Featured Creature: Japanese Knotweed

With leaves shaped like a spade, what plant
is known to invade and refuses to fade? 

The Japanese knotweed (Reynoutria japonica)

Japanese knotweed flowers (Cbaile19 via Wikimedia Commons)

On a warm spring afternoon, my friend and I explored a creek off the Mill River, in Northampton Massachusetts. Thick green bushes lined the banks, making it difficult to reach the water’s edge. As we scoped for a route through, my friend pulled on a nearby branch, inspecting its leaf. 

“Japanese Knotweed,”  she identified, grasping the plant at the thick part of its stem and straining to pull it up . “This was my whole summer.” 

She’d worked on a farm the previous summer and spent countless hours eradicating weeds, which, as it turned out, were mostly Japanese knotweed.

I too am familiar with knotweed. As a child, I mistook Japanese knotweed’s hollow stems for bamboo, often wielding them as makeshift swords. At the time, I thought of the plant as little more than a plaything, unaware of the complex role it was playing in the ecosystem around me.

Photos courtesy Jim Laurie

Where does Japanese knotweed grow? 

Japanese knotweed is native to East Asia in Japan, China, and parts of Korea and Taiwan. The plant was introduced to North America in the late nineteenth century, to be used as an ornamental plant. Its introduction, however, had unintended consequences as it invaded wetland, stream corridors, forest edges, and drainage ditches. Japanese knotweed is a herbaceous perennial plant (a non-woody plant that regrows each year from its roots), that can grow to be up to 11 feet tall, with jointed hollow stems resembling that of, yes, bamboo. So you can forgive my childhood ignorance. The stems are bright green and grow nodes which can range in color from red to purple. The knotweed’s spade-shaped leaves grow from these nodes, with a square base and sharp point. They thrive in full sun but can also grow in partial shade, and do well in a variety of soil and moisture conditions. It can often be observed on the banks of rivers, wet depressions, and woodland edges, or in more built environments, including construction sites and roadways. 

During the summer, from the nodes of the knotweed bloom small white and pale green flowers. These little flowers are 3 to 4 inches long, and grow in fingerlike clusters, with each cluster holding a couple dozen flowers. 

Japanese knotweed (Larrissa Borck via Wikimedia Commons) 

While Japanese knotweed is known as an invasive species in many parts of the world, including throughout the United States, in its native range it plays a much different role. There, it exists in balance with local ecosystems, kept in check by native insects, fungi, and herbivores that have evolved alongside it. Instead of forming dense monocultures that crowd out other plants, knotweed grows as part of diverse plant communities, coexisting with a wide variety of species.

Unlike in North America and Europe, where few animals or insects consume it, knotweed supports a variety of wildlife in its natural habitat, and its nectar is enjoyed by bees and butterflies, especially in late summer when other flowers have faded. Insects such as the aphid Aphalara itadori and various beetle species naturally feed on knotweed, limiting its dominance and allowing native plants to thrive alongside it. Some fungi, like Mycosphaerella leaf spot, help regulate its growth, preventing the unchecked spread seen in non-native environments. These interactions ensure that Japanese knotweed remains just one part of a broader ecosystem rather than an overwhelming force.

Ecologically, Japanese knotweed plays an important role in nutrient cycling and soil formation. Its deep, extensive rhizome network helps stabilize slopes prone to erosion in Japan’s more volcanic landscapes, helping to prevent landslides and maintaining soil structure. Additionally, the plant’s decomposition contributes to organic matter in the soil, enriching the surrounding environment. 

But when introduced elsewhere, many of these ecological checks and balances are missing, allowing knotweed to spread aggressively and disrupt local biodiversity.

How does it spread? 

Japanese knotweed reproduces through both seeds and rhizomes, an underground root-like system which produces shoots of new plants, coming up through the earth. As much as two-thirds of the plant’s biomass is stored in this network. 

Seeds of the Japanese knotweed (Famartin via Wikimedia Commons )

The knotweed can be found around the world, far from home. It was introduced to the United Kingdom in 1825 and has since spread across Europe. The majority of Japanese knotweed populations in Europe descend from a single female genotype, though hybridization with related species has introduced some genetic variation. This female genotype is able to receive pollen from a close relative, called the giant knotweed. The combination of these two plants produces a hybrid known as the Bohemian knotweed, which is also spreading across Europe. 

In North America, however, the Japanese knotweed reproduces differently than its European counterpart. Even though the European female clone is widely dispersed around the United States, this clone is not the only genotype present. Populations of both male and female Japanese knotweed have been identified across America. The female Japanese knotweed does not produce pollen and primarily spreads through those rhizomes, though it can also reproduce via seeds when pollinated by a related species. Male Japanese knotweed, on the other hand, do produce pollen, as well as occasionally producing seeds. 

Impact

Japanese knotweed grows in thick clusters, emerging during early spring time and growing quickly and aggressively. This dense stand of plants crowds out native vegetation, depriving them of resources needed for reproduction and survival.

Japanese knotweed by the water (Dominique Remaud viaWikimedia Commons)

Japanese knotweed thrives in moist, shaded environments. On stream banks, it outcompetes native grasses and shrubs, reducing biodiversity. This lack of diversity along the bank causes instability, and makes it more likely that the soil will shear off during flooding, increasing the amount of sediment deposited into the water. This erosion sends soil and Japanese knotweed seeds into the creek, allowing the plant to spread downstream and further destabilizing the stream bank. 

Foraging Japanese knotweed 

The young, spring shoots of Japanese knotweed are not only edible, but also delicious! The plant has a tart, slightly sweet taste, similar to that of rhubarb. It can be turned into a jam, put in salads or a stir fry, and used as a crunchy addition to sushi. Where it is native in East Asia, knotweed has been used in traditional medicine for hundreds of years. Owing to the plant’s invasive nature, practicing responsible foraging is crucial to avoid accidentally spreading the knotweed populations. In order to properly dispose of the leftover plant matter, it must be boiled, burned, or thoroughly dried out before discarding in order to ensure that no knotweed is spread. Foraging and eating Japanese knotweed can be a way to help control the plant, through the repeated cutting of the stems. The following video shows a recipe for homemade  Japanese knotweed pickles!

Managing knotweed

Due to its dense clusters and deep root system, once established, Japanese knotweed is incredibly difficult to remove. Manually, populations can be managed through repeated cutting, though complete removal of rhizomes is extremely difficult and can sometimes lead to further spread of the knotweed. When it comes to cutting, the stems of the plant must be cut three separate times during the growing season in order for this to be an effective treatment. In terms of digging up the roots, this can be very labor intensive, and the process of digging Japanese knotweed can unintentionally cause the spread of rhizome fragments, which can result in even more Japanese knotweed on your hands!

Japanese knotweed’s spade-shaped leaf (Flocci Nivis via Wikimedia Commons

Through dedicated work, such as that of my friend who spent three months eradicating Japanese knotweed on her farm, the populations and impacts of the plant, when invasive, can be mitigated. With a little time and effort, you can help control knotweed in your own backyard…and maybe even harvest some for dinner.


Helena 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. 


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Cicada

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:

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.


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Seahorse

What animal swims upright and is one of the few where males carry the pregnancy?

The seahorse (Hippocampus)!

West Australian Seahorse, Hippocampus subelongatus
Image Credit: J. Martin Crossley via iNaturalist

Introducing Our Spiny Friends

In celebration of my niece’s first birthday, my family and I visited the The New England Aquarium in Boston. As I watched her stare in awe through the glass, taking in all the colors and shapes of various plants and animals, I couldn’t help but tap into my own wonder. Together we brushed the smooth backs of Cownose rays, took in the loud calls of the African penguins, and spent quite a bit of time trying to find the seahorses in their habitats. Eventually we did find them, at the bottom, with their tails curled around bits of seagrass. Now, I already knew a couple details about seahorses: that they were named that way because of their equine appearance, and that they swam vertically. But, crouching there next to my niece, who was looking at them in such curiosity (and confusion), I began to feel…the same way. Why do they curl their tails around plants? Are they tired? How exactly do they eat if they don’t swim around? So when I got home that day I did what any curious person in the 21st century would do, I took to the internet and started learning more about them.

The Small Horses of the Sea

With a long-snouted head and a flexible, well-defined neck reminiscent of that of a horse, the seahorse is aptly named. Its scientific name, Hippocampus, comes from Ancient Greek: hippos, meaning “horse,” and kampos, meaning “sea monster.” In fact, the hippocampus in our brains is named that way because its shape resembles the seahorse.

These creatures can be as small as the nail on your thumb or up to more than a foot long. Out of all 46 species, the smallest seahorse in the world is Satomi’s pygmy seahorse, Hippocampus satomiae. Found in Southeast Asia, it grows to be just over half an inch long. The world’s largest is the Big-belly seahorse, Hippocampus abdominalis, which can reach 35 centimeters long (more than a foot), and is found in the waters off South Australia and New Zealand.

Big-belly Seahorse, H. abdominalis 
(Image Credit: Paul Sorensen via iNaturalist (CC-BY-NC))

Instead of scales like other fish, seahorses have skin stretched over an exoskeleton of bony plates, arranged in rings throughout their bodies. Each species has a crown-like structure on top of its head called a coronet, which acts like a unique identifier, similar to how humans can be distinguished from each other by their fingerprints.

A well-known characteristic of seahorses is that they swim upright. Since they don’t have a caudal (tail) fin, they are particularly poor swimmers, only able to propel themselves with the dorsal fin on their back, and steer with the pectoral fins on either side of their head behind their eyes. Would you have guessed that the slowest moving fish in the world is a seahorse? The dwarf seahorse, Hippocampus zosterae, which grows to an average of 2 to 2.5 centimeters (0.8-1 in.) has a top speed of about 1.5 meters (5 ft.) per hour. Due to their poor swimming capability, seahorses are more likely to be found resting with their tails wound around something stationary like coral, or linking themselves to floating vegetation or (sadly) marine debris to travel long distances. Seahorses are the only type of fish that have these prehensile tails, ones that can grasp or wrap around things. 

Dwarf seahorses in their tank at The New England Aquarium (Photo by author)

How Do Seahorses Eat? By Suction!

Most seahorse species live in the shallow, temperate and tropical waters of seaweed or seagrass beds, mangroves, coral reefs, and estuaries around the world. They are important predators of bottom-dwelling organisms like small crustaceans, tiny fish, and copepods, and they have a particularly excellent strategy to catch and eat prey. As less-than-stellar swimmers, seahorses rely on stealth and camouflage. The shape of their heads helps them move through the water almost silently, which allows them to get really close to their prey.

Can you find the seahorse in the picture above? As one of the many creatures that have chromatophores, pigment-containing cells that allow them to change color, seahorses mimic the patterns of their surroundings and ambush tiny organisms that come within striking range. They do what’s called pivot-feeding, rotating their trumpet-like snouts at high speed and sucking in their prey. With a predatory kill rate of 90%, I’d say this strategy works. Check out this video below to watch seahorses in action!

Mr. Mom

One of the most interesting characteristics of seahorses is that they flip the script of nature: males are the ones who get pregnant and give birth instead of the females! Before mating, seahorses form pair bonds, swimming alongside each other holding tails, wheeling around in unison, and changing color. They dance with each other for several minutes daily to confirm their partner is alive and well, to reinforce their bond, and to synchronize their reproductive states. When it’s time, the seahorses drift upward snout to snout and mate in the middle of the water, where the female deposits her eggs in the male’s brood pouch.

After carrying them for anywhere between 14-45 days (depending on the species) the eggs hatch in the pouch where the salinity of water is regulated, preparing newborns for life in the sea. Once they’re fully developed (but very small) the male seahorse gives birth to an average of 100-1,000 babies, releasing them into the water to fend for themselves. While the survival rate of seahorse fry is fairly high in comparison to other fish because they’re protected during gestation, less than 0.5% of infants survive to adulthood, explaining the extremely large brood.

White’s seahorse, Hippocampus whitei
(Image Credit: David Harasti via iNaturalist (CC-BY-NC))

A Flagship Species

Alongside sea turtles, seahorses are considered a flagship species: well-known organisms that represent ecosystems, used to raise awareness and support for conservation and helping to protect the habitats they’re found in. As one of the many creatures that generate public interest and support for various conservation efforts in habitats around the world, seahorses have a significant role.

Not only do these creatures act as a symbol for marine conservation, but seahorses also provide us with a unique chance to learn more about reproductive ecology. They are important predators of small crustaceans, tiny fish, and copepods while being crucial prey for invertebrates, fish, sea turtles, seabirds, and marine mammals. 

How Are Seahorses Threatened?

Climate change and pollution are deteriorating coral reefs and seagrass beds and reducing seahorse habitats, but the biggest threat to seahorses is human activities. Overfishing and habitat destruction has reduced seahorse populations significantly. Bycatch in many areas has high cumulative effects on seahorses, with an estimated 37 million creatures being removed annually over 21 countries. Bottom trawling, fisheries, and illegal wildlife trade are all threats to seahorse populations. The removal of seahorses from their habitat alters the food web and disrupts the entire ecosystem, but seahorses are still dried and sold to tourists as street food or keepsakes, or even for pseudo-medicinal purposes in China, Japan, and Korea. They are also illegally caught for the pet trade and home aquariums (even though they fare poorly in captivity, often dying quickly). 

Supporting environmentally responsible fishers and marine protected areas is a great way to start advocating for the ocean and its creatures. Avoiding non-sustainably caught seafood and avoiding purchasing seahorses or products made from them are ways to protect them too.

Project Seahorse, a marine conservation organization, is working to control illegal, unreported, and unregulated (IUU) fishing and wildlife trade for sustainability and legality, end bottom trawling and harmful subsidies, and expand protected areas. The organization also consistently urges the implementation and fulfillment of laws and promises to advance conservation for our global ocean.

The Life We Share

All creatures on this Earth rely on us to make sure the ecosystems they call home are healthy and protected. The ocean is not just an empty expanse of featureless water, but a highly configured biome rich in plants and animals, many of them at risk. So the next time you go to the aquarium and see those little seahorses with their tails wrapped around a piece of grass, remember that we are all part of the same world. Just as these creatures rely on us, we rely on them too.

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.


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Yucca

What plant can also be used as a soap,
but without a certain insect, simply could not cope? 

Yucca!

Soapweed yucca (Wikimedia Commons by James St. John) 

On a dreary, gray day at school, as I hurried from one academic building to another, I spotted a patch of spiky green shrubs, sticking out like a sore thumb. These plants gave me pause because though they were a familiar sight, I had last seen them in the high desert of Mancos, Colorado, a very different setting than my New England college campus, some 3,000 miles away. How did they get here? I wondered, and how are they thriving in an environment so different from the one I had last seen them in? 

There are about 30 species of yucca, most of which are native to North and Central America. The yucca that I recognized on my campus walk was soapweed yucca, also known as great plains yucca. Soapweed yucca is a shrub with narrow leaves, almost knife-like in their sharpness, which can grow up to 3 feet tall. Soapweed yucca grows in the dry, rocky soils of short grass prairies and desert grasslands and thrives in more arid biomes. Still, it can be found across the United States; the yucca’s thick, rhizomatous roots (horizontal underground stems that send out both shoots and roots) allow the plant to thrive in many environments with different soils, including sand. It is a hardy plant, and can tolerate cold and moderate wetness, hence its ability to survive on my college campus in the Northeastern United States.

Soapweed yucca (Pixabay)

The shrub received its name, soapweed, due to the saponin contained in its roots. Saponin is a naturally occurring substance in plants that foams upon contact with water, creating a natural soap, which is something that I wish I had known as I camped feet away from the yucca in Colorado. In addition to its cleansing properties, the saponin has a strong bitter taste, and is used by plants, such as the yucca, as a deterrent against hungry insects and animals alike. For humans however, these characteristics make it an attractive partner. These saponin can be turned into sudsy cleansing soap. This process has been used by indigenous peoples for hundreds of years, and is modeled in the video below.

The flower and root of the yucca plant have been used as a nutritional, and tasty snack for centuries. As we learned earlier, the roots and flowers of yucca contain saponin, which, while offering medicinal and hygiene benefits, can be toxic or harmful if not properly prepared for consumption. When consumed, the saponin has a bitter taste, and can cause a burning sensation in the throat. However, if properly prepared, the yucca flower and root can be used in a variety of different recipes. The following video shows the proper way to prepare, and eat, yucca flowers. 

In addition to eating the flowers of the yucca plant, the root holds incredible nutritional and medicinal benefit. Roots were used in a salve for sores and rubbed on the body to treat skin diseases. The sword shaped leaves of the yucca plant could also be split into long strips to be weaved into useful cords. Due to the strong fibers contained in the leaves, yucca could be stripped into thread to fashion baskets, fishing nets, and clothing. 

The Yucca Moth 

During the spring months, from the center of mature soapweed yucca blooms a beautiful stalk of cream colored flowers. At the same time as the yucca flower blooms, an insect called the yucca moth emerges from its cocoon. The yucca moth is small, and white in color, closely resembling a petal of the yucca flower, which allows the insect to blend in with the blossoms. There is a powerful symbiotic relationship between the yucca plant, and the yucca moth, meaning that two organisms have a long term, mutually beneficial biological relationship. 

Yucca moths in flowers
(WikiCommons by Judy Gallager)

After breaking out of their cocoons, the male and female yucca moths find their way to the blossoms of the yucca flower, where they mate. The female yucca moth then gathers pollen from the yucca, flying to different plants which ensures the cross pollination of the plant.  She shapes the pollen into a large lump, which she holds underneath her chin as she travels, searching for the proper flower to lay her eggs. This ball of pollen can reach up to three times the size of her head! Once located, she lays her eggs in the ovary of the yucca’s flower. She then deposits her collection of pollen onto the stigma of the flower, pollinating the yucca, which will now produce fruit and seeds for her larvae to feed off of. The larvae mature before they can
consume all of the yucca’s viable seeds, allowing
the yucca to continue to reproduce. 

Flowering yucca
(pixabay by Thanasis Papazacharias) 

Leaving her larvae, the eggs grow for a few weeks on their own. Once they reach the right size, the larvae drops from the yucca flowers to the ground, where it burrows underground and forms its cocoon. The lifespan of a yucca moth is only about a year, and the majority of that time is spent in the pupal, or cocoon stage, under the earth. Once an adult moth has mated, it marks the end of their brief life as adult moths. Once underground, the insect will remain in this cocoon in a dormant state until next spring, when the yucca flower begins to blossom, and the cycle continues. 

The yucca moth is the primary pollinator of yucca plants, and its larvae depend on yucca seeds as a key food source. While the relationship is highly specialized, some yucca species can self-pollinate to a limited extent, and other insects, such as bees, may occasionally contribute to pollination. Without one, the other simply would certainly struggle to survive as they do today. Although yucca moths are native to the southwest areas of North America, as yuccas have expanded across the country, some species of yucca moths have also spread, although their distribution remains closely tied to the presence of their specific yucca host plants.

Perhaps the soapweed yucca that I stumbled across in New England autumn already had cocoons of yucca moths, lying hidden and dormant beneath my feet. 


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. 


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Staghorn sumac

What berries grow in crimson towers,
With tangy taste that puckers and sours?

Staghorn sumac! (Rhus typhina)

Staghorn Sumac (By Alicja via Pexels) 

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. 

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.

Staghorn sumac (Josveo5a via WikiMedia Commons

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. 


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Lavender

What’s usually purple, but sometimes pink,
and in the summer you might want it in a drink?

Lavender! (Lavandula)

(Image Credit: edededen via iNaturalist)

Already baking in the high desert heat, I rolled up a gravel driveway past yucca and prickly pear cacti to Mesa Verde Lavender, the farm in Mancos, Colorado, where I was to spend my summer living and working. I didn’t know much about the plant other than that it smelled good, tasted a little soapy, and that I was potentially allergic to it (luckily, I was wrong about this one). 

Over the next three months, I would learn a lot about the lavender, how to plant it, care for it, and harvest it. On a lazy mid-June day, when the first buds of the flower had begun to blossom, the most mature field was full of flowers with tiny white buds springing from their stems. It was as if all of the color had been leached from their little buds. That is how I stumbled upon the existence of pink lavender, the Miss Katherine cultivar.

Miss Katherine in Colorado (Photo by Author)

Miss Katherine was the first variety to bloom on the farm, with a blooming period from early June to late August.

Lavender is a genus (Lavandula) of flowering plants known for its beauty and its fragrant oils. Lavender plants typically have long, slender stems with narrow leaves, and their flowers are generally in shades of purple, blue, or violet—though when I first laid eyes on them in Colorado, they were a dusty white. And while they certainly taste different, Lavender is in great aromatic company as part of the mint family (Lamiaceae), sharing several biological traits with its “fresh” relative like square stems and opposite leaves. 

Originating in the Mediterranean, Lavender prefers hot sunshine and more alkaline, or basic, soils (less acidic clay soils with a higher pH), making them strong and hardy plants, perfect for the high altitude desert farm in Colorado where I worked with them.

Bees?

Trendy chefs and mixologists aren’t the only ones working lavender into their meals. The plant’s flowers are rich in nectar and pollen, making them highly attractive to pollinators like bees and butterflies too. These pollinators are critical allies in the lavender’s reproductive process, transferring pollen between flowers to facilitate fertilization. Lavender flowers typically bloom during the summer, providing an important food source for pollinators and other feasting friends. 

Now, lavender plants can self-pollinate. But they thrive with the help of birds, bees, the wind, and others to spread their pollen to other, genetically diverse, lavender. And although many insects interact with lavender, none do it quite like bees. Interestingly, not all bees contribute equally; some species engage in what is known as “nectar robbing,” or extracting nectar without transferring pollen. But not the bumblebee. These highly efficient pollinators use their long tongues to access nectar more effectively, enabling them to forage lavender three times faster than honeybees. That’s good news for the bee. And their fuzzy bodies collect and transfer pollen efficiently between flowers, promoting successful cross-pollination. That’s good news for the lavender. 

There’s no denying it – lavender has a delicate aura about it. It’s decorative. It embellishes carefully plated meals. It’s a favorite of nearly every kind of scented product you can think of. But don’t let that image fool you. It’s one tough cookie, and this was something that really fascinated me when I dug into learning about the plant. I see it a little differently now. Lavender has evolved several adaptations that allow it to thrive in harsher environments. It is drought-resistant and capable of surviving in well-drained soils with low fertility. The plant’s deep, robust root system enables it to pull moisture from the soil, even in periods of low rainfall. It’s this ability to endure dry conditions that makes lavender well-suited for Mediterranean climates, where hot, dry summers are kind of the norm. 

(Photo by Irina Iriser via Pexels)

Essential Oils

During the Colorado harvest, my fingers grew stickier with each strike of the scythe against the plant’s stems. A delicious-smelling substance that oozing from within the lavender and onto my hands. This was the essential oil. 

Essential oils are concentrated compounds extracted from plants, and they tend to capture each plant’s unique scent and natural chemical properties. They’re commercially valuable in numerous human applications, including aromatherapy, skincare, and medicinal and culinary uses.

Miss Katherine hanging to dry (photo by author)

Essential oil is present in all parts of the lavender plant, including the leaves, buds, and stems (hence my sticky hands).

The Miss Katherine lavender is the most commonly used lavender variety for essential oil production, due to its low camphor content. Camphor is a naturally occurring compound in essential oils with a bitter taste and strong smell—not something you’d want on your plant or in your candle. Other lavender varieties, such as Lavandula stoechas and Lavandula lanata, have higher camphor levels, making them better suited for natural bug repellents and other less cosmetic or edible applications.

Scientists still don’t fully understand the natural purpose of essential oils in plants. Some oils are thought to be byproducts of metabolic processes, while others could play a role in defense against disease and predators. Lavender plants are thought to be allelopathic—capable of releasing chemicals that inhibit the growth of surrounding plants. This can help lavender outcompete invasive species. But on the flip side, planting lavender in an environment where it doesn’t belong can lead to inhibition of native plants and, ultimately, a loss of biodiversity. 

Lavender distilling (photo by author) 

After the harvest, bundles of lavender are hung upside down to dry for a couple days, after which the buds are stripped from the stems, contained in jars, and sent out to market. At Mesa Verde Lavender, the farm delivered a mixture of Miss Katherine, Provance, and Royal Velvet to a local ice cream shop, where the lavender was whipped into delicious gourmet ice cream and served to the community of Durango, Colorado.  


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. 


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Kingfisher

What creature often looks blue, but isn’t, is found on every continent but Antarctica, and inspired a train’s design?

Kingfishers! (Alcedinidae)

 Patagonian Ringed Kingfisher, Megaceryle torquata ssp. stellata
(Image Credit: Amelia Ryan via iNaturalist)

Kingfishers are kind of like snowflakes. They both float and fly through the air, and no two are really alike. It’s what I love so much about them. Each kingfisher presents characteristics unique to their own lifestyle. They make me think of people. Like kingfishers, we live almost everywhere on Earth and we’ve all adapted a little differently to our diverse environments. I hope as you get to know the kingfisher, you’ll start to feel a small connection to these birds as I have.

Kingfishers are bright, colorful birds with small bodies, large heads, and long bills. They’re highly adaptable to different climates and environmental conditions, making them present in a variety of habitats worldwide. Many call wetland environments like rivers, lakes, marshes, and mangroves home. Now, their name might lead you to think all kingfishers live near these bodies of water, but more than half the world’s species are found in forests, near only calm ponds or small streams. Others live high in mountains, in open woodlands, on tropical coral atolls, or have adapted to human-modified habitats like parks, gardens, and agricultural areas.

Even so, you’re most likely to spot them in the tropical regions of Africa, Asia, and Oceania, but they can also be found in more temperate regions in Europe and the Americas. Some species have large populations and massive geographic ranges, like the Common Kingfisher (Alcedo atthis), pictured above, which resides from Ireland across Europe, North Africa and Asia, as far as the Solomon Islands in the Pacific. Other kingfishers (typically insular species that evolved on islands) have smaller ranges, like the Indigo-banded Kingfisher (Ceyx cyanopectus), which is only found in the Philippines.

Birds of a Feather

Kingfishers are small to medium sized birds averaging about 16-17 cm (a little over 6 inches) in length. They have compact bodies with short necks and legs, stubby tails and small feet, especially in comparison to their large heads and long, pointed bills. While many species are proportioned the same way, some are quite distinct. Paradise Kingfishers (Tanysiptera), which are found in the Maluku Islands and New Guinea like the one pictured below, are known for their long tail streamers. The African Dwarf Kingfisher (Ispidina lecontei) is the world’s smallest kingfisher at just 10 cm (barely 4 inches) long, and is found in Central and West Africa. The largest is the Laughing Kookaburra (Dacelo novaeguineae), coming in at a whopping 41-46 cm (15-18 inches) long, and is native to Australia.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Wait, are kookaburras and kingfishers the same thing? Sometime. Out of all 118 species, only four go by the name kookaburra: the Laughing Kookaburra (Dacelo novaeguineae), the Blue-winged Kookaburra (Dacelo leachii), the Spangled Kookaburra (Dacelo tyro), and the Rufous-bellied Kookaburra (Dacelo gaudichaud). Native to Australia and New Guinea, the kookaburra are named for their loud and distinctive call that sounds like laughter. Sometimes their cackles can even be mistaken for monkeys!

So,  are they as colorful as everyone says?

Yes! If you ask anyone who has seen a kingfisher to describe what it looks like, they will most likely go on and on about its color. Kingfishers are bright and vividly colored in green, blue, red, orange, and white feathers, and depending on the species, can be marked by a single, bold stripe of color. These features all accent the bird’s most recognizable feature, which is the blue plumage on their wings, back, and head. But here’s where things get interesting: Kingfishers don’t actually have any blue pigment in their feathers.

So, what gives? It’s something called the Tyndall effect. What’s happening is that tiny, microscopic keratin deposits on the birds’ feathers (yes, the same keratin that’s in your hair and nails) scatter light in such a way that short wavelengths of light, like (you guessed it) blue, bounce off the surface while all others are absorbed into the feather.

It sounds a little strange, but you see it every day. It’s why we see the sky as blue, too.

Azure Kingfisher, Ceyx azureus (Image Credit: David White via iNaturalist)

Are kingfishers Really Kings of Fishing?

Yes! And no. Kingfisher species are split into three subfamilies based on their feeding habits and habitats: the Tree Kingfishers (Halcyoninae), the River Kingfishers (Alcedininae), and the Water Kingfishers (Cerylinae). Despite their name, many of these birds primarily prefer insects, taking their prey from the air, the foliage, and the ground. They also eat reptiles (like skinks and snakes), amphibians, mollusks, non-insect arthropods (like crabs, spiders, scorpions, centipedes, and millipedes), and even small mammals like mice.

Tree Kingfishers reside in forests and open woodlands, hunting on the ground for small vertebrates and invertebrates. River Kingfishers are more often found eating fish and insects in forest and freshwater habitats. Water Kingfishers, the birds found near lakes, marshes, and other still bodies of water, are the fishing pros, specialize in catching and eating fish, and are actually the smallest subfamily of kingfishers, with only nine species.

Because the diets of kingfishers vary, so does the size and shape of their bills. Even though all species have long, dagger-like bills for the purpose of catching and holding prey, those of fishing species are longer and more compressed while ground feeders have shorter and broader bills that help them dig to find prey. The Shovel-billed Kookaburra (Clytoceyx rex) has the most atypical bill because it uses it to plow through the earth looking for lizards, grubs, snails, and earthworms. 

Shovel-billed Kookaburra, (Clytoceyx rex) 
(Image Credit: Mehd Halaouate via iNaturalist)

Can the blue-but-not-really-blue kingfisher get any more interesting? 

Oh yes, yes it can. Ready for another physics lesson? Kingfishers have excellent binocular vision, which means they’re able to see with both eyes simultaneously to create a single three-dimensional image, like humans. Not only that, but they can see in color too! But what makes them so adept at catching fish is their capability to compensate for the refraction of light off water.

When light travels from one material into another (in this case, air into water), that light will refract, or bend, because the densities of air and water are different. This makes objects look as though they are slightly displaced when viewed through the water surface. Kingfishers are not only able to compensate for that optical illusion while hunting, but they also can accurately judge the depth of their prey as well. 

But, triangulating underwater prey is only half the battle. Then you’ve got to catch it.

Fishing species of kingfishers dive no more than 25 cm (10 inches) into the water, anticipating the movements of their prey up until impact. Again, what happens next differs depending on which kingfisher we’re talking about. Many have translucent nictitating membranes that slide across their eyes just before impact to protect them while maintaining limited vision. Others, like the Pied Kingfisher (Ceryle rudis leucomelanurus), actually have a more robust bony plate that slides out across its eye when it hits the water—giving greater protection while sacrificing vision.

Pied Kingfisher in action

Kingfishers usually hunt from an exposed vantage point, diving rapidly into the water to snatch prey and return to their perch. If the prey is large (or still alive), kingfishers will kill it by beating it against the perch, dislodging and breaking protective spines and bones and removing legs and wings of insects. The Ruddy Kingfisher (Halcyon coromanda) native to south and southeast Asia, removes land snails from their shells by smashing them against stones on the forest floor.

Learning from kingfishers

Occupying a place fairly high in their environments’ pecking orders (trophic level) makes kingfishers susceptible to effects of bioaccumulation, or the increasing concentration of pollutants found in living things as you climb the food chain. This phenomenon, coupled with the kingfisher’s sensitivity to toxins, makes the bird a fairly reliable environmental indicator of ecosystem health. If a kingfisher population is strong, that can indicate their habitat is healthy because the small aquatic animals they feed on aren’t intaking poisons or pollutants. When problems are detected in a kingfisher population, it can serve as an early warning system that something more systemic is wrong.

But that’s not the only thing we can, or have learned, from kingfishers. In 1989, Japan was looking for a way to redesign its Shinkansen Bullet Train to make it both faster and quieter. As the train flew through tunnels at 275 km/h, massive amounts of pressure would build up, reigned in by the front of the train and the tunnels’ walls. Upon exiting the tunnels, that pressure would release, sending roaring booms through the homes of those living nearby. Engineer Eiji Nakatsu was not only the project’s lead, but birdwatcher as well. Noting the kingfisher’s ability to plunge into dense water at incredible speeds with hardly a splash, Nakatsu and his team remodeled the front of the train with the bird’s beak in mind. The result not only solved the problem of the boom, but also allowed the train to travel faster while using less energy.

Kingfishers: A Little More Like You Than You Think

In learning  about the kingfisher, I saw a little bit of us. We all come from the same family, even if we each do things a little differently.  I think for me, this gets to the root of why finding our connections with all living things matters, not just because they give us inspiration to solve human problems or because we depend on them to keep natural systems in balance, but because this is just as much their Earth as ours. 

Let’s do our part,

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.


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Strangler Fig

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.

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.

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.

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.


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: ‘Ōhi’a Lehua

What tree has adapted to grow directly in lava rock and is a keystone species of the Hawaiian watershed?

‘Ōhi’a Lehua (Metrosideros polymorpha)!

Image Credit: Kevin Faccenda via iNaturalist 

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.

Arid, rocky, Mediterranean coast. (Via Pexels)

How ‘Ōhi’a Lehua Cares for the Hawaiian People

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.

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.

Orange ‘ōhi’a lehua blossom (Image Credit: Joan Wasser via National Park Service)

Mālama the ‘āina

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.


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Stone Pine

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

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.

Arid, rocky, Mediterranean coast. (Via Pexels)

Digging Deeper

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.

Understanding pH and soil. Ann McCauley et al. 2017, Montana State University

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.  


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Sphagnum moss

What bog-builder can hold 15-20 times its dry weight in water?
Sphagnum moss!

by David McNicholas

The distinctive brown color of Sphagnum beothuk forming a large hummock on a raised bog. (Photo courtesy David McNicholas)

As an ecologist working on Ireland’s peatland restoration, I’ve seen firsthand the profound transformation of re-wetting former industrial peatlands, and its capacity to enhance biodiversity and carbon storage. Working as a member of the Bord na Móna Ecology Team with funding provided by the EU’s Recovery and Resilience Facility as part of Ireland’s National Recovery and Resilience Plan, I’ve have seen more than 60 peatland sites undergo this incredible transformation. Following extensive ecological, hydrological and engineering studies to create the optimal conditions for Sphagnum moss establishment, it is exciting to now move towards the active planting of Sphagnum moss back onto these peatlands. This will accelerate the establishment of Sphagnum-rich bog vegetation that will have greater biodiversity and climate benefits at scale.

Raised bog formation

Sphagnum moss species are key plants in the development and existence of bog habitats. Some species can hold 15 to 20 times their dry weight in absorbed water and tolerate very harsh conditions such as nutrient deficiency, high acidity and waterlogged environments. This ability of Sphagnum to hold water creates the quaky surface conditions that are characteristic of raised bogs in good condition. Bogs simply would not exist as we know them without Sphagnum.

Raised bogs begin to develop in wet shallow depressions, often shallow lakes. Over time, wetland vegetation such as reeds, rushes and other plants leave dead matter behind in the substrate. As the amount of dead vegetation accumulates, the layer of growing vegetation on top is eventually lifted above the influence of the local groundwater. At this point, this layer has become ombrotrophic (exclusively rain fed). The result, in wetter climates, is the development of a wet, nutrient poor and acidic environment in which Sphagnum species thrive. Sphagnum is known as an “ecosystem engineer”. This moss can change its environment, making it wetter and more acidic, suiting these mosses and creating perfect peat-forming raised bog. As the living plants grow upward, the Sphagnum tissue beneath the living surface of the bog is submerged beneath the weight of the growing layer above. This dead material does not completely decay in the anoxic, waterlogged conditions. Instead, it will become peat over time, while the living material will continue to grow, driving the formation of a raised bog dome.

Sphagnum cuspidatum occurring within a bog pool. This species occurs in pools and the wettest parts of peatlands. (Photo courtesy David McNicholas)

Sphagnum’s role in carbon sequestration

The growth habit of Sphagnum is directly responsible for the development of one of nature’s most efficient carbon traps. A metre squared of intact, good quality raised bog sequesters a small amount of carbon annually, but over time these peatlands can accumulate and store much more carbon than the same area of other ecosystems like tropical rainforest. As such, Sphagnum moss is very important to help tackle climate change by taking in carbon and by creating peat-forming conditions to secure this carbon in the ground within healthy peatlands.

The ability of Sphagnum to store water also plays an important role in regulating heavy rainfall events within a catchment. Healthy peatlands can store water in Sphagnum moss, then slowly release this water over time, thereby helping to mitigate potential downstream impacts associated with sudden heavy rainfall.

Sphagnum papillosum, with round leaved sundew growing on top. (Photo courtesy David McNicholas)

Sphagnum as an indicator species

Different Sphagnum species can be used as valuable indicators of peatland type and their overall condition. However, Sphagnum mosses are widely believed to be tricky to identify and so many ecologists simply aggregate them, classifying them as “Sphagnum species”. In doing so, ecologists are forfeiting valuable information on nutrient availability, hydrology and habitat condition that these species provide. Like any other plant group, there are generalist and specialist Sphagnum species. For example, Sphagnum rubellum can be found on nearly any bog habitat in Ireland. Small red cushions and hummocks can be found from relatively dry cutover bog to the wettest parts of an active raised bog.

Sphagnum beothuk has a very characteristic chocolate brown colouring and is one of the prettiest raised bog species. While S. austinii has a range of colours, the large size of the individual capitulums (the top of the plant) and the relative compactness of the hummocks as a whole can be used to reliably identify the species. Both species generally inhabit the wetter parts of a bog and if abundant and healthy, can be used as an indicator of raised bogs in good condition. Sphagnum cuspidatum is one of the most aquatic species and is generally found in the acidic bog pools in the wettest parts of the bog. Interestingly, it can be found within the drainage ditches of industrially harvested bogs where no other Sphagnum species may be present. There are some Sphagnum mosses that are found in less acidic and more nutrient rich, fen conditions. To get to know Sphagnum species is to open a large encyclopaedia on the various natural history processes and conditions of our peatlands. However, don’t be put off getting to know the more readily identifiable species and build on this. Knowing just a few species can really add to the satisfaction of exploring our unique peatlands.

Moss growth (courtesy David McNicholas)

Use of Sphagnum moss in peatland restoration

Planting Sphagnum moss across re-wetted cutaway bog as a rehabilitation technique is a key objective of the Peatlands and People LIFE Integrated Project (IP). We’re on track to plant one million Sphagnum plugs across over 270 hectares of rehabilitated peatland by November 2024, with ambitious plans for further planting in 2025 and beyond.

Revegetating these areas provides new and more resilient habitat over the longer term. Sphagnum moss will recolonise these sites naturally in time; however, the work we’re doing aims to speed up this trajectory, and we’re establishing a network of peatland sites to develop best practices in restoration and rehabilitation. This involves the design of robust methodologies to monitor and analyse Sphagnum and carbon storage.

While monitoring is ongoing and we have a lot of research ahead of us, initial evaluations of the planted Sphagnum material is already showing positive survival and growth rates.

As I continue my work with Bord na Móna, we’re grateful for the support provided by the European Union’s Recovery and Resilience Facility as part of Ireland’s National Recovery and Resilience Plan, a key instrument at the heart of NextGenerationEU. The primary aim of this scheme is to optimize climate action benefits of rewetting the former industrial peat production areas by creating soggy peatland conditions that will allow compatible peatland habitats to redevelop.


David McNicholas is an Ecologist at Bord na Móna where he works with a multidisciplinary team to deliver an ambitious peatland restoration programme, post-industrial peat production. As a member of the Bord na Móna Ecology Team, David is involved in rehabilitation planning and implementation, while also planning and undertaking monitoring and protected species surveys.


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Mouse-ear cress

What plant was the first to flower in space and is the most widely used model species for studying plant biology?

Arabidopsis thaliana (Mouse-ear cress)!

Mouse-ear Cress, Arabidopsis thaliana (Image Credit: Brendan Cole via iNaturalist)

If you’re a regular reader of Bio4Climate’s Featured Creature series, you might be wondering why I wrote the scientific name of this organism first, rather than its common name. Arabidopsis thaliana (also known as mouse-ear cress, thale cress, or rock cress) is, in fact, recognized by its scientific name more often because it’s one of the most popular organisms used in plant studies and has become the model system of choice for researchers exploring plant biology and comparative genomics. In fact, it’s often dubbed the “white mouse” of the plant research community, making its common name something of a double entendre.

A. thaliana is a small plant with a basal rosette of leaves (a circular or spiral pattern near the base of a plant) that grows up to 9.5 inches (25 cm) in height, and small white flowers that give the plant its name. Mouse-ear is a member of the Brassicaceae (Brass-si-case-see), or mustard, family, which includes plants like —you guessed it— mustard, along with cabbage, broccoli, brussels sprouts, and radish. While A. thaliana is indeed edible like these more economically important crop plants, its capacity as a spring vegetable is not the reason for its fame. More on that story in a minute.

Native to Eurasia and Africa and naturalized worldwide due to human disturbance, A. thaliana is often found by roadsides and other disrupted (or man-made) environments. You have most likely walked by this cruciferous plant without even realizing it. To many, it’s just another weed (though it’s not actually a weed). A. thaliana is widely distributed in habitats with bare, nutrient-poor soil and rocky areas where other plants struggle to establish, needing only air, water, sunlight, and a few minerals to complete its short six-week life cycle. As a self-pollinating plant (selfer), it can also produce seeds without external pollinators. These characteristics help A. thaliana colonize those barren or disturbed areas, making it a pioneer plant—those hardy plants that pave the way and help initiate the development of a plant community.

What makes Arabidopsis thaliana so important in plant research?

Arabidopsis thaliana’s popularity as a leading research organism really exploded when its genome was fully sequenced in 2000. With relatively fewer base pairs of DNA and around 25,000 genes (other plants can have upwards of 30,000-45,000), the plant’s genetic simplicity —paired with its short life cycle— allows researchers to conduct experiments and analyze how specific genes influence development, physiology, and reproduction. Due to the volume of work being focused on the plant since its genome sequencing, A. thaliana is genetically well-characterized, and it’s become an important model system for identifying genes and their functions.

An invaluable effort supporting this research is The Arabidopsis Information Resource (TAIR). The online database offers open access to gene sequences, molecular data, and research findings, fostering collaboration and accelerating discovery. The Nottingham Arabidopsis Stock Centre (NASC) complements TAIR by maintaining the world’s largest seed collection for A. thaliana. With more that one million seed stocks and distribution networks spanning 30 countries, NASC ensures that scientists have ready access to the genetic material they need to push plant science forward.

Arabidopsis thaliana cultures in agar medium (Image Credit: Laboratoire Physiologie Cellulaire & Végétale: LPCV, or Cellular & Plant Physiology Laboratory)

The plant’s limited space requirements and ability to produce high quantities of seeds and specimens assists in repeated and efficient genetic experiments.

Adept at Adapting

When you think of plants and flowers, words like “fragile” or “delicate” often come to mind. While this may be true, nature is much stronger and more resilient than people first assume. A. thaliana is a prime example of how a small, seemingly weak-looking plant can, in fact, adapt well and keep itself alive. As a plant living in the natural world, A. thaliana has a range of defense mechanisms available to protect against herbivorous insects. Many unique samples of A. thaliana have leaves covered in trichomes, which are bristle-like outgrowths on the outer layer of the plant, that ward off moths and flea beetles. When A. thaliana’s plant tissue is damaged, special compounds call glucosinolates interact with an enzyme, producing toxins that deter most would-be attackers. Studying these Arabidopsis-insect interactions can provide crucial information on mechanisms behind traits that may be important for other plant species.

Using A. thaliana as a research tool has applications for larger, more complex crops. It has furthered our understanding of germination, aspects of plant growth, and been a key to identifying a wide range of plant-specific gene functions.

While A. thaliana has helped form the foundation of modern plant biology, its research informs areas outside strictly plant science as well, including air and soil quality from a public health perspective. A. thaliana can be used as an environmental monitor by tracking its exposure and reaction to different pollutants. This small plant also plays a part in biofuel production and space biology.

Arabidopsis thaliana grown in lunar soil
Image Credit: Tyler Jones via NASA

Did you say space biology?

Yes, I did! Arabidopsis thaliana was the first plant to flower in space in 1982 aboard the Soviet Salyut 7. Due to its research value, to this day is it one of the most commonly grown plants in space. While it’s not a viable source of food, discoveries made using A. thaliana provide insights that can be applied to a variety of other plants. In the inhospitable environment of space, researchers deploy advanced plant habitats (APHs) with automated water recovery, distribution, atmosphere content, moisture levels, and temperature to assess how A. thaliana’s gene expression and plant health changes in space. When the plants are mature, the crew will freeze or chemically fix samples to preserve them on their journey back down to Earth for further study. Experiments to understand how space affects A. thaliana’s growth and development are key to learning how to keep plants flourishing in space and, some day, help promote long-duration missions for astronauts.

Nature’s little secrets

Nature can be found in the most improbable of places. Yesterday, A. thaliana was just a weed, one of the countless others blooming in places we’ve made natural life nearly impossible. Along a busy road or in the cracks of an aging sidewalk. I’ve stepped over it and driven by it every day without thinking twice.

Today, it’s a rugged little plant growing in some of the most unlikely or inhospitable places, not the least of which is about 250 nautical miles above our heads. A. thaliana’s relatively simple and unremarkable nature is precisely what makes it valuable to science, acting as a sort of legend to help researchers study other plants. It makes me wonder what other of nature’s secrets I pass every day, hidden in plain sight.

Remembering to appreciate those little plants growing on the sidewalk,

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.


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Red kite

What acrobatic raptor was so essential to medieval public health, killing it was a crime and it became the national bird of Wales?

The red kite (Milvus milvus)!

Tim Morgan (CC via Pexels)

Nature really thinks of everything.

I was back on my run through Madrid’s Casa de Campo, the 4,257 acre public park and preserve where I found Feature Creature inspiration in the form of a sickly hare a few weeks ago. After spending several minutes observing the hare, I continued as my run opened into a large clearing. A cinematic scene rolled out before me, as a red kite (milvus milvus), one of the hare’s natural predators, dropped out of an umbrella pine and flew off before me.

Maybe it was just my own naivety, but it was a special moment for me. You see, I’d run the park many times before, but rarely looked any further than the trail in front of me. Instead, this time I tried to pay attention to the web of life around me, and how each strand of it, living or not, connected with the others around it.

Take that red kite. It is an animal that works in service of its environment with a body and design that, in turn, work in near perfect service of it.

Nature’s cleanup crew

The red kite’s nesting range stretches in a broad band from the southern corner of Portugal, up through the Iberian Peninsula, central France, and Germany, before reaching the Baltic states. Smaller populations are also found in Mediterranean islands, coastal Italy, and the British Isles, where reintroduction campaigns in the 1980’s successfully revived its numbers.

They prefer to nest at the edge of woodlands, enabling quick and easy access to the open sky and landscape, not unlike how I look for an apartment within walking distance to the metro, or how a commuter in the suburbs might prefer to live a short drive from a highway or major thoroughfare on ramp. But wherever the red kite calls home, it has an important job to do.

The red kite is, first and foremost, a scavenger. Its diet consists primarily of carrion—dead animals, often livestock and game. By feeding on these carcasses, the red kite acts as a natural janitor and ultimately helps recycle nutrients back into the soil and surrounding environment.

When a scavenger like the red kite feasts on a dead animal, it kickstarts nature’s process for removing a carcass from (or to!) the environment. In feeding, they speed up the process of decomposition by physically breaking down the body and handing off a more manageable scene to smaller organisms like insects, bacteria, and fungi.

These insects and microbes release nutrients like nitrogen, phosphorus, and carbon into the soil as they break down the red kite’s leftovers. These nutrients enrich the soil, promoting plant growth, supporting other forms of life in the ecosystem, and maintaining essential geosystems.

It’s humbling. What seems brutal or grotesque—feasting on dead animals—is really an elegant solution from nature to each life’s inevitable end.

Plasticity

While foraged carrion can make up the majority of the red kite’s diet (upwards of 75%), it is also an agile and capable hunter of hares, birds, rodents, and lizards, respectably quick prey in their own right. A deeply forked tail acts like a rudder, providing precision flight control when on the hunt.

Red kite displaying its distinctive forked tail
Stephen Noulta (CC via Pexels)

This remarkable agility serves another purpose: communication. The red kite pairs a variety of unique vocalizations with striking physical displays, especially during courtship. And man, on that front does it deliver. It’s as if, in a bid to outdo the more visually aesthetic displays of other birds like parrots and peacocks, the red kite said, “alright, I see your colorful feathers and raise you tandem, spiraling corkscrew dives.” It’s worth taking a few seconds to watch.

Red kites locked in a dive

This is all to say that the red kite is well-equipped to meet the demands of its environment, whether foraging or hunting. They have been observed changing their foraging behavior and diet based on food availability and changing environmental conditions. While this level of flexibility, or plasticity, is found among other raptors, what makes the red kite stand out in this regard is its success adapting to both rural and increasingly urbanized environments.

A connected, complicated story

It’s difficult to tell the story of the red kite without understanding the species’ relationship with us, with humans.

A natural & social scavenger, the red kite’s role in our story goes back almost as long as we’ve been hunting, practicing agriculture, and leaving waste in the streets. Our complex relationship spans centuries and reflects our evolving attitudes toward wildlife, shifting dynamics of human environments, and the species’ own plasticity. In the middle ages, the red kite was a common sight in European cities, and especially London, where it acted as a natural street cleaner, scavenging for scraps and waste in the then-squalid streets. In fact, it was protected by law, and harming one was a punishable offense, as its presence was crucial to maintaining urban sanitation.

Red kites depicted circling above London
Bredfield Wildlife Friendly Village

Attitudes began to shift however as human settlements expanded and agricultural practices intensified. The birds came to be seen as vermin, threatening livestock and hunting game populations. This, combined with a broader adoption of poison to control other animals like foxes, led to a dramatic decline in red kite populations. By the turn of the 20th century, the red kite had been pushed to near extinction in many parts of Europe. As few as a handful of pairs were believed to have survived in remote parts of Wales.

But as part of larger, global conservation trends, red kite reintroduction programs took off in the 1980’s, particularly in the UK. These efforts were successful, with Royal Society for the Protection of Birds operations director Jeff Knott declaring that it “might be the biggest species success story in UK conservation history.”

As I’ve come to understand it, this recovery is not so much the end of a story, but the beginning of a new, equally complicated chapter in Europe’s story with the red kite. Bird populations have rebounded, and are now learning how to live in a densely populated, 21st century world. Ever the survivors, red kites are adapting to modern urban and semi-urban environments. In southern England, they’ve once again become a common sight, soaring over towns and cities as they did hundreds of years ago, and foraging for food in suburban gardens.

Red kites soar above Barton-le-clay, UK
bitsandbugs (CC via iNaturalist)

Raised on a steady diet of Planet Earth, Animal Planet, and Nat Geo, I think it was easy to see “nature” as a separate thing we’re siloed off from in our built environments, something wonderful and to be safeguarded in a separate place, something we can enter and exit at our leisure. It’s evident even in the way we collectively discuss it. We talk about “being out in nature,” “escaping to the outdoors,” “getting away from it all.”

And sometimes it takes a bird like the red kite to remind you that nature doesn’t exist separately from us. The red kite doesn’t necessarily see the Iberian savannah as any more or less wild than a British village. Where there is any life, there is an ecosystem.

Running to catch the next creature,
Brendan


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.  


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Cheatgrass

What plant plays an important role in the grasslands of its native hemisphere, but alters soil moisture and fire regimes when introduced in North America?

Cheatgrass (Bromus tectorum)!

Mature cheatgrass, Bromus tectorum
Michel Langeveld (CC via Wikimedia Commons)

A cheatgrass seed had needled its way into my skin again. I thought that I had freed myself of the cheatgrass when I came back east, to the land of ample water and broad leaves, and threw all of my camping gear into a dark corner of my bedroom. This was not so – it was hiding out in my sock drawer. When I pulled up my socks, I dragged the pointed tips of the cheatgrass seeds up my ankles, and I was once again somewhere out west, nursing the delicate white surface wounds that they left. I was, for the first time, not grateful for the tight warmth-trapping weave of my wool hiking socks – it is highly adept at locking the lance-like grass seed into a comfortable chamber from which it can prod at my ankles. The cheatgrass survived the washer and the dryer and my prying fingernails, survived my desperate attempts to wrench it out of my socks and into the campfire. Cheatgrass burns fantastically well– it’ll ignite from marshmallow-toasting-distance and beyond. 

My cheatgrass came with me from Wyoming months ago. Out there, it rolled for miles across the sagebrush steppe, slowly but surely creeping into every space between every shrub. The site where I gathered the seeds into my socks smelled more of earth than sagebrush, which was unusual for the basins where I’d been working. My boss Rachel and I hopped down out of our work truck and took in our site: some sagebrush, sure, but only a few dashes of it scattered between rolling hills of crisp, flame-red cheatgrass. The site was nearly silent; I found myself missing the usual distant whirrr of farm machinery and the cacophonous cry of a startled sage grouse. We were instead accompanied by the whistling of wind and the knowledge that we would be blowing dust into our handkerchiefs for a few days.

“Downy Brome”

Some call cheatgrass “downy brome”, which is a perfect term for it in the early spring when it hasn’t grown into its wretchedness. In early spring, when its long awns have not yet grown stiff and sharp, it is a soft and elegant plant. Its leaves fall in a gentle cascade from the long stem. The downy brome rolls over hillsides and whispers to its sisters in the breeze; as they dry in late summer, the wind knocks the heads of their seeds against one another, and they are scattered to the ground to start their cycle anew. When the cool season rains end and they’ve sucked up all the water they can from the parched earth, their chloroplasts finally falter, and the grass turns a faint purple-red from the awn-tip up. In spring, the dusty green tones of the sagebrush and the brightly-colored grass dapple the landscape. By summer, the sagebrush is nearly overtaken by an orange-brown, foreshadowing the fire which cheatgrass so often fuels. The grass sticks its seeds through your shoes and between your toes and into your socks and the hems of your pants. It doesn’t matter if you stop to pull them out– you will have just as many jabbing and nudging away at you after you walk another ten feet through their swaying abundance. It is useless to shake them out, too. You must pull them, piece by piece, out of your hair and your tent and your boots, and cast them to the ground. This is just what they wish for– you are seeding them for next year.

A rugged invader

Humans introduced cheatgrass to the Northeastern United States by accident sometime around 1860. You can find it in many places around New England, but in the presence of such an overwhelming amount of water, it often fails to compete with its fellow grasses and is relegated to cracks in sidewalks and highway islands full of compacted, inhospitable soil. Cheatgrass seems lost on this coast; few in the East know what it is or why it’s here. It is a plant surviving as plants do, regardless of the “invasive” status we’ve thrust upon it. In the West, however, its success is something wicked and wonderful.

Any water from the winter’s snowmelt or early spring rains gets sucked up by the eager roots of the cheatgrass, leaving little for the still-sprouting native grasses, forbes, and shrubs, even as their taproots probe deep into the earth. Ecologists curse the plant for its brutal efficiency in driving out those native to the arid steppe; birders lament the loss of woody habitat for their feathered favorites; ranchers sigh at the sight of yet another dry, nutritionally-deficient plant that even their toughest cow is loath to graze. And there is, of course, the fire. Cheatgrass dies and dries in the early summer, long before native grasses do, providing an early fuel source for the ever-lengthening fire season. 

Cheatgrass seeds
Jose Hernandez, USDA (Public Domain via Wikicommons)

The seeds lie in wait in the earth, and in the spring, they unfurl their new leafy heads and emerge from between blackened sagebrush branches. In the grass’s native range in Europe and Southwestern Asia, the plant is no worse or better than any other; it just is. Moths and butterflies lay their eggs along its edges. Ungulates nibble it slowly as their eyes each search opposite directions for the next snack.

Nearly all of the existing research on the plant explores its role far from home, in the United States. It is grass, and it would be hard to imagine that here on the other side of the world, some field tech is cursing its very existence. You’d never know from looking at the cheatgrass that ranchers and federal scientists alike have spent years dousing their own lands in herbicides with the hope of its extirpation. We humans have of course played our role in keeping the cheatgrass strong even as we try to drive it out, since cheatgrass, like many invasives, is far better at taking over already-disturbed soils where the native plant communities and biological soil crusts have been weakened. As extreme wildfires, agricultural use, overgrazing, and the general ravages of climate change continue to impact larger and larger regions, so too does the invasive capacity of the cheatgrass.

 I wore a different pair of socks hiking that day for fear of bringing more cheatgrass to Connecticut. It was silly, though; the cheatgrass already knows this land well. 

Jasmine


Jasmine Gormley is an environmental scientist, writer, and advocate from New Hampshire.  She holds a BS in Environmental Studies from Yale, where she conducted research in plant community ecology and land management. She aims to obtain a degree in environmental law. As a first-generation college student, she is passionate about equity in educational and environmental access, and believes that environmental justice and biodiversity conservation are often one and the same. In her spare time, you can find her rock climbing, foraging, and going for cold water swims.


Sources and Further Reading:

Featured Creature: Moon Snail

What seemingly cute, small creature is, in fact, a terrifying killer that drills a hole into their prey, liquifies it, and then sucks it out like a smoothie?

The moon snail (Naticidae)!

Lewis’s Moon Snail, Neverita lewisii (Image Credit: Siobhan O’Neill via iNaturalist)

Have you ever noticed those shells at the beach with perfectly round holes in them? I’ve always wondered how they end up like that. I thought, “surely it is not a coincidence that jewelry-ready shells are left in the sand for a craft-lover like me.” Amazingly, the neat holes are the work of the moon snail.

Take a look at holes made by the moon snail; maybe you’ve seen them before too.

The Small Snowplows of the Ocean

The moon snail is a predatory sea snail from the Naticidae family, named for the half-moon shaped opening on the underside of its globular shell. They are smooth and shiny and come in a variety of colors and patterns depending on the species: white, gray, brown, blue, or orange, with different spiral bands or waves. The size of moon snails also varies by species, ranging from as small as a marble to as large as a baseball. To traverse the ocean floor, moon snails use a big, fleshy foot to burrow through the sand. They pump water into the foot’s hollow sinuses to expand it in front of and over the shell, making it easier to travel along the ocean floor, like a snowplow. (Or should we call it a sand plow?)

Moon snails live in various saltwater habitats along the coast of North America. A diversity of species can be found along both the Atlantic Coast between Canada down to North Carolina, and the Pacific Coast from British Columbia down to Baja California, Mexico. They live on silty, sandy substrates at a variety of depths depending on the species, from the intertidal zone and shallow waters below the tidemark to muddy bottoms off the coast 500 meters deep (about 1640 feet, which is greater than the height of the Empire State Building!). You might find a moon snail during a full moon, when the tide is higher and more seashells wash up on shore, plowing through the sand looking for its next meal.

Northern Moonsnail, Euspira heros (Image Credit: Ian Manning via iNaturalist)

When a moon snail fills its muscular foot with water, it can almost cover its entire shell!

Lewis’s Moon Snail, Neverita lewisii (Image Credit: Ed Bierman via Wikimedia Commons)

The moon snail is part of a taxonomic class called Gastropoda, which describes a group of animals that includes snails, slugs, and nudibranchs. The word gastropod comes from Greek and translates to “stomach foot.” The moon snail is a part of this belly-crawler club because it has a foot that runs along the underside of its belly that it uses to get around! 

What’s on the menu? Clam chowder!

What does the moon snail eat? These ocean invertebrates prey primarily on other mollusks that share their habitat, like clams and mussels. They use chemoreception (a process by which organisms respond to chemical stimuli in their environment) to locate a mollusk and envelop it in their inflated foot, dragging it farther into the sand. 

Nearly all gastropods have a radula (think of a tongue with a lot of tiny, sharp teeth) that they use to consume smaller pieces of food or scrape algae off rocks. Moon snails are different. After their prey is captured, moon snails use their radula to grind away at a spot on their prey’s shell. With the help of enzymes and acids secreted from glands on the bottom of their foot, they drill completely through the shell of their victim at a rate of half a millimeter per day. Once the drilling is complete, moon snails inject digestive fluids into the mollusk, liquefying its innards, and slurp up the chowder inside with their tubular proboscis. The entire process takes about four to five days. Vicious, right? And what is even more brutal is that sometimes, moon snails are cannibalistic!

What role does the moon snail play in its environment?

Phytoplankton and algae form the foundation of the marine food web, providing food and energy to the entire ecosystem of sea creatures. Organisms that fall prey to moon snails, like clams and mussels, consume this microscopic algae, as well as other bacteria and plant detritus. The moon snail is a vital link in this interconnected food chain because not only is it important prey for predators like crabs, lobsters, and shorebirds, but it also provides these organisms with energy and key nutrients. Through decomposition, moon snails’ feces, dead bodies, and shells become nutrients for producers like phytoplankton and algae. 

Unfortunately, many things can harm moon snails and their habitats. Meteorological events like hurricanes can cause fluctuations in the species’ abundance. During heatwaves, when record high temperatures combine with extreme low tides like the one in the Pacific Northwest in 2021, moon snails can become extended from their shells, leading to desiccation and death.

The Earth’s temperature has risen at a rate of approximately 0.2°C per decade since 1982, making 2023 the warmest year since global records began in 1850. If yearly greenhouse gas emissions continue to rapidly increase, the global temperature will be at least 5 degrees Fahrenheit warmer and possibly as much as 10.2 degrees warmer by 2100. This continuous increase in temperature puts not just moon snails but humans and the Earth’s biodiversity at large at risk, not only because of more frequent heat waves, but because oceans are becoming more acidic as the water absorbs excess carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. As reporter Hari Sreenivasan explained in the PBS NewsHour report, Acidifying Waters Corrode Northwest Shellfish, ocean acidification affects shellfish a lot like how osteoporosis causes bones to become brittle in humans. The increasing acidity in the ocean reduces the amount of carbonate in the seawater, making it more difficult for moon snails and other shellfish to build and maintain strong calcium carbonate shells.

Colorful Moon Snail, Naticarius canrena (Image Credit: Joe Tomoleoni via iNaturalist)

Human activities also threaten marine creatures like moon snails. Shoreline hardening, aquaculture operations, and water management disturbs the food web and drives species towards extinction. Building structures on the shore to protect against erosion, storm surge, and sea level rise; projects such as geoduck farming; and creating dams and other water diversions disrupts animal communities and results in considerable habitat change. Fortunately, there are environmentally friendly alternatives, like living shorelines. These use plants and other natural features like rocks and shells to stabilize sediments, absorb wave energy, and protect against erosion. 

What can you do to protect these clam-chowing sand plows and the biodiversity of the marine sediment?

One thing you can do to help moon snails is protect their egg casings. In the summer, more moon snails emerge in the shallow, intertidal habitats because it’s time for them to breed. To lay eggs, the female moon snail covers her entire foot in a thick layer of sand that she cements together with mucus. After laying tiny eggs on top, she sandwiches them between another layer of sand and detaches herself from the firm, gelatinous egg mass and leaves them to hatch in a few weeks. These collar-shaped egg casings can sometimes look like pieces of plastic or trash, so make sure you don’t pick them up and throw them away!

Moon snails can be found washed up on dry parts of the beach as well as in submerged parts of sand flats during low tide. If you pick up a moon snail, remember to put it back in the water so it doesn’t dry out in the sun. 

The biodiversity in the marine sediment rivals even coral reefs and tropical rainforests. The organisms that live in this part of the ocean and the services they provide are essential for life on Earth. They cycle nutrients, break down pollutants, filter water, and feed commercial species like cod and scallop that humans eat all the time. Historical fishing activities, bottom trawling, habitat destruction, pollution, climate change, food web modification, and invasive species threaten biodiversity, functions, and services of marine sedimentary habitats. While there are many unknowns and ongoing threats to ocean life, that also means there are more opportunities for research and discovery that can inform effective ocean conservation policies. Supporting these policies that protect oceans and marine life is a way to protect moon snails too.

In ecology, there is a principle that suggests that each ecological niche is occupied by a distinct organism uniquely suited to it. This means organisms exist everywhere, and they have evolved to exist in these places in specific ways. The moon snail’s unique characteristics – notably the way it uses its radula to drill into its prey – shows us that in almost any niche, the organism which occupies it has similarly adapted to optimize its place in that habitat. I’m curious to learn what other unique traits organisms have evolved to adapt to their unique niche.

Off to shell-ebrate the beauty of our oceans and their creatures,

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.


Sources and Further Reading:

Conservation Organizations

Articles & Papers

    Featured Creature: Slow Loris

    What creature has large eyes, dexterous feet, and is the only venomous primate known to exist?? 

    The slow loris (Nycticebus)!

    Image Credit: Helena Snyder (CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons)

    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.

           Image Credit: David Haring (CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons)

    Venemous Primate

    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.

    Image Credit: Helena Snyder (CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons)

    Bridging Human-Animal Conflicts

    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.

    Image Credit: Jefri Tarigan (CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons)

    Conservation

    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.


    Sources and Further Reading:

    Articles

    Scientific Papers

    Featured Creature: Iberian Hare

    What athletic creature can reach speeds of 45mph and cool itself down with large ears – all in a 2.5 kg frame? 

    The Iberian hare (Lepus granatensis)!

    Image Credit: Juan Lacruz (CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons)

    Five times the size of New York’s Central Park, Casa de Campo (literally, “country house”) outside Madrid is filled with rustic stone pine trees – emblematic of the Mediterranean and easily identified by their bare trunks and full, blooming crown of pine needles. It’s sometimes called the “umbrella pine” for good reason. Above, within, around, and beneath these trees, nearly 200 species of vertebrates live. 

    Out for a run through the park, my feet pounded the dry dirt along a gradual decline for the last mile. Here, the earthen trail dipped down steeply and cut through dense brush. As I dropped in, I almost landed squarely on top of what appeared to be a large rabbit. To my surprise, it didn’t dart away; I think I was more startled than it was. You see, I’d set out on that run in part to find inspiration, follow my curiosity, and think of a creature I wanted to learn more about. I’m not such a strong believer in fate, but this rabbit (or so I thought at the time) had certainly made its case. 

    I lingered and watched it mill around the brush. The more I watched, the more I wondered about its story. 

    A Keystone Species On The Iberian Peninsula

    The Iberian hare (Lepus granatensis) is endemic, or native, to the entire peninsula that contains Spain, Portugal, and the enclave nation of Andorra. Throughout that region they can be found in diverse habitats including dry Mediterranean scrublands, woodlands, and agricultural fields. It thrives in regions with ample vegetation that offer cover and food, adapting well to the peninsula’s varied landscapes, which range from dry, hot areas to slightly cooler, temperate zones. In some respects, Casa de Campo itself is a microcosm of these environments.

    Lepus granatensis is a keystone species, meaning it occupies an essential link in the ecosystem’s food chain and plays a particularly outsized role in balancing its environment. It survives on a diet of grasses, leaves, and shoots, playing a crucial role in seed dispersal and vegetation control – and is a source of prey for a range of birds and mammals. The hare’s diet and grazing habits help control plant overgrowth and support a diverse plant community, evidenced in Casa de Campo by the more than 600,000 plant specimens found in the park alone.

    The open ground this hare navigates every day is patrolled by animals who want to eat her– lynx, coyote, and red foxes from the land and eagles, owls, hawks, and red kites from the air. To get from point A to point B she must be fast, and she is. Powerful hind legs propel Lepus granatensis to top sprinting speeds of 45-50 miles-per-hour, making her one of the fastest land animals on the peninsula. It’s a pace that puts my nine-minute mile to shame, and is an essential adaptation to survive here, far from the relative safety of dense forest or lush meadow. 

           Casa de Campo, a 4,257 acre park on the edge of Madrid, boasts more that 600,000 plant specimens and nearly 200 species of vertebrates.
    Image by author, who was apparently far too busy taking pictures instead of running while on his run.

    Nature’s Air Conditioning

    When I first started coming to Madrid, adapting to the sparing or non-existent use of air conditioning in the summer was an adventure, to say the least. I can do without the Chipotle and readily available iced coffee, but having been raised on A/C since I was born, it took some getting used to. Unlike me in this regard, the hare I ran into that day is well suited to her environment. It is one of large, open landscapes dotted with thick low lying brush, olive trees, holm oaks, and pines. Rainfall is infrequent, and summers are scorched by the strong Spanish sun. 

    Her ears are larger and thinner than those of a rabbit. They often stand upright. When backlit, one can easily make out a network of veins and arteries, traversing the ear like rivers and streams through a watershed.

    An unidentified leporid (family of rabbits and hares) displaying the network of arteries and veins that help transfer heat from warm blood to the surrounding air, keeping her cool.
    Image by author.

    Therein lies her secret. Hares don’t perspire like you and me– nor do they pant like a canine. Instead, they depend on their large, thin-skinned ears to act as thermostat and air conditioner. No, they don’t flap them like a paper fan. Instead, they help her cool down by getting hotter.

    When the hare needs to release excess heat, she can expand that network of blood vessels in her ears, allowing her to redirect hot blood away from her body and through the thin skin of her ears. Because her ears have a large surface area putting those veins in closer contact to the ambient air, this increased blood flow facilitates the dissipation of heat into the ever so slightly cooler surrounding air, helping her regulate her body temperature effectively.

    We see this strategy of counter-current thermoregulation in nature again and again, in the ears of elephants and deer, and a variation in the snow and ice-bound paws of the arctic fox.

    Thermal imaging demonstrating how heat retention and dissipation in rabbits is concentrated through the ears. Image credit: V. Redialli, et al., 2008
    This thermal video clearly illustrates the
    heat disparity between a rabbit’s ears, and the rest of its body.

    Confronting a Microscopic Threat

    Before I continued my run, I fired off a few observations to a zoologist friend of mine for help with the species identification. Among them was what we suspected to be a bad case of conjunctivitis in both eyes; significant levels of swelling and discharge were present. 

    While neither of us can offer a certain diagnosis for this particular hare, further research has indicated that something more serious is afoot.

    In 1952, France was well into its post-war reconstruction, buoyed along by a growing economy and population. As the country was just beginning a new chapter in its story, so too was recently retired physician Dr. Paul-Félix Armand-Delille. In his new-found free time, Armand-Delille took up great interest in the pristine care and management of the grounds of his estate, Château Maillebois, in the department of Eure-et-Loir, a little more than 100km west of Paris.

    Troubled by the presence of wild European rabbits (Oryctolagus cuniculus) on his property, Armand-Delille read about the success Australian farmers had found using strains of the myxoma virus to control invasive rabbit species on that continent (they’d been imported by an Englishman decades earlier). Using his old medical connections, Armand-Delille secured some myxoma virus for himself and intentionally infected and released two of the rabbits on his property, confident that they would not be able to leave it. 

    Armand-Delille’s Château Maillebois today.
    Image credit: Marcengel (CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons)

    In just one year, nearly half of all wild rabbits in France would be dead, consumed by myxomatosis, the disease caused by the myxoma virus. In the decades since, the disease has ravaged Oryctolagus cuniculus populations across Europe, shrinking their numbers to just a fraction of what they were at mid-century. The sudden, near overnight disappearance of the European rabbit also crippled populations of its specialist predator, the Iberian lynx (Lynx pardinus). With the lynx unable to replace the rabbit in its diet, the species was pushed to the brink of extinction. Recent conservation efforts have helped recover and stabilize populations, but Lynx pardinus remains a “vulnerable” species. 

    Fortunately, over just the last few decades some populations of the European rabbit have resurged, having developed strong resistance to the virus.

    But viruses are always trying, though usually failing, to jump from one host species to another. As species migrate and habitats converge, a virus gets more and more chances to make the leap.

    As early as 2018, myxoma succeeded in making the leap from Oryctolagus cuniculus to Lepus granatensis. The virus that causes myxomatosis has wreaked havoc on Iberian hare populations on the peninsula; a species that did not have the advantage of decades and decades of exposure to build up resistance. Myxomatosis can cause fever, lesions, lethargy, and, it turns out, severe swelling and discharge around the eyes. Sometimes these symptoms can subside. But for the Iberian hare the virus is remarkably lethal, with a mean mortality rate of about 70%. Data indicates that since 2018, the virus has decimated Iberian hare populations. This break in the chain has serious implications for both the vegetation the hare keeps in check and the predators that depend on the hare as prey – implications that we are only beginning to understand.

    The impact of myxomatosis outbreaks on Iberian hare populations after the 2018 species jump event. Image credit: Cardoso B, et al.

    As a warming world continues to heat Iberia, the delicately balanced ecosystem Lepus granatensis inhabits is increasingly jeopardized. More intense storms flood the parched terrain while stifling heat and wildfires threaten vegetation. Lepus granatensis is likely to migrate north in search of more tolerable environments that can sustain the plant life it depends on for both food and cover. The further north the hare goes, the more its new habitat will overlap with the European rabbit and other species. The future of large populations of Lepus granatensis in the face of this disease and increasing climate fallout is uncertain. Since returning to Casa de Campo, I’ve noticed the swelling and discharge in other leporids as well.

    Lepus granatensis
    Image credit: JoseVi More Díaz (CC-BY-NC-ND)

    Complexity

    This isn’t the story I set out to tell. When I stumbled on the hare, I expected to write an essay about reconnecting with nature as I embarked on my own new journey as part of the Bio4Climate team. 

    Transitioning from a place of hope and curiosity, to understanding the more dire situation faced by both the hare I crossed paths with and the species as a whole was deflating. Yet, that’s all part of nature’s complexity; we don’t always get the happy endings we want. To some extent, these aren’t our stories to write. But even that conclusion is built around a false premise, because none of these stories are over. 

    The recent outbreak has prompted renewed research interest into threats facing hare populations. And even if we distill the bigger story down to this specific hare, I don’t know what will become of her. No, the odds aren’t great. But in the time that I watched her she simply carried on, foraging away in the brush. It’s a small thing to observe, but I think there’s hope in that— in identifying the struggle and the resilience of living things, and channeling that understanding to shape a better world. 

    It’s hard not to think about the web of plants, animals, ecosystems, and microscopic organisms that have been set on a collision course with each other as they seek to rebalance themselves. And in the middle of it all is us. 

    After watching the hare for a few minutes, I continued my run. The trail led out of the brush and opened up into a large, flat field, sparingly dotted with those umbrella pines. At that moment, a bird I later identified in iNaturalist as a red kite (Milvus milvus) dropped out of one of the trees, skimmed the earth, and climbed into the sky. 


    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.  


    Sources and Further Reading:

    Articles

    Scientific Papers

    Featured Creature: Eastern Emerald Elysia

    What creature steals photosynthesis, can go a year without eating, and blurs the animal-plant boundary? 

    The Eastern Emerald Elysia (Elysia chlorotica)!

    Image Credit: Patrick J. Krugg

    “It’s a leaf,” my friend said when I showed her the photograph.

    “Look closely. It’s not a leaf,” I replied.

    “What is it then? Some insect camouflaged as a leaf?” she asked, still staring at the photo.

    “It’s a slug. A sea slug. It starts as an animal and then… becomes plant-like. It steals chloroplasts. It can photosynthesize,” I almost yelled in excitement.

    “What do you mean, it steals chloroplasts? Is there some symbiotic relationship with bacteria that allows it to photosynthesize?” my friend asked—she’s a nature nerd.

    “No, not at all,” I said, feeling overwhelmed. “I don’t quite understand how it works yet. I am not sure anyone truly does.”

    It had only been a few hours since I learned about the Eastern Emerald Elysia (Elysia chlorotica). Since then, I haven’t been able to stop sharing this incredible discovery with anyone who crosses my path—whether they’re interested or not—I’ll share anyway. 

           At first glance, Elysia chlorotica might seem relatively modest. Image Credit: bow_brown_brook via iNaturalist via Maryland Biodiversity 

    Photosynthesis in Nature through Symbiosis

    Days later, as I write, I contemplate my friend’s first instinct. In nature, if you’re not a plant and want to photosynthesize, you usually rely on symbiosis. The first thing that comes to mind are corals. Corals host tiny algae called zooxanthellae within their tissues. The algae photosynthesize,  providing the coral with food and energy in exchange for protection and access to sunlight. 

    But I became curious — What other species in nature photosynthesize through symbiosis? 

    I learned that some sea anemones, sponges, giant clams, hydras and, surprisingly, yellow-spotted salamanders—the only known vertebrate that photosynthesizes—also rely on similar symbiotic relationships, though that’s a story for another time.

    And … lichens, too. 

    In his book Entangled Life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, biologist and author Merlin Sheldrake describes lichens as “places where an organism unravels into an ecosystem, and where an ecosystem congeals into an organism. They flicker between ‘wholes’ and ‘collections of parts’. Shuttling between the two perspectives is a confusing experience.”

    Indeed, it is a confusing experience. There’s this consistent thread of life forms rejecting the categories we impose on them. Lichens blur the lines between fungi and plants, comprising fungi, algae, and bacteria—organisms from three kingdoms of life, each with a specific ecological role crucial to the whole—a miniature ecosystem. 

    But the Eastern Emerald Elysia (Elysia chlorotica) once more challenges categorization, blurring the lines between the animal and plant world. 

    Where does the animal stop and the plant begin?

    Upon a closer look, Elysia chlorotica proves to be more than ordinary. Transformation in color from brown-reddish to green upon stealing chloroplasts from the Vaucheria litorea algae. The transformation occurs in about 48 hours. Smithsonian Environmental Research Center (CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons 1, 2, 3)

    Elysia Chlorotica’s Way of Being: Living In Between Worlds 

    I am learning that Elysia chlorotica can be found very close to where I live on the eastern coast of the United States. My friend noted several sightings of them on iNaturalist in states like Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New Jersey, and Connecticut. In fact, the highest concentration of Elysia Chloratica is on Martha’s Vineyard in Massachusetts.  

    Their preferred habitat is shallow tidal marshes and pools with water less than 1.5 feet deep. 

    They are shy, flat, and between 1 and 2 inches long.  

    And although they belong to the clade Sacoglossans, they are often mistaken for Nudibranchs. What differentiates the two is their diet. Nudibranchs are carnivorous, while the Sacoglossans are herbivores. 

    Sacoglossans are also known as sap-sucking slugs due to their feeding behavior. Elysia chlorotica feeds exclusively on the yellow-green macroalga Vaucheria litorea, the two living in close proximity. 

    Selected quote from the video: “It then lives on the food made by these chloroplasts.
    It is a fascinating story of endosymbiosis.”

    The term “feeding” might be a bit misleading. Elysia chlorotica does eat the algae, yet it uses its radula, a specialized set of piercing teeth, to puncture it and suck out all of its contents – “kinda” like a straw. In the process of feeding, it begins to digest everything else, except it leaves the chloroplasts intact – the tiny organelles responsible for photosynthesis in plants.

    The undigested chloroplasts become incorporated into the slug’s digestive tract, visible on its back as a branching pattern that resembles the venation found on a leaf or the structure of our lungs. This process is known as kleptoplasty, derived from the Greek word “klepto,” meaning thief. As chloroplasts accumulate, the slug’s color changes from reddish-brown to green due to the chlorophyll in about 48 hours.

     Karen N. Pelletreau et al., (CC BY 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons)

    When I read this, I engage in a thought exercise—I imagine I am eating a salad. The salad is composed of cucumbers, sesame seeds, and dill (my favorite!) with a bit of olive oil, vinegar, and salt. In the process of eating, I digest everything except the dill, which I leave intact within me. Once the dill gets to my digestive tract, within a matter of 48 hours, I start turning green and gain the ability to photosynthesize—to eat light, to fix CO2, and emit oxygen in return. 

    Of course, this is impossible (or doesn’t yet happen) for humans and animals. Repurposing chloroplasts into one’s physiology, even without digesting them, is a feat that is far from straightforward. It involves complex genes, proteins, and mechanisms—thousands of them—ensuring that this process functions correctly. There’s a precise interaction, akin to a lock-and-key mechanism, that makes this extraordinary adaptation possible. It is more of a dialogue, an evolutionary dialogue—an activation. 

    What is even more extraordinary is that Elysia chlorotica can maintain functioning chloroplasts for its entire life cycle, approximately 12 months. It only needs to eat once. Normally, chloroplasts need a lot of support from the plant’s own genes to keep functioning. When they are inside an animal cell, they are far from their original plant environment. And one cannot ignore the immune system, which upon sensing a foreign body, should initiate an attack. 

    This intrigues scientists. For example, there are many other species that are kleptoplasts, including a few other Sacoglossans sea slugs. I learned that some ciliates and foraminiferans are, too. And there’s a marine flatworm that can steal chloroplasts from diatoms. 

    However, none of them can maintain intact chloroplasts as long as Elysia chlorotica. 

    At first you might have been surprised by just how it incorporates plant-like processes into an animal body. But then the question transforms into how it maintains these processes. Maintenance, it seems, is still a mystery. And for what? 

    For a more in-depth exploration of Elysia chlorotica, watch this video and
    refer to its description for scientific papers and additional readings.

    Yet What is This Chloroplast Maintenance For? Does It Need Photosynthesis to Survive? 

    From the video above that does an excellent job summarizing various scientific discoveries and Ed Yong’s article “Solar-Powered Slugs Are Not Solar-Powered,” I was able to understand the development of a mental model and the nature of scientific inquiry through experimentation and challenging assumptions surrounding the sea slug. 

    Initially: It was believed that Elysia chlorotica stole chloroplasts and relied entirely on photosynthesis for survival.

    Then: It was found that sunlight isn’t crucial for its survival—starvation, light or darkness–it doesn’t matter.

    Finally: Research on other species of sea slugs Elysia timida and Plakobranchus ocellatus showed that while these slugs convert CO2 into sugars in the presence of light, they don’t need photosynthesis to survive. They concluded that chloroplasts might act as a food reserve, hoarded for future needs.

    However: The mystery remains of how chloroplasts perform photosynthesis in an animal body. The hypothesis that chloroplasts function due to gene theft was disproven. Chloroplasts need thousands of genes, mostly from the host cell’s nucleus, but that is left behind during chloroplast theft. Nobody truly understands how the chloroplasts continue to function under these conditions. 

    I’m left confused, moving from thinking photosynthesis was essential to realizing it’s not required for survival, yet chloroplasts still perform photosynthesis. 

    If you also feel confused, please know, this uncertainty and surrendering to the unknown is crucial when studying and learning from the natural world. Questions like ‘why they need photosynthesis at all’ and ‘how it happens’ remain unanswered. 

    Due to the difficulty of raising Elysia chlorotica in the lab, and the need to carefully limit their collection to protect wild populations, research on them is highly challenging. Climate change and habitat fragmentation make this task even more difficult.

    I look forward to following the progress of this research and am grateful to the scientists who continue to push boundaries and deepen our understanding of these remarkable creatures. This is one more example of why it is so important to protect and restore the Earth’s ecosystems.  

    The Genesis of Symbiosis. The Origin of The Chloroplast. The Becoming of the Earth.

    Researching Elysia chlorotica took me on an entirely different path. I have always been interested in the origin of things, how something emerges, and the question of what is the origin of the chloroplasts intuitively unfolded. 

    I tried to understand symbiosis as defined by evolutionary biologist Lynn Margulis. At the recommendation of Bio4Climate staff biologist Jim Laurie, I watched (and then re-watched) the documentary Symbiotic Earth: How Lynn Margulis Rocked The Boat and Started a Scientific Revolution.

    It led me to Symbiogenesis. Symbiogenesis, as defined by Lynn Margulis, is the theory that new organisms and complex features evolve through symbiotic relationships, where one organism engulfs and integrates another. 

    In a moment of serendipity, I was surprised to see in one of the scenes in the documentary that the Elysia chlorotica was on the cover of the book titled “Symbiogenesis: A New Principle of Evolution” by Boris Mikhaylovich Kozo-Polyanksy. One of its editors is Lynn Margulis. 

    Photograph I took of a projected scene from the documentary Symbiotic Earth: How Lynn Margulis Rocked the Boat and Started a Scientific Revolution.

    I never considered the genesis of symbiosis before–its connection with the genesis of life on Earth as we know it and with the biogeochemical cycles, fundamental processes that make our planet habitable. 

    This serendipitous moment, coupled with my learning process of Elysia chlorotica feels like some sort of beginning for me–a new understanding of how to perceive the becoming of the Earth.

    Lynn Margulis, through her Serial Endosymbiotic Theory (SET), proposed that chloroplasts and mitochondria were originally free-living bacteria that entered into symbiotic relationships. 

    I am becoming aware that these primordial organelles have been integral to life’s evolution, part of a biological legacy that has shaped the Earth’s emergence of life for billions of years. And it all started with bacteria! 

    Elysia chlorotica, with its ability to steal chloroplasts, has reminded me that when studying the natural world, there is always something that doesn’t quite fit into our predetermined categories of knowledge and that life inevitably discovers a way to persist through new configurations of interacting and being.

    We now understand that classifying nature goes beyond just physical appearances. There are hidden processes at play—molecular, genetic, and biogeochemical—that allow us to trace the origins of life and understand it in ways that extend beyond mere morphology. Nature, ultimately, defies rules—this seems to be the only rule. The once-ordered tree of life gives way to fluid boundaries and intricate entanglements. This emerging complexity reflects the true essence of life: dynamic, interconnected, ever-evolving, filled with irregular rhythms.

    And now, I have a new category, a new lens through which to perceive nature: “Animals That Can Photosynthesize.” (hear Lynn Margulis talk about this topic in the first 10 minutes of the podcast). 

    Left: Chloroplasts. Photo Credit: Kristian Peters-Fabelfroh (CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons)
    Right: Project Apollo Archive (Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

    Without chloroplasts, there would be no plants, sea slugs, and oxygen-rich Earth. And without cyanobacteria—the believed progenitors of chloroplasts—much of the life we know of today, and perhaps countless other forms yet to be discovered, would not exist.

    I hope you can look beyond the form of living systems and envision how life emerged through symbiosis. 

    Picture this emergence on various scales, from the microscopic chloroplast to the scale of an entire planet.

    With gratitude, yet green with chloroplast envy, 

    Alexandra


    Alexandra Ionescu is an Ecological Artist and Certified Biomimicry Professional. She currently works at Bio4Climate as the Associate Director of Regenerative Projects, focusing on the Miyawaki Forest Program. 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. In her spare time, Alexandra is part of the Below and Above Collective, an interdisciplinary group that combines art with ecological functionality to construct floating wetlands and is a 2024 Curatorial Fellow with Creature Conserve where she organized a webinar and “Read/Reflect/Create” club centered on beavers.


    Sources and Further Reading:

    Videos

    Articles

    Scientific Papers

    Featured Creature: Leafcutter Bee

    What creature carves out little pieces of tree leaves to build its nest inside hollow stems?

    The Leafcutter Bee!

    Bernhard Plank – SiLencer (CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons)

    Known scientifically as Megachile (genus), leafcutter bees account for 1,500 of the world’s 20,000 bee species. I first noticed the work of leafcutter bees in my own backyard two years ago. First, you notice the “leaf damage” of the leafcutter bee. 

    Here is the “leaf damage” on a pin oak seedling. 

    The leaf damage takes the form of neat little curves. I recognized these neat little curves from having perused Bees: An Identification and Native Plant Foraging Guide, by Heather Holm, an author whose work I highly recommend. 

    In June of this year, I was fortunate enough to capture a leafcutter bee on video doing her work. I’ll show you the video below, but first … 

    How can we coexist with critters who are “harming” our plants?

    It is said, “If nothing is eating your garden, then your garden is not part of the ecosystem.” If you want your garden to be part of the ecosystem, then some of it will become food for other critters. Some of my leaves will become food for leafcutter bees. But then the leafcutter bees will pollinate my wildflowers and my vegetables, making it possible for them to bear seed and fruit. I am happy to make this trade-off, plus I want my garden to feed all of the living species, not just us humans.

    How do leafcutter bees differ from honeybees?

    Honeybees are the most famous bees. And who doesn’t like honey? But honeybees are only one species out of 20,000 worldwide.  

    Honeybees are social. So they live cooperatively in hives. But most bees are solitary, including leafcutter bees. They interact only in mating. And then they make their nests and lay their eggs in a nest that could be in the ground, or in a rotting tree or in the hollow stem of a dead wildflower.

    The North American continent is home to 150 of the world’s 1,500 species of leafcutter bees. Honeybees originate from Europe; they are not native to North America. 

    An “unarmed leafcutting bee” from my backyard

    Here is a video of an “unarmed leafcutter bee” in my backyard, cutting the leaf off a pin oak seedling. This female uses her strong mandibles (jaws) to carve out a piece of a pin oak leaf to build her nest. Notice how quickly and efficiently she does this work.

    How do I know this is a female? Because only the females build nests. The males die shortly after mating. 

    As soon as she is done cutting off the piece of leaf, she carries it back to the nest. The female nibbles the edges of the leaves so they’ll be pulpy and stick together to provide the structure for the nest.

    Where is she building a nest? 

    She may build her nest in the hollow stem of a dead wildflower stalk, such as ironweed or goldenrod. She may build her nest in a dead tree. (Forest ecologists say that a dead tree is at least as valuable as a live tree, because so many critters make their nests in them.) Or she may build it in the ground. Nests also include cavities in rocks and abandoned mud dauber nests (Holm, 2017).

    Here is the nest of a ground-nesting bee. In this case, it may or may not be a leafcutter bee.

    If we leave bare spots on the ground, then this becomes a potential nesting site for ground nesting bees, including some leafcutter bees.

    What purposes do the leaves serve?

    Leaves prevent desiccation (drying out) of the food supply. The leaves typically include antimicrobial properties, preventing the nest from being infected.

    Inside a nest, cells are arranged in a single long column. The female constructs each cell with leaf pieces, placing an egg along with pollen mixed with nectar, enough food for the bee to grow to adulthood, before leaving the nest.

    In the fall, the larvae hatches from the egg, eats the nectar and pollen, and gains enough energy to grow through several stages, called instars. But it does not yet leave the nest. In the spring, the larvae pupates and becomes an adult, finally crawling out of the nest.

    In the eastern U.S., common nesting materials include rose, ash, redbud and St. John’s wort. See below for photos from my home landscape showing the work of leafcutter bees on my pin oak, silver maple and jewelweed.

    Where do leafcutter bees gather pollen and nectar?

    Heather Holm, author of Bees: An Identification and Native Plant Foraging Guide, lists the following forage plants where leafcutter bees gather nectar and pollen:

    Spring Forage Plants: 

    • Golden Alexander (Zizia aurea)
    • Purple coneflower (Echinacea purpurea)
    • Foxglove beardtongue (Penstemon digitalis)

    Summer Forage Plants: 

    • Black-eyed Susan (Rudbeckia hirta)
    • Common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca)
    • Butterfly weed (Asclepias tuberosa)
    • Joe Pye weed (Eutrochium purpureum)
    • Anise hyssop (Agastache foeniculum)
    • Blazingstar (Liatris pycnostachya)
    • Blue vervain (Verbena hastata)

    Autumn Forage Plants: 

    • Goldenrod, species of Solidago, including showy goldenrod (Solidago speciosa)
    • Asters, i.e., species of Symphyotricum, including New England aster, (Symphyotricum novae-angliae)
    Here is a picture of Megachile fidelis, the faithful leafcutting bee, gathering nectar and pollen from a New England aster.
    Joseph Rojas – iNaturalist (CC BY 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons)

    Specialist Leafcutter Bees

    Some leafcutter bees specialize on the aster family of plants, known as Asteraceae. So we can support these bees around our home landscape by cultivating any representatives of the Asteraceae family, including goldenrod, sunflowers, ironweed and wingstem.

    Check out this video of a female leafcutter bee carving out a leaf piece from a China Rose.

    More leafcutting from leafcutter bees in my backyard

    Here is evidence that a leafcutter bee was carving off pieces of a silver maple leaf (left). Here, leafcutter bees have been working on a jewelweed plant (right).

    The following are photos of flowers from my home landscape, all of which make excellent forage for pollinators, including leafcutter bees.

    Purple coneflower
    (Echinacea purpurea)
    Cutleaf coneflower
    (Rudbeckia laciniata)
    Blunt Mountain Mint (Pycnanthemum muticum)
    False Sunflower
    (Heliopsis Helianthoides)
    Cup plant
    (Silphium perfoliatum)
    Butterfly weed
    (Asclepias tuberosa)
    Brown-Eyed Susan
    (Rudbeckia hirta)

    This is my front yard garden from 2022. 

    Included here are four great forage plants: Maximilian sunflower (Helianthus maximiliani), white crownbeard (Verbesina virginica), frost aster (Symphyiotricum pilosum) and New England aster (Symphiotricum novae-angliae)

    Grow your garden and grow an ecosystem. Cultivate a diversity of native plants and avoid pesticides.

    —Hart


    Hart Hagan is a Climate Reporter based in Louisville, KY. He reports on his YouTube channel and Substack column. He teaches a course for Biodiversity for a Livable Climate called Healing Our Land & Our Climate. You can check it out and sign up for a class here.


    Photos by Hart Hagan, except where noted.

    Sources and Further Reading:

    Featured Creature: Coelacanth

    What 200-pound nocturnal sea creature, thought to be extinct for millions of years, has one of the longest gestation periods among vertebrates? 

    The Coelacanth!

    Bruce A.S. Henderson (Wikimedia Commons)

    This sea creature was thought to be extinct for 65 million years before it was rediscovered in 1938. Ancient and rare, the coelacanth is a fish so named from its fossil. Scientists knew this fish once existed but never expected to find it alive in the depths of the ocean. The coelacanth (pronounced seel-a-canth) is about 200 pounds and can grow to over 6.5 feet in length.  Two species exist today – the Indonesian coelacanth (Latimeria menadoensis)  and the African coelacanth (Latimeria chalumnae).

    Anatomy

    Coelacanth is derived from Latin and means “hollow spine” due to their hollow caudal fin rays. They have thick scales giving them an ancient appearance.These fish lack boney vertebrae. Instead, they have a notochord which is a fluid-filled rod beneath the spinal cord. Coelacanths also use a rostral organ to detect the electrical impulses of nearby prey much like stingrays and sharks. Most distinctive is the coelacanth’s limb-like pectoral fins that appear more like an arm than a fin. The coelacanth has a very unique anatomy. No other fish on Earth possesses these special features. 

    Diet

    The next discovery of a live coelacanth came in 1952 – 14 years after the first revelation. But why did it take so long for another fish to be caught? Coelacanths live at great very deep depths, often over 500 feet beneath the surface of the ocean. When they venture into shallower waters, they tend to do so at night. Coelacanths are nocturnal predators.They hide under rock formations and in caves until nightfall when they emerge to hunt other fish, crabs, eels, and squid.They use their hinged skull which enlarges their gape to swallow prey.

    Population

    The IUCN has listed the coelacanth as critically endangered. It is estimated that only 500 coelacanths exist today. Although not considered an edible fish, as its meat is too oily for consumption, the coelacanth still falls prey to deep-sea fishing nets. If caught as by-catch, coelacanths can die from the stress. These threats can deeply affect the population because coelacanths have an unusually long gestation period of three years – the longest of any vertebrate species. Such factors make coelacanths extremely vulnerable to extinction. 

    Dean Falk Schnabel (CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons)

    The story of the coelacanth proves there is always more to discover. Biodiversity fosters a sense of curiosity about the endless possibilities of the natural world.

    I wonder, if a creature like this still exists, what other species remain unknown to humanity?

    Swimming 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.


    Sources and Further Reading:
    https://a-z-animals.com/animals/mouse-deer-chevrotain
    https://www.khaosok.com/national-park/mouse-deer
    https://www.ultimateungulate.com/Artiodactyla/Hyemoschus_aquaticus.html
    https://factanimal.com/chevrotain/
    https://www.npr.org/2019/11/11/778312670/silver-backed-chevrotain-with-fangs-and-hooves-photographed-in-wild-for-first-ti