shown on a map, or atlas. Another theory behind the name comes from Greek mythology. According to myth, Atlas was a Titan who was ordered by Zeus to hold the sky on his shoulders as punishment for rebelling against the gods. A big task like that requires a big titan, so “Atlas” Moth could refer to the large size of this creature.
The Atlas moth is the largest moth due to its massive wing surface area. Females are larger than males, and they can measure up to 12 in, reaching a surface area of 62 in2 – that’s one huge moth!
The last theory behind the Atlas moth’s name is the Cantonese translation, which means “snake’s head moth,” and that refers to the distinct snake face shape on the tip of the moth’s wings. Can you see it?
The Atlas moth uses this snake head pattern to its advantage. If the moth feels threatened while in a resting position, it will quickly begin flapping its wings to mimic a moving snake head. I’m sure snakes must appreciate the Atlas moth’s methods. After all, mimicry is the sincerest form of flattery.
Sadly, our beloved moth has a short lifespan. After emerging from their cocoons, they live for two weeks. This is just enough time to find a mate and reproduce. Atlas moths are so busy with these two tasks during that time period that they don’t even eat. They depend solely on the energy they stored during their caterpillar, or larva, stage. The moth has so evolved to this fasting lifestyle that it doesn’t even have a mouth!
To get ready for the moth stage, atlas moth caterpillars will devour citrus fruits, cinnamon, guava, evergreen tree leaves and willow. The caterpillars have their own defense system, too. When threatened, they spray a potent, foul-smelling substance that can reach up to 50 cm. So don’t mess with these caterpillars!
People throughout the countries the atlas moth lives in admire this creature. In India, their cocoons are used to create a silk called fagara. In Taiwan, local people collect the cocoons and create a variety of products. Purses are made by simply adding a zipper to nature’s design.
Although local communities have been practicing sustainable cocoon-harvesting practices for some time, throughout recent decades the moth itself has been targeted- to be sold alive as a pet, or dead as a display item. Perhaps we can learn from this moth by showing our admiration through mimicry, rather than taking them out of their natural habitat.
Wishfully yours,
Tania
Tania graduated from Tufts University with a Master of Science in Animals and Public Policy. Her academic research projects focused on wildlife conservation efforts, and the impacts that human activities have on wild habitats. As a writer and activist, Tania emphasizes the connections between planet, human, and animal health. She is a co-founder of the podcast Closing the Gap, and works on outreach and communications for Sustainable Harvest International. She loves hiking, snorkeling, and advocating for social justice.
Poison dart frogs – so named because the Indigenous Emberá people of Colombia traditionally used the venom in blow darts – are some of the most toxic creatures on Earth. Some carry enough poison to kill ten grown men or to poison 20,000 mice.
This potent toxicity originally comes from plant poisons that were ingested by the frogs’ insect prey. The effects of this diet, whose repercussions pass from plant to insect to frog to human hunters, shows just how interconnected these ecosystems are. Though it’s not established how the plant poison is processed into venom, when poison dart frogs are bred in captivity and fed a different diet, they do not develop the venom.
Why are poison dart frogs so colorful?
The poison dart frog uses bright colors and patterns as a warning to predators – do not attack if you wish to live! Various species come in bright yellow, turquoise and black, or strawberry red, and these eye-catching visuals broadcast to predators that they’re venomous and dangerous.
They use poison in self-defense, not in hunting, excreting venom into their skin when they’re threatened, so that a single touch would be enough to stop a human heart. This is such an effective tool that many species have evolved to mimic the bright colors and patterns of poison dart frogs in order to get some of that protection from predators by association.
What are other characteristics of poison dart frogs?
They’re tiny! Grown adult frogs typically measure one to two inches, and can be held on a single fingertip (though you wouldn’t want to try this at home).
Like all frogs, they’re amphibious, which means they lay eggs that hatch tadpoles, and have permeable skin through which they can absorb water and oxygen.
How are human activities impacting poison dart frogs?
Deforestation is one of the biggest threats to the poison dart frog. Poison dart frogs are spread across the rainforests of Central and South America. There are over one hundred species of them, and new ones continue to be found! However, habitat loss across these areas, especially in the Amazon, put them at risk of extinction.
Check out this brief look at the life of one golden dart frog:
These bright creatures may be dangerous, but they are just as dazzling. They show that brilliant things can come in small packages.
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